[OPEN] + [CLOSED] for second prompt

[smirkwood]

Who| Thranduil & YOU (will match format)
What| Just another normal day in the arena until the pollen kicks in.
Where| Arena 13, Near the river
When| A day in week 5, daytime
Warnings/Notes| cw: vomiting


The birch forest had been reminiscent of the Greenwood in days of old, and it was a small comfort particularly when the weather turned and the sweet scents of spring was on the air.

The rapidness of the temperature change was unnatural in recent days, but Thranduil could not say it wasn't a relief. Elves did not feel cold as keenly as Men did, so to be cold for so long was rather unexpected and irritating. Still, he'd managed thus far. The clothes and supplies he'd received early on were enough to keep him alive, though he'd gone hungry more than once.

In fact, right now he was functioning on a handful of berries and sheer determination. That was why he was moving east again towards the river in hopes to find some fish, ignoring the unusually strong hunger pangs as he walked along.


Who| Thranduil & Iskierka
What| Weakened by the effects of the pollen, Thranduil makes for an easy kill, particularly for a dragon.
Where| Arena 13, Near the river
When| A day in week 5, nighttime
Warnings/Notes| cw: vomiting, death by dragon, flashbacks, emotional trauma.


The sickness had come on quickly, and worsened as night fell. He had no doubt it was some kind of poison, but from where or what he couldn't say. It reminded him somewhat of the unfortunate members of his guard who were affected by spider venom in his own wood, though he himself had never experienced it.

Thranduil had given up any hope of taking a meal, even if he could find something in his weakened state. In theory he wasn't far from the river and could fill his water bottle there at need, but It was a challenge to keep even water down and an even bigger challenge to walk there and back to where he had set up camp.

Now the Elvenking is once again hunched over behind a tree and expelling what little he had left in him while the campfire he had made threatened to burn out from lack of attention. He tries in vain to keep quiet, not wanting to attract the attention of anyone armed and ready to kill.

Comments

[honeyibrokeharlem]

There's already someone out there spearing fish. The ones he's already speared are threaded together using a bone needle and string made from sinew, and his spear seems to be made of a branch bound to a the sharpened jawbone of some animal.

Yet he can't seem to keep spearing. He's just so... thirsty. So he frequently pauses to drink from the river. Except when he sees that someone else is near--then he grasps his spear and watches the newcomer warily. "Hey there."

[smirkwood]

Again he had overestimated the reach of his hearing. Having not thought anyone was nearby, he pauses in his steps momentarily before continuing, though this time on alert. Mentally he assesses where his weaponry was hidden - the longer knife was in his boot, the smaller carving knife was folded an placed in his right pocket. If needed, he could access them easily.

In greeting, Thranduil inclines his head to acknowledge the man, then sets his tent pack aside and grabs his own fishing spear. He had carved the tip so that it formed a split prongs. There was a reasonable space between them, and the king would prefer if it stayed that way.

"Shall we agree to keep a distance?"

Not that he doesn't trust you, or anything.

[honeyibrokeharlem]

Bruce eyes the newcomer, but he inclines his head as well. A gesture of politeness, an indication that he hasn't forgotten civilization here.

"That seems like a good idea," he answers. He doesn't mind sharing the river, so long as there is a nice comfortable distance between him and a potential attacker.

He turns his attention back to catching fish, but there's a part of him that is still paying attention to the newcomer and any potentially aggressive action he may make.

[smirkwood]

It seemed there was a mutual distrust, and Thranduil couldn't blame him for that. The king says nothing else, turning most (but not all) of his attention towards the water and attempting to spear fish. It involved some measure of patience, waiting for a fish to swim by and to catch it at the right time, but he was prepared to wait... at least for a while.

The growing hunger... was it hunger? Was becoming an uncomfortable rolling of the stomach. After missing that last fish, he leaves his spear where it was wedged between the rocks so that he could lean on it for a few moments. It's when his eyes shut from the increasing nausea that he realizes he was not in a good position.

It was not the time to be feeling unwell - not with a potential threat nearby. Reluctantly Thranduil decides to cut his losses and return to a spot higher up on the bank, intending to sit down behind some sort of cover. All the while he gives glances over to the other tribute, wondering if he had already seen his weakness.

Sorry for late tag! I thought I replied to this and deleted it from my inbox

[honeyibrokeharlem]

Bruce had already seen. He glanced at the retreating man, careful not to betray his own thoughts. Frankly, it was in Bruce's nature to be kind and help others in need, but he was wary within the arena with strangers.

"Everything alright there?"

That would be his offer to help. He wouldn't push it if he was rejected, and he wouldn't be stingy about maybe offering a fish if his offer were accepted. It wasn't as if he was feeding all the mouths he was used to feeding anymore.

It's cool!

[smirkwood]

"It's nothing. Only hunger."

The response is immediate, though slightly strained. Thranduil didn't trust this man either, and would rather not let on just how unwell he was feeling. The king finds a place on the other side of a tree and a few bushes, blocking himself from view.

[honeyibrokeharlem]

"Hunger?"

He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. Nonetheless, Bruce shrugs, feigning casualness. "I have a couple extra fish, if you want to trade for them." He is ready to make the trading terms very favorable for the stranger. He doesn't like allowing other people to be in pain when they've done nothing to deserve it, but he's not going to offer the food for free. He expects the man would be suspicious of any free food, rightfully so, and would turn him down.

Open prompt

[fivefingereddiscount]

He'll find someone who'd blend right into Middle Earth standing in the river, wearing a snow camo blanket as a kind of hooded cloak He is turning over rocks in search of crayfish and clams. Not that he's particularly good at it, having grown up in the city. As clumsy as he is with foraging, something about his stance and his movements suggest that he's quite good with that bow strapped to his back.

He pauses in his work every now and then, apparently listening for intruders. Unfortunately, he's never encounter an elf before, and doesn't know to listen more closely for their soft footfalls.

[smirkwood]

When he notes the stranger from a distance he takes extra care to be quiet. A bow was a ranged weapon, and though he preferred the sword, as king of the Silvan Elves he knew what arrow and string were capable of. He would have to find another place to do his own fishing elsewhere.

It's with that thought in mind that he heads downstream, trying to remain silent and undetected. However that silence is broken when a wave of nausea hits him hard and he's forced to his knees. The tent pack slides off his shoulder, and the metal poles inside clang together.

Thranduil is aware of the mistake he's made, mentally cursing himself for not being able to ignore the feeling long enough to keep himself steady. In his boot he keeps the hunting knife, which he grabs in preparation to defend himself... though he was aware that against a bowman he was essentially a sitting duck.

[fivefingereddiscount]

Garrett hears the clang behind him, and in one surprisingly fluid motion turns to face the cause of the commotion with his bow drawn and armed. What he sees, however, gives him pause. He's always been a bit hesitant to shoot beautiful women...or men, now that he's really looking...but shooting someone unprovoked while they can't defend themselves? Even though he wore his criminal status with some pride, even he wouldn't sink that low. But it pays to be wary in this "arena," so he only lowers the bow and keeps his makeshift mask on.

"Who are you?"

Priorities. Asking about the stranger's welfare would come later.

[smirkwood]

He's been noticed - no surprise there. The knife he was holding close goes in an inside pocket of his coat for easy access before he wills himself to stand. He raises his hands to indicate he didn't mean any harm, at least for now. '

"I am a prisoner here such as you."

He wasn't going to give his name at what he presumed to be arrow point, but it was a fair answer. His voice wavers a touch from feeling unwell, which annoys him. He did not want to appear afraid or weak.

"Now that my presence is known to you, what is your intent?"

Because somebody needs to be a jerk to the King of the elves

[fivefingereddiscount]

His eyes narrow a bit when he hears the stranger speak. Well-groomed and speaking in a formal manner? The guy had to be Noble. Garrett didn't know if that meant anything here, but if anyone was going to try and cheat with promises of riches, or to try to side with the sick bastards who ran this thing, it was a Noble.

"That depends on your next move, pretty boy."

He does at least keep his arrow pointed at the ground. For now. He hoped, though, that this wouldn't actually result in a fight. His ribs were still aching from his fight in the caves, and he'd been feeling somewhat nauseous on and off.

In all fairness he's usually the one being a jerk, so by all means

[smirkwood]

The 'pretty boy' comment has his good eye twitching in annoyance, and forcibly he has to remind himself that he was at the disadvantage here. Very slowly he turns to face the other tribute, keeping his hands in sight all the while. The king is a shade paler than was healthy, and a touch of sweat marked his brow.

"I did not come here to look for a fight, only a meal."

Thranduil nods down to the fishing spear he had dropped. Truthfully the thought of a meal now did not sound at all pleasant. He swallows hard.

"If you attack me, I will defend myself, but I have no need to give the game makers the spectacle they desire otherwise."

[yoknapatawpha]

By now, Bayard's been alerted to the fact that he came into an Arena several weeks in, and that alliances have been made and most of his foes picked off. In the manner of children, Bayard imagines, naively, that that means that all the remaining Tributes are the strongest and most lethal. It doesn't truly occur to him to factor in accidents and alliances when the idea of a murderpit can be so easily winnowed down into victory for the strongest and most valiant, or the most villainous and blackhearted.

He insists on earning his keep with the people of Thedas by collecting firewood and berries. He's a hapless hunter, more used to domesticated livestock, and the only complaint that's passed his lips so far has been that there haven't been pigs or cows to tend. Still, he works the tasks he can with the enthusiasm that comes from a deep, inborn sense of obligation.

He's breaking dry branches from a felled tree when he hears something so quiet that it may as well be the breeze flickering over the undergrowth. He pauses, hypervigilant from fear of the monsters and villains he's sure comprise the rest of the Tributes, then returns to his work, wrapping small, pre-teen hands around a piece of pine and loosing them from the trunk with a crack. He's directly in the path of Thranduil and oblivious to an elf's careful steps.

[smirkwood]

Children.

His anger for the capitol grew ever stronger whenever he encountered tributes that were not fully grown. It was too cruel, too evil to subject the young to this. Still, it was a reality that they were here, and each time he came across a child in the arena he felt the urge to stop and check on them. Perhaps it was the father in him.

Since it's clear the boy hadn't truly noticed him yet, he makes a point of stirring up some dry leaves with his boot as he walks to give him some warning before he speaks.

"Is it a fire or a shelter you intend to build?"

[yoknapatawpha]

Bayard can't help but jump when Thranduil makes the noise, and in his haste he nearly drops the piece of wood in his hands. When he sees the figure of a man - one taller and more slender than any he's met, not waifish but with that same strength and elegance of wrought iron - he clutches the piece of dry wood tighter, until his bare hands flush pink and white.

"A fire." There's no shame in retreat, he knows, when overpowered, but he optimistically wants to believe that the stranger in front of him might be another of those who would be non-violent. Bayard's already been lucky enough to meet so many.

"I may look helpless, sir, but I can defend myself if you attack."

[smirkwood]

Hearing that warning, Thranduil's lips form the slightest upturn in amusement. The boy wasn't boasting, as some foolish children do, but rather gearing himself up for facing a potential threat despite the fear. It was impressive for one so young.

"I have no doubt your effort would be a valiant one, but you will find no need for it."

Intending to stay a while, the king puts down his tent pack and props it up against a tree for now. Then he walks forward passed Bayard, unconcerned that he might be attacked, and looks down at what little the boy had managed to gather. It was a start, certainly, but they would need a few more.

"What is your name, child?"

[yoknapatawpha]

He watches with curiosity more than paranoia as Thranduil approaches, and takes a step back but doesn't swing out with the piece of wood and makes no gesture to attack. Instead he lowers the makeshift weapon some.

"Sartoris. Bayard Sartoris." He says that name with a sort of muted pride, as if it means something even though he knows it's just words here. His name carries none of the gravity it did only this morning.

"And yours, sir?" Calling older men 'sir' is a habit he doesn't even realizing he's indulging enough to break. The only ones he ever encounters are his father, the slaves, and sirs.

[smirkwood]

'Sir' was not a title often used in his halls, but it was meant to be respectful, which the king could certainly appreciate. Elves not being people for more than one name, Thranduil assumes the first name spoken is what he should be calling him.

"Well met, Sartoris. I am Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm."

As he bends down to rearrange the pile of wood a wave of nausea hits him. The fallen tree suddenly seems like a good place to sit. It was probably the lack of food that was doing odd things to his stomach. He waits a few moments for the unusual feeling to pass before speaking again.

"Gather a few more pieces of wood, and I will help you build a fire."

[letthemburn]

Iskierka's been lucky. Though she's noticed the fields of flowers that have grown up out of the cold and snow, she hasn't found them to be any inconvenience. Strange, sure, but what part of the Arena's aren't strange?

(She doesn't realize that she has been affected, that the pollen has gotten to her as well, but it's only just starting to have an effect; enough so as to go quite entirely unnoticed.)

As ever, she's wandering again when she spots the dim glow of a fire. A fire that doesn't seem to be particularly well tended either, and that's something that's very nearly unexpected. She knows very well that she wouldn't leave a fire untended if she'd made one. Not unless she was deliberately trying to set things aflame and just at the moment she's very much not.

It's only when she gets close enough that she could put a foot in the fire if she wanted to that she hears the sounds of someone being violently ill - she doesn't recognize the nature of it, but she knows something that's not right when she hears it, and every now and the captains of the covert have gotten drunk besides. She doesn't speak. Simply makes her way closer to sounds, footfalls not disguised in the last as she draws near.

[smirkwood]

At first the sound of someone's approach hadn't been noticed; he'd been distracted and making enough noise of his own. However, once the current bout of sickness was over and things were quiet once more, he knew he was not alone.

He had no doubt that he had been noticed. Quickly he pulls the dagger from his boot and holds it to his chest, with the intent to defend himself if he needed to. Though at this moment he really, truly hoped he did not need to. There was little chance he could fend off a true attacker while he was in this state.

He spits into the grass to clear his mouth before he speaks, voice strained.

"Who are you? What do you seek by disturbing me in my misery?"

[letthemburn]

"Oh," Iskierka comments as soon as she hears Thranduil's voice. "It is only you."

The fact that she hadn't meant to disturb him - either in his misery or out of it! - doesn't get a mention. To anyone else, she might have offered that much, but she still remembers their first meeting, such as it was. On the other hand, she doesn't immediately attack. She does step a bit closer though. Curiosity has even been a vice of hers and it's not as if she minds people being too horribly ill.

(She may end up regretting this, later, but for right now she doesn't see any harm in it.)

[smirkwood]

Having only had a short conversation with her - in which he was legitimately distracted - Thranduil doesn't recognize the voice at first. Instead he remains hidden, though he stands using the tree as support. Only when he's taken a few deep breaths that he retrospectively makes the connection...

...and then his heart seizes in his chest. He swallows hard to keep himself from throwing up again, then peers around the trunk to confirm his suspicions. He can't stop his voice from wavering.

"I thought we agreed to leave each other be."

apologies for the delay here!

[letthemburn]

"It is hardly as if I knew it was you," Iskierka counters, as if this alone is enough to excuse her presence. Whether or not it actually does is another matter entirely and one that's up to him to decide. On the other hand, Iskierka isn't exactly coming any clser just at the moment and that might have to do.

"Besides, I cannot harm you by only speaking."

it's cool!

[smirkwood]

Whether she could harm him by just speaking was up for debate, as merely hearing the voice of a dragon brought a terror to his heart and made it hard to move. This was the arena... they were expected to kill each other here, and the king couldn't imagine that a dragon would not embrace that.

"You know now, and I would ask that you leave."

He holds the knife close and grips it tightly to keep his hand from trembling. Breathing was becoming harder from both panic and nausea now, sounding quick and shallow. Perhaps if he were feeling more himself, he would have been able to steel himself better.