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Underneath It All, We're Just Savages [Closed]
WHO| Tom and Luke and Beth, Tom and the Psiioniic, Tom and Albert and Arya
WHAT| Tom gets injured during the patch game, kills a troll, and runs afoul of a cyborg.
WHERE| Throughout the forest near the lake.
WHEN| Week 3-4
WARNINGS| Death and violence.
I. Luke and Beth
The patch-capture seems almost quaint, the juxtaposition of the playful nature of the rules and the murderous stakes of the winnings as comical and twee as the cross between a death festival and the name "Hunger Games". Tom finds no small amount of amusement in it, and by early morning has convinced Arya to take part in it with him. The two of them sweep their way through the forest, the portrait of amiability. If it weren't for the knife that Tom carries in his palm, playing idly with, and the matching one that Arya's equipped with, they might look like a man taking his granddaughter for a stroll through a particularly wet and clammy winter.
That is, of course, until they hear others in the wood. From there they hunker down, alert, predatory, near hungry despite having been fed many times over from the generous Sponsor gifts and Molotov's hunts. At the moment there are figures moving through a snowy dell north of them, and to the east of them in the marsh.
"You manage the ones up north, will you, lass? We'll rendezvous here when the sun sets." He watches Arya go, impressed time and again with the girl's spunk and competence, before heading towards the marsh, keeping careful track of which trees he's passing so he can find his way back here when dusk comes. He could follow his footprints, but he doesn't trust the Gamemakers not to change them. They likely could change the trees too, but that seems more effort than would be useful. He's sure the Gamemakers find his rapport with Arya charming at best, harmless at worst.
He sees a blonde head of hair in the marsh, and he doesn't announce his presence. He pulls the knife out and moves near-silently through the snow-weighted bushes behind her.
II. Psiioniic and III. Albert and Arya
The end of the patch game really means very little to Tom; he plans to continue as he has with Molotov and Arya, and has put in his best effort not to let the stab wound in his shoulder slow him down. It's difficult, of course - the swelling has made it hard to sleep or to properly grip a knife with his right hand - but he only complains when Molotov's ears are sympathetic. As soon as Molotov mentions that they haven't done all that much killing this Arena, Tom shuts right up and sulks at the corner of their camp like a wet cat.
It's this insecurity, this gutting knowledge of his own uselessness, that drives him to spend longer each day looking for someone to kill and rob. It doesn't sit well with him to be both in pain and without an earned reputation to soothe it, nor does it settle peacefully in his stomach to have had such an uneventful Arena. He goes into the woods with his blade and a cudgel fashioned from a felled tree, made almost entirely unrecognizable by a ski mask and his heavy parka, hat and scarf.
He sees someone hunched over a part of the river that hasn't frozen over, collecting water, and he slips forward, looking not entirely unlike a panther moving through jungle reeds. He hopes to be silent, but the ground under him has different ideas for him.
As soon as the ice beneath his feet crackles and announces his presence, he swings the cudgel at his victim's head like a baseball bat.
WHAT| Tom gets injured during the patch game, kills a troll, and runs afoul of a cyborg.
WHERE| Throughout the forest near the lake.
WHEN| Week 3-4
WARNINGS| Death and violence.
I. Luke and Beth
The patch-capture seems almost quaint, the juxtaposition of the playful nature of the rules and the murderous stakes of the winnings as comical and twee as the cross between a death festival and the name "Hunger Games". Tom finds no small amount of amusement in it, and by early morning has convinced Arya to take part in it with him. The two of them sweep their way through the forest, the portrait of amiability. If it weren't for the knife that Tom carries in his palm, playing idly with, and the matching one that Arya's equipped with, they might look like a man taking his granddaughter for a stroll through a particularly wet and clammy winter.
That is, of course, until they hear others in the wood. From there they hunker down, alert, predatory, near hungry despite having been fed many times over from the generous Sponsor gifts and Molotov's hunts. At the moment there are figures moving through a snowy dell north of them, and to the east of them in the marsh.
"You manage the ones up north, will you, lass? We'll rendezvous here when the sun sets." He watches Arya go, impressed time and again with the girl's spunk and competence, before heading towards the marsh, keeping careful track of which trees he's passing so he can find his way back here when dusk comes. He could follow his footprints, but he doesn't trust the Gamemakers not to change them. They likely could change the trees too, but that seems more effort than would be useful. He's sure the Gamemakers find his rapport with Arya charming at best, harmless at worst.
He sees a blonde head of hair in the marsh, and he doesn't announce his presence. He pulls the knife out and moves near-silently through the snow-weighted bushes behind her.
II. Psiioniic and III. Albert and Arya
The end of the patch game really means very little to Tom; he plans to continue as he has with Molotov and Arya, and has put in his best effort not to let the stab wound in his shoulder slow him down. It's difficult, of course - the swelling has made it hard to sleep or to properly grip a knife with his right hand - but he only complains when Molotov's ears are sympathetic. As soon as Molotov mentions that they haven't done all that much killing this Arena, Tom shuts right up and sulks at the corner of their camp like a wet cat.
It's this insecurity, this gutting knowledge of his own uselessness, that drives him to spend longer each day looking for someone to kill and rob. It doesn't sit well with him to be both in pain and without an earned reputation to soothe it, nor does it settle peacefully in his stomach to have had such an uneventful Arena. He goes into the woods with his blade and a cudgel fashioned from a felled tree, made almost entirely unrecognizable by a ski mask and his heavy parka, hat and scarf.
He sees someone hunched over a part of the river that hasn't frozen over, collecting water, and he slips forward, looking not entirely unlike a panther moving through jungle reeds. He hopes to be silent, but the ground under him has different ideas for him.
As soon as the ice beneath his feet crackles and announces his presence, he swings the cudgel at his victim's head like a baseball bat.