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Entry tags:
- *mission log,
- annie westwind [original],
- asuka langley sohryu [evangelion],
- bellamy blake [the 100],
- clarke griffin [the 100],
- elena gilbert [the vampire diaries],
- gildor helyanwe [original],
- john murphy [the 100],
- lakshmi bai [the order: 1886],
- lexa [the 100],
- misato katsuragi [evangelion],
- nyx ulric [ffxv],
- rust cohle [true detective],
- ryohji kaji [evangelion],
- sam wilson [mcu]
[mission: hyrypia] give me my scallop shell of quiet, my staff of faith to walk upon
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!
((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.))
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.))
no subject
You waste my lord's time.
[Though the sentence itself is innocuous enough, there is a clear threat behind her tone. The twin swords on her back glow ominously, but she doesn't bother to reach for them -- the others are very obviously unarmed, after all.
And she doesn't quite trust herself not to draw a fatal amount of blood, should they become necessary.]
Who among you will answer?
no subject
Well I can't say that's what I anticipated, but why not.
[There's a definitive faux-brightness to his tone that says 'what the fuck is happening what the fuck have I gotten myself into?' as he pops the latches on the black case and opens it. Inside is a saber and a sheath, each set into a fine field of blue velvet. The blade is clearly a display piece, but he lifts it from the case anyway. Gingerly.]
--You know, I'm not sure this is really meant for combat so if there's an alternative method to this that's more traditional for your peoples, I'd be perfectly happy to extend myself despite any disadvantage it might put me at.
[Ha ha ha, your guard is very large.]
no subject
[Almost immediate - though carefully not too immediate. But it's practically a relief that the Meradan's even raised it as an issue, and Murphy's eyes flick to the blades on Seviilia's back. He hasn't, at any point, considered himself actually in charge of her in this game of guard and... whatever important thing he's pretending to be. But right now the need for control of the situation is heavily present, and if he has any hold on what Seviilia does, he isn't ready to let her loose yet.]
( Lose the swords. And don't kill him. You'll scare them too much, and I won't be able to make this happen again if we need it. )
[Part of him already believes they will. Either they'll be here too long, or she'll use herself up somehow, or something will happen. It's practically instinct, to expect the worse.]
no subject
( Do not let anyone touch them. Yourself included. )
[Not because she didn't think him capable of wielding a blade, but because there was no guarantee they wouldn't make him or anyone else immediately ill.
The pathetic excuse for a sword the Meradan holds does not frighten her, but perhaps unarmed would be better. If she dispatched him too easily without visible damage from the blade, perhaps it would look suspicious.
Once the swords are set down, Seviilia turns and pulls her fists up.]
no subject
Welp.
He tosses the edge of his heavy cloak back with a clearly habitual flourish and undoes the multitude of buttons at his sleeves so he can effectively roll them.]
You know, I haven't done much fist fighting since I was an adolescent. I wasn't aware this was such a prevalent thing on the smaller outer worlds. No offense meant, of course. It's charming.
[In an old fashioned, blood sport kind of way.
Eventually though, he can stall no longer. Sleeves rolled well up past his tropically colored forearms, cloak reasonably out of the way, he widens his stance and puts up his fists.]
All right. I'm ready.
no subject
Hidden under the veil, the corner of his mouth tugs, grimly amused. since I was an adolescent is funny, being the adolescent stood in front of him. The rest would be easy to heap on the offence he'd taken to make this happen. But maybe later. In the moment, Murphy just lets himself enjoy the fact Seviilia's about to beat the guy to a pulp.]
no subject
[Her voice comes deadpan, a casual reminder that they've already insulted at least one Carbauschian party, and perhaps a second insult was not his wisest course of action.
There is no need to be fast, here, so she doesn't rush at her opponent. Instead, she closes the distance between them very deliberately. If the Meradan is fast, he might even get a hit in before Seviilia swings herself.
But when she swings, she swings twice and she swings hard, a sharp jab aimed at the meat of his chest (or his arm, if he chooses to guard) and a hook to his opposite shoulder. Its definitely enough power to drop a civilian unaccustomed to fighting of any sort, but any further attempts to hold herself back and this entire exercise would be useless.]