Sweet dreams are made of this

[carnagecarnival]

Who| Everyone and anyone! May be with or without the Initiate
What| IT'S VOODOO TIME. COME GET YOUR FREE DOSINGS OF FEAR & NIGHTMARES!!!
Where| Specifically the culture exhibits, but really anywhere
When| Starting from early-mid week 1 and carrying on with increasing severity from there (in ten minute bursts)
WARNINGS| to be announced!! / self harm?

The masks pique his interest. Like the paints, but made to something even more exterior. But somehow they were less and more all the same. Something that would work well for war. With no one around, at least that he can see, he pries one off the wall. It comes down easy, like it was meant for him to have. He turns it over idly for a moment or two, examining the designs on the front, how it was crafted, then lifts it up to put it on and peer through it, a grin on his face.

The holy fear rushes in. It's bursts like a bomb going off in him and it immediately rushes out, spreading all around him across the arena. His eyes flash like bright strobes between pink and purple. He can feel it. He laughs out loud in surprise. He can motherfucking feel it. He can feel everyone, where they are, he can feel every layer of fear, the textures of it all, the mother. Fucking. LIFE. He can almost feel the holy two again in his mind, just so very close. He laughs again, louder this time, and brings the voodoo to wrap and curl around him like an affectionate but terrible beast and he gives a joyous purr with it. Then, he lets it free.

He doesn't even give pause the whole ten minutes. Until the mask latches in. Ten paltry ass minutes. And then suddenly it's gone. It evicts more of a cry than the hooks do, digging into his skin. He starts and snarls, immediately reaching up to tear the mask off his face and throw it from him. Indigo pours out from the wounds over his paint. He breathes heavily, staring at it. Then turns his head to another. These masks would have his face ruined by the end of this if his suspicions are correct.

But he knows, as he reaches out to the next mask with his scarred up palms, sometimes wounds were more than worth it.
 

[OOC: Below is your chance to thread out one of three options! For the first, Option 1, think of it like the nightmare part of Enjolras Crowning. Whether you got in that or not, this is your chance to have some fun! What paranoias or fears might your characters feel or hallucinate if they are awake? What nightmares might they navigate in their dreams? Perhaps they get a little trigger happy? It's all tailored to what your character fears most and available for you to thread out amongst yourselves+with other characters! The major bursts of nightmares and/or fear last for ten minutes (as long as he has the mask on) and so long as they are not too close in Initiate's range (or are particularly susceptible to psychic attack) these things shouldn't be too severe, but the effects can often still linger on... (and obviously, everyone can opt out, just assuming the Initiate is not in range at the time of these attacks.)

Option 2 is similar to the above, but in this case, the Initiate would be attacking your character specifically and this tends to make the power lay on more intensely. This is the option for folks who want their character driven to some intense nightmare jitters, the most vivid of hallucination to, at it's worst, a drive to madness. Or perhaps you character is going to be Initiate's mind-control pawn for the next ten minutes (PM me for more details) for something or other. Maybe both! Of course, your character should be someone he is not close with in this case unless discussed prior.

Option 3 as stated in the player post, of those he considers trustworthy (on the scale of not back-stabbing and selling him out, AND not being vocal about capitol distaste while definitely having it) and able, he will seek them out to try and share information with them through use of his power. It speaks directly through and using fear so it will definitely leave your character feeling distinct discomfort (fear, nausea, dizziness, etc.) regardless of whether they think themselves fearless or not. But it will be a way only they can hear the message, capitol will know nothing of it. If your character is not particularly close with the Initiate, he will begin on something like option 2 or 1 until he picks out the right fear for capitol, and determines they are worthy of the info-- but only with an inserted fear of speaking the information out loud (for safety measures) and possibly even an erasure of the memory of where it came from (PM me on this). If Initiate does not like said character, i'm afraid they're out of luck.

Please specify when you tag in which of these options you wish to chose!!! If the first option is chosen, the Initiate himself will not be tagged into the thread. For more details/a place to message me, go here. HAVE FUN!!! AND SWEET DREAMS!!!]

Comments

OPTION ONE, TECHNICALLY (BUT PLZ GAMZEE AT ME U KNO I LIEK UR GAMZ)

[sleeplessinalternia]

In his sleep Karkat shifts restlessly and dreams of friends long-lost...

He opens his eyes and there's a tall, wild-haired troll with twisting goat horns staring at him and Terezi, dressed in subjuggulator pajamas. For a moment he thinks it's the Initiate, but the paint's wrong, the hair's wrong, the height's wrong, he's tall but not adult-sized, and the fucking Initiate wouldn't dream of looking down at Karkat with such a dopey smile on his face.

No, there's only one person who this can be.

"Gamzee," Karkat breathes. "Shit, they brought you in too?"

honk honk motherfucker one highblood jr. coming up

[carnagecarnival]

That dopey smile is all pleasant surprise, all joyous pleasure dulled only by the fact that the kid somehow manages to giving of the general impression of 'dull' despite being made of all the exact same sharp bits and harsh points as the Initiate is. He doesn't look lucid, but when does he ever?

"Best friend!" He calls and makes to lope slowly on over, little 'honks' sounding under his breath. He moves like he's not even in the slightest hurry to be anywhere-- not even in a deathmatch.

"A motherfucker could be asking his Best motherfucking Friend all the same," He rattles. "Guess that would make all to looking like it's being a thing. Guess that got to make to all being a motherfucking thing what it would be looking like to up and be." His arms spread out wide to the side of him, open invitation for Karkat to get his hug-bumping up and on.

beautiful

[sleeplessinalternia]

Karkat stares at the open arms. He wants a hug. Fuck his life, Gamzee wants a hug. And part of him even wants to give Gamzee that hug.

The rest of him doesn't even want the clown to touch him, because the last time a clown touched him it was to hideously torture him until there was nothing left for Signless to do but mercy-kill him.

So Karkat hangs back.

"I've been here for fucking ever," he informs his friend. "Dumbass."

1 and then 3?

[justoutrunyou]

Sandy had to admit she was feeling pretty proud of herself.

She had left Mindy and Ellie behind for the time being because her loyalties lay with Pruna first. But she assumed she wouldn't have a hard time finding them.

She was in the bathroom when it struck. An explosion as the door blew off the hinges and smashed into the wall.

The panting, heavy breathing.

The solid crunch of tile under it's clawed legs.

Sandy knew this beast and she knew it well. It was the monster that had stalked her dreams every night since arriving. It was the creature she had rescued Effie from during that last horrible crowning.

It was the Angel, the dark creature that she had once led into a church full of children just so she could escape it's wrath.

She told herself she wasn't scared. She told herself that there was no way the Capitol would release a creature like that so soon in the game! Curling up on her porcelain throne she clutched her meager possessions to her and trembled.

Clamping her eyes shut she heard the beast snarl and sniffle as it sough her out. The mirror shattered possibly from the force of it's growl as Sandy felt it in her very bones.

She tried to focus, tried to rid herself of her fear just as Pruna had taught her. She imagined a swirling storm...violent and beautiful. Deadly and free. Into that storm she poured her anger, her fear, her joy and hope. She imagined all the faces of those she cared for being drawn into the storm. Effie. Katniss. Peeta.

Pruna.

The last one lingered and she felt a pull on her heart that hurt like hooks in her skin. But she had to do it this time! Had to be brave so she could escape this nightmare that had come into her life and refused to let her go.

you got it

[carnagecarnival]

If he ever put a form to the holy fear, this would be a real damn good candidate. He can't see it, but he feels it's shape, like someone blind might feel things out before them and get a shape in their mind. He feels it as familiar fear-- what a great miracle, that such a thing had existed. He feels the flashing impression of wings and church, screams and teeth, and he comes to the same conclusion as she: an angel.

It's all distant to him, irrelevant to him and the now, what he's doing, and caught in the clash of every other fear song going off around him. Until he catches that. The fear spikes and focuses involuntarily.

More of the angel. More of the church. What was done, what did you do?

He turns his head in the direction of the fear and starts off. He keeps tracing the trail of it, following it like a beacon in the dark, even as he feels the fear being fought. She won't win, she can't, voodoo didn't work that way, especially not his. But he parts it some from her core, working with the swirl of cyclone. Let her think she can win. Let this one not break.

The closer he gets the more familiar the fear is to him. He's felt this one's fear before, briefly. Back on Alternia, he could know a person by the song their fear made. But here was a different story. There weren't many here he could viably say he could recognize through the chucklevoodoo.

With her scrape of hope, he turns his power on the beast's claw and makes it crash in her head alongside of her. He wants her prompted out. Why not use two of the best motivators? And just in time for him to pass through the door.

It's only until then, when she can see him, that he pulls the beast to him, the vision collapsing and twirling around him as per his will before he breathes it all in through mask. The fear settles in his shadows, in his pan, at home, within him but not biting.

After a long bout of silence from him, he greets her through the mask, "...Good motherfucking evening, sister."

Options 1 and 3

[retrieverchef]

Eliot was on guard rather than sleeping for now. He couldn't help thinking about his girl and Parker after the display on the top floor. He looked up and saw Anna walking toward him, knife drawn. He stood up to meet her. She greeted him with a slash at his chest. "Anna?" His blood ran cold. "What is it? What happened to you?"

[carnagecarnival]

Anna doesn't answer. Anna doesn't make a sound. She mutely stares wide-eyed, every furious question and demand there that won't be said. She is all curse, all betrayal. Her face twists to something foul, inhuman, and then she's rushing at him again.

She will tear you apart, she will kill you she will cut out your heart, how could you, how could you, don't you know what you did? It's all your fault.

There's no explanation for what that thing might be. Eliot would have to figure that out.

A near-crippling panic rushes in. Anna doesn't stop for a second.

[Please hit up the OOC post when you get the chance, so we can hash more out. Thank you. c: ]

Option 2?

[dragoon_pride]

The first thing Kain had done after the semi-disastrous Cornucopia run was get his hands on a weapon. It wasn't easy, especially with injuries, but soon enough he's got a Roman spear from one of the displays. So he's at least not totally defenseless. He's patched up the worst of the wounds as best he can, but he's still not able to move as fast as he'd like, not without considerable pain. Good thing he's used to fighting with injuries, used to pushing himself when he's like this. But that stubborn determination unfortunately doesn't make him any more capable.

Staying alive is the priority now. He's more or less on his own, not sure who he can completely trust. He's met some people outside of the arena who have seemed decent, but of course, this is a whole different setting. Things change on a field of battle.

He's just exploring a new wing of exhibits, scanning them closely for armor, when an eerie sensation starts coming upon him. Kain thinks nothing of it at first, but he knows better than to drop his guard. Anyone else could be out there, prepared for a fight.

[carnagecarnival]

The voodoo continues to creep and crawl. It spreads slow over the floor in miasma, tucking into this thing and that, bringing it all to life in a way that will make him feel watched. The Initiate feels for his enemy, his prey, and from the distance he settles, his grin turns up.

Are you really prepared? Are you sure of that? How do you know? How do you know you aren't being tricked, how do you know you've really got this under control? Would you notice if you weren't? Would you be able to tell when all what you thought was your was lost?

He spikes up a small stir of panic.

...Would you be able to do anything about it?

And then, he puts into place that slimmest suggestion. Just one. Put the spear down. Drop it. Let it go. You must, you must.

2, then 3?

[youbarium]

Funnily enough, it's the fear that frightens Carlos.

Carlos has felt a creeping, unexplainable, sourceless fear before. He's only felt that way in Night Vale. There's the actual creeping fear, sure, but Carlos's gut reaction is, am I in Night Vale? Did I go back? Did I ever even leave?

He'd thought he'd been pulled through some kind of interdimensional rift into a completely different world. This place, while frightening and dangerous, actually obeyed the laws of physics, and Carlos hadn't seen a single bleeding door. But if he was wrong -- if this place was like Night Vale -- then he had a lot more to worry about than just the other tributes.

Out of the corner of his eye, in the shadowy doorway to the IMAX theater, Carlos thinks he sees a hooded figure.

No.

He doesn't look directly at it, he knows better, so instead he runs. He'd left the relative safety of the planetarium to get water, but that mission seems a lot less important now than finding out if this is really Night Vale. Of course, he thinks, of course a place an interdimensional rift takes you won't be less strange or mysterious than Night Vale. You were an idiot to think it would.

Carlos ducks into the restroom where he'd planned to get water, slumping against the cool tile of the wall. It's no better lit than anywhere else, but at least it's not out in the open hallway. Breathing hard, Carlos pulls himself together. Night Vale hadn't killed him yet. He had to clear his head. Had to think. Had to ignore the blood that had begun to seep out of the seams of the wooden restroom door.

im so fucking sorry I couldn't resist the joke

[carnagecarnival]

That place hadn't killed him yet but how much of that was sheer dumb luck? There was already proof he was unlucky. He'd been brought here. He was stuck there. Did he really think he had the luck to keep him going? Did he not feel the timer on his back slowly ticking down to zero? Did he not sense the eyes in the walls and the ceilings and in the blank spaces between watching it count down? These are thoughts that might invade from the dark corners.

Like the blood dripped down on the floor it seeps and spreads. In it's shimmering darks surface, things writhe inside, until from it, something begins to crawl. Wtih claws long and spidery, it rises ever so slow from the pit. The ceiling sinks and dips with that weight of something. The lights crack, spark, and flicker.

No where to run, no where to hide, can't escape, never going to escape, going to be swallowed up whole, no way out, no way-

The first claw breaks the surface, or rather, the surface comes with it, forming a skin of shining red. The creature moves in twitching, jerking motions, that shift violently quick in contrast to it's slow ascent. The ceiling, and walls now too, give a faint distressed creek.

If it's all still being ignored, if even now Carlos hasn't noticed, the mirrors over the sink darken. Figures press at the other side of the glass.

(And in the corner of one, briefly flickers an Arby's sign.)

[earthborn]

Shepard was waiting ambush in the darkness of the gem hall when it hit her. The world shifted, just a little, like gravity cutting out, a power fluctuation, a shiver in the hologram.

The night was that deep and undeniable velvet black, a darkness so absolute that your eye invented greys just to keep from going mad. Dim gemlight stars, reflected, reracted— no, they burned. For a moment she was over Alchera, looking up, or down, hearing her own breath, feeling that sudden, unstoppable panic. You are venting oxygen. You are going to die. Fight it!

The case displaying amethyst and quartz rattled when her foot struck it's base and it was a small sound, but it was real, and it meant danger. Someone could hear that, someone could be coming, coming to kill her as surely as hard vacuum would. This was neither the time nor place for a fucking panic attack, and Shepard clamped down on her reaction with a will of steel and teeth clenched fit to split. Fuck you fuck you fuck you; if I am afraid then I am also a monster in the dark, and fear could be killed like anything else, with the right effort.

Getting her breathing back under control was a little more difficult, but— possible. Very possible. It was coming in waves and only after it happened again, as firm an anxiety as she'd ever known, did Shepard recognize it for an outside influence. It was like the nightmares at Enjolras' crowning, like the smell of a battlefield, calling her to harder times, but truer. When had she felt this last, painful and terrifying and seductive as hell? What did she know, who fit the bill? Reapers, certainly, Prothean memories or Liara, with permission. Let it never be said that Shepard didn't catch on quickly.

But then, she remembered, and thought with all due viciousness, hoping he could hear and that it hurt him, Goddammit Kurloz, what the hell?

[carnagecarnival]

He doesn't hear the turn of her thoughts-- beyond him, it was-- but he picks out the fear and its flavors, starburts and suffocation. He feels the sweep of panic, the way the fear presses with the surge of something else, a different sort of motivator. He feels it when it's cut sharp and it has him curious. And interested, of course.

He twirls the club he found on the second floor and picks his way along to the siren call. The voodoo curls in and gives a little tug and push-- this way, this way, come closer. Just a little guiding suggestion.

He grins behind the mask until he reaches her and then gives a muffled snort. "Of course it's you. OF MOTHERFUCKING COURSE. Would've just been keeping at for the miracles for myself, all the motherfucking good, with none left for all any other. BUT HERE A WICKED SISTER IS, SOAKING UP THE SHIT LIKE A GODDAMN BLACK HOLE."

He sends one final spark-- the shiver up the spine-- before drawing the voodoo back from her. Mostly. It should be enough that the hallucinations cease and she can give clear thought and function, though he won't call for anything what is of her own paranoias. He mentally turns it over, like a ribbon in hand.

Ah yes 2

[deafscythe]

He is flying, falling, spinning, knees and palms hitting the ground because the sheer overwhelming pressure is enough to knock the air from his lungs. He is afraid. Blank, mindless fear rises up to bury him, deep and formless as the ocean, ancient as the bleeding moon. The fear of god that seeps down through the generations until it becomes instinct.

The world hums and pulses and oh god he is so afraid but his soul knows this feeling by now, clings to it and pushes through to what lays on the other side. There is a moment, clear and sharp and star-like, where he ceases to exist. Nothing and no one in his head, just the empty purpose of wood and steel given human form. It is terrifying and wonderful all at once, and fear sublimates into ecstasy.

His heart races until it stutters, trips over the panicked speed of its own beats and he chokes on vomit but his head is startlingly clear. Everything pulls into sharper focus than it has in weeks, and when he stands up again he feels completely alive.

God must be here. That is the only explanation. Now Justin just has to find him and fall prostrate at his feet.

[carnagecarnival]

Fear does funny things to a cracking pan. Fear does funny motherfucking things in a cracking pan. It turns and twists and blossoms into all sorts of new creations. It's a canvas that no one will be able to replicate exact again. His dark miasma, his black-ink beast feasts upon the wreckage. Especially when it finds not dead things but something more.

In this one, it closes up, becomes caged, but in that form, it fills and spreads. Until the sorry sucker he's caught ain't naught but it.

In this one he gets a curiosity on.

He wraps around the core of him and the voodoo pulls like he's gonna tear that core out. Prompt a step in the right direction. Initiate would like to know if he should kill this one or not. It would be a mercy in any case. He's not in the mood for merciful. He is all fucking filled to finish with being merciful, particularly to the undeserving, the sinners and faithless. But he knows fear of god, that fear is like to his own, it's a fear all should have, a proper fear. For that, he forces down vision, tries to bring the motherfucker to their knees--

Heathen, blasphemer, can't do naught for your sins, your sins shall swallow, you shall be swallowed whole by them, by what all you've done. See the faces of god and repent for there is nothing you can do to save your damaged soul. Pray until the final day, until the rot within outs. Until the insects eat the rest.

--only to beckon again. A song, where not following evicts a panic.

He settles on a display to sit up high, one leg folded over the other, as he waits.

Option 3, sorta

[futilecycle]

Sigma crept into the exhibit warily, relaxing as his cybernetic eye settled on a distant image of the Initiate... at last, Sigma had found a face he had been searching for. Part of him wondered with a sinking stone heart if Eponine was avoiding him in the Arena on purpose, but Sigma knew, at the very least, that Initiate Fraysong was not so inconsiderate. He had seen him share his sympathies at the wedding and the humanity of that action, even more than any other favour the Initiate had graciously lent him, had convinced the Doctor that this was a Tribute worth seeing through to victory.

The Doctor stood from his hiding place across the hall and approached the other with his hands raised. "Initiate Fraysong." Sigma announces his arrival sternly enough, deciding he had shown too much weakness to the Tribute in the past; this time, he needed to make it clear he was in it to succeed. His stoicism does not last: as he notices the indigo stripes running down the sides of the Initiate's face is not a part of his war paint, but blood, Sigma's expression furrows and he opens his pack with the snap of a zipper to retrieve the first aid kit he had won at the Cornucopia. The matching bloodied mask on the floor tells him no more than he needs to know, and he realizes the other Tribute is quick to repeat the incident for whatever reason. Whatever benefit that mask had must be extraordinary. "...You should clean your injuries before you put that on."

aw yiss

[carnagecarnival]

The sharp sound of his name him stands bolt upright, less like someone startled, more like a soldier clicking his boots at attention. It's just that split second reaction before-- or perhaps as-- his eyes zero on Sigma.

"BROTHER SIGMA," He greets. The grin comes back fast, spread wide and turned up, with a manic sort of gleam to his eyes. "You're just in motherfucking time." He laughs.

There's a slight tilt to his head as Sigma pulls out first aid and when Sigma explains, he looks a cross of touched and amused. "THAT AIN'T LIKE TO BE NECCESSARY," He says. "It ain't being a thing worth notice. MOTHERFUCKING ATTENTIONS SLUNG ON IT AIN'T BEING OF NEED. Got many motherfucking more all to come before the wicked shit gets kicked, my brother."

Option 2

[googledox]

Reality stretched so thin it almost broke. Brainy's heart pounded in his chest as he stood there, hands curled at his head. It was not unlike how it had felt when his personality inhibitors shut down during the Legion's fight with the misguided terrorist cell that sought to push society back into a technological dark age.

Just like then, he was swimming upward through darkness, and this time he didn't have Umbra to guide him.

This time, his thoughts weren't entirely out of control, though. They were still his own and the disorder was something that was artificially imposed on his mind rather than it being its own natural inner turmoil.

Reality started to bleed back in as he fought to wrest back control, looking around for his attacker.

"You've made a very grave mistake," he called out through gritted teeth. "You've chosen the wrong mind to meddle with."

Solid as an inertron trap, yet more slippery than a Rimborian alibi, his brain was not one that could be caught and filled with nightmares from ambient exposure, especially not when he was actively taking back control.

Re: Option 2

[carnagecarnival]

The voodoo, for once, doesn't give. He feels it stutter and falter and struggle. The fear is there, he knows it is, but the voodoo does not take hold. What a curious motherfucking thing, that. For a moment he wonders if this mask is faulty or if perhaps his time is about to be up. But then his victim speaks.

He hears the voice call from down the hall and he strolls there almost idly. He emerges from the dark before Brainy, eyes glowing from behind the mask.

"Is that being like to what a motherfucker thinks?" He calls out in return. "IS THAT WHAT ALL HE'S GOT ROUND TO CONCLUDING? You know, it is very, very rare for a fucker to resist the sacred ancestral chucklevoodoo. ALL SORTS OF POWERS LIKE WHAT TO BE RESISTED BY ALL FUCKING SORTS. Even his ownself had to grow into being able to overpower others, but now? BUT MOTHERFUCKING NOW? There won't like to be no one in the universe with stronger voodoo than I except for motherfucking I."

He peers at Brainy. This... human? It was hard to tell with the capitolites, he wouldn't be surprised. But then, he might well be alien as well. So strange was it all, finding so many with the bodies of trolls who were clearly not trolls. It mattered little in the long run. All that mattered was breaking that resistance.

"IF I AM TO REACH THE GREATS OF MY FUTURE," He goes on, "I DO UP AND BELIEVE I HAVE CHOSEN THE RIGHT ONE WHAT ALL TO 'MEDDLE' THE FUCK WITH. One must practice, after all. DON'T YOU MOTHERFUCKING THINK, MOTHERFUCKER?" He forces the voodoo on him, with purpose now, pushing in hammering tidal waves, drilling like insects.

1 then 3; hope this is fine?

[saisamour]

Marius wakes with a start, disoriented, and he blinks a couple of times for the blurriness to disappear as his brain works itself into usefulness. As soon as consciousness fully settles, a sudden chilly wave of fear and uneasiness tides over him. The last he recalls, he had completed his shift to guard the tent he, Cosette, and Courfeyrac had been huddled in and had settled to catch a moment's rest beside his wife.

Then why does he now find himself in the middle of a sea of bright-colored textiles and painted faces?

He can feel his hands tremble, so he clenches them into fists to steady them. Something is wrong; despite the mass of people, everything is deafeningly silent. Not even a bird sings in the air. It is after a few more seconds that he realizes their blank eyes and vacant smiles directed at a certain spot in the distance. The terror forms a ball that lodges in his throat, beads of cold sweat forming in his temples as he turns to follow their line of sight.

Far off is an elevated stage that he recognizes instantly. It is the same stage during Ariadne's execution, except instead of Ariadne, a girl with sun-painted hair and a white night-dress stand in between two Peacekeepers. Her chin is raised in defiance, even when her blue eyes betray a little fear.

"Cosette?" Marius feels his blood grow cold. He stands there, frozen in horror and disbelief. This is not happening. This is not real. Why is Cosette to be executed? He was careful not to anger the Capitol, he held his tongue as best as he could, measured every word and controlled every emotion that might express his distaste. So why is she still being taken away from him?

It's only when another Peacekeeper raises the injection—poison, one that inflicts agonizing pain before it kills, like it did Ariadne, like it did to him in the Arena—that he is startled into movement. He pushes against the crowd in a frenzied panic but they are immovable, as if they were made of marble. He continues to try anyway, screaming her name as if it can keep her safe, his voice cracking, his heart beating rapidly against his chest, the blood rushing in his ears.

This is actually *perfect*

[carnagecarnival]

The shadows of the world stretch and time with it. The sky goes red and heavy like it might drip down and it won't be rain. Those people all around don't move an inch as the needle is turned on Cosette. And injected.

The world tremors around her. Her wide baby-blues blink. Her mouth falls into a perfect 'O' and it is just a short moment later that the screams follow. As she crumples down, the people around seem to grow taller until she cannot be seen, only heard in her torture. The screams warble and turn to something unearthly, until finally it is just a ringing going on and on.

Only then do the people turn-- to look at Marius with dark hollow eyes. Or rather, look over him. Like a ghost, the Initiate forms out of nothing, out of ribbons of the world itself. He steps in with eyes flashing behind a mask and the shadows growing higher. He looks down on Marius with a curious tilt of his head like he's never quite seen the man before.

"If only you could up and feel for this the way all he does. WHAT A WORK OF MOTHERFUCKING ART," He tuts. The vision melts and is swallowed up by his shadow, leaving them both back in the arena. "But say it so, you've got his motherfucking attentions."

Option 1! We can work our way in to 2 l8r. Hope this works for a start.

[clarityinchaos]

Armin was alone, and just trying to stay out of the way of most of the killing. Somehow, despite the tiny arena, he hadn't caught up to Eren or Jean yet. He'd stolen a sword from one of the statues, as well as anything that could be used as an emergency food source, as he'd come across them. This included some insects that had been displayed under glass. There were a couple of poisonous specimens he kept in a separate pocket than the rest. Just in case. Strange food supply they may be, he would rather not have to go to the cafeteria if he didn't have to.

But all at once, he can feel that familiar heavy thudding of feet. NO. Not here. "Eren?" he calls out. He shouldn't jump to conclusions. Maybe it was Eren's footsteps. That would be horrible, but preferable to a wild titan being let loose in here. He pressed his back up against a wall and peered around it. There it was. That big, grinning, bearded face. No, it wasn't Eren.

He turned and bolted.

I apologize for not getting back to this. This was not okay of me.

[carnagecarnival]

It follows him. The footfalls get harder, louder. Like the pounding of his own feet. Like the heart in his chest.

The sounds of screams, and dimly, tearing flesh, sound off in the darkness of the museum. There are crashes and crunches all around. They get closer and closer, no matter the direction he turns.

The bearded titan cares not for any other. The beast is set on Armin and Armin alone. As if somehow, it developed a streak of vengeance. Or a craving.

Option 3- weird timey ness that puts this after shes met up with Sandy

[knifewithnoname]

Things were a little easier now that she had found Sandy, even if it meant that Pruna had another person to keep alive. Sandy made things a bit more bearable. Pruna was curled up half asleep while Sandy was on watch, she was half in the emptiness, because of the pain in her face, but not fully because she was half asleep.

She wasn't sure when half asleep turned into fully asleep and the strange images began in her mind, Pruna rarely dreamed, and never had nightmares so the strange twisted figures, her sisters voice calling for her, it was all new.

[carnagecarnival]

The fear creeps in, searching, hunting. Sandy, by now, is a familiar beacon of fear. He could find her just like this. And with the little twists in taste, and the second beacon not all far off, finding the Nameless comes through. And dreaming too. The fears of the dreaming were always easier to use, to control.

He contemplates, briefly, trying to step into the dream. He knows it's possible. He's heard tale of less indigos preforming something close, leaving themselves. But it wouldn't be without cost on a sister's pan. A risk for another time.

He draws up those shadows, those little surface fears. He takes her sister's voice and makes it part of the many that form his own, along with his Messiahs, in layered call. The nightmares twist around and lap at the corners of her mind. In it's center, he raises that formless shadow and calls her to it. Through it, he speaks.

'SISTER SWEET. GOT MESSAGE WHAT ALL TO PASS TO SHE.'