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Entry tags:
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.