[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

[skaikru]

( that's the sort of sassy deflection one comes to expect from a noncommital parent or teacher; from someone unwilling to delve into treacherous, emotionally weighted areas of conversation. it earns a slight sigh, barely a whisper of forced air through her nose. but misato isn't running away, and clarke presses on with purpose behind a question she'd (rather shockingly) hadn't thought to ask before this very moment. )

( Kaji. )

( short, one word. a name — not a question, but the man himself might be one, big question mark, even to those he was decidedly tethered to. )

( He's from your world? And you know him well? )

( more questions that are, again, not questions. facts stated with a high inflection at the end. clarke had pieced together the faint impression of the relationship during their time sharing a tent on hyrypia, and it hadn't been hard. there was heft to the way he thought about the other woman, a long-standing sort of intimacy. care. you remind me of someone — her, she's the someone. and while that brief interaction between the three of them had piqued her curiosity in the direction of katsuragi misato as well, there were a few arguably more important answers to glean before the two of them edged towards anything passing for familiarity. )

[wille]

[ This should be expected as far as common denominators go, but the girl's forwardness takes her by surprise all the same. A bad habit, she harms when she is hurt. Her next words are sharpened, laced with intent, quick to counter. ]

( Shouldn't you know him better? )

[ Jealousy stems from insecurity and insecurity has little to no bearing on the worth of oneself and the subject caught in the middle. It is an arbitrary measure, and so a useless one. Her retort is equally useless, revealing the gaps in her defenses rather than dealing any damage, showing Clarke where exactly to aim to strike a fatal wound. What was it he had said? There is a river as wide as oceans between man and woman Between men. But perhaps not between minds to inextricably linked.

She squares her shoulders and frowns at the unfolding game before them. ]

( That's not what you want to ask. )

[ Likewise, a question posing as a statement. Go on. ]

[skaikru]

( the vehemence in misato's response hits home, each barbed word grating against clarke so abruptly she physically turns to blink at the other woman through their disguises. that surprise sours, however; that response answered none of her mundane questions, and allowed no easy segue into the meat of this casual interrogation. but misato all but dares her to press deeper, and clarke narrows her eyes. grinds her teeth for a moment. )

( Do you trust him? )

( flatly thought. the real question is — is he trustworthy? because on some unwanted level, she knows him well. the first time they spoke kaji peeled layers of himself away to expose the ease with which he lied; the ease with which he concealed himself, and it had left a terrible taste in the back of her throat. clarke doesn't ask is he dangerous, because she's asked herself that question several times over and found the answer to be no.

but then what was he? ( what are you, not who are you. )

shed some light, misato. )

[wille]

[ Misato may be an open book more often than not. Her emotions are laid bare on her face (now her frown deepens, duplicate lines marking the corners of her lips), her thoughts are clearly spoken out lest there be any doubt as to her decisions. But she is no fool when it comes to reading between another person's lines. Kaji's, for one and here, that Clarke feels the need to ask about trust must mean his mind remains as manifold and elusive as the masks he wears. That is, the masks have become the man. That the girl thinks to ask her about him implies something else entirely.

And it it this something else she grasps onto, the way she balls her fists as sternly as her mind's attention latches onto Clarke. If the girl would insist on doling out pointed questions like ultimatums, then she would present her own dose of fatalism. Here then, the answers like bitter pills shoved down her throat. ]

( I trust him above everyone else in this goddamn nest. )

[ But there's an echo to her words, something not fully formed. It is the gut-dropping sense of uncovering a foundation-altering lie, it is the feeling of tearing oneself inside out to believe this newfound revelation and to forgive the messenger. The truth is. The truth is. She withdraws most abruptly, without care for what it might do to Clarke. ]

( But you'll have to make up your own mind. The real question is, does he trust you? )

[skaikru]

( the truth is, the truth is...

do you really?

the sentiment is left like a whisper, like what clarke's actually wheedling at is should you?, strung out like a taut string between the two of them. a string that snaps at the sudden, vicious way misato shut her off. slams the doors on the wave of conflicting anger and sneaking vulnerability. the unexpected disconnect has clarke reeling more than the seething words the other woman thinks; has her blinking and raising her eyebrows in a mask of surprise, but ultimately remaining the unaffected party here. )

( No. ) ( simple, honest, unbothered. ) ( I don't think he does, no. Trust has to be mutual. )

( and sure, there's the tug of the symbiote, the whisper of the importance of broodmates, and clarke might be a tad invested. might care that he's breathing, might be secretly relieved that he's not one of the ones out there, riding elin and risking injury. she might have begun to grow accustomed to the door in the back of her mind, the bridge between four psyches, and may lean into the connection without much resistance.

but trust was earned. and she and kaji haven't gotten that far. )

[wille]

[ There is no logic to this. She was upset -- no, better to put the accurate words to describe this -- she was inconsolably jealous of the possibility that Kaji might grant his trust to a girl who reminds him of herself, who reminds her of herself, but now she is upset that Clarke would dare to shun this very possibility. As if it doesn't worth the world to her. As if she wouldn't bleed herself dry to prove her devotion. It is a strike against the way Misato has arranged a universe, someone telling her the sun revolves around the earth rather than otherwise. Her mind betrays this imbalance, the ground tilting beneath her feet.

Her anger doesn't come from a place of power, as anger rarely does. ]

( You're wrong. You can trust someone who doesn't trust you. )

[ How else can betrayal exist? In the useless accounting of love, she still finds herself wanting to trust less than him, wanting to love less, as if that might ensure her upper hand. Her power. Her invulnerability. ]

( What next? You'll say love has to be mutual to be real? ) [ She inhales, a dragon preparing her breath of fire. But the voice of her mind is cold, the bite of arctic winds slashing across a white wasteland. ] ( Did you tell Bellamy that? )

[skaikru]

( betrayal. that's a good point, a solid point. would finn's massacre of innocent men and women have hurt less if she hadn't been so wrapped up in the fantasy that they were better than senseless murder? would lexa abandoning her outside the door inlaid in stone, on the side of a mountain, in the cold, wet, dreary night time been less of a crippling blow if she hadn't believed they were on the same side? would feeling sharp blades dig under her collar bone and knowing it was her mother wielding the scalpel cut any shallower if she didn't love her? )

( You shouldn't. ) ( quiet, groused. unhappy but superior, like an eyeroll. like that was obvious.

and oh love.

love feels like a weakness. and what did bellamy have to do with this? )

( It should be. ) ( clarke's temperment is cold and certain, but some of the stern backing shifts. she's confused about the seemingly sudden turn of conversation, but not willing to admit as much. ) ( Otherwise it's just pining. )

[wille]

( That's just cold. )

[ Quick, like a knife thrown across the room. What she refuses to show is how the same blade cuts across her skin too, her own hand on the hilt. ]

( But it's the prerogative of the one who's loved to be cold, it's harder being the one who loves, or the one who trusts. )

[ Misato believes herself both and neither. The loved one, the one who loves. The one who trusts and is distrusted, betrayed. But from her view Clarke stands only on one side of the equation. The one loved and trusted enough to act as the arbiter, to be able to so confidently dismiss someone else's devotion as pining. The resentment she feels toward the girl is one directed at her own reflection, a slap against the face for ever basking in the rush of being admired, longed for, and the power in declining others who so foolishly presented her with the offer of intimacy. Never.

She scoffs, crossing her arms in front of her, trying to seem nonchalant. ]

( If I said I don't trust him, you'd believe me. )

[skaikru]

( perhaps starting down this conversational tangent had been a mistake. misato is a hostile radiator, forcing out judgment in blankets of heat and twisting emotions that clarke doesn't care to pick apart. instead, she steels herself as best she can, hunkers down on acting ambivalent and unaffected when the other woman hurls the barbed reminder that she'd been so privileged as to have been loved as a child. but that hadn't done any good for her father.

loved by wells, who'd come to the ground for her and summarily been buried in it. loved by finn, maybe even lexa, both of whom had died because of her.

love has left clarke sobbing so many times. it's markedly easier to pretend she's above it now.

unconsciously, she's mirroring misato's body language. tightly folds her arms across her chest as if to act as some sort of sealant to keep the surge of despairing thoughts and memories to herself. like trying to hug one's self, it doesn't work. she sounds weary when next she presses speech pattern thoughts into the other woman's mind, far off and distant. and — )

( Kaji or Bellamy? )

( — perhaps a little dismissive. that's a petty sort of armor too. sorry, who are we talking about again? )

[wille]

[ My god, and she had believed herself cold beyond redemption, had made herself so, folded herself in to reveal nothing but a hard outer shell. Unlike Clarke, she has never been above it. Below it rather, the lack of love leaving her unequipped to respond to another's overtures of affection, which she soaks up only for its momentary distraction. Desire, adoration, admiration, these are things she knows to use, but love must be larger than all of them, must be beyond reach for the likes of her.

She responds with a scoff, disbelieving, yet betraying some semblance of hurt. The girl so carelessly dismisses these things most precious to her. ]

( Kaji. What was the point of asking if you already knew what you want to believe? )

[ The well of her fury goes deep and the thrill of her hostility runs high, a charged wire fence, the heat of asphalt on a summer's midday, the sudden crescendo of shrieking cicadas, violent in its mundanity. ]

( Bellamy loves you. ) [ Spoken like an indictment, judgment handed down. She means, to herself, he loves you. Maybe if she repeats it to another masked by someone else's name she might one day believe it to be true too. ] ( Will you tell him he's just pining? )

[skaikru]

( why did she ask? maybe a part of her had wanted to be wrong, for that first interaction to have been an outlier and not indicative of the man she was tethered to really was. experiencing someone rip his mind apart within her own mind had been disconcerting, and clarke had walked away with an opinion that kaji had done nothing to dissuade in the past two weeks, as they'd both promised to keep their distance. where did that really leave her but to seek out answers elsewhere? maybe she'd hoped misato would provide more context and vehement defenses of their mutual links better qualities, but just hadn't worded the question correctly and now they've deviated from the path.

there's an unkind response resting on the tip of her tongue to match the vicious edge to misato's mind, begging to be spoken aloud to cut all the deeper. i wanted to see if you were as eloquent a liar as he is; but before the sentence is even fully formed, it's swallowed.

bellamy loves you, misato says, and it feels like a hand has enclosed around her heart. stopped it's beating for a moment before kicking the pace up a few beats. clarke's looking at her now, face contorted beneath the obscuring of the vale. what? she wants to ask with half a breath, and with the other half wants to snort because again, what?

don't be ridiculous. you don't know what you're talking about. what are you talking about? you're lying. that's not funny — all pressing questions and concerns, all probably leaving her feeling more exposed for hostile jabs. there's a long stretch of silence as clarke attempts to parse out exactly what misato means by her proclamation, where exactly her conviction is coming from, and why it feels so affronting to have it thrown in her face like that, but it's a struggle.

what clarke eventually settles on is that there are many kinds of love in the world.

careful, measured: )

( I know he does. I love him too. ) ( but her declaration is utterly lacking in all the emotionally charged responses one typically associates with love. it's loose; genuine and tinged with affection. there's even a flicker of warmth to melt that cold disposition she'd adopted. clarke speaks tenderly of bellamy, but still succinctly summarizes their relationship with a simple conclusion. )

( He's my best friend. )

[wille]

[ The awful truth is that this is as much about her trying out new masks and new lines of deceit by way of Clarke, wanting to know how her words might sound to another, as it is about Bellamy or about Kaji. More than that this is about herself. Of course.

When the girl says her lines, it sounds just as she expected. Insipid, sand on one's tongue, the new paint smell in an empty room. I love him too. Funny how the addition, rather than the subtraction, of words reduce the heft and the meaning. She pictures what it could be like if she had said those words to him in return, I, too, with him on his knees, his neck for her taking, she could speak so gently, so mollifying. I love him too, to mean, I forgive you for this lapse in judgment. He would despise her, and he would be correct in doing so.

What she feels right this moment is an ache masquerading as tenderness, something like pity for absent men. Her next words are muttered, a dull blade. ]

( It's not me you have to convince. )

[ A switch, and she unravels her arms to reach for Clarke's in a firm grasp, like one catching a quarry. ]

( Listen. I'd trade places with you in a heartbeat, but he'd rather leave me than let that happen. Do you know how that feels? )

[skaikru]

( the other woman's first, rather blasé remark ruffles clarke's feathers to the point where, when misato reaches out to catch her arm, clarke physically and mentally bristles. clams up, walls pitched so aggressively skyward it's more offense than defense. and after the tense moment spent listening to misato's appeal, she wrenches her arm away with a sense of finality that brokers no argument, and no room for a repeat.

her tone remains, rather forcibly, diplomatic. a tad detached. she's filing misato's desires away to evaluate another time, the depths of her feelings unplumbed for now. )

( No, I don't. )

( and much like the implications of misato's words, any and all sympathy is also choked off and saved to dissect later. )