clarityinchaos (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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thearena2013-11-09 09:49 pm
clarityinchaos) wrote in thearena2013-11-09 09:49 pm
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Who: Armin Arlert, Donatello
What: Armin gon' die. All the turtling in the world can't save you from a turtle.
When: Week three while the Compound is open.
Where: Fort Armin, a house he has fortified in various ways and stockpiled some supplies in.
In truth, Armin was oblivious to the fact that the button had turned off the gates. He had decided this was the best plan given his skill set. He'd lay low while the other fought it out. Every time he heard a cannon fire, he hoped it wasn't Eren. He had himself a spot where he'd lean in view of the window to watch the pictures in the sky every night. Eren was still alive out there. He wondered idly how many of those faces Eren was responsible for.
After that alarm had sent all the animals into a frenzy, he hadn't slept much. Not much more than an hour or two during the early morning hours. Staying awake during the night was especially important to him.
One night, his rhythm was interrupted. He awoke to find he had fallen asleep against a wall in the house. Out in the open, though the view was almost entirely blocked by a dresser up against the window. Sunset filtered through the gaps around the furniture. He dragged himself up to his feet, and did a lap to check his fortifications. His body couldn't take the abuse he was forcing it into, but it was that or die. He had no shortage of supplies. There was plenty for himself and Eren to last a couple weeks. Longer if they stretched it.
The front door was deadbolted and blocked by a careful arrangement of the kitchen chairs so that the door could not swing without pushing the chairs up against the opposite wall. It wouldn't open enough for most competitors to get through, but Armin could wiggle through if he needed to. He kept a pair of broken-off broomsticks pointed right where the door opened, ready to stab whoever tried to force their way in.
Windows were barricaded with whatever large furniture he could move, both to block the view inside and to discourage creative entrances. The back door was blocked by the kitchen table, wedged in so the door wouldn't open at all.
He unsheathed one of the pair of swords he'd found, just in case there was a surprise awaiting him. They were mismatched, two different styles, but he wore them one on each side nonetheless. The weight was grounding, in a way. Even if he wasn't as capable with them as he should be.
What: Armin gon' die. All the turtling in the world can't save you from a turtle.
When: Week three while the Compound is open.
Where: Fort Armin, a house he has fortified in various ways and stockpiled some supplies in.
In truth, Armin was oblivious to the fact that the button had turned off the gates. He had decided this was the best plan given his skill set. He'd lay low while the other fought it out. Every time he heard a cannon fire, he hoped it wasn't Eren. He had himself a spot where he'd lean in view of the window to watch the pictures in the sky every night. Eren was still alive out there. He wondered idly how many of those faces Eren was responsible for.
After that alarm had sent all the animals into a frenzy, he hadn't slept much. Not much more than an hour or two during the early morning hours. Staying awake during the night was especially important to him.
One night, his rhythm was interrupted. He awoke to find he had fallen asleep against a wall in the house. Out in the open, though the view was almost entirely blocked by a dresser up against the window. Sunset filtered through the gaps around the furniture. He dragged himself up to his feet, and did a lap to check his fortifications. His body couldn't take the abuse he was forcing it into, but it was that or die. He had no shortage of supplies. There was plenty for himself and Eren to last a couple weeks. Longer if they stretched it.
The front door was deadbolted and blocked by a careful arrangement of the kitchen chairs so that the door could not swing without pushing the chairs up against the opposite wall. It wouldn't open enough for most competitors to get through, but Armin could wiggle through if he needed to. He kept a pair of broken-off broomsticks pointed right where the door opened, ready to stab whoever tried to force their way in.
Windows were barricaded with whatever large furniture he could move, both to block the view inside and to discourage creative entrances. The back door was blocked by the kitchen table, wedged in so the door wouldn't open at all.
He unsheathed one of the pair of swords he'd found, just in case there was a surprise awaiting him. They were mismatched, two different styles, but he wore them one on each side nonetheless. The weight was grounding, in a way. Even if he wasn't as capable with them as he should be.
Re: <3333
It didn't hurt as much as he expected it to. After the initial pain, it was just a numb void, that was no longer filled once the knife came back out. Blood poured from the wound. All he could do was clutch his hands to his stomach and stare at his blood. Never before had his mind been so blank.
He slipped away fairly quickly. He could feel everything getting farther away, as though he were falling right through the floor. The shaking in his body faded with a final pathetic whimper.