[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

[adamance]

[That wince, that acknowledgement, is enough to move the gears in her mind into place, shutting down any lightness or ease. Lexa has always treated every battle as if it might be her last, but she still bested them here.

But in saying that, she assumes he has another idea in mind—like he couldn't hold back his spite for too long, lest she forget it.]

( Are you here to help, or to remind me of my mortality? ) [And with that, the reminder that he lived while she died. He saw her death at the hands of someone who shaped her. Does he realize the power he has? She assumes so.]

[wrackful]

[Murphy's mouth tugs, dry, self-derisive. It hadn't taken much to destroy the more amicable atmosphere between him and Lexa, and of course it had been his mouth that had done it. He doesn't feel too bad about that, considering it was likely inevitable. Any other time and he would've done it intentionally.

On the topic, though:]

( Trust me, I'm just as happy not being reminded. )

[Lexa bleeding out black on the furs of a bed in Polis isn't a good memory. For all that Murphy dislikes Lexa and all of her assumptions of him, her attempts to get him to do what she wants, he's already seen far too many people die. He doesn't need one repeating on him.]

[adamance]

( Then take care with your words. ) [Given his cleverness and presumptions, Lexa has a hard time believing that he doesn't want to be reminded—or to remind her, for that matter. Her words come across like an order, a demand, but she means it sincerely.

Right now, it feels as if he weaponizes everything against her. Perhaps the feeling is mutual.

But she would like to avoid that specific reminder.]

[wrackful]

[Murphy rolls his eyes.]

( Yeah, cause you've never said the wrong thing at the wrong time. )

[But she'll probably say she hasn't. Or that, even if she had, she just decided it was the right thing anyway. Thankfully they're finally at the tent, and Murphy carries on helping her walk until he can set her down at her bedroll.]

Take your headwrap off. I need to check your eyes.

[Turning away, moving to grab his own pack from where he sleeps next to Bellamy.]

[adamance]

[It's a very good thing that they reach the tent lest Murphy find out how utterly correct he is about her mindset when it comes to being wrong. That isn't to say that Lexa doesn't own her mistakes.

She just doesn't own them in a place where anyone can see or hear what she has to say about them.

So, yes, it is a good thing. When she finally removes her headwrap, she gives Murphy a pointed expression, like she's been holding it in. But then she asks:]

What are you looking for?

[wrackful]

They call it pupil light reflex.

[Assuming she means what he'll be looking for with her, rather than the med supplies he digs out of his pack. The bandages and medications aren't relevant, but it's the omnitool he was after, grabbing it and coming back over to her.]

Decreased direct response can be an indicator of brain injury. [He holds the omnitool up, flipping the small torch extension on.] Basically I'm going to shine this in your eyes, and if they don't react as fast as they're meant to, we know something's wrong.

[There's an echo behind his words, whispers spilling outwards from his mind, as if this isn't entirely his. His explanation or his knowledge.]

[adamance]

[It's impossible for any of the hosts to interact with the Flame. But in that moment, his echo seems to respond to an echo of memory in her mind, something that she both didn't know before but somehow knows now. Having the Flame isn't entirely unlike being a host; the difference is that it only interacts with her, never reaching out to others.

Her understanding is swift for that reason. Becca was a genius when it came to all neural pathways. Of course that knowledge would lie dormant in her mind, waiting. Hearing his words, hearing that echo—it really ensures that she can understand. There's no point in being ignorant, not anymore.]

It's possible that whatever's occurred might be gone already. I've never tested how quickly we heal when we don't ... expend ourselves. [Implying that she's tested otherwise.

Just the same, she tilts her head back. Her eyes are wide for him to investigate. There's a swimming sensation that leads to a churning in her stomach.

She says nothing, but she believes she has some of the answer already.]

[wrackful]

[Murphy gives her a flat look for that, but he doesn't bother voicing the yeah, right, that he's thinking. He'd had to brace her the whole way back to the tent. He knows (knows) that the symbiote can take care of a whole variety of ills, but she obviously wasn't feeling the benefit of that to a notable extent in this instance.

But he's fairly certain saying as much would just be asking for her pride to coming spitting back at him. He sticks with what he's doing, watching her eyes as he swings the torch, the flicks of motion smooth, like they're well-practiced. The echoing sensation rises again, a dozen other sets of hands, a dozen other patients overlapping with Lexa in the tent. He blinks and they dissipate, setting down the torch to switch to holding his finger up, asking her to follow it.]

You feel dizzy, right? Nauseous, like you might hurl?

[That much he'd been able to pick up as soon as he'd come over to her, but something tells him it's better to get her confirmation than rely on the symbiote for clear physical information.]

[adamance]

Yes. [The word itself is clipped. But there's more to it, like she's been waiting to say it. The reveal likely won't be all that surprising, but it comes anyway:] I've experienced this before. I took better care to avoid it when I could, but that's not always an option. [Which, again, unsurprising: her people tend to wear thick leathers for armor, rather than anything more substantial. It's hard to have anything more substantial.]

So, I know that I'll live. But I assume you have other recommendations? [There's a tilt upward of her statement in tone, making it clear that she is asking. Her pride isn't so much that she won't ask. Lexa knows her people's knowledge was lacking when it came to this. Even now, she's only beginning to truly understand how much knowledge they could have had (but hadn't had, not really) from the Flame.]

[wrackful]

[It's no surprise that she's suffered this before. She's a grounder. They probably get as many concussions as the football players on the vids they used to play up on the Ark. For a moment he considers telling her knowing that she'll live is bullshit. The danger and unpredictability of head injuries. But the echoes of knowledge stir in his mind again, and he veers away from what could just be unnecessarily scaring her.]

You've got a concussion.

[Do grounders know what concussions are? Probably not, but if she wants more detail, she'll ask. He picks up the omnitool again, heading back over to his pack as he continues talking.]

It'll heal up fast, but you need to rest. That's not doing anything that makes it feel worse, not sleeping.

[He fishes a box out of his pack, flipping it open to count the few pills he'd felt safe swiping from medical on the station. Probably not enough, but he can't keep saving them for the potential of something worse the whole time they're here. He shakes out a dose, then clips the box closed again.]

You can't sleep till some of your symptoms have cleared up.

[Coming back over, holding out his hand, two small yellow tablets in his palm.]

Take these. [A beat, and a dry tug of a smile in the corner of his mouth.] No poison, promise.

[adamance]

You can't. [She doesn't say it to hold it over his head. It's the reality of the situation, but it also recalls a previous conversation the two of them had. She hadn't been trying to poison him. The same goes in return. They have nothing to gain from it.

There is a moment of silence before she takes the pills from his hand, well-aware that this might be the only chance they will ever have at cooperation. She considers saying something more, asking whether she needs to be anything but weaker than him for him to respect her.

But the words don't come. The sentiments are kept deep down.

Instead:]

I'll be certain to tell Clarke I can't sleep. [She'll know why, presumably.] Thank you.