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

Toward end of the first day

[shambler]

The good thing about the fog is R doesn't even have to shuffle very fast to fade into it: it's so thick that it's like a soup, people reduced to shapes. A shadow here and there, darting or limping away.

After the rush for the Cornucopia, R settles staggering away with the vague concept he should have a plan that didn't involve lurching around aimlessly until he started eating people. Night falls by the time he makes it to one of the buildings: it's run down, covered in weeds and creepers and frankly, it looks a lot like the stuff he's seen back home. The door's hanging open in this one. It's easy to shuffle in, his shoes creaking against the floor boards as he lifts his head, sniffs noisily.

Someone's in here.

R follows the smell. No eating. Just - just groaning hi. Something reassuring. Helping, not murdering. That's his motto for this Arena.

Re: Toward end of the first day

[bindsthedead]

Sabriel had managed to break off a length of rusted pipe in the house- light enough to carry, but heavy enough to cause damage if swung with enough force- and had even stumbled across a few cans of food that she had stuffed into her pockets for later.

She looked up at the noise, clutching the pipe. When she saw made her eyes narrow and her mind race.

A Dead Hand. One that had been made using a tribute's body. Sabriel lunged forward, swinging the pipe.

"Return to Death!" Her voice had a commanding, singsong quality to it, but the words were just words- this time, there was no magic in them, and Sabriel knew this was unlikely to end well. You could render a Hand's body useless, but the spirit inside would be unscathed- and with night falling, time was not on her side.

Re: Toward end of the first day

[shambler]

The pipe smacked hard into R's hand, with enough force that it breaks his arm. His hand flops down, the bones that have gone brittle with death shattering easily.

He stumbled back with a surprised groan. Clearly he hadn't made the right approach. Maybe he should've knocked or moaned something like hi, I'm not going to rip out your jugular, promise before he invited himself in. R staggered back with his head lolling as he banged into the wall behind him. He had an impression of a girl, black hair cropped almost post apocalypse-short.

Her words rang out and yet he still didn't know what she wanted: roll over, die again? Go back to the other zombies? R's broken arm jerked up again, trying to convey an impression of friendliness instead of hunger.

[bindsthedead]

"Yield to me! Walk into Death, go beyond the Ninth Gate, and never walk in Life again," Sabriel's words were authoratative, and half-sung in a way that made them sound as much like a chant as an order. She misinterpreted R's movement as another attack, and hit his arm again- hard.

[shambler]

His arm didn't so much as snap as slough off at the elbow: the bone poked out and whatever was keeping his skin and muscle attached to it failed. It plopped to the floor between them, R staring at in dull surprise. He looked down at the arm, then back up at Sabriel.

Yeah, okay, so maybe he picked the wrong house.

R wheeled around with a low groan and started to stagger out, deciding he'd had enough. It probably would've gone better if he'd followed instinct and just ate her already.