[mission: hyrypia] then the holy paths we'll travel strew'd with rubies thick as gravel

[onemind]

CHARACTERS: EVERYONE
WHERE: Hyrypia - The Graze
WHEN: DAY :014 - 016
SUMMARY: Two days of horseback hunting training, followed by the second round of competition.
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary. Need a warning added? PM this account please!

THE GRAZE
DAY :014 - :015
THE DAY FOLLOWING the festivities finds the majority of competitors and spectators still buzzing with the competition’s failures and successes, but there is little time to gloat or moan about the results. By the time the sun has risen over the graze there's a new announcement: there will be two days of additional training followed by another day of competition. Today and tomorrow will be dedicated to learning skills vital to the hunt.

0. TRAINING
THE TRAINING FIELD has become familiar, but the decor has changed- as have the the teachers. Unlike the previous riding and herding lessons which featured ropes and hooks, today's syllabus includes a series of more dangerous tools. The short spears that line the racks may be dulled but they still look painful, and the speed at which they're hurled from the intricately carved Sarvat - the traditional spear throwers - is intimidating.

At first glance, the slings of woven and stained Gryer leather are less impressive-- but the different ammo that can be loaded in them proves interesting: a bio-luminescent tagging liquid that stains the targets that it hits and leaves distinct trails, hard metal weights, and carefully handled poison globes.

Over the next day the envoys are are trained to use the weapons from Elinback in addition to being schooled in a number of simple traps and snares that leave little confusion as to the nature of the next challenge events...



THE GRAZE &
THE MINIATURE FINGER MAZE
DAY :016

I. THE CHASE
THE HERD of technomanced automaton Gryer sits idle in the knee-high silvery grass of the Graze. They're nothing like the Elin (who exhibit all the traits of live animals); these automatons seem to know only two basic concepts: don't run, and run. Right now they're practicing the former as the competing riders are divided into large, mixed hunting parties. Once the parties have been formed, they take turns taking their runs at the herd. Among the herd of thirty, four Gryer have been painted a brilliant sapphire. To strike one down requires either two metal weights to the head, a spear to the neck piece, or two spears to its midsection.

When the hunting parties take off so do the automaton Gryer. And they're fast, moving as of one mind - a school of mechanical fish through a sea of silver grass. It'll take cleverness, skill and a bit of daring riding to either cut the targets free of the herd or go crashing through among the running Gryer to strike a target down among its brainless brothers and sisters. Once struck enough times or in the right place, the sapphire Gryer will lose power and drive spectacularly into the earth.

The attentive audience (many of them armed with an array of binoculars from their personal belongings) might cheer when appropriate, but due to the distance at which much of the action takes place most of the observation is spent eating, drinking, and enjoying the shockingly pleasant weather.

II. THE 75th HUNGER GAMES PURSUIT
THE BREEZE GROANS through the shadowy pocket of the canyon system, whistling tiredly through the coral structures - along narrow bridges and between tight passages. Familiar to anyone who competed in the individual race on Day :013, this shadowy miniature canyon is crawling with automated creatures to 'kill.' The only problem? Beating everyone else to one of them. With the blare of that now-familiar horn, the hunters mounted on their Elin take off into the canyon and rapidly splinter into disparate groups or simply go off on their own into the tangle. It doesn't take long at all to lose sight of other riders, to begin to feel completely alone in the low light of early evening. Mist rises from the canyon floor and the breeze moans ominously through the pockmarked coral structures.

It'll take more cleverness and accuracy than high speed riding skill to claim a prize here. But best work quickly and quietly to avoid having your target poached out from under your nose…

III. THE AFTERMATH
THE SECOND CHALLENGE ENDS with a long, mournful cry of the now-familiar horn. All of the possible targets have been captured and to the victors go the spoils in the form of the accumulated scores, carefully kept by the judges. The losers are left empty handed-- at least until the spectators and competitors alike have made it back to the tent encampment. Then their hands are filled with the same liquor and a new spread of simple, filling, and delicious dishes expertly prepared by the servants of the manor.

There’s some ceremony to it - the meat they are eating is the same that they would have served if their hunt had been for something more than machines. However, mostly this seems to be a chance to relax sore muscles. That's aided by the addition of several leather-enclosed tents raised earlier in the day. Once the sun sets, these tents are filled with hot, relaxing steam and lined with benches: saunas! ...which might provide some comfort for anyone not stuck wearing a heavy robe. :(

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((OOC Notes: This log covers the two days of mounted combat/hunting skills training and the competition which follows. 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 for the finale 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

[perroquet]

[ Oh Mr. Cohle, his hero.

Not that he knows it's Rust to the rescue right away. The sudden grip on his arm is a bit jarring in this hyper focused state, and he can't help but let some of what he's feeling overflow as Rust reaches out to his unwalled mind-

The tented dining room is briefly painted in an imageless picture, every movement and sound creating vibrations through which Gildor can 'see' within a wide radius. It sharpens in intensity as his own vibrating anxiety does, then relaxes as he recognizes Rust in his head. And then he's scrambling to cover the alien sixth sense he didn't mean to share- ]

(Yes, I agree!)

[ It's a bit sheepish, but only to conceal just how relieved he is to have someone intervening. And then disdain at his own relief, if that disdain is really his. Whatever the case, he allows the cup to be pulled away and stands, grabbing his staff as he does. ]

[aluminumandash]

[ Some things you just let happen and some things you let happen to you. That's how this feels—like hallucination, reality playing favorites. Rust forgets to breathe, the room defined in throbs and shivers. It's taut, then slack, then—impossibly—it snaps, leaving him with flat color and shape. ]

Come on. [ Cop. That's his inflection. He's not proud of it. ] A walk'll do you good. [ He releases Gildor, only half attentive, listening for that vanished frequency. Lets the drink spill on his way out.

He waits until they're a few yards from the tent before saying: ] ( It was bothering me, how you made it up that cliff. )

[perroquet]

I- yes, thank you-

[ He's released, but takes a moment to reorient himself, using his staff rather than the sixth sense he just gave away. It's never really gone but muted, especially through the layers of robes, and that helps with the cover he's trying to maintain.

They walk in silence a ways, uncharacteristic quiet even in Gildor's head. He's still anxious, but removed from the smell and temptation he's recovering quickly. Distracted, but almost ready to strike up that soothing mental band again when Rust re-enters his thoughts with an unexpected question. ]

(What? Oh, yes. I believe you were briefly privy as to how I managed, back there... I apologize for that.)

[ He sighs heavily, relieved to be out in the cooler night air. The veil over his face flutters lightly under his breath. ]

Thank you for the walk. I owe you.

[ Debts can be repaid in songs or magic, Rust's choice. ]

[aluminumandash]

[ Rust turns to look at him, the eye stitched into his hood slowly going disembodied in the deepening night. He traces it with his gaze. ] ( I've had worse. ) [ It's not a brush-off, kicks up a few impressions: immobility and excruciating pressure, fingers latched to his skin like burrs. ] ( Those were vibrations, yeah? )

[ I owe you. It strikes him as abject, more pathetic than the alcoholism, and Rust wavers—between pity and contempt, no and yes. He could use a favor. He could use Gildor, maybe use him up.

The thing in their heads, was that supposed to make them equals? ] Didn't do it for you. [ He tips his head back for a view of the stars. Strange-eyed constellations, he thinks, a measure of wonder seeping through the cracks. ] ( How bad does it get? )

[perroquet]

(Vibrations, yes. Otherwise known as drow-sense. I am... half drow.)

[ He hesitates the admittance of a half-heritage, but only by a second. Habit bred from caution that is slowly starting to break. There's no one here who has given him grief over having mixed blood between closed societies, and most are willing to accept him as an elf. He can continue to pass safely as that. ]

(How bad? Hm.)

[ That gives him more pause. His memories of when he was still drinking blend together in abstract sound and time, and there are so very many years. He could opt for the truth and tell his worst tale. Reopen the wounds of the worst mistakes and of his life and allow someone he still hardly knows to examine how much they still ache.

Or go for the second worst- ]

(I don't have clear memories of this since I had blacked out, but - a few decades back, the band of travelers I was with were called to exterminate a pesky adolescent dragon who'd taken up residence in the bell tower of a temple.

While they formulated a proper plan, I thought it would be a good idea to climb the roof myself and negotiate with the youngling. However, in my drunken state, my argument ended up being badly recited poetry. The dragon argued back with acid from its throat, which melted a hole in the ceiling. It then defecated through it, and quickly knocked me through as well.)

[ He huffs a sigh through the veils. The memory of the dragon poo-smell that clung to his hair for a week is somehow still better than thinking of the scent of alcohol back in the dining tents. ]

(It was, at the very least, a soft landing.)

[aluminumandash]

( What's that? ) [ Nothing idle about the question, arising as it does from wholesale ignorance. Fleetingly Rust pictures a mole, tunneling through a dark and palsied world. Fleetingly he scoffs at himself.

As for the story, it's a story. He suspects he's meant to find it funny, which he doesn't. It sounds like a fucking cartoon. But it gives him an idea of the kind of drunk Gildor is—reckless, mouthy, self-important or self-sacrificing—and in that roundabout way answers his question.

He's the kind of drunk who'd wreck his car, not beat a man to death.

Rust lets silence pool between them, then, with a sort of slow-acting interest: ] ( You tell that one a lot? )

[perroquet]

[ He seems unbothered by Rust's lack of reaction, and actually lets out gentle laugh at the question. ]

( No, not so much anymore. The same set of stories grow tired when you live in one place after a while. )

[ And to the other question - a simple what's that? - Gildor provides a much more detailed answer than perhaps Rust was expecting. It's simply a good distraction, and as he recalls this other story, his mind wanders further from the cravings he'd been fighting. ]

( Drow are the descendants of a former clan of elves. They waged a bloody war against the dwarves for their treasure and won, but at a cost. The Warrior was not pleased with their motive, as the dwarves had been their most devout worshippers. As punishment, the Warrior condemned the drow to lives of darkness by taking away their eyes, so they could no longer lust after anything that glitters. They were locked in the underground land they conquered and forced to drink the blood they had spilled for eternity. )

[ He pauses there for effect, but not for long. ] ( It is true they lack eyesight, but the rest is likely myth to warn against fighting for the wrong reasons. Really, they are just a subspecies of elves living in a closed society, and maintain a reputation of violence to keep it closed. One mountain they are known to dwell under is said to leak blood, but it is only clay. A nice touch, though. )

[ He sighs and twists the end of his staff into the ground. How many times had he been asked if he was a blood-drinker? He's long since lost count. ]

( I don't know which of my parents was one, but I know I am half because all records of half-breeds describe someone like me. Somewhat tall, elf-looking, thick hair, long-fingered, with delicate diets, and blind since birth. My teacher told me to insist I am fully elvish and that I lost my eyesight in an accident, but everyone knew. )