thearena | (no subject)

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(no subject)

Who| Donatello and THE FRAYSONG INITIATE
What| Tranquil insanity versus crazy outbursts. There can only be one winner, right?
Where| Arena 2
When| The middle of Week 3
Warnings/Notes| Maiming.

He'd made his decision. Someone was going to die tonight.

To be fair, he'd made that vow at the beginning of the Arena. But he'd not done a good job at it, which annoyed him. Even like this, if there was one thing Don didn't like, it was failing. It was a thing that his brothers all hated, but as a scientist, Don didn't normally get frustrated as easily. This, of course, was different.

Very different, when he was throwing his morals to the wind. He wanted to draw blood. No - he needed to draw blood. That was why he was here, wasn't it? Even with the injuries he'd caused, it wasn't enough to satisfy the people watching at him. Even as he was covered in blood from Tributes and animals alike. He needed to do something.

He needed to entertain, after all.

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The Initiate’s thoughts, on general basis, are not entirely unlike Don’s in that moment. He’s a clown, a motherfucker of the carnival what is made to entertain. And death? To welcome parted souls carnivalside by way of motherfucking murder? Well, that’s always something desired.

But in that particular moment, he walks away both from a recent kill— and how long overdue it had been, such a sweet satisfaction that came to fruition in the teal fish girl’s bloodspill— and from a recent defeat, pride wounded far worse than the lost fang, cuts, and bruises delivered to him. Worse still to know that it had been watched by so many. The crush of bone, the give and break of flesh, were returned to one at least, but still no tickets given to the three he’d lost sight of.

There’s a singular solace in knowing that at least of those watching none had been the old goat. And, he supposes, that there was still time for them to die at a later point, though by then the victory would be bitter. Taking account of what wounds he’s got, he wonders if his older self— the self that is to be Grand Highblood one day— ever gets to this sort of… low point. He’s not sure how he feels about either idea.

His pan is crying out for death, for all what get about here, but the only real blood he’s gotten on his claws is the teal seadweller girl’s… and the Helmsman’s. He wants for something more, Messiahs want for something tangible. His body aches, but not enough to stop him from finding interest in the silhouette on the horizon. And what he may do.

After some time, Don immediately stopped, sitting down on a rock. Casually, he let down the remnants of his hood of his costume, letting the cold night air blow on his face.

He could feel the vibrations. Something - someone - was coming. Getting close. Whether it was for good or ill, on their side, it didn't matter, did it? It would come to ill. All to naught. That was was the point, wasn't it? That was why they were here. That was why they were all here.

Suddenly, he felt tired. For a moment - a single, quiet moment - he thought to not fight. To just let the inevitable happen. But then...that wouldn't be entertaining, would it? Going down without a fight. The life of the Tribute was supposed to be violent, messy, painful. And that was what he was. A Tribute. A

That was what he would be forever, until the end of time, the end of Panem. Or until his genetic structure wore down too much to be duplicated. Even if he let himself die here, it would be time again to kill. There was nothing to look forward to, either in or out of the Arenas, but killing. Whether by his hand or another's.

So he sat. And waited for the inevitable. Either he would let himself die, or decide to fight and continue. Don just wasn't sure, at the moment, which he wanted to do just yet.

The Initiate doesn't bother trying to hide, or sneak up on this one. It became quickly clear that the... not-human wasn't going anywhere. He appeared to be some sort of shellbeast, far as he could tell. Obviously a kill from behind wouldn't work well anyway, not without something to use as club, and the crowbar he'd had had been left where he'd stabbed the one human.

He begins to recite, "Beheld terrors unnamed not but with rasp or breath OF DEATH AND CHUCKLED DEATH MOTHERFUCKING DID, with light upon crowned horns and eyes alight for the bringer, THE BRINGER WOULD SEE THE PUNCH OF PAPER SOUL with mark on mark on motherfucking mark of most wicked providence, TO PIERCE AND REND ASUNDER THAT WHICH HAS BEEN DEEMED UNHOLY AND OH LET THEM BE MADE HOLY BY THE MAKING OF MOTHERFUCKING HOLES."

He was only a short distance away from Don now. He tries to will the old pains away, as he utters verse and prayer and offering. Messiahs do as they will, but there's something to be said for trying.

"The holes what bleed in the universe and out and fucking beyond, let them hear the songs what seep, and ignore the glubs of the deep, FOR TRUTH SOUNDS NOT IN ROUNDS OF WHAT IS MERE BEAST FOR WE ARE MERE BEAST, but let the honks of retribution ring and let the blood songs sing for unlike the beast WE WILL NOT BE SILENCED, WE WILL RESOUND WITH NOISE MOST VAST. Messiahs look upon the glory, let minstrels work be done."

And if Messiahs offered nothing now, then their miracles would be preformed still, one way or other. "PRAISE MOTHERFUCKING BE!" He charges forward.

Oh, he was already there. He didn't care about the prayer his enemy was shouting. He had no problem charging forward even as the Initiate was praying.

And so Don was there, swinging his scythe. It was battle time.

He leaps back to avoid a scythe swing, kicking up sand in his wake. The blade whistles past and he spins back. Another swing cuts his arm and draws a snarl.

He makes to drag his claws along the arm of the shellbeast, as he brings his leg down to snap the the snath of the scythe-- or at least knock it from the shellbeast's grip.

Don let out a hiss as those claws connected with his shoulder, leaving lovely, deep gashes in his shoulder. But he wasn't giving up, and that scythe wasn't going to break or leave his hand. Indeed, he already was readying his knives.

Edited 2013-07-21 21:32 (UTC)

If he steps back, he goes back in range of the scythe, if he stays, the motherfucker has him short-range with the knives. And all so he could scratch him? What a stupid move. The girl had tried as much with him and look where that got her. But no, he wouldn't be dying here, not him.

Tossing any sort of grace, he charges the shellbeast. A shellbeast on it's back, humanoid or not, gave him advantage, didn't it? If only that works.

He wanted to charge? Initiate could charge. But Don had a back up. Indeed, the scythe wasn't the only thing he had.

His throwing knife was ready, though he was too close to throw it. But he suddenly saw a possible weak point he could use to slow the Initiate down.

The suit they'd forced him has been torn up at the top. The sleeves are gone, making it into a useless sort of vest, with tears all up the sides too. And one set in particular exposing a set of peculiar scars; the remainders of vestigial grub legs from before pupation, still ripe with just enough nerve endings that the blade makes him falter and hiss. He reels back, instinctively.

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