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Go to war first and then seek to win [OPEN]
Who| Shepard, Garrus Vakarian, and anyone who wants some CR with the aforementioned
What| Trying to keep your feet dry by taking a walk in the rain
Where| Sort of south-eastish quarter of the island
When| During the second week of the arena, vaguely
Warnings/Notes| Shepard's mouth, likely violence. It's a Hunger Games jamjar.
If it was anything at all, it was familiar. The jungle— the rainforest lived on a set schedule, same as any forest, but accelerated by the heat and humidity to a daily cycle. Foggy before dawn, a perfect time to be killed, clearing by mid-morning as the plants drank in the water, as the sun burned off what lay exposed. Hot, brutally humid, and full of insects through the afternoon, culminating in a heavy rain before sunset. Fog again at twilight, if the rain stopped early enough; else a warm, wet night, good for hunting, like living in a hostile womb for the humidity. It was the trees that did it, drinking up the water and breathing it from their leaves, just so it could fall again later, int he same place. It was like a goldfish bowl, drinking their own piss, swimming in their own shit: in more ways than one, what with all the cameras. The only consolation was that Thane was still missing. Grateful as she'd have been for his skillset, the humidity would have killed him long before the tributes.
But all the same, it was familiar. The N1 training in Rio had been like this. Nostalgia had dulled the experience's blade, but this was bringing it all back. What a joy human memory was!
So they set snares and gathered caches of food or marked where it grew, and shared the load of what Shepard had gathered. Garrus helped her dole it out into measured rations and they traveled part of each day, mapping the island, looking for other tributes— with so far little luck. Solitude might have been safer, but it was also less interesting, and when the audience got bored... so they told stories, made jokes, traded insults, compared unlikely tales of heroism, well-embellished.
God, Shepard hoped they ran into someone soon. She was starting to run out of bullshit, and the gamemaker's idle hands were more dangerous than any ten of the damn tributes. It was only a matter of time before the canons started sounding anyways. Nights had so far been far too goddamn dark and quiet.
What| Trying to keep your feet dry by taking a walk in the rain
Where| Sort of south-eastish quarter of the island
When| During the second week of the arena, vaguely
Warnings/Notes| Shepard's mouth, likely violence. It's a Hunger Games jamjar.
If it was anything at all, it was familiar. The jungle— the rainforest lived on a set schedule, same as any forest, but accelerated by the heat and humidity to a daily cycle. Foggy before dawn, a perfect time to be killed, clearing by mid-morning as the plants drank in the water, as the sun burned off what lay exposed. Hot, brutally humid, and full of insects through the afternoon, culminating in a heavy rain before sunset. Fog again at twilight, if the rain stopped early enough; else a warm, wet night, good for hunting, like living in a hostile womb for the humidity. It was the trees that did it, drinking up the water and breathing it from their leaves, just so it could fall again later, int he same place. It was like a goldfish bowl, drinking their own piss, swimming in their own shit: in more ways than one, what with all the cameras. The only consolation was that Thane was still missing. Grateful as she'd have been for his skillset, the humidity would have killed him long before the tributes.
But all the same, it was familiar. The N1 training in Rio had been like this. Nostalgia had dulled the experience's blade, but this was bringing it all back. What a joy human memory was!
So they set snares and gathered caches of food or marked where it grew, and shared the load of what Shepard had gathered. Garrus helped her dole it out into measured rations and they traveled part of each day, mapping the island, looking for other tributes— with so far little luck. Solitude might have been safer, but it was also less interesting, and when the audience got bored... so they told stories, made jokes, traded insults, compared unlikely tales of heroism, well-embellished.
God, Shepard hoped they ran into someone soon. She was starting to run out of bullshit, and the gamemaker's idle hands were more dangerous than any ten of the damn tributes. It was only a matter of time before the canons started sounding anyways. Nights had so far been far too goddamn dark and quiet.
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But for all that, for the sticky heat, the drenching rains and the clouds of blood thirsty insects, he felt strangely at home. He was part of a posse again, tracking the wanted man, his skills once again, finally, of use.
The landscape might have been alien, but the purpose wasn't. He knew what he was doing, where he stood again....
If only for the moment.
Tracking through the trees, he moved quietly, but steadily. If he found anything that so much as hinted at Aunamee's presence, he'd turn back to regroup with Max.
A promise was a promise.
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Or, of course, if you were so certain of that other person...
Shepard had the advantage in the form of one Garrus Vakarian, and she knew it. What's more, she wasn't trying to hide. Conversation made for shitty stealth, and it was eventually going to come to killing.
Wyatt's advantage? She didn't want to kill him. But it still gave him a choice to make, as their little group neared his position; hide, or hail?
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He would do what had to.
But these people, approaching now, were not Aunamee. He had no beef with them, in fact, as they got closer, he was fairly certain he still owed of them.
Tucking his knife away, and turning the spear up - non-threatening - he whistled gently to catch their attention and stepped into the open.
Hope this is okay!
It made her angry and she snuck through the forest, knife drawn. Something to eat, something to kill, something to prove she could still do things and was still worth supporting. She didn't want to die! She wanted to win!
If she had been able to see properly, or move without pain she might have noticed that the strange creature was wearing clothes and probably wasn't a monster. But she didn't think of that, and didn't even see Shepard as she rushed at it, before it could get the upper hand, knife aimed for its throat.
It's awesome!
He wasn't about to kill her, but immobilization was key in getting the upper hand in any fight.
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But once she was back from him he pulled himself to his full height and settled his piercing hawk-eyed stare at her instead of attacking again, waiting for her to make another advancement.
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Still, it wasn't as if the kid hadn't asked for it, head-wound or otherwise.
"That's enough," she barked, risking an advertisement of their position for the sake of... Well, for the sake of temper, really. It wasn't as if they were anything approaching stealthy at the moment, "At ease, the both of you."
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Watching Shepard, he staunched his bleeding hand with the fabric of his shirt, not trusting the girl not to jump up and try to knife Shepard.
"Do you know her, Shepard?"
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She was still angry though, turning to Shepard, knife in hand, bandage mostly hanging off her eye where it had slipped in the fight.
w/e w/e i'll tag as late as i want
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The snares were well-made. Someone who hadn't watched the Games a thousand times, who didn't teach Tributes knots because she couldn't necessarily keep up with the physical side of things, would overlook them. Eva only avoids getting caught in one because her eye catches the sharp line of a wire in the nick of time. It's that that leads her to footprints. Two sets.
Armed with her spear, she moves from shadow to shadow, taking cover in the trees and ferns taller than her. She intended to kill whomever she came after, but she doesn't like the odds of two on one. So, trying not to get lost in the woods as night falls, she heads away from the prints.