The Ψiioniic / The Helmsman (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
biiowiired) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2015-05-31 03:40 am
biiowiired) wrote in thearena2015-05-31 03:40 am
Entry tags:
Reflex in the sky
Who| The Ψiioniic &: Sam Wilson, Samwise Gamgee, Rose Lalonde, Venus Dee Milo.
What| Blindly taking refuge
Where| The Catacombs
When| May 25 - Jun 02
Warnings/Notes| language and lisping always
He woke struggling in the dirt, bruised and burned and completely surprised to be alive. He'd been flying low when something hit him, like a power surge or accident with the mind honey. He thought he was literally toast when light filled his vision and the skin around his eyes burned. His optic blast had been completely involuntary, necessary to channel off whatever energy that had hit him, and that frightened him. He'd also lost consciousness immediately while flying, also frightening. Luckily, he had been zooming below the height of the village buildings, hoping they'd provide cover from any projectile weapons. He supposed flying out of them into the open fields did him in, but he'd had no choice in the chaos of the Cornucopia.
It was dark. Where the hell were the stars? Did the Gamemakers forget to turn them on, or did they just not bother? Screams in the distance told him there was another big fight erupting. Or the same one? He'd lost time between rocketing off from the Cornucopia and here, but he couldn't tell if it was minutes or hours. He'd assumed it was hours, because he was standing and wading through pitch black velvet unlike any dark season, a tattered monk trying to look for his missing shoe, and why weren't his eyes adjusting....
Oh. Shit.
He could feel the silvery warmth of what he recognized as the Earth's sun. It came from one direction more than any other. He turned to it, his only clue. His eyes were no longer bright red and blue, but completely black staring orbs. His vessels were burned in yellow capillary fractals around them. He tried to remember where he was. Lost time was less an issue so much as the need to get away from the sounds of fighting. He didn't chance flying again. It could have been lightning, but he'd been too low for that....
A: Sam Wilson
He could hear the wind whistling ominously in the cracks of a large door. He remembered the funny black building on the long path. He'd been flying somewhat in that direction and must have fallen nearby. Though he longed to put out tendrils of psi to feel his way there, he was afraid the light would draw enemies. He crawled instead, tripping on his robe in a fashion entirely unbefitting Alternia's most powerful psionic mage. His hands finally pawed at the door. He ripped it open and stumbled through.
His efforts to enter stealthily were in vain. In his haste to find a place to hide, he tripped and fell into nothingness. Then a stone corner jabbed against his body, and another, and he realized with a sinking feeling of dread and irritation that he was tumbling down a flight of stairs. Before he could summon his psi and stop, he touched down on the first landing. Horns stinging from bumps, he felt for the next step with his toes. He was still scared of the other Tributes entering and seeing his light-show. Troll instinct told him to get out of the open, out of the possible light, and get down into something like a cave.
B: Samwise Gamgee & (later) Rose Lalonde
The wall's recesses were low enough for him to feel with his hands. He jumped when he brushed the long, knobbed forms of bones. He reassured himself that the bodies were long rotted away, with no chance for infection or undead tendencies. Trolls weren't in the habit of venerating dead bodies, so this sort of place was foreign to him. Still, trolls had their own ghost stories, and someone put bones here for a purpose, probably to scare. A Tribute probably wouldn't want to look at them, would pass them quickly by....
He was slim enough to tuck himself behind one of skeletons, borrowing rags and dust to cover his robes and orange horns. He tried to imagine what he looked like sharing a bed with a skeleton. It wasn't a picture he wanted to dwell on, but death had touched his life from hatching, from his first vision of doom to his first kill. If these bones were indeed real, then it was about time the dead did him a favor.
He was nodding off to sleep when he heard someone open the door at the top of the stairs. He remained still, controlling his breaths even though his bloodpusher was hammering in his chest. It was inevitable that someone would want to explore this odd little building and the catacombs under it. He'd just have to lie low behind his camouflage and wait for them to leave. And if they stayed.... well, there was either an alliance or an optic blast to be had.
Completely independent to the noises on the stairs, he heard someone screech loud and hard enough to echo through the catacombs. Psii tried not to jump, but his twitch dislodged a few bones from his osseous companion. Ribs clattered to the floor. Damn ghosts at it again. He never liked them in his head, and he certainly didn't like them now. His prophetic voices had been their usual clamorous din from the start, but (strangely) none of them were distinct enough to tell him whether the ghosts he heard now were real. He remained in his alcove, hoping his cover wasn't broken.
What| Blindly taking refuge
Where| The Catacombs
When| May 25 - Jun 02
Warnings/Notes| language and lisping always
He woke struggling in the dirt, bruised and burned and completely surprised to be alive. He'd been flying low when something hit him, like a power surge or accident with the mind honey. He thought he was literally toast when light filled his vision and the skin around his eyes burned. His optic blast had been completely involuntary, necessary to channel off whatever energy that had hit him, and that frightened him. He'd also lost consciousness immediately while flying, also frightening. Luckily, he had been zooming below the height of the village buildings, hoping they'd provide cover from any projectile weapons. He supposed flying out of them into the open fields did him in, but he'd had no choice in the chaos of the Cornucopia.
It was dark. Where the hell were the stars? Did the Gamemakers forget to turn them on, or did they just not bother? Screams in the distance told him there was another big fight erupting. Or the same one? He'd lost time between rocketing off from the Cornucopia and here, but he couldn't tell if it was minutes or hours. He'd assumed it was hours, because he was standing and wading through pitch black velvet unlike any dark season, a tattered monk trying to look for his missing shoe, and why weren't his eyes adjusting....
Oh. Shit.
He could feel the silvery warmth of what he recognized as the Earth's sun. It came from one direction more than any other. He turned to it, his only clue. His eyes were no longer bright red and blue, but completely black staring orbs. His vessels were burned in yellow capillary fractals around them. He tried to remember where he was. Lost time was less an issue so much as the need to get away from the sounds of fighting. He didn't chance flying again. It could have been lightning, but he'd been too low for that....
A: Sam Wilson
He could hear the wind whistling ominously in the cracks of a large door. He remembered the funny black building on the long path. He'd been flying somewhat in that direction and must have fallen nearby. Though he longed to put out tendrils of psi to feel his way there, he was afraid the light would draw enemies. He crawled instead, tripping on his robe in a fashion entirely unbefitting Alternia's most powerful psionic mage. His hands finally pawed at the door. He ripped it open and stumbled through.
His efforts to enter stealthily were in vain. In his haste to find a place to hide, he tripped and fell into nothingness. Then a stone corner jabbed against his body, and another, and he realized with a sinking feeling of dread and irritation that he was tumbling down a flight of stairs. Before he could summon his psi and stop, he touched down on the first landing. Horns stinging from bumps, he felt for the next step with his toes. He was still scared of the other Tributes entering and seeing his light-show. Troll instinct told him to get out of the open, out of the possible light, and get down into something like a cave.
B: Samwise Gamgee & (later) Rose Lalonde
The wall's recesses were low enough for him to feel with his hands. He jumped when he brushed the long, knobbed forms of bones. He reassured himself that the bodies were long rotted away, with no chance for infection or undead tendencies. Trolls weren't in the habit of venerating dead bodies, so this sort of place was foreign to him. Still, trolls had their own ghost stories, and someone put bones here for a purpose, probably to scare. A Tribute probably wouldn't want to look at them, would pass them quickly by....
He was slim enough to tuck himself behind one of skeletons, borrowing rags and dust to cover his robes and orange horns. He tried to imagine what he looked like sharing a bed with a skeleton. It wasn't a picture he wanted to dwell on, but death had touched his life from hatching, from his first vision of doom to his first kill. If these bones were indeed real, then it was about time the dead did him a favor.
He was nodding off to sleep when he heard someone open the door at the top of the stairs. He remained still, controlling his breaths even though his bloodpusher was hammering in his chest. It was inevitable that someone would want to explore this odd little building and the catacombs under it. He'd just have to lie low behind his camouflage and wait for them to leave. And if they stayed.... well, there was either an alliance or an optic blast to be had.
Completely independent to the noises on the stairs, he heard someone screech loud and hard enough to echo through the catacombs. Psii tried not to jump, but his twitch dislodged a few bones from his osseous companion. Ribs clattered to the floor. Damn ghosts at it again. He never liked them in his head, and he certainly didn't like them now. His prophetic voices had been their usual clamorous din from the start, but (strangely) none of them were distinct enough to tell him whether the ghosts he heard now were real. He remained in his alcove, hoping his cover wasn't broken.