ARENA 10-Placid Hollow

[etcircenses]

The Tributes are taken early in the morning, most of their support teams seeming in good cheer as they dress them in warm clothes, getting them to their tubes. There is obvious comfort in the familiar for the prep teams, and they chatter with, or in some cases, over the heads of their Tributes as they get them ready and load them up.

20

19

18…

If the Tributes could see the area they are passed up into, they would see a deeply overgrown, dilapidated town green, with a large bandstand rotting away in the middle. The spoils of the cornucopia are not gathered in one spot, instead scattered throughout the thigh high grass and weeds around the town green.

Around the edge of the green, the old business stand a silent sentry, looming out of the fog as it thins and winds into them, providing much desired cover.

8

7

6…

But the Tributes cannot see the ground around them. The fog, thicker even than it will be in the rest of the arena, makes the world small around them. The sound of the count down echoes strangely, the tributes seeming too close as the fog brings sounds of their breath, their coughing, the snap of twigs under their feet right to ears of the other Tributes. But with the fog bringing visibility down to only a few feet, it's hard to tell what is a true danger, and what is only the fog playing tricks on them,.

3

2

1

The gong rings out, and the countdown's voice announces "the Arena is now open". The Games have begun.

Comments

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[philosophe]

Supplies. Those were the first thing he needed, that was clear enough. There had been little enough time to train, to get used to the entirely new surroundings and find his friends; but he was somewhat prepared. (And if not that, then at least willing to accept the stranger things.)

As soon as the countdown ended he was off, fumbling through the fog for a bag or a satchel or even a weapon, though it was extremely doubtful he would be lucky enough to find a musket here. All he had to do was stay calm, this was no worse than a blizzard back at his childhood home. All of a sudden there was pain, a quick knife to his shoulder given by someone unseen, and he bit back a curse. Nothing for it but to continue (and apply pressure to that wound, he would check on it when he could see better) -- so he did, keeping to the edges of the sound and fury up ahead of him, hoping someone would leave at least a few things behind.

[soldieronwards]

A few yards away on the edge of the green, his bag of supplies slung over his shoulder, Bucky pauses as he hears someone nearby. Whoever it is, their breathing, their movements are all amplified weirdly by the fog, and they sound injured. He could be attacked if he tries to help them, he knows. But he's going to find Steve here in the Arena eventually, and what will he say then if he walked away from someone in need of assistance?

He makes his decision and moves with speed and stealth.

A few seconds later, Combeferre will feel a cold gloved hand close around his arm as the other man emerges out of the mist. Bucky silently mouths I'll help you at him, then jerks his head away from the noise of the Cornucopia, away from the green, where presumably some shelter awaits. At least, so they can hope.

[philosophe]

He starts a little at the hand, raising his eyebrows a bit at Bucky's words, but nods. Perhaps if they get to somewhere relatively safe, he can meet up with Enjolras or Courfeyrac. That would certainly be their best chance at survival, anyhow.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "My friends should be nearby, if we might find somewhere relatively covered."

[soldieronwards]

"Everyone should be nearby," Bucky mutters, barely loud enough to be heard. "Your friends aren't the ones I'm worried about." He glances around, straining to see through the fog, getting nothing out of it.

"Got any way of signaling to them? If you can get your group together, I'll watch out for you guys while you treat that injury."

[orestes]

It's the curse that tipped him off. Or rather, the lack of it.

Enjolras had avoided the Cornucopia, trusting that this Arena, like many of the others, would have enough supplies hidden within its layout. It was a gamble, but one that wasn't without it's calculation. Besides which, the Cornucopias were rarely not a bloodbath and if there was one thing working out with Venus had taught him, it was that he wasn't a match for anyone who had any experience in close combat.

Which left him to track down his friends on the outskirts of the conflict. There was no telling which way they would have gone, no way for them to have planned this at all. This could be calculated. This had to rely on luck. It was likely due to the sensory deprivation of the fog that Combeferre's voice stuck out to him, even choked as it is. There's something familiar in the shout, and as he wandered toward it, Enjolras was hopeful that it will be one of his friends, that he would be one step closer to gathering them so that they could begin the Games with a consorted effort.

[philosophe]

Luck was certainly what Combeferre had been relying on, and that had managed to get him a stab wound to the shoulder. He was, however, keeping an eye out for Enjolras and Courfeyrac and whoever else from home he might encounter, here, so -- though he is accompanied by a tall, dark, stranger -- Enjolras might be able to spot the rather distinctive tall shape of his friend, ahead in the fog there.

[soldieronwards]

Soon enough, after a few moments, the silhouettes in the fog move a bit closer to Enjolras: one of them resolving more clearly into Combeferre, the other one remaining inscrutable, a serious-eyed stranger holding a bag of supplies over his shoulder.

"--but I wouldn't count on being able to find them safely."

[philosophe]

"It would appear luck is in my favor, presently," Combeferre said to the stranger, stepping away from him with a small nod of thanks. "Thank you for your help, monsieur; if we should meet again I will hopefully have something more to offer than words."

Throughout all this, he was studying Enjolras cautiously, one hand still at the wound on his shoulder, trying to see if the other young man had been hurt in the dash for the Cornucopia. "Hallo, Enjolras," he added with a wry twist of his lips. "I shall follow your lead, you likely have some idea of what to do here."

[orestes]

"Combeferre--" He couldn't help the urge to bodily embrace his friend. It was equal parts emotion and pragmatism. It wouldn't, after all, have been the first time the Gamemakers had tried to trick them.

After he was sure Combeferre was, in fact, who he claimed to be, Enjolras pulled away, looking toward the edges of the Arena. "Come," he said, puling the taller man along. "We need to move away from here. The farther we are from the Cornucopia, the better."

That was when he felt the blood seeping into his friend's clothes and silently cursed. Without supplies they could stop the bleeding, but fending off infection would be a matter of luck. This was beginning badly for them. "We have to move quickly. Tell me if you need a rest."

[philosophe]

If worst comes to worst, concerning the wound, Combeferre might at least give Enjolras instructions on how to care for it. But perhaps they would run into the rest of their friends, it was still early yet, after all.

"I am fine," he replied, tone all business, trying to be reassuring. "It is not so very bad, only an annoyance at the moment. Lead on, my friend."

[orestes]

The fog was such that if he sticks his hand out in front of him, it became difficult to see distinctly the lines on his fingers. Owing to that, and the hazards that tend to proliferate around the Arenas, Enjolras took hold of his friend's arm. It would do them no good to get lost or separated now that they had found each other.

"I think there are buildings ahead." He spoke quickly, keeping his voice low and firm as they waded through the tall grass. Communication would be another problem for them until they were through the thick of it. As everyone adjusted to being blinded, their other sense would begin to compensate. "Have you managed to find a weapon for your trouble?"

[philosophe]

"I have not, I was rather distracted. First by our mysterious benefactor, and now you." He was grateful for the hand at his arm, at the very least it would keep them together. He did not intend to let Enjolras (or the others, once they had reunited) stray far from his sight if he could help it.

"Perhaps we will find something there, if luck favors us. Is that the way of things, in these?" He fell silent then, intent on Enjolras' answer. If he could not find a weapon, then perhaps he would have to improvise. If it came to that, he had always been rather good at thinking on his feet. Something would surely come of it.

[orestes]

"Yes, who...?" Enjolras cut himself off with a barely visible shake of his head. There would be time for that later, when they weren't potentially fending off a massive attack from every side. The grass was enough to make him paranoid enough for them. He didn't need the reminder of Combeferre's injury, or that his friend had needed saving. He thought of his own prior ventures in the Arena; rarely did meeting someone unknown end entirely well for anyone involved.

Enjolras tightened his grip, picking up a little bit more speed as he felt his friend able. If Combeferre started lagging, they could slow down again, but it was best they didn't remain out here for very much longer. "Weapons come from either the Cornucopia, sponsors, or what you can steal off the dead. Or what you can improvise from the Arena itself. If there are buildings again, there may be something. I certainly hope there's more to it than this field."

[philosophe]

"I did not get his name," he replied absently. He was quite able to keep up with Enjolras for the moment, he had weathered worse injuries in Paris. He was lucky, perhaps, to be found so early by the mysterious man. "So do I." he added. "It would be rather difficult to improvise anything here, but if there are buildings, I shall see what I can make for myself."

[orestes]

"In my first Arena, we were in some kind of village. An ally found a musket, but we had no gunpowder for cartridges and so it was useful for its bayonet and not much else." He meandered through the field. In truth, Enjolras had no idea where they were headed. Forward was better than backward, however, as long as he had the sense that they were not moving in circles. Forward would eventually lead them somewhere. "That was a decent enough Arena, however, even if I was unable to recognize that at the time. We could find cover."

Finally the fog seemed to open up. Instead of oppressive slate-grey, the clouds took shape, betraying hints of what lay just beyond them. Low buildings, a few stories tall at most. No telling what was in them, but perhaps this wouldn't be so bad after all. "We keep moving until we cannot continue. If another path becomes apparent, we take it. The farther we can get from the Cornucopia... Well, I have no doubt you can see the wisdom in avoiding people in such an environment."

[philosophe]

There was a rueful smile at that, and he couldn't help but rub his chest, where he had so recently become acquainted with three bayonets. "Those can be quite useful," he replies ruefully, continuing along on their way.

"That sounds an excellent plan to me." He cannot help but glance at the buildings as they head a bit closer, half expecting something to come out of the fog and attack them. But nothing does, for the moment, so he relaxes.

[orestes]

"I hid for almost the entirety of the Arena I won. It wasn't intentional, but only a fool would go looking for people in such a state. Neither of us will be much of a match for any of the true competitors." The heat weighed down on them, the humidity clinging oppressively to everything from the curls on the back of his neck to his eyebrows. Every follicle of hair seemed to be just another opportunity to build up sweat. That, in combination with the tall grass licking at his legs through the athletic material of his pants, created an odd feeling of chance and pursuit. They needed to get out of the open. That much was obvious.

Abruptly, the fog lifted and a structure came into view. It wasn't much, but it would be worth inspection if safely deserted. Blue eyes narrowed at it, then darted over to Combeferre. They needed to get a read on it without revealing any suspicion.

"The only people I encountered for that Arena were Venus and a primitive man called Guy, neither of whom had any interest in killing me." He raised his voice slightly, as they approached, trusting that Combeferre would catch on. Without weapons, they both needed strategy.

[philosophe]

"That is certainly true," he replied, with a slight shrug. It was a mercy, at least, that they were given uniforms -- doing this in the clothes they were accustomed to at home would have been nearly impossible. Especially with the humidity.

"Hiding does sound like quite the tempting option, if we cannot find anything of use." There was a nod in answer to Enjolras' implied thought, and he raised his voice just a tad as well. "Here, then? I suppose it is as good as any place for now."