[mission: hyrypia] give me my scallop shell of quiet, my staff of faith to walk upon

[onemind]

CHARACTERS: EVERYONE
WHERE: Hyrypia - The Graze
WHEN: DAY :013
SUMMARY: A day of competition begins, and Hosts put their newfound skills to the test.
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary. Need a warning added? PM this account please!

THE GRAZE
DAY :013

A MOURNFUL SOUND passes across the Graze in the early hours of the morning: the mingling drone of the wind coming up across the flatlands and funneling into the depths of the Finger Maze. It saws, a tired, hollow constant noise. Carried with it up through the Great Flat are maybe forty visitors carried by a variety of carts and wagons, automated and incredibly austentatious live mounts. Apparently the events of the day are drawing a crowd from the surrounding farms and homesteads on top of the various diplomatic envoys already in attendance.

After a brisk, light breakfast the short blare of a horn cuts across the encampment. It seems it's time to saddle up.



I. THE SIDELINES
A CHEER SWELLS up from the assemblage of Rabadoceans as a team successfully completes their event. On a nearby platform, musicians takes turns striking up a series of fast paced, sparkling tunes and the tang of roasting meat is heavy in the air. There's a sense of festival in this that quickly becomes lively as the Hyrypians' official pleasantries cede encourage the Meradan's cheerful, competitive shouting and the Descendants'' entertained clapping and smiling. There might even be a few smiles to be seen among the typically grim faced Carpathan diplomatic envoy.

Get something to eat. Talk to a stranger. Make friends. Sabotage a competing team. Most importantly: keep your eyes and ears open. For every moment you might spend machinating, someone (or something) else might be doing the same.

II. THE SORTING
THE SUN HAS FULLY RISEN by the time the first event is ready to begin. There has been a constant bustle up until this point, people meeting up and splitting off again, members of Envoy’s checking in with each other, carefully discussing their strategies- or laughing the challenges off as a game. Now, all of the competitors are gathered together to be given their tools- the ropes and crooks of the Gryer wranglers- even as the spectators begin to gather at the edges of the large pen, some standing at the fences, other on long staggered benches along the edges. There are a flags strung up all along the fences and large banners fly from the outermost posts of the pen. When it is nearly time the teams are split- each of the members led to a different point on the outside of the pen, to the gates that will set them loose upon the false gryer within.

When it is time for the Hosts to begin, the gates are again reset, the Gryer are all released from their holding pens, and the spectators have become no less raucous. They’re so loud it’s almost hard to hear the horn that calls from the holding pen, but the gates that spring open in front of the hosts are signal enough for them to begin. They are afforded just enough time to make their way fully into the pen before the three Gryer are lit, scattered through the herd and still milling about. The clock- or whatever passes for a clock- is ticking, and the faster they manage the task- if they manage it- the better.

When it is over, the crowd cheers, either way- energized by the competition and the strong grassy flavored drink that seems to improve every Rabadocean’s mood.

III. THE MESSENGER RACE
A SERIES OF FLAGS marks the route of the relay race that runs along the edge of the outermost cliff faces - not that it's necessary. Spectators are strung along the sidelines that it might be possible to run the race using only them as a guide for where to go. The course itself is studded with obstacles - logs and ditches, stacks of brush and at least a few imposing walls made from coral harvested out of the Finger Maze. The riders of each team are dispersed along the length of the course toward the finish line, quiet and lonely (if you disregard the forty or so other riders from competing teams in your company) and waiting in the midday heat for--

The short burst of a horn. The first string of Elin and riders, each in possession of a ceremonial scroll, launch forward across the starting line. Hopefully. What would be even better? If they keep all their riders in the process.

IV. THE ELINMASTER RUN
THE FINAL EVENT comes late - so late that the sun is already beginning to move towards the high horizon of the clifftops, leaving a cool purple cast across the landscape as the competitors and spectators alike are gathered at the yawning entrance of the isolated splinter of the Finger Maze. Unlike the other events, there is no seating, no rows, no stretches of banners or strings of flags. The environment doesn’t allow for it. Instead there are ropes separating the milling crowds from the riders. There are no gates and no strict starting point; rather, there is an area the width of the entrance and forty feet behind it that the racers may begin from. A large number are clustered near the very front - eager but clearly at extra risk, the metal and rubber flesh of the Elin automatons pressed close enough to crush. In the stillness of the near-evening air, the anticipation for this event is more subdued. More hushed. It's clear that the majority of the race will not be visible to spectators or judges. There will be only a small party waiting at the end of the course, ready in the clearing to mark places, and no witnesses before that.

The most senior members of House Basittia stand on either side of the entrance, protected by the ropes and flashy in their officiator-wear. When the horn is blown, sharp and with very little warning, it echoes down the length of the waiting canyon walls. It echoes strangely, broken only by the sound of metal hooves pounding forward into the maze and out of sight.

The first challenge is immediate - beyond the wide entrance the canyon begins to narrow dramatically. Those who have chosen the front of the pack will be forced to either get ahead or muscle their way through the others around them. Those that have chosen to stay further back will find that the distance between them and the next rider ahead of them narrows. Before there is much chance to adjust to the new positions, there is the first obstacle - a ditch, narrow but sudden, ready to take the legs out from under an Elin that fails to jump. From there the course begins in earnest. A number of paths split off from the main line, each with their own challenges. Coral branches fallen in the path, others arching just over rider’s heads. The course is full of switchbacks and sudden turns and in places the ground is made of pebbles that slide beneath the metallic hooves of the mechanical beasts. The course narrows in sections, barely wide enough to allow one rider to pass, and as the race stretches on fewer and fewer are able to continue. Some riders simply fall, others are knocked off, others foul their mounts and end up as new obstacles for those behind them.

By the time the end is in sight - a large open clearing, the far end of which has a simple stage where the judges wait - many racers have been unseated and countless others have simply fallen behind. But for those who make it to the end, there is a note in an ancient looking tome and a ribbon to be tied around their wrists to show that they have completed their trial. They will linger there in the winner’s circle until the last of the racers trickle in. Once that happens, they will be allowed at a much more sedate pace to make their way out of the canyon and into the awaiting cheering crowd - into the beginning of night and the lighting of the great braziers and flames, the scent of a well-earned meal that awaits them carried across the Graze by the mournful sigh of the wind.

V. BEFORE, AFTER, AND BETWEEN
THE COMPETITION stretches long, each individual challenge met by scores of Envoys eager to impress or simply eager for something to entertain themselves with. But the day is made far longer by the time between the competitions which is filled with talk, general chatter, and some good- and less good-natured betting - all lubricated by a constant stream of the cool grass drink that’s growing rapidly more popular as the sun’s heat increases. There's plenty to do- and plenty to enjoy between the events themselves. People will have little trouble finding things to keep busy with. And after the competition is said and done there is dinner (of course), the great dining tents pulled open and even more crowded than before with the additional local color. It’s those locals, and perhaps the camaraderie born of shared experience, which seems to help encourage some of the Envoys to intermingle more than they have before.

Of course, not everyone is in a good mood. Some of the participants didn't perform as well as others. Bruised egos are as abundant as bruised bodies among some envoys... a potentially volatile situation considering the close quarters they share with other Rabadoceans who clearly think very highly of their own performances.

---

((OOC Notes: This log covers the competition events of Day :013 and any related sideline activities. You can find a full breakdown of the events/a place for mini-event specific questions HERE. Sign-ups will remain open until the next event log goes live, however going forward please make sure to either join the individual event or have a full team selected for the team events. Please be aware that signing up late won't give you extra time to finish your thread to qualify for the finale event.

Have more generalized questions? Drop them on the MISSION: HYRYPIA OOC POST or get in touch with us on the Mod Contact page.))

NAVIGATION • GAME CALENDAR • MISSION: HYRYPIA • FAQ • MOD CONTACT • GLOSSARY

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Comments

[deployed]

[ At some point, he'd drifted off to sleep. Murphy's mind had been wound in tight alongside his own, easing the instinctive, crippling need for Octavia. Whenever he's fallen sick like this, everything blurs together. The dropship, the fever he'd had when he was young on the Ark, the room on Concordia with the Darkling's hand in his hair: all of it becomes a confusing tangle.

Sleep helps, but Bellamy wakes easily. He'd been a light sleeper on Earth, and even the drag of weakness in his body hasn't changed that. Clarke's distressed reaction drags him back to consciousness before the flaps of the tents rustle. He has a moment to clock Murphy, asleep close by, before Clarke's tumbling to her knees beside him. Bellamy rolls slowly onto his side, pushing up on an elbow in a doomed attempt to lever himself upright. ]

It is safe.

[ For him, and his target, as far as Bellamy knows. ]

It'll pass, Clarke. It always does.

[ It had all the times he'd used it in the past. Familiarity doesn't make the aftermath any easier to deal with, but at least the vomiting had passed. Or he had nothing left in his body to expel anymore. His throat is dry, voice hoarse, and his hair's wild with sweat, but as far as Bellamy's concerned the worst has passed. ]

[skaikru]

( "the worst" her foot.

settling down beside bellamy is like settling into a cloud of sickness. the scent of bile lingers, stings at her eyes and tugs at her stomach in a way that had never bothered her before when tending to patients. she immediately feels a little light headed and must forcibly shake off the sensations that weren't entirely her own in order to focus on him. )

It doesn't look safe, ( clarke hisses, belatedly aware of the sleeping murphy off to the side, but not caring. what she means is bellamy looks like a pallid, pasty wreck; sweat slicked hair and feverish eyes reminding her all to vividly of the time they'd been poisoned en masse, and cried blood. her hands continue to fuss, reaching out to sweep his mess of bangs from his eyes, then lingering to press the backs of her fingers to his forehead. still warm, but he's lucid.

there's an uprising of guilt. she should have swallowed her concern and left him to rest, that would have been best. but the moment for reservation has passed, and at least now she can do her best to make him comfortable. )

Lay back down, I'll get you something to drink.

[deployed]

[ Right now, Bellamy can't separate Clarke's guilt from his own. It tugs at his heart, twists in his gut. It triggers a minor coughing fit, which is what has him lying back more than Clarke's order. He catches her hand before she can rise, shaking his head. ]

It's okay.

[ Objectively, he knows he needs the fluids. But he isn't convinced that he's recovered enough that he'd manage to avoid just throwing up whatever Clarke coaxed him into drinking. ]

It'll pass, [ He repeats, as if repetition has ever convinced Clarke of anything. ] And Murphy made me drink some water. I'm going to be fine by tomorrow.

[ Bellamy always lost some time during recovery, so it's hard to come up with anything exact to reassure her. But he knows he's always been fine within a day. That isn't just a platitude to reassure her. ]

[skaikru]

( he knows, or at least should know, that no amount of reassurance or weakly voiced supplication would slow down clarke's roll once she was on a mission. especially not when someone was hurt, sick, or dying, and definately not when that hurt, sick, or dying person was bellamy. she's already shifted back to stand and rustle through the tent for water, medicine, a light snack to keep his strength up — anything. but the clammy fingers encircling her wrist...

well, that works like a charm. tethers her to him, freezes her in the spot, prevents any further movement. and after a beat spent warring with her instincts to help versus comfort, clarke settles. eases more comfortably onto her knees, brings up her other hand to close over his and squeeze. if the reassuring pressure is for his benefit or her own, it's a crapshoot. fine by tomorrow, bellamy insists, and she still doesn't believe him, but swallows and breathes through her nose, willing herself to accept that as fact. )

Then how can I help you until tomorrow?

( sleep is the instinctual recommendation, and now the guilt of having woken him in her flurry of worry starts to creep in. crap. worst doctor ever. )

[deployed]

[ The drive to help at any costs isn't unexpected. Bellamy shifts his grip and squeezes her hand back lightly, remembering what Lexa had told him earlier this night. It applies to Clarke as much as it does to him, which makes him chuckle to himself. ]

Stay with me.

[ It's the same entreaty he made to Murphy. He doesn't articulate how her presence, like Murphy's or the Darkling and Shiro, grounds him. It wards against the nausea and keeps him from tipping back into nightmares. His thumb rubs over her knuckles as he looks at her face. ]

Are you tired?

[ Clearly, Bellamy's decided on casual conversation. It's better than digging up any of the more raw topics between the pair of them. ]

[skaikru]

( is she tired? there's a huff of a laugh, forced humor at what clarke deems an absolutely ridiculous question. she wasn't the one who'd willingly poisoned herself and was now dealing with the after-effects, was she? with a shake of her head, and a uh-uh in the back of her throat, she settles in more firmly at his side, squeezes his fingers back lightly before reaching to brush a few sweaty strands of hair out of his eyes.

his hair, she belatedly realizes. however long he's been with the nest has it grown longer than she's ever seen him sporting, and nearly two weeks under their wrappings has prevented her from noticing. idly twiddling the ends of a damp curl, ) You need a haircut.

( but that's something trivial that could wait until he felt better; until they were off this planet. casting around for a better conversational topic, clarke latches onto ooze baby, the strange reptilian pet she'd noticed before, but never really noticed. it's been there since day one, and now feels like the appropriate time to ask about him. )

You know, you never told me where your lizard-thing came from.

[deployed]

[ Any time Clarke denies she's tired, Bellamy just assumes it's not completely true. Even after a few months with the Nest and falling into more regular patterns of sleep, Bellamy still has moments where he just feels exhausted. Life on Earth seems to have ingrained that in him, and the lingering nightmares haven't helped. He can only assume it's something similar for Clarke but he doesn't press her on it. ]

You can cut it when we get back up to the Station.

[ Though Bellamy had barely thought of his hair. It would need to be cut eventually, of course, but there had been so many bigger things to worry about that he hadn't spent much time dwelling on cosmetic changes.

He closes his eyes to take a breath. The focus of their hands clasped together cedes to the memory of the egg hatching between him and Noctis, clamping their hands together. It had been a less enjoyable moment of hand-holding. ]

We got it on the last planet we visited. Cathaway and Prince couldn't tell us what it is, but it's been harmless so far.

[ "so far." ]

We named it Typhon.

[ After a massive Greek monster. Hopefully not a name their baby sprog will live up to. ]

[skaikru]

That's — ( adorable? appropriate? weird? ominous? ridiculous? probably ridiculous, the entire idea of a scaly, clingy pet-slash-baby seems a little out there, enough so that clarke has to lightly snort on the humor of it all. the only adjective she can land on is a rather uncertain: ) ...nice.

( there's a stretched moment of silence after, another gentle squeeze of his fingers and one last pet of bellamy's hair to effectively sweep it off his sweaty forehead. he's so, so warm, and clarke's insides are still twisted with a frustrated sort of worry because there's nothing she can do to help. but at least he's talking and coherent. small blessings. )

When I was younger, I really wanted a pet. ( a hazy memory is offered up in place of any elaboration: the metal paneled walls of the housing units on the ark, a younger version of herself who'd just learned to read from an elementary level digital document about a boy and his dog. she'd asked her father for one shortly after, and jake griffin's features had contorted into a genuine sort of sympathy for crushing her hopes when he'd told her that dogs were extinct. )

[deployed]

[ A dog. Bellamy laughs sadly. He hadn't ever had room for imaginings like that. Maybe before Octavia there had been fleeting wishes for fanciful things, but Bellamy barely remembers that. His thoughts stray to that small room where his mother and he spent so much time incubating Octavia from the harsh reality of the Ark. It's a long moment before he continues speaking, following the thread of their conversation. ]

Octavia wanted a horse, for a while.

[ Among other things, Bellamy's mind whispers. But the memory of piggybacking her around their rooms surfaces anyway. Octavia had always dug her heels in to his stomach and clutched too tightly around his neck, but Bellamy had never minded. ]

I wasn't much of a substitute. But eventually she had Helios, so maybe someday...

[ But a dog wouldn't survive the Station. Bellamy remembers this before he finishes the sentence, and his gaze shifts from Clarke to Murphy and the little alien. ]

Well, maybe it'll like you.

[skaikru]

( sick and feverish, in addition to as open as he always was — the more time she spent trying to wall herself off, the more clarke noticed that bellamy and a few others leaked — his memories play like a foggy movie just off to the side, in her peripheral vision. she gets the picture: an already small family unit room made even smaller with a teenager and a young girl running circles around their tired looking mother. it's a recollection colored in love, but clarke imagines if she picks at the stitching, there would be a wealth of unpleasant sensations behind the affection. she's already come to know how taxing those first sixteen years had been, on all of the blake's.

so out of some sort of respect for his privacy, and not wanting to agitate the wound that his octavia's absence, clarke tactfully sticks to talking about typhon. )

Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm really not going to mind if it doesn't.

( like, okay. once upon a time clarke griffin wanted a puppy, but childhood feels so, so far away now. and a big, scaly gecko was not a dog. typhon's little claws make her moderately uncomfortable. )

[deployed]

[ Childhood on the Ark had been...complicated. Bellamy loves his sister. He had loved his mother. But the life they'd made together had been far from ideal. Octavia is the one who holds all the resentment over it. The anger flared to the surface more and more often when they fell to the ground, but it had never quite ignited in Bellamy. It was just one more thing he hadn't allowed himself.

And it doesn't flare to life now. The memory passes as Bellamy's attention settles onto Typon, and Clarke's apprehension. It isn't entirely misplaced. He and Noctis had considered at length what Typhon might turn into when he grew bigger. It was likely a problem waiting to happen, but in the moment it's manageable. Endearing, even. ]

I don't. He might, if he understands us at all.

[ Bellamy still can't tell. ]

Clarke, I...

[ The urge to apology comes to him suddenly. It's clear in his fever-glazed mind. It's hard to put the conflicting concepts into words. He's sorry she's here but he was never more relieved than when he'd felt her mind connect with his own when she'd arrived at Naerstone house. His fingers tighten on hers, a little desperate, as he trails off into silence. ]

[skaikru]

( the conversation tilts from relatively light-hearted and reminiscent to weighted and tragic all in the span of two words, and clarke is left scrabbling to assuage whatever guilt is housed in bellamy before he can find his voice again. she's squeezing his fingers again, scooting closer to his side as if proximity would chase away all that internal conflict coloring his face, voice, and thoughts. )

Hey, shh. It's okay.

( objectively very little about their situation is okay. for all the reassurance he and murphy offered, clarke has spent hours agonizing over the possibility their mission to destroy alie would not pan out as planned if she was not there to see it through; days and days swallowing homesickness surrounding the mother she'd just regained, the friends they'd left behind. and clarke hasn't even touched on the fact that returning home one day would mean losing lexa. again.

but when it boiled down to it, if there was one person she had to choose to face insurmountable odds side by side with, it's bellamy. no matter what planet, enemy, or universe — it's bellamy.

and feeling guilty about that just feels like a waste of effort, especially for his already taxed person. her other hand returns to his hair, smoothing sweaty locks again in an attempt to comfort and calm. shh, it's okay. )

You should try to sleep again. I'm sorry I woke you.

sticks a bow on this.

[deployed]

[ The apology passes between them, unspoken. Clarke knows. Bellamy should have expected that from her. She recognizes his intent and his guilt. It gets him Clarke's hand in his hair, her grip tight on his hand, as she tries to stave off the words before Bellamy can muster the coherence to speak them. It's successful. His thoughts scatter, blurring as Clarke hushes him. ]

( Don't be. )

[ Easily, the words pass between their minds as Bellamy's head tips into the motion of her hand. He is tired. Sleep has always been the best way to deal with the aftermath of having used his symbiote, and the fever leeches away strength quickly. Bellamy's eyes close at Clarke's request. Stay whispers in the back of his head, but it doesn't manage to take form fully before Bellamy drifts into sleep. ]

wraps it up real neat

[skaikru]

( bid aloud, or simply thought with such soft longing it would feel cruel to deny, clarke stays. smiles slightly, a little pinched around the edges, as bellamy's eyes drift closed and the rise and fall of his chest even out to the slow pace of the dozing. she stays, and whispers shhh a few more times under her breath, the soothing instinct echoed in her thoughts: shh. she stays, and holds bellamy's hand for several long moments even after sleep takes him, brushing her thumb over the back of his knuckles but careful not to move otherwise.

careful to button up all the regrets that flutter around in her stomach. this hadn't been her plan, but she'd given it her blessing and now bellamy was sick and aching, ill with the only known cure to be rest and nothing to give him to ease his discomfort. culpability gnaws, demands to be acknowledged and committed to memory so as to never make that mistake again. but it isn't until she's certain he's sound asleep that clarke moves to disentangle their fingers, lower his hand loosely back onto his chest, and make her careful retreat across the way to her own bedroll.

the occasional press of shh persists, elicited by every minute, feverish twitch or hitch in his breath until she's curled on her side and sleep edges in on her consciousness as well. )