station72 | [mission: hyrypia] give me my scallop shell of quiet, my staff of faith to walk upon

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[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!

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 )

Threaded | Flat

It takes some willpower to mentally drown out the excitement of the crowd as Seviilia gets to work on making sure her veils are secured tightly to her body. With the speeds she intended to be pushing her Elin to, there could be no mistakes -- if any of their faces were to appear on the track at an inopportune moment, they would compromise the entire mission. Wrists, ankles, midriff and neck -- everything is secured, no matter how ridiculous it might look.

It was difficult to say, having never seen such a competition before, but its hard not to believe that they have an upper hand. Even without her own ego getting in the way, Lakshmi had proven herself a skilled rider, and The Darkling commanded legions of his own footsoldiers -- she cannot imagine that he has never ridden on the back of a horse.

Asuka was the weak point in their group, if they had one at all. She'd given the girl a few guidelines to make things easier, and she could not imagine her eagerness to leave everyone in the dust would allow lack of skill to get in the way of her winning.

( How do you propose we order ourselves? )

The question is posed while she ties the last of her ribbons to her wrists.

before, after, and between | open

[ With the arrival of so many new people, Sam takes to mingling with even more dedication than he has since their arrival, moving freely about those gathered. He’s rarely alone - like any good noble, he’s gotta have a guard or servant with him at all times, whether right beside him or not too far off.

He gravitates towards the cool grassy drink that seems so popular, trying it for himself and never without one in his hand as he watches the events, cheering for the other Hosts and the few others he’s on reasonably good terms with here. When he’s with others who are drinking, he stands a little closer, chats and jokes and uses his ability just a little, just as a test to see if it’ll work the same as it did back on Concordia. When he senses other Hosts nearby, his mind reaches out, touching base and checking in on how they’re doing, inviting them to join if they want.

After the competitions he can be found with a group of celebrating Rabadoceans, taking their ribbing good naturedly and congratulating them - and here, as well, he reaches out to any nearby member of the Nest to see if they want to join in. Other times he might be with those who’re less pleased with the outcome, trying to break up any brewing fights or using his ability to soothe away physical bumps and bruises - just enough to activate the side effect of his healing ability and make people feel a little more at ease with him, a little more comfortable talking.

He’s exhausted when the day is done, sporting headaches and bruises and fatigue that aren’t his. Still, he’ll readily approach any Host he runs into, doing his best to shield any pain or exhaustion from crossing over the mental link. ]

( How’d your day go? )

a beloved’s favor | for shiro

[ It’s stupid.

Neither of them are exactly knights in shining armor, even if, admittedly, Shiro does have some pretty nice armor that he never seems to want to change out of. And Sam’s more guardian angel than Disney princess, no matter what some people might say, but-

Well.

He’s a noble here, he might as well take advantage of it and get to goof around a little. So he grabs Shiro before he heads off to the first event, a hint of playfulness bleeding out from his side of their connection. ]

( I got something for you. )

this is how csi does it | for pidge

[ He’d done his best to pass on the information of what Rust’d found when they went looking after that night on the road, to everyone he could think of - but with Katie he needs to do more than just tell her. Honestly, he’s got no idea if there’s anything to be found, let alone if she’s got the equipment to be able to run some kind of test or analysis on what he’d grabbed, but he has a lot of faith in her skills. If anyone could, it’d be her.

So he comes to find her during all the commotion of the events going on. ]

( Hey, you got a minute? )

what’s the plural of james bond | for nyx

[ There are times on this mission when Sam feels like he’s flying by the seat of his pants - well, all right, honestly that’s pretty much all the time. But there’s times where it feels like he’s only barely got a hold on things, and times when he feels like hell, he can actually pull this off.

This is one of those second times, and right now it has a lot to do with Nyx. Nyx knows what he’s doing, knows just what the stakes are for this and was willing to actually come up with a plan for what to do about it - on top of the fact that he’s got experience in this. And, of course, the fact that Sam likes him a whole hell of a lot doesn’t hurt. He’d been right, when he figured that having Nyx close by would make him feel more at ease.

Nyx is his guard for the moment, with a decent chunk of their number out in the competition - they’d had similar ideas to mingle among the crowd, making friends and getting what intel they could. During a moment’s lull, Sam steps aside to check in with Nyx about everything, not necessarily just the day so far. And if he’s standing a little too close, a little too familiar for what a noble and a guard might be - well, it’s not like that’s unusual for Sam here. ]

( How’re you doing so far, man? )

this is the opposite of fine | for elena

[ It’s easy to stroll through the Graze side by side with Elena like they’ve known each other their whole lives - he likes Elena, is comfortable with her, and already trusts her a not insignificant amount.

It’s… less easy to act like he’s been doing this his whole life. He keeps wondering - is he holding himself like nobility would, can he get away with quietly expecting to be listened to instead of walking in like he owns everything in sight, should he be acting more like Tony Stark - god no, he’d rather have no one take him seriously as nobility than act like Tony Stark.

He keeps reminding himself to be himself, that’s what he’s best at, just more titled than back home - and it’s mostly working. Still, his side of the mental link is a little wry as he reaches out to Elena. ]

( All this is kind of a lot, huh? )

Edited 2017-08-11 04:17 (UTC)

[ The thing to remember here is she's dead. Vampiric or Frankensteinian or otherwise, the fact stands incontestable. To tell the girl to seek life, liveliness, that irreplaceable élan vital, is as self-negating as telling the ocean to run dry. The request itself is absurd, bordering on delusional for the sake of alleviating guilt over one's hand in her making, and if a surge of chagrin bleeds through the link upon her approach -- cloaked as they are -- it is because more of the same lies beneath the lid she keeps fastened.

She stands right by her, looking ahead at the course laid out for them. But dead man have walked, run and fought and plotted the end of mankind. She herself has thought herself dead to the world only to awaken, blinking against unfamiliar white ceilings, climbed out of pods with an intruder in her head keeping her alive, and she lives. ]

( Elena, right? What will you do if you fall? )

[ Her mind is a sharpened edge pointed toward the girl, a blade on both ends. Her question is the total sum of her interest in this interaction, a test to see who among them (Damon, Sam, herself) would stand vindicated before the sun sets. ]

i: preparations

[The idea of these trials doesn't sit well with Lexa the moment they're announced, but she's not one to sit idle and hope for the best at all times. There are moments where caution has its place. When everyone thought to look for the feeling of dread—a thing that she viewed as likely shapeless and formless, she let them go. To her, there was no real reason in risking herself.

But this is different. Lexa knows that this war isn't only a matter of strength, but a matter of control. Earning control comes in different ways, and she knows that they can show their strength here. They are an unknown entity.

Her preparation is in line with that: she works hard in the hours heading up to the event, preparing herself with obstacles, albeit make-shift ones. Should anyone come to observe her from the Nest, she'll reach out with her mind to say:] ( We have an opportunity to prove ourselves. It's time to do that. If nothing else, it will make it easier for us to bypass niceties when we approach others. ) [By now, Lexa knows that feats of strength are not the only thing that other cultures tend to value. This wouldn't be happening if it wasn't valued somewhat here. That's the important part.]

ii: aftermath of the race

[Throughout the race, one thing is clear: they are meant to cut each other down. Only the strongest of their warriors would have normally taken this route, and she witnesses that rather quickly. Isn't that the point? Her suspicion toward the Hyrypians raises the moment they drop out of view, ready to race, tumble, and fight their way to the end. As a member of Trikru, of her coalition, Lexa doesn't believe in losing to seem meek, and she's far from opposed to playing dirty. If it gets her a victory, then that's all that matters. If it gets her to the end, still riding strong, then that matters, too.

For the other members of the Nest who are partaking in this particular leg of the trials, it will be apparent that Lexa means business (so to speak). Her ruthlessness will be on display as she has to make immediate, cutthroat choices: will it be her who gets to the end or them? Some part of her is wizened up to the idea that she's meant to make enemies here. She's meant to be cut down afterward. But there will be others who favor that.

As it is, she doesn't reach the end of the race without her blows. Dehydrated (not from use of her power, but from expending too much energy while fully covered), slightly concussed from a blow to the head, and a little dizzy, she climbs off her Elin to the cheering finality of it all, ready to tumble over.

There is the sense—unspoken, either because of pride or because her mind is a little jarred—that she could use some help, and she doesn't trust the natives to this universe to help her. Please help her, or she may not be able to remain standing for long.]

iii: meditation and enemies

[There are some from the other factions who undoubtedly appreciated her ruthlessness in the final trial of the day, but there are others who didn't. It's fair that Lexa would be more concerned with the latter. She takes to a familiar spot in front of her tent, legs crossed, body entirely covered (as always), as she tries to calm herself. There's a dull, familiar ache in her head from the day's proceedings, but she's feeling better than she did at the very tail end of the race.

Her mind reaches out, almost like a nod of acknowledgement, to anyone who might be close. She then says,] ( Be wary of being friendly. Or take note of who might take issue with it. I believe we forged some important connections today, but not all connections are positive. We can't be unprepared for retaliation. ) [And that may happen.]

iv: wildcard

[Scold Lexa for being ruthless, thread with her during the race itself, partake in post-race comfort, or whatever. I'm down for anything!]

I. BEFORE | open
[The press of people is surprising. More than just the ones assembled for the pilgrimage. More than he'd been expecting. It just means more need to watch people's backs. If the last mission had taught them anything, it was how ruthless competitions could get.]

[He wasn't about to let something happen to anyone on their "team" here, if possible. Maybe no one else wanted to try this teamwork thing, but it's his default.]

[He can be found watching the first competition, cheering on the other members of the Nest. Or shadowing one of their "nobles" like a good bodyguard. Wherever he is, his mental state is... on edge, to say the least. Keyed up, tense. Ready for anything.]

II. THE SORTING | closed to Rust + Siva'co
(Ready for this?)

[Projected to the others involved in this particular little adventure. The previous nerves turned to something like excitement. He doesn't have to defend the need for teamwork here. It's necessary. Important.]

[He's already mounted up and ready to go. Dressed in a slightly lighter version of his usual black disguise -- still no pink though, thank you Clint.]

(I think we have a good chance.)

[Maybe too optimistic, given his teammates.]

III. AFTER (a)| open
[Whether they've won or lost, it doesn't seem to matter much to the excited crowd. There is back smacking and offers of drinks and invitations to dinner from what is either a very excited, or very scheming individual. It's a flashback to his first mission. To the party.]

[So, again, he's reaching out.]

(Anyone have any tips for warding off this ... person? I can't tell if they're congratulating me or trying something worse.)

III. AFTER (b)| open
[But eventually, things get sorted, and the Paladin extracts himself from the festivities. As delicately as possible. All he wants to do is sit and decompress from the competition.]

[There are more important things, though. Something that needs to be asked. Preferably of anyone nearby.]

(So what did that accomplish, exactly? Any of that?)

IV. WILDCARD
[Hit me with anything! Probably before or after the actual competition though!]

Earlier that morning, Bellamy carefully doctored the fingertips of his gloves to allow for skin-to-skin contact. By the time evening falls, and the braziers are lit, he's ready to put his plan into action. He can't ride, but he can assist the competition in a more underhanded way.

Once Misato and Kaji are ready, they meander over to the braziers casually. Look cool, guys.

001 ✖ STRAINS OF BATTLE A BROODING STORM
[ All the missteps and mistakes she has made so far in this mission aren't enough to have Misato take a backseat, no, never, her hands are still holding fast to the reins. What she lacks in skill and experience, she more than makes up for in boldness easily mistaken for sheer insanity. When she falls off the Elin -- once when its antlers tangle in the coral branches and cause it to trash, then another, when its hooves slip and slide due to the pebbles -- it is only a matter of getting back on the saddle and keep going.

For all the advice she gives and doesn't keep, the will to walk on after the first, most difficult step, is only one she lives by.

She doesn't finish first, far from it, but she completes the race regardless if she would be the last one to do it. By the time she rides back toward the crowd, she has regained much of her breath, but fatigue is still heavy in her limbs and the sharp rush of adrenaline is palpable on her mind. She hands the ribbon and the note to whoever stands closest: ]

( Hold this. Keep it if you want. )
002 ✖ CLOSED TO ADRA
[ Adrenaline has a way of masking the worst of pains. It is some time after the third event has ended, once the dinner is in full swing, that she first notices the flimsy way her ankle holds, like a chair with one too-short leg. The ache announces itself soon after, accompanied by the sense of something being wrong, very wrong. The urgency with which she moves through the throng to find somewhere to sit and rest her leg is fortunately hidden among the raucous crowd, and she is just as fortunate to find a fellow host, dressed as they are in their feigned Carbauschian gear.

She doesn't care to ask who he is before grabbing him by the wrist, insistent, near desperate, just as she drops herself onto the seat. ]

( I think I messed up my leg. )

[ The most detailed diagnosis ever made. ]
003 ✖ THE CROWD STANDING STARING FACELESS
[ There's a growing bruise settling over her right hip, throbbing mercilessly to remind her of its presence when it's not sending jolts of misery each time a movement causes her robes to brush over its surface. She rests a gloved hand over the worst of it, and presses down, hard, breathing slowly against the pain that momentarily slips past the walls of her mind. But this way the throbbing at least stops, and the surprise is subdued. It is no longer an unknown, treacherous variable. This and her ankle, what merciless reminders of her own fallibility.

Otherwise, she seems neither pleased over completing the race with all her limbs intact nor distressed over missing the first prize. Trophies are nice only insofar as they affirm her own confidence, which she now generates within herself, self-existent. The grassy drink held in her other hand is ignored, her entire attention taken up by the handful of Basittia dignitaries just a few steps away. ]

( What do you think they're looking for? It's not the best riders. Is it the one who didn't cheat or the one who cheated best? )
004 ✖ WILDCARD!
[ Anything goes. PM me or ping me at muditaya as your heart desires! ]

Closed for Alnair - Herding
[ Annie is pumped for this event. As much as she doesn't get along with animals... herding, wrangling, and roping are more her kind of skills over fuckin' communing with the dumb beasts. The game calls for teams of three, and she happens to know a couple of idiots who probably won't tell her no. Especially if she beams about it and extols how fucking great they'll do at it. ]

( Remember, dickheads, warping is cheating when nobody else can do it. )

[ Which probably means her unearthly aura on the loose scaring the Gryer into running from her, rather than any real skill at herding, is also cheating... but whatever. Since when do the same rules apply to her. ]

OTA - Around / Wildcard
[ This isn't really her scene. Shril had been more her scene, with big aliens that played loud nasty music-- This reminds her a lot more of a Renfaire and fuck that shit. She's wandering around trying to find something to amuse herself with until her next event, which of course isn't until the end of the damn day. She keeps skirting past groups happily drinking, blanching on the inside as the always recovering alcoholic in her stirs, rumbles, wants to join in. That'd be the key to blowing this whole ruse though: get her drunk and watch her run her mouth. She can't even really find a quite place to smoke a cigarette... She assumes they have a hookah tent or something to that effect, but doesn't want to risk that kind of inebriation either if it's that different kind of smoke-- ]

( Who's where, who's doing what, is any of it fun? )

Elinmaster Run -- There's a whooole bunch of options in here, pick a spot in the timeline and insert!!!
[ Her otherworldly presence is obscured for this event. A veil of mist and smoke that comes from each of her respective broodmates, to stop the reality of her alien monstrousness from triggering that panic response in the backs of these automatons technomanced minds. It's a start. She can ride the thing, and it sits under her without trembling.

But this was still a bad idea. One day's lessons aren't enough to overcome a total dearth of knowledge in the subject of riding an animal. Annie gulps, her fear hidden behind the smokescreen as much as everything else, and then she steels it over. Preparing herself for probably breaking a rib or two when she inevitably gets thrown, or maybe crushed under this thing. Whatever. She's been through worse.

The least she can do is maybe take out some of these other riders, give her crew a better chance.

All she has to do is make it through the initial pinch... and then she can start kicking bitches off their ponies, right? Kicking, punching, shoving, shouldering... Her goal isn't to win so much as impede everyone else, and that almost makes it easier to get on with her own Elin.

Until, at last, someone on the 2.5 meter end of the scale has enough of her and sends her flying. Ah, yes. Her back hits the rock face and she tumbles downward, end over end. Her mechanical steed tumbling after, she knows it is and scrambles, mostly missing its flailing legs. ]

( Ugh... )

Closed for Noctis
( What do you think, can you actually win? )

Ping Me For Anything Else @ itsabee

I. Preparations

[ Aloy has cleared her mind. She doesn't have the time or luxury to dwell on her unhappy thoughts or to worry about them at this moment. There's a race to be run and information to be gathered. Aloy is standing with her Elin, forehead practically resting against its broad head as she tries to gather herself for what's to come. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Clear your mind and focus, Aloy. She is reminded of the time before the Proving and the way her nerves felt then. Calm. She takes a breath again and finally looks up, peering at any of her fellows who might be close enough to speak to. ]

Wish me luck.

II. The Aftermath

[ The race has been run. Aloy has not in a very strategic mindset--she means to win. Focusing ont he race and it's excitement has forced other thoughts from her mind and it's a blessing, to be honest. She has pounded through the course at a breakneck pace, determined to show that she's no slouch and that she has no fear in the face of danger or challenge. It has been a near run thing. At one point, she and her mount teetered dangerously close to a cliff edge and by the time she comes in at the finish line she is dehydrated, sore and bruised. She comes leaping off of her mount with a triumphant whoop, then staggers as one of her legs gives out a little under her weight. Hissing, she sinks down to sit in the dust of the victor's circle, clutching at her left leg. ]

All-Mother, that hurts--!

[ She stretches the leg out with another wince, then looks up at whoever might be approaching her to check on her or offer some help. ]

I got it caught between my Elin and the canyon wall but I didn't think it was that bad.

III. Wild card!

[ Pidge's meeting with Kaji had been by chance, but after some discussion, they'd both agreed on one thing: they needed to ensure that their crewmates finished near the top of the lists at the competition the next day. Which meant that sabotage was clearly the best option. Besides, Kaji seemed very interested in hearing about what Pidge could do if she got her hands on something mechanical. Like, say, the Elin.

It's dark out now and they're both wrapped in their layers of cloth. She glances up at him as they pick their way through the sprawl of tents and campfires. Most of htem have burned low by now, but here and there there are still a few people awake and speaking in low voices. Overhead, the sky is a wonderful expanse of stars. ]

( I just want to make sure we don't get any that anyone from our side is going to be riding... )

[ Sides. However much she doesn't like being here, she still thinks of the Nest as "hers". ]

[ It turns out, the consequences of having used his power don't lessen with repeat use. Just like the first two times, he feels illness wash over him only moments after he's successfully infected his target. Bellamy feels badly over what he's done after the fact, guilt pulsing distantly as he forces himself to stay upright as he falls into step between Misato and Kaji. They bracket him all the way back to the tent, though Bellamy staggers out of formation once they get inside, yanking at his veil.

All the layers are abruptly stifling. His skin's gone clammy with sweat, and it's hard to breathe with cloth draped over his face. Bellamy has to sit down hard to strip it off. There's a split second where he hates the lack of privacy in this tent. It's worse than the jail; it matters that these people are seeing him like this, where the occupants of the medical wing of the jail on Concordia had never mattered. It matters what spills out of his head here, with such an audience. ]

It'll pass, [ Bellamy says, clearly intending to ward off any questions before they start. ] We'll both be fine afterwards.

[ No one's dying. It's not that kind of sickness; it's nasty, but it's the kind that people survive. If he'd killed that officer on Concordia, he'd have been moved into a different cell block. That had been vaguely comforting then, and it's useful to hold in his mind now, warding off memories of the drop ship and Octavia's hand on his brow as he'd choked up blood.

He puts his head between his knees now, groaning as he fumbles one-handed with the constricting collar of his robe. ]

[ ooc | murphy has first dibs, then anyone else in the tent who wants a crack at him! broodmates can hit him up mentally, as always. ]

[ By the time morning comes, Bellamy is still suffering the effects of the blowback. He hasn't shaken the sickness. Some symptoms have eased, but he's still clammy with sweat under his robes and veils, still nauseous and dizzy. But he knows without being told that languishing in the tent for the entire day isn't an option. The best way to divert attention is to be seen upright and seemingly unaffected. He'll have to hide behind his robes, and wait out the last few hours. Bellamy signed himself up for this, so he joins the crowd of spectator without complaint, even if his miserable mood is radiating in a low undercurrent outward through the Nest.

He gravitates immediately to the first veiled figure he sees. Bellamy reaches to grip Adra's elbow, grounding himself. His back is straight, but he wishes the band would quiet and people would stop shouting. He surveys the area grumpily before lightly nudging at Adra's mind. ]

( Sorry, ) [ for the immediate invasion of his spce. ] ( Have they started? )

I. RUN BOY RUN

[ She walks her Elin to the racing line in an even pace, whisper breathless prayers to it - for speed, for grace, for steadiness, words murmured in Marathi that the symbiote translates through - even if she knows all of that will come for herself, and despite it being explained that these things really aren't alive - well, she figures it can't hurt, can it, to treat it well? The warm brush of her fingers over its metal side. But it's a slow work, and she doesn't do well in her own thoughts when she's a half breadth on the edge of her adrenaline, but kept in and kept back, as to whoever has joined her for the walk out, she passes the reigns to the creature. ]

For a moment, if you would.

[ She hooks her foot to stirrup and pushes up effortless into the saddle. Stretching herself forward to settle in. Settling comfortably for now, rather than in the line she'll need to be when the race starts.

Then she leans forward to take the reigns again. ]

II. IMMEDIATE POST RACE. ( POWERS USAGE )

[ The high from racing - even if not winning, can't be sure until Servillia is done her part - is infectious in its brightness, even if it is like go from cold water into blazing heat where she switches from the enhanced state of the Blackwater in her veins where the world goes slippery smooth - to when she finally tags off to Servillia: a riot of colour in full swing. All of herself reaching out, like one torch lit to another, and then to another, and to another. The few people that come up to either help her dismount seem to catch it too, and her mind is loud. Trumpet loud and blazing in each inhale and exhale. The trumpets of elephants as Chandeliers swing from their tusks. The shot of canons that split the air apart as each breath stings as it comes back into her lungs. She had raced and raced well to all of her ability and right now: that was enough. Her concern about the vampires of the hive, of being so far from her home, her endless, endless wars is gone, and in the small group she has gathered around her as she winds her way back from her portion of the race, seem to feel it too.

In fact they seem to feel it very much. A merry band of followers - even if they don't last long, for a minute, they are as blazingly as brilliant as she is in elation, and it spreads to the few that come up to her.

- And then at once, she crashes. The riding high emotion is shoved back underwater like falling from a great height and she's left unbearably numb to herself, and her little group at once seems to fade away from her and she pushes through the rest of it in a dulled confusion.

Someone just found out their powers. ]

III. OBLIGATORY WET TSHIRT OPTION

[ She's lucky that the deadened sensation fades from her, but not back to that impossible elation, more settled back to herself, more aware, of the sweat cooled on her skin, the dust she's breathed in even through the veils, that stiffling stiffness and - she can't smell good at all right now.

Gets back to her tent, and her plan is relatively simple, once she is there. She gets one (1) bucket of water. Sheds her too many layers, top and all. Winding instead a long wrap of material comfortably over herself - hides whatever she needs it too, if not the old scars, the things that that blackwater couldn't completely take away. The exit wound through her right shoulder, above heart and lung, the scratch of something at her side. Used to, now, as she dips her hands in first, flicks them off and brings them up to her neck to wipe across her skin. One savouring second of cool water to pushed hard body. Then to her braid, unravelling it with quick fingers. Flicking it out in a yank that is more practical than indulgent.

Then unceremoniously tips herself forward, head straight into the water. Thrusting her fingers into her hair against her scalp. Then when she pulls up and back, it's with a happy, content sigh. Better, much better. Back in her own skin again. ]

IV. WILDCARD.

[ Got an idea? Go crazy! ]

[Winning the race hadn't necessarily been easy, but it had never been in question. She had dumbed down the last leg of the relay race for the benefit of the Nest only, but it would have been a cold day in hell for her to have kept from showing off. If Seviilia had but one flaw, it was her pride.

She's spent most of dinner entertaining other Rabadoceans fawning over her prowess, so its no surprise that she's looking for an escape. Not too far away among the press of others, she spots the heads of both Shiro and Sam first as they weave their way about the crowd.]

( You don't look busy. )

[She speaks to both of them, attention obviously divided between them, the drink in her hand, and the surrounding crowd.]

( Come absolve me of this rabble before I...accidentally...trip one of them trying to do so on my own. )

SEVILLIA | EARLY DAY 012
[He doesn't want to think of it as a promise, but Murphy hadn't forgotten what he said he'd do for Seviilia on the trip down. He still owed her - the explanation for why he'd robbed her of a meal had only been part of it. And it wasn't like he wouldn't benefit from finding some way to alleviate her hunger.

But it had still taken a while to figure out. The cultures and behaviours here, the fragility of the mission and the vulnerability of their place in it. But there was a malleability in the culture they were demonstrating, constructing around the people they were supposed to be, and being outside of Naerstone House opened up a lot more opportunities. Opportunities Murphy could use.

It's early in the day when he tugs demandingly at her mind, radiating both the satisfaction of a plan going well and the adrenaline of it not being finished yet.]

( Hey. I've got something for you. )

[But for all the nonchalance in the phrasing, there's an immediacy, the impression of a window that will close if she doesn't listen, come to him right now.]

CLARKE | AFTER THE MESSENGER RACE
[It's halfway through the race that it becomes painfully apparent that Clarke is worse than Bellamy at keeping anything under wraps. Her anxiety and concern spreads out around her, soaks through so heavily that calling it a leak would be a joke. She's a damn faucet.

There's no point trying to drag her away during the race. He knows how stubborn she gets, and if she's this worried about the riders, she won't move an inch. Thankfully they finish without her making a mess of it, and as the crowd of spectators start to shift and mill, he can make his way to her side, a hand on her elbow.]

( Come on. ) [He doesn't pull, as such, but it's clear he means to lead her away. Back to the tents, ideally.] ( Unless you want to make someone screw up and fall off next race, we're going to have to work on your brain. )

[More quickly than might really be effective, but he bears some of that. They would've had more time if he'd followed up on his offer of help sooner. He'd been busy, and maybe, on some level, figured she'd be better at this on her own than she actually was.]

Edited 2017-08-21 23:26 (UTC)

I. or you could not ( before / the sorting / messenger races )

( clarke griffin is picturesque discontent. she is tense, stiff shoulders, and tightly balled fists hidden beneath the folds of her costume; she is stern, thin lips, and hard, narrowed eyes, and outwardly radiating enough displeasure with the lackadaisical and questionably safe event that is about to take place that she could probably power a small town if it ran on grumpiness alone. naturally, unhappy with the proceedings and seeing nothing but risks every time she looks at the animatronic creatures they're meant to ride and wrangle, she's situated at the very front of the congregation; nearly straddling the edge of the competition pen.

if she had to put a name and face to the person she's most consumed with concern for right now, it would be rust. her obscured gaze keeps dragging towards his figure amidst the gryer, and for a good while her fears manifest as frustration; this was stupid and unnecessary, why in his constant state of superiority and apathy would he bother? clarke doesn't think too hard on her own question; she could parse the answer from the folds of his grey matter if she wanted to. the music and general exuberance is grating enough that instead she could focus on the general annoyances around her — the people crowding in too close, the screams and shouts, the spectacle.

there's no mindfulness that the crowd could be under as intense scrutiny as the riders; clarke puts no effort into maintaining the guise of lexa's stoic diplomatic advisor, and casts a few too many lingering glances in the direction of the swept manor between glaring at the elin like they've personally wronged her already. )

II. whispers PLEASE COULD YOU NOT ( elinmaster run )

( between the trials, john murphy tugs her away from the sidelines and instills some level of control to her mental faculties, patches up some of the holes in her rather weak defenses. and bellamy blake willingly poisons himself because that's just who he is and what he does. and now the love of her life is about to scale a mountain with a fake horse, so all in all, it's been a rough day. when clarke rejoins the festivities and hum of excitement, her mind is quieter — less unintentionally beating her displeasure into the minds of others, more micro-expressions of her fear; her preemptive grief if something were to go wrong. looking up at that cliff face and the canyon carved into its side, it is a long way down.

softer — less words, more the sensation of the perpetually worried: an aching jaw from grinding your teeth to hard, the spike in heart rate as the horn blows to signal the start of the race, the tight knot in her stomach as the riders disappear into the darkness of night and shadows alike, and the rough, almost crushing way she folds her arms over her chest, as if to ward off any future hurts if (when?) one of the nest falls; as if to hold in all those swirling thoughts to prevent them from escaping, distracting the participants. the sensation of teeth worrying at the inside of her cheek.

she is a little less intrusive with her thoughts, but still commands all the negative energy in the slowly calming crowd; again at the very front, and ready to vault the ropes at the first sign of trouble.

(if there is any sort of fuss about the competitor too sick to ride in the beginning, that decidedly isn't trouble. no, that elicits a sick sort of pride; a sigh, a slight moment of relief in which clarke can't help half-smiling at the rocks at her feet.) )

II. what you will !!!

( have at my vague, "come bother clarke" prompts for the first day of competition, or throw whatever you'd like at me! before everything, after everything, the next day if someone busted their knee and needs a makeshift bandaid — i'm easy, guys, and clarke is grumpy. )

Threaded | Flat

MESSENGER RACE

Sam Wilson | some open, some closed

( closed to elena )

ota