thearena | See our world is slowly dying

The initial work was difficult, between his freezing hands and his aching back, but Courfeyrac was determined to persevere. He needed shelter and protection, and a large snow structure would be intimidating if he could make adequate progress on it throughout the day. So in spite of the burning cold in his body, he remained constant at his task, carving out what would become, in a few hours, the basis for his fortress. He was cautious though, and a little anxious about being picked off all alone, so he began his work near a patch of berry bushes that he could duck beneath should the need arise. One never knew when an enemy might appear, and with only his knife to protect him, his nerves might well be justified.

Some might say it was a miracle he was still alive. Grantaire, who did not believe in such things, called it bad luck, one more day of suffering extending, and yet he stumbles on, too weak to do anything but try to live. The bottle that had saved his life, for it had saved his life, was nearly empty though and he felt the dread for the future mounting, rising up before him like the barricade.

Speaking of which...

Stumbling upon the beginnings of a snowy barricade should be a blessing but he hesitates, considers turning and pretending he never saw it at all. Where the foundations of a barricade lie he imagines Courfeyrac or one of the others must surely be near. Avoidance had been working so well for him and seeing any of them again in the stressful circumstances of the Arena put him on edge. Especially considering the information he kept close to his heart, smothered there like some coveted secret. And wasn't it just that? That he knew Enjolras still lived, that such knowledge could also reasonably suggest Marius too was also well if one were optimistic enough... He did covet that secret, wanted to keep it safe, tucked under his tongue and out of the open air, but that does little to stave the guilt. Especially against Courfeyrac, whom he had known had been so affected by news of both deaths. Grantaire hoped that of all of them Courfeyrac was not the one here now, and thought of how best he might announce his presence, wishing for Joly, Combeferre, even Venus.

He hums the beginning of La Marseillaise. The words are inaccessible to him but the tune is easily enough voiced.

The melody sends a shiver down Courfeyrac's spine, though he manages to freeze in place and slowly, cautiously calculate a plan. It could be anyone singing that tune, trying to mock him, let him know that he is a sitting duck. Then again it could be an ally, signaling that they have come to support him in his construction. The only way for him to be certain is to turn and look. He does so quickly.

"Good lord, Grantaire! Quit with that singing and lend me a hand, won't you?" How quickly the needs of the moment outweigh the bitterness of the past. Is Courfeyrac still at odds with this man? Surely the answers is quite plain that he is, but Grantaire has an able body and strong enough arms that he ought to be put to work in assisting Courfeyrac. They will have plenty of opportunities to quarrel later.

"You are slow, Master Courfeyrac!" a familiar voice calls from the other side of the snow. Thorongil sounds almost jovial. "I saw you take cover! But come out, there is no need to hide -- I do not intend to harm you."

Thorongil seems to be doing remarkably well for himself: he has warm clothes, a handmade bow, goose-fletched arrows, and a spear. His task of befriending those around him has gone remarkably well: h's gotten some distance from the deaths of Sam and Bilbo, and the list of Tributes he has made at least tentative allegiances with feels like it's tripled since the start of the Arena. That said, it's good to see an old friend, too.

His dark eyes lit up at the sight of Thorongil, a welcome ally to appear from the snow and trees. Slowly, Courfeyrac emerges from his bushy hiding spot. He wipes some fluffy snow from his brow as he sizes up the man's handiwork and bounty.

"You have made out quite well now, haven't you, my friend. What luck that is, indeed!" He is rather envious of such useful supplies. "How have you been fairing in the Arena thus far?"

"Well enough!" he replies, making his way over to the half-finished barricade. "I took advantage of the fair weather and plentiful game while we had it, and have wanted for little, even with the change in the weather. But what about you? What is it you mean to construct in the snow?" He's curious.

"It is a structure," he says, as though it should be all too obvious. "A fortification, for myself and whoever would join me in its construction. That has been my strategy for the last several arenas, you see. There are no roads or building to block, so it is not a true barricade, but this outpost will be strong and true and it shall be my legacy in this place."

"Do you not fear that the weather will betray you?" Thorongil challenges, not wishing to discourage but bringing it up for the sake of thinking this through. "If it grows too warm, your outpost will melt, and you will have nothing to show for your hard work."

To that, Courfeyrac lets out a soft laugh. "I shall have nothing to show for my hard work either way, for I intend to die here in this place." He puts a hand to his brow, peering at the snow fort in all of its majesty. "I am not married to my ways, my friend. If the weather turns, so too shall I."

Thorongil lets out a misty breath. "We must all die in one way or another," he agrees. "All but one. You have no intention of winning, then?" he asks, curiously.

Of course, Thorongil planned to lose, as well. He couldn't talk.

"No," he answers honestly. "I would rather see someone else take the day. There are people in the Arena who should not be here. Women, little children, those who are otherwise incapacitated. I am of sound mind and with an able body. I can suffer here repeatedly. There are others who cannot bear that burden, and so it is my intention that one of them should be the Victor."

It’s about midway through the day when Firo spots the barricade rising out of the snow. He’s run ragged by the fire and avoiding the freaky cats, so at first he figures he’s imagining it. Who would take the time to build something like this?

As he gets closer, he rubs his eyes and has to admit that it is real. He pokes the base of the snow pile with his shoe as he looks around for the builder; with the cover from the brush, he can’t tell where the person might be.

“The hell is this thing..?”

Though he knows the risk of making too much noise, he figures it’s worth it in case the builder is lying in wait, ready to strike. “Anybody home? I’m not here to attack anybody!”

He hopes he made that sound genuine enough—he knows he would still be suspicious. The knife in his hand could definitely be seen as a threat, but he’s too anxious to risk putting it away.

Having heard the unfamiliar footsteps approach, Courfeyrac has taken cover in the bushes, watching closely as Firo examines the partially constructed snow-fort. He doesn't recognize Firo, mistaking him for a boy, catching the glint of the blade of his knife in the midday sun. Mentally, he calculates whether or not he could defend himself, if it came down to it. Ultimately he decides he doesn't especially care. Such is the nature of the game.

"This is the barricade," he says as he emerges from his hiding spot. His hands are empty. He relies solely on his bravado to save the day now. "And I am it's keeper. Now, who are you and how might I help you today?"

Bravado, in this case, might actually be a good strategy. Firo's surprised enough by how certain the man seems that he almost thinks this is something official, like a gamemaker's challenge for anyone who wants to get to the other side, or perhaps it marks a boundary of the Arena.

...Then again, this guy doesn't look any different from the rest of the tributes. Maybe it's just a trap. He glances around for someone who might be sneaking up on him, but finds nothing. Thoroughly confused, all he can do is stay on alert and ask questions.

But, first, likely due to the assured manner of the keeper considering Firo usually doesn't care too much about being rude, he finds himself answering what's been asked. "I'm Firo. And I guess you could help me by explainin' what exactly this thing's supposed to do? Just looks like a big pile a' snow to me."

A big, impressive pile of snow, but a pile of snow nonetheless.

"Citizen Firo," he begins, looking from Firo to the barricade, frowning slightly. "Do not tell me you lack vision. How is it that you see naught but a simple pile of snow and I see a magnificent fortress under construction? Surely you can see the potential of this structure."

Look, he knows what he's doing. Or at least, he must tell himself this repeatedly or risk losing his nerve and part of his mind. It might not look like much, but as the architect behind this pile, he can't lose sight of the goal. To do so would risk emotional collapse.

"It is rather a difficult task to create such a structure on one's own, you understand."

He considers the structure once more; the long look reveals no more of the snow's secrets to him. "I can see how it'd get to be a bigger pile a' snow."

An eyebrow raised skeptically, he looks up at the man again, "Hang on, are you askin' for help?"

Just as crazy to Firo is the fact that he doesn't think he'd outright refuse such a request.

The Frenchman's bravado is rapidly failing him. But rather than risk losing his nerve, he contends to puff himself up further and force himself to continue, no matter how ridiculous he is with his snow pile.

"If you are offering, I would not turn you down," he answers, a twang of hope in his voice. "The work would go much faster with another pair of hands."

Firo stares down at the snow and exhales slowly. "...I can't believe I'm sayin' this, but why the hell not?"

He shrugs. As if he needs to go on the defensive and explain himself, he adds, "I've got nothin' else to do."

Survival is pretty boring at times.

Ah, what a lucky turn for old Courfeyrac. He lets forth a cheeky grin, welcoming Firo into the fold. "Very well, then. I daresay we shall have ourselves a fine place to sleep in tonight. Or, at the very least, we'll have a nice pile of snow to burrow into when the time comes for it. Now, where to begin. Ah, yes, this side right here could use some attention."

Firo can't hold back something of a smile himself; at least this guy seems somewhat normal and pleasant, which is more than he'd dare to hope for. He supposes a little craziness is the price for that.

He walks forward, eyes following wherever the man points. "Just to warn you, I haven't done this kinda thing since I was a kid, so... I can't make any promises for quality."

Despite the chill, he rolls up his sleeves, ready to start working.

The Frenchman laughed as he kicked some snow into a pile. “You may have more experience at this than I do, my friend. I cannot recall the last time I deigned play in the snow. It was at least some three hundred years ago, I should think. Or something to that end, I am never quite sure how one calculates the sliding time scales.”

After a moment spent kicking up the snow, he knelt down beside Firo to start working the snow with his hands. “I cannot recall it ever getting this cold in Paris. It certainly never got this cold in the town where I was born."

He gathers some of the stirred up snow, packing it together before pressing it to the wall. "Paris, huh? That's pretty far away from where I was." So much so that he wonders if he should even bother asking about the other town; what are the chances the name would mean anything to him?

He casts a sideways glance at the man. "And how old are you?"

Firo's no stranger to long-lived people, but the ones he knows aren't that open about it. And he's never considered calculating his age into the year Panem's in--partly because obviously his time is correct and Panem's is just weird.

Darcy's pretty sure that wandering around the winter wonderland from hell on her own is a terrible idea. But at the same time, there's only so many superhero-cave antics that she can handle and getting out seemed like a good idea at the time.

Okay, other than the fact that it's cold as balls, even with a parka and gloves and all her winter gear. She is overly bundled, but still really damn cold, when she comes across Courfeyrac and the growing snow structure. She doesn't even consider the fact that she's bundled to the point of being muffled when she calls out to him while she attempts to run up to him.

Attempt being the keyword here.

"Are you really building a snowfort?" Despite her being muffled, she's somewhere between incredulous and incredibly amused by the situation in front of her.

Darcy's voice is muffled enough that her words are obscured, but he can hear her voice and so turns to face the bounding bundle bouncing his way. She is a sight, wrapped up like a little roll, covered head to foot in a protective layer or two. It all brings a smirk to Courfeyrac's face as he slowly lets the snow in his hands fall haphazardly to the ground.

"It is not a fort. It is a barricade. For you see, I am not a soldier, my dear. I am a citizen." He reaches out to take one of her gloved hands, to kiss it. "However did you find me, Darcy? It seems to have been weeks since last I laid eyes on you."

At the cornucopia, or so he recalled. They'd wound up in different directions. Perhaps that was for the best.

Even through the scarf and the parka, the sound of her slightly flattered giggle is obvious. Which...wow, giggling, way to go Darcy. She reaches up with her unoccupied hand to pull her scarf down from where it's covering her nose and mouth so that she can actually be understood.

"I decided to meander a bit. You can only chill in a cave with the Avengers for so long before it starts to get boring." Really, if she had to see that blond kid draw anymore stupid comics on the wall, she was going to lose her shit.

Really, a little part of her regrets not chasing after Courfeyrac and instead trying to beeline for Thor (not like that did her much good). The fact of the matter was that she knew Courfeyrac had been okay since the last Arena, Thor...well, not so much.

"So, do you want help building this? Or is this one of those weird 'taking a level in hermitage, must build it alone' sort of things?"

She was rather charming all on her own, giggling and all. It had been ages since he'd spent any length of time with a girl who cared to giggle. Even his beloved Max, who in her youth had hung on his every word lacked the capacity for giggling. Darcy was, in this manner, fresh and new and dazzling for him.

"You must take me for a fool if you think I should ever decline such an offer. Besides, we have so many things to catch up on. You must tell me of all that you have seen in this Arena in the time that we were apart."

With that, he welcomed her to join him in the further construction of one of the support walls.

Darcy beamed at him, practically trailing at his footsteps as she followed him to one of the wall-in-progress of his ~~fort~~ barricade. Darcy had, at times, prided herself for the fact that she wasn't the type of girl who wore her heart on her sleeve, that she could be cool and composed and above it all.

Which was bullshit, really, but that fact alone made her glad that it was cold enough to make her look red as hell or else her blush would be painfully obvious and it would be embarrassing for all involved. (Or just for her.)

"I should've known your answer then, since I have a strict 'no fools' policy." Not really, but that's definitely a good policy to consider enforcing once she gets home. "I haven't been doing much, mostly hanging around in a cave and laying low. The most exciting things that've happened were sharing fish and a campfire with a hobo and watching this kid draw some of the worst Avengers fanart I've ever seen." She shrugged, gathering up some of the snow on the ground. "How about you? You're bound to've had more exciting adventures than me."

"Avengers?" He gave her a quick questioning look. He'd heard all manner of strange nicknames in this place, but it was difficult for him to keep track of who was who and which alliances fell where. As he packed some snow into the fall, he wondered who in their right mind would call themselves something so petty as an avenger. Weren't there more pressing matters in the world besides the quest for vengeance?

Shaking his head a little, he looked back at the snow fort in progress. "I have been hiding out, mostly. Until recently, I was quite lacking in supplies. It's been a rough go of things without much in the way of food or weaponry. Thus the barricade, you see. I ought to compensate somehow, no?" With that, he smiled cheekily.

"They're a superhero team from back home," she says with a little laugh. "Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor. You know, most of them? They protect the planet and all that stuff." And she's resisting to point out that she's totally gotten to help Thor and it was awesome and terrifying. Of course, that means bringing up Thor and she has no clue where he is, even though she knows he's alive after seeing him at the Cornucopia.

"I wish I knew, I would've tried bringing you to the cave," she grins up at him, following his lead with the construction process. "Lucky for you, I have some weapons." If anyone could really call a taser a weapon. Though she did have a sweet ass knife, so there was always that. "Though a snowicade works too."

He was familiar with the men, though he did not know them very well. It was a passing recognition, the kind the comes only from a year of experience in the Games. Perhaps he ought to pay them more mind in the future. Perhaps it would serve him well to know these people and be able to call upon them.

Courfeyrac looked over her work, nodding in approval. “How is it that you fell in with a party of… what did you call them? Superheroes? What an odd turn of phrase that is."

“That is very lucky for me, isn’t it?” He’d no idea what a taser was, nor how he might deploy one until his arrival in Panem. Having a bonafide taser-maiden in his presence was certainly a stroke of good fortune.

Being alone out in a dangerous wilderness is not a good idea, Haruto has come to realize. He can't keep pulling away from others, as much as he wants to just pull inwards after Nitou's death. It's going to end up killing him, too. So when he hears the sounds of exertion in the distance and realizes that there's packed down snow and footprints, he doesn't turn away and head elsewhere. He goes forward to find out what's going on and who's doing it.

He gets there in time to see someone hastily duck behind a bush, and he has to try to not laugh. You can't really blame anyone for being jumpy and defensive in a place like this. "Easy! It's alright! I'm not here to kill anyone!" That rifle he's got is slung over his shoulder, not aimed at anyone. That's encouraging, right?

A rifle is still a rifle, and considering Courfeyrac's death came at the end of such a weapon, he considers himself rightfully jumpy. That said, he recognizes Haruto as being from his own district, and therefore a likely ally as opposed to an enemy. They needn't risk Wesker's ire by killing each other so early in the game.

Cautiously, he poked out of the bushes to investigate Haruto further. "Citizen Soma. Have you strong arms and a sturdy back? Have you come to join my faction?"

"Citizen?" He's more alarmed by the way he's being addressed than by who's addressing him, or why. Yes, for the moment, this guy looks pretty harmless, even if he's got a gun. He casts an uncertain look towards the snow barricade, and takes a slow step forward. "I've got those, yeah. And aren't we the same faction already, sort of?" He gives a shrug of the shoulder that has the District 11 patch on it. He recognizes the guy from around the suites, even if they've had no real chance to chat before now.

"One cannot assume such things in an Arena. Alliances can shift and surprise you." But for what it was worth, Courfeyrac emerged fully from his hiding spot to inspect Haruto properly. Revealing himself gave away that he was unarmed, and very likely not a threat. "I am constructing a barricade. Will you join me?"

Indeed, by the evening it becomes obvious that Courfeyrac is not defending this fortress alone. As soon as the ramparts solidify, a veritable army of fighters take their stations atop it, shadowed figures standing silent vigil to watch for intruders. They are prepared to brace the cold in their assortment of parkas and blankets--one even seems to have a tent wrapped around him--and prepared for battle with the piles of snowballs lined at their feet. Sunset carves their features into the very structure of the barricade itself.

That's probably because they are, in fact, part of the barricade. People approaching from a different angle will probably realize pretty quickly that someone's just made a bunch of snowmen and piled them atop the walls. The person who made them is likely also the one that just pelted you with a snowball. People who are helping to build the fortress are not safe from this.

If nothing else, Gary has discovered that the snowmen make for great shields to hide behind while he listens to the cries of dismay and prepares another snowball.

Edited 2015-02-15 15:08 (UTC)

"Very good," Courfeyrac says, appraising Gary's clever strategy. At a distance, the snowmen will surely fool anyone approaching them at night and give the inhabitants of the barricade ample time to mount a defense should they be attacked in the night. "But it is important too that we get a proper amount of sleep. In the morning, we can gather food and supplies, but tonight we shall rest up. It is vital."

When he speaks, it is all experience which bleeds through. Indeed, he knows full well what it means to be cooped up in a barricade, unable to sleep and sick from hunger and fear. Tonight, at least, he thinks they will be safe.

Courfeyrac is maybe giving Gary too much credit--he'd made the snowmen because he was bored and it seemed like a fun prank, and eventually got himself invested when he was left to his own devices. Still, he's definitely not going to turn down a compliment, especially one from his usually quiet and somber districtmate. Gary beams and lazily tosses a snowball in the air.

"Hey. No problem." He gives an exaggerated wink. "I guess I could use a break after all that, uh, hard work. Where are we setting up?"

Gary looks around expectantly for a trail of supplies or the flickering light of a fire. Courfeyrac probably has a camp set up in the forest, he figures. Because surely he doesn't intend for them to sleep in this snowy monstrosity. Gary's never thought to sleep in one of the snow forts he would build back home, and he wouldn't consider the thought now.

"In the middle. Away from the walls."

He walks around the fortress, assessing the strength of the external walls. They're strong, reenforced with ice brought from the pond in water canisters, poured over the walls and then frozen in thick layers. They're sturdy, but he doesn't care to risk a collapse during the night, or an attack.

"We'll have to stay close together. A fire would warm us, but it would also melt our fortress. We cannot risk it, so we must instead rely on body heat." He begins to construct a spot on the ground for the party, with all of the blankets and sleeping bags gathered together.

"What--?" Gary cuts himself off as his eyes settle in the middle of the improvised, snowy courtyard and the realization hits. His smile flickers slightly and he stands, confused, for several moments.

"--Wait." Then he's jumping and sliding off the wall, jogging behind Courfeyrac while he conducts his brisk patrol of the perimeter. "In here? But it's so--" Gary comes to a stop as his disctrictmate begins clearing out the center, as promised. The emphatic gestures of his hands do not stop. "--open and...stuff. Like, can't we set up in one of the caves? I bet it would be warmer in the caves."

To that, he scoffs, leveling Gary with a look of pity. "And abandon our work to wander around aimlessly as the sunsets? I think not. We've all the supplies we need in here, plus food and company. Besides, it is only somewhat cold now. When we gather, we shall be warmer."

Gary is honestly baffled, but Courfeyrac seems to be taking this very seriously--he realizes at the last moment, with his mouth-half opened, that saying 'you mean we weren't just passing the time' might not be the wisest call. He pauses and thoroughly scratches his chin.

...The company is good. Gary likes company. He supposes this is acceptable, better than wandering to the caves alone. The food, too, that's never something he can turn down. Simple analysis aside, Gary shrugs.

"Yeah, fair," he sniffs. "All my blankets and tents and stuff are, uh..."

Gary turns to look at the wall and the figures he's built there, and the improvised clothing they've been given. Whoops.

"...What's for dinner?"

That's better. Courfeyrac gives a nod of approval as he gets up to sift through the meal options. "We've some tinned meat," he offers, shuffling further. "And a tin of carrots in a ginger sauce. That sounds charming. We ought to try that one."

Gary crinkles his nose on instinct. Spam and soggy carrots. This isn't exactly his idea of a 'charming' meal, especially since--

"--For all of us?" Gary gives another desperate glance around the camp. "Have you seen Thorongil? He's good at hunting, I bet he's found some stuff."

“I have,” he answers, still resolved than using the canned goods would be for the best. He’s too chivalrous to take fresh food when he knows full well he can survive with what they already have at their disposal. “And he and I are agreed that his spoils would be best left to those among us who are truly in need. We here are not in any danger of starvation. We can make due with the meat and carrots that we have. The other Tributes who’ve not received any care packages ought to get what Thorongil can spare."

No amount of forced politeness can stifle the stiff pout and "aww" of disappointment at hearing this news. Thorongil's food is great, though. He doesn't want to give that up for carrots! Life is hard. So, so hard.

Gary resigns himself to this fate quietly, but not gracefully, dragging his feet to the center of camp and slumping down by the soon-to-be campfire. All energy gained from praises about his work on the wall seems to have left him, drained, utterly, like he's run a marathon and hasn't eaten in months to top it off. His very soul weeps for his misfortune.

Maybe he's taking this a little too seriously.

Gary takes out his fire-starting kit and starts sluggishly striking matches at the campfire to distract himself.

See our world is slowly dying

open;

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somehow i missed this i'm so sorry!

open!

i hope this is ok c:

this is good!

\o/

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