[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.))

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( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Comments

[skaikru]

( I've tried to keep everything to myself. ) ( if thoughts can be mumbled, this is mumbled. appropriately shamed and half-heartedly defensive in the absence of murphy's conviction with his condescension, clarke keeps her gaze on the backs of his shoes as they gradually distance themselves from the chattering swarm of bodies. perhaps to showcase how diligently she's been attempting to build walls, there's a tangible air of picking up the pieces of her discontent; sucking it all up and bottling bitter emotions. plucking her worry, frustration, and embarrassment out of the air, shooshing them, forcing her features out of pinched lines. she's trying.

but clarke griffin has never been good at keeping her opinions to herself, verbally or mentally. and mental walls built out of shifting dirt were anything but solid. )

( So where do we start? )

( probably inside a tent, but someone's a little impatient ok )

[wrackful]

[He can feel her pulling in. Fractured, slow, taking it piece by piece instead of just dealing with the whole. Maybe that was how it worked for her, her view of herself and her mind. When he'd started this, suggesting it to her the night of the play, he'd thought it'd be as simple as just showing her what she did. Now, about to embark on the lesson itself, he realises he isn't sure he knows how to teach.]

( From the bottom. Whatever you've been doing doesn't work, so you need to drop it. Start again. )

[That's simple enough. Obvious enough. Hopefully sounds certain enough, too, as they pass down into the spread of the camp.]

[skaikru]

( start again. she'd really thought there had been progress here; had noted that her mind didn't seem to spill and slap about particularly visceral memories for others to pry. it's different between her broodmates, like they're knots pulled tighter the harder they struggle to free from each other, but at least among the rest of the nest, well... no one's brought up mount weather, despite how often clarke is reminded of the parallels down on hyrypia.

objectively, she reasons, it could just be a backhanded blessing. she's so wrapped up in lexa — living, breathing — and in bellamy, a solid presence at her side as always. and murphy, who she doubts time, space, and interdimensional world hopping could change. with familiar faces abound, it's easier to let relief course through her veins instead of rampant anxiety.

there's a slight air of frustration, a huff. the last stretch of their walk consists of clarke's thin pressed lips, and the sensation of shaking her head, like that would rid her of the permeable barriers that she'd clung to thus far. that hyperfocus of earth, individual blades of grass, and the flicker of the campfire start to melt, but nothing springs up to take their place. that tension, worry, poorly buttoned fear of injury over the races starts to overflow by the time they're stepping into otherwise deserted sleeping quarters.

like this? she thinks to ask, the question an inaudible ghost between them as clarke kicks dust from her shoes by the entrance. )

[wrackful]

[She's shearing her walls away before they've even gotten inside the tent, and Murphy takes a moment to be thankful everyone's at the races. Doesn't work, it turns out, might have been unfair, because whatever she'd had in place had definitely been stemming a hell of a lot. He withdraws, a little, enough to make sure he isn't going to get caught in the tangles and eddies of what's pouring off her now.]

Yeah. Some warning would've been good, though. [As he pulls his headwrap and veil off, loosens the scarves from around his nose and mouth.] How were you doing it?

[Start again. If he knows what she was doing, maybe he can see the better way to come at it.]

[skaikru]

I buried it.

( it — her thoughts and memories, every unkind sentiment and most of her moments of weakness. buried — quite literally. shiro had been the first to offer guidance in terms of repressing her mind, shielding as he'd called it. he'd said some pictured clouds, some pictured space, some just plain walls. when she'd cast around for something solid and distracting enough to close herself off, clarke had landed on earth. on dirt.

freshly dug graves, bright green splashes of grass. twigs and bark and pebbles. but mostly just dirt.

dirt isn't solid. rain trickles through, roots spring forth. it hadn't been a good enough mental barrier, and feels painfully rudimentary now that she's unlearning the technique. still, when clarke tugs down the wrappings around her face, her mouth is set in a line just this side of defensive. )

I thought it was working. No one else mentioned it.

[wrackful]

[Healthy, he refrains from saying, memory stirring of having accused Lexa of doing just that with her feelings. Clarke's dismantled it now. He doesn't need to waste time pointing out why it might have been screwed up in the first place.]

Probably because you're still new. We're kind of used to it.

[The newer hosts leaking, needing more time to get themselves under wraps. More of the stronger hosts probably didn't even notice it, their own walls strong enough that it didn't even register to them. Or there were the ones like Bellamy, who'd never stopped leaking.

The idea that they're all different isn't some sudden realisation, but it occurs more strongly now he tries to think about what to show her. He sighs.]

Look, I'm not going to pretend I'm an expert on brainbugs, but I've been pretty okay at this. [Better than Bellamy, significantly, and strong enough against a number of the others.] So I figure we can try how I started out, see if it works for you too.

[skaikru]

( it's the frustration of trying and failing to live by a new set of rules, initiation into grounder customs all over again. and clarke sets her jaw hard, chewing on her failure to play catch up as quickly as she would have liked. the sooner better sense was made of the world, the sooner she could go about finding a place or a path of action in it for herself instead of standing idly on the sidelines of gameplay and apparently spouting concern for all to hear. )

Who taught you? ( she asks, a few more seconds of conversation whilst pulling off her gloves. this lesson, as impromptu as it may be, felt important; the sort of teachings she needed to prepare for fully, maybe even kneel and take notes on. so clarke goes the extra step of moving to deposit gloves and scarves on the edge of her bedroll, a few more moments stolen to compose and ready herself. )

[wrackful]

[The bedrolls are probably a good move. Better to focus the mind with no physical distractions, crap like that. Murphy moves to sit on his, facing Bellamy's, the empty space for Clarke to take when she's ready.]

No one.

[Par for the course in his education. Exposure, experience, mistakes learnt from, observations collected. Those had been more teachers to him than any one person bearing the title. Clarke had grown up different, he knows. The sting of those differences didn't bite so much, these days, but their existence remained. For all his uncertainty on being the best guy for this, he's fairly certain that if that difference became an issue here, it was one Clarke was going to have to get over.]

Classroom just doesn't work for some stuff.

[Pike and his Earth Skills crash course comes to mind. How none of them had taken anything from it. But the ground had taught them, in the end.]

[skaikru]

( that statement smacks of truth. the whole erecting mental walls skill didn't seem like it could ever be effectively absorbed from a desk, or transferred from a whiteboard into real-world use. it was too internal for that, based entirely on mental fortitude and the ability to keep oneself to oneself when artificial base instincts begged for assimilation and oversharing. there are elements of self-control involved that clarke hasn't had the time to learn between explosive bouts of emotion and cold, clinical detachment in the name of diplomacy.

but they'd all learned hard and fast lessons on the ground. they'd had to. and it's with an air of determination, like hunkering down and being ready to catch whatever sort of curveball life or john murphy had to throw at her, that clarke crosses to sit on bellamy's bedroll; legs crossed, back straight, and eyes alight with keen intent. she stares at him hard, like the key to her mental salvation was going to be hidden in the slightest facial tic. )

Okay, I'm ready.

cw: torture

[wrackful]

[He nods, watching her. Takes a breath.]

This is going to suck.

[It's less of a warning, more a pre-emptive apology. He can't warn her. If he does, this isn't going to work.

This: sudden focus, a wrenching, hard grip on the connection between them. This: memory, a hundred snapshots of it coming in quick succession, a relentless flood of the worst he has to give. This: torture. Every sharp bleeding moment of it. The days in the grounder camp, their fists beating him, knives slicing into him, over and over. Titus with his whip, the endless questions Murphy could never answer to his satisfaction.

He throws all of it at Clarke, a heavy bombardment of pain and fear. He waits for her to respond. To find instinct and defend herself.]