thearena | a Soul of Great Caliber

Entry tags:

a Soul of Great Caliber

Who| Those who seek to pull the sword from its stone.
What| See here for details
Where| In the forest.
When| Mid-week
Warnings/Notes| Mind altering... swords? Probably violence. Please warn for more in headers. See the link for details.

The sword is there, waiting, calling for its new master. Will you be the one to claim it? Or will you be a victim of its power? Take a chance and see...

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Ruffnut had taken her mentors advice and decided the best way to cover up the hideous burns along her scalp would be to procure a hat of some sort. And while she wasn't very smart she was sometimes quite creative.

In this case as she let herself be led deeper into the woods by some unseen force that seemed to tug at her very heart, she was wearing one half of a silver sphere on her head. Most tributes would recognize it as the kind of sphere that sponsorship items were sent in.

The sphere half wasn't very sturdy and she doubted it would hold up under a good strike with a weapon, but it felt a little closer to having a real viking helmet on and that made her feel good. She'd even used the bandages from her first aid kit to tape some sticks and leaves to it so it wouldn't stand out as much in the woods.

And so in her green dress and ripped striped stockings, with her still glittering yet bent fairy wings on her back and her makeshift helmet, Ruffnut stumbled upon the mythical blade and knew in that instant she had to have it!

Dropping her supplies almost carelessly in the sleeping bag she had been carrying them in she scrambled atop the stone and gripped the handle with both hands pulling. PULLING! Grunting and groaning, wrenching and twisting her body different ways in desperation.

The blade would not budge.

Uttering some curses and dark ominous threats about feeding the blade to a Gronkle she switched sides and tried again and again till sweat beaded on her skin and other thoughts and concerns fell behind a fog of obsession

She needed this sword! NEEDED IT!

But try as she might it simply would not move even an inch.

As with most Arenas, terrible things are bound to happen. The terrible has been mild lately, but Dave has a bad feeling in his gut when he feels the budding urge to tramp off into the forest like some deranged, religious Tarzan. His will power is considerable, but it isn't enough to draw himself away from whatever compels him to keep moving.

After wrenching himself through some less than understanding bushes, he needs to take a good, long moment to frown at what he's seeing here. A sword. A sword in a stone. Really? How cliche. How lame. He must have it. He's not sure precisely what he has to prove to himself, given that he wasn't worthy of the Excalibur of his own world. He just thinks he's changed, he can't resist trying that theory out either.

Dave checks around his shoulders before he grips the hilt of the sword, pressing his foot against the rock for balance as he wrenches himself a whole bunch of nothing. It's stuck tight. Jammed in real good. This is embarrassing and weirdly devastating, but he feels too determined to give up without a fight. He needs this fucking sword, it's so fucking cool. He's not sure how long he wastes trying to wrench, kick and push at the sword, but his hands are red and he feels something like a tension headache forming. When he pulls back, he flips the sword off with both hands and slinks away defeated.

But whatever he's feeling doesn't go away. It's eating at him and he's frustrated that he cares this much about something so inconsequential. It's all he can do to isolate himself for a little so he can stew, but he doesn't seem to realise it's just making things worse. Trees take the worst of his frustrations, he hacks wildly at them with his shitty normal sword with very few fucks given for how he's blunting the blade. Eventually he's sinking down against it and pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead, trying to make his own bitter, pissy voice shut the fuck up and let him think about anything but how mad he is right now.

When he relents and heads back to the village, he's cursing and muttering under his breath and shouldering through like a man on a mission. He has nowhere in particular to be, but he almost feels like he's itching to have someone try to stop him so he can just fucking snap.

At some point, Feferi manages to get herself separate from Dave. She's not sure if it's his fault or hers, or a little of both, but she eventually looks over her shoulder and finds him to be gone. She does a brief cursory search of the area but finds no trace of him, nor of any kind of foul play. She's worried, of course, but foul play doesn't seem to be likely. She would haven noticed if someone attacked him, right? And she hasn't heard a cannon recently...

Dave is a capable human, and Feferi is much better at using the sword she got at the start of the Arena, so she keeps on going forward, trying to hunt out... something. She doesn't really know what she's looking for, she'll just know when she finds it. Maybe a new shelter, or food, or water. Anything to keep from staying in one place for too long.

When she finally stumbles on Dave again, it's sooner than she expected, and she hasn't really been looking for him too hard. But something seems... different. He's stalking into the village, and she tries to spot any injuries on him but doesn't see anything major. She keeps a good few feet of distance when she approaches him, not sure what to make of his visibly degraded mood.

"Dave? Are you okay?" She holds out a hand, beckoning him over, but letting him bridge the gap on his own terms. If something's really wrong, she doesn't want to startle him too badly.

Altaïr had scouted past this rock without incident before. Today, he was drawn to this bit of unremarkable forest again. He wouldn't have come back but for the nagging feeling beating insistent wings in the back of his mind. A glimmer in the distance caught his eye, and all feelings of unease were replaced with its magnetism.

There it was, seemingly stuck into the stone. He did need a sword. Right now he only had a small folding knife. Though he'd survived before with just that, he wasn't about to go without a weapon that would have been his if his regained rank was recognized here like at home. He had to have it if he was to defend himself properly. He paid the strangeness of it no mind, only circling the area to check for enemies. As he drew closer, he spied an old bearded man sitting nearby.

He might have waited until he left, but the pull of the sword was too strong. The old man didn't look strong enough to wield it, so it couldn't be his. No harm in inquiring after a sword with no obvious owner. He gave a bush a deliberate rustle as he stepped out from between the trees, white (fake) farmer's cap pulled low.

"Is this something our Makers of Games have placed, or is this your doing?"

It's definitely Dave's fault, given the fact that he gave in to the compulsion to wander off without much of a warning to Feferi. He hadn't expected to be gone longer than a few minutes, but it's over an hour and a bit before he's found the sword, wasted his time with the sword and released some anger. His arms are tired, and he feels stupid for it. They feel heavy and unpleasant and his shoulders are sagged more than usual.

Normally, seeing Feferi lightens the foulest of moods for him. Right now, he very nearly cringes at the sight of her. He just feels bitter that she wasn't there to help him and madder for the fact that she'd probably laugh at him if he told her what he was doing.

"Not now, Feferi. Christ." He grunts, like she's a parental figure asking how school was. He doesn't look at her beyond that, mouth pulled into a deeper frown as he fights the urge to snap at her. It's brimming under the surface, and he's at least semi-aware that she doesn't deserve it and that he doesn't want to upset her, but that doesn't quell the feeling much at all.

Rose is angry before she even gets to the sword. She's been angry for days now, her already present frustration with the arena and all its troubles heated to a steady simmer by what this week has brought. Heat for two days, then the relief of rain cut by the rising volume of voices she's heard since Monday.

Rosie, Rose, come find me, begs her mother, sweet and kind and ever a little slurred. Other voices back her up: John and Jade's friendly tones, the more bitter hint of a Dave half-remembered, and Jaspersprite's lulling purr. They've kept her in the forest for days, and she's stayed willingly to first avoid the worst of the heat, and then for shelter from the occasional fall of fish and frogs.

When she finds the rock, it's not the first time, but it is the first with a sword and Dave found with it.

"I thought you would have learned by now that you have to break them," she comments as she emerges from the trees.

Immediately, Feferi's fins pin back, and she frowns. That's far from the reaction she was expecting, and she's too harried from being in the arena at all to be gentle about her displeasure. She holds back, hesitating to approach him like she normally would, still trying to size him up. This isn't going to be one of those things where he changes and gets mean after they're together for a while, is it? She wants to think he's just stressed too, but it just doesn't feel right to her, and it certainly doesn't stop her from feeling a bit hurt.

"Yes, now, Dave, what's wrong with you?" He won't even look straight at her, and she teeters between worry and irritation. "Where did you even go?"

Maybe if she can just get him talking, he'll calm down a little. This really isn't the best time to be fighting over... whatever it is that's set him off. She doesn't even know what the problem is, and he seemed fine before they split up. She doubts she could have offended him somehow, in her absence.

"My doing?" Merlyn looked up from his knitting, looking rather affronted by the suggestion. "Not at all! You put a sword in a stone one time, and suddenly every sword in every stone is your responsibility? I hardly think that's fair, my boy!"

He had been sitting there for some time, and wizard though he might be, he wasn't immune to the sword's effects. He hadn't tried for it, or even been much tempted to - what use did he have for a sword? - but it was starting to affect his mood, making him grouchy and irritable. Or maybe that was just the ache in his joints and the headache that he could feel coming on.

Dave isn't sure why her reaction is raising his hackles, the implications behind her fins just offend him. So what? He can't be real? He's not entitled to emotions? Everyone is on his case all the time, why is anyone surprised that he's flipping out.

And it's weird. It's like he knows he's flipping out, it doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel like a relief to glower at her, it just feels unsatisfying. It's like he needs more of it, but he's aware that he shouldn't.

He raises a hand to rake through his hair in exasperation, letting it hang and grip for a moment before he drops it and takes a sullen turn instead. "Nowhere. It doesn't matter." He presses his lips together in a frown before the urge to continue takes over. "I'm here now, isn't that enough? You don't have to cling to me twenty-four-seven, you know? It's not healthy." He spreads his hands to the side as he talks. "Nothings wrong. Nothing except fucking everything about this place. C'mon."

The first sign that Dave doesn't have his wits about him is the fact that he barely seems to notice Rose when she approaches and hardly acknowledges her when she speaks. He grunts, teeth grinding together as he wrenches desperately at the sword.

His hands fall despondently to his sides, raw and red from his stubborn efforts to grapple it from the rock. "Fuck you, Rose. You don't know shit about me." He spits, not even deigning her worth eye contact. There's something too bitter to be normal about the aggression in his tone, but all his attention seems focused on the sword. "Not anymore, anyway." He adds, as if all of that wasn't petty or vicious enough in his eyes.

For him to be frustrated she would have expected, even irritable, but that's a level of hostility beyond. Her eyebrows lift high, but as soon as he attaches that second quip, her path is set.

"And that's my fault?" Her expression shifts, and it's not clear anger but something hard, precise, and cold that she regards him with. "I must have missed the field on the form they gave me, because I don't recall any option to choose which point on the timeline I was plucked from."

And that is one of the things she's pissed about, one of those ways the Capitol has deigned to strip out any control. Not only does she has to be here, but she has to be behind, reliant on whatever tidbits and anecdotes those further along might tell, if they'll tell.

She folds her arms, not looking away for an instant. "If you want to be mad about your sword-based inadequacies, maybe I should hunt down your Bro so it can find its proper target."

Edited 2015-06-24 13:54 (UTC)

Feferi's fins don't budge; she has to swallow back the urge to shout at him, because clearly Dave isn't acting like himself... but his words get to her, just a little. Maybe this right here is the problem with human dating... she doesn't really know how to handle such a wide range of emotions coming from her matesprit.

"You could have gone off on your own any time you wanted to," she tries to say as calmly as she can, trying not to imply that she wants him to leave. The last thing she needs is for this to devolve into a proper fight. She's not sure she's particularly comfortable with that, and it won't do either of them any good. "But there is safety in numbers, and I needed your help. Dying is not healthy, and I know this place is hard, but you have never acted like this before. We can work this out but you will have to talk to me like a person."

He bristled right back. It was like Al Mualim snapping at him all over again, or Jabal, or Malik, who was well on his way to becoming the grouchiest Assassin bureau leader in the history of their Brotherhood. It was difficult to apologize for mistakes to someone who constantly berated him.

"Yes old man, your doing. You're sitting here in the open as if to guard it instead of hiding in a safe place. Is this not a gladiatorial arena? Does this sword mean more than your life?"

He of course did not know that Merlyn possessed magic, hazardous though the use of it might be. Altaïr had not needed to use his own second sight, so far. Good old-fashioned observational skills had sufficed. He doubted Merlyn subscribed to the Gamemakers' ruthless philosophy anyway.

Merlyn snorted, counting stitches for a moment, then started to knit again. "Not at all," he said, rather sharply. "I simply choose not to play this ridiculous game. If I want to sit here and watch a parade of thick-skulled imbeciles try to pull the sword out, then I shall. If people decide they would like to murder me, well, they're quite welcome to try." Which sounded more threatening than it was, since the old wizard fully intends to defend himself by running and hiding, not fighting.

"The question, my dear boy, is what you are doing here? Seeking to prove your worthiness, maybe? Trust me, as someone who knows what they're talking about in the matter of swords and stones, it really isn't worth it."

He lifted his chin ever so slightly. Young men always had so much to prove, yet the list of things expected of them never seemed to diminish either. He needed that sword. He could even use it to defend Merlyn from the other Tributes. He believed in neither fate nor divine right, but the sword called to him, appealed to the logic of obtaining a sword when all the others were in the bellows too hot to handle. It was a fine weapon, and he should inspect it in hand. He strode towards the rock.

"I am already worthy, and I need no sword to prove that," he retorted haughtily. "But a blade is a useful tool, and I would be foolish to pass it by. If you have some claim to it, say so and be done with it. Otherwise, stay out of my way."

"Oh, for goodness' sake!" Whether he's talking to Altair or the stitch he just dropped in his knitting is unclear. Either way, he scowls, narrowing his eyes at the younger man for a moment before looking down to rescue the dropped stitch. "I'm not here to claim the by-our-lady sword. I'm here to warn you that swords in stones don't tend to have happy endings. Nor does battering around with swords at all, in fact. Walk away, young man. It's better that way."

He met his eyes with a baleful stare in his own.

"I once sought what you call a happy ending by trying to lay down my blade. It did not come to pass, and someone important to me died. There are too many threats on the lives of innocents for me to be at peace. If I do not do something, who will?"

He had enough youth and pride to believe that his fight and his Creed would bring an end to these conflicts. With all the resolution of a warrior who believed himself and his cause righteous, he closed his fingers on the hilt and gave it a good yank.

The sword was European of make and well-balanced. He had no reason to believe there was anything special about it, but the hole in the rock closed up, as if there had never been a sword in it.

"...What sorcery is this?"

"A rather subpar sorcery, if you ask me," Merlyn said acidly, but his eyebrows had risen up to his hairline, or at least where his hairline would have been if he weren't so heavily balding. "One which apparently likes to piggyback on my own hard work to declare you King of England. Or worthy, I suppose. Whatever that means."

Sniffing derisively, he got to his feet with an almost audible creak, going to nudge at the stone with his booted foot. "Mine," he said, apparently to thin air, "had an anvil. And some gold calligraphy. It took quite a bit of effort. I don't find this funny, you know."

He drew circles in the air, testing the blade's weight. He liked the feel of it more and more. Yes, this would definitely do. What he didn't like was when Merlyn approached where he was without permission. Altaïr pretended to casually pace near the edge of the clearing, watching him like a hawk ~~or an eagle~~ as the old man touched the stone. His brows knit and his hand tightened its grip on the sword's handle, but a few seconds was not long enough to induce any outright aggression. Luckily for Merlyn, Altaïr did not wish to linger here long.

"I have no desire to be a king, only to put an end to these fights. If you wish, I can find the one who stole your work. I had intended to anyway." The Gamemakers were definitely on his list of potential targets, and his voice had the steely edge of death in it. "But for now I must survive this arena, and kill anyone who brings suffering upon another. I will take my leave."

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a Soul of Great Caliber

Feel free to pop in and deal with a cursed Ruffnut

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closed to merlyn

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