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Entry tags:
Like I Got the Devil at My Feet [Closed]
WHO| Black Tom, Clint and Sam; Black Tom, Alain and Arya
WHAT| Tom and Arya start thinning the competition.
WHEN| Week 5 and 6.
WHERE| The forest.
WARNINGS| Death.
Were Tom even slightly more self-aware, he might be embarrassed to spend so much time as a weeping willow, moping around wishing he had Molotov to talk to with his long trailing branches and vines drooping onto the ground. He's been doing his best to coddle Arya without stunting that independent streak of hers, to provide her with food and shelter in his lair of the forest, but for the most part he's lonely. Most of the Tributes have been heading towards the castle or the sea, and as such he can't even fritter away his time killing. His powers have made surviving in the Arena easy, but they've also made it boring.
Today he pulls together a new body for himself like twisting a piece of a wet towel upwards out of the mulchy floor of the forest, trailing still those willow vines, wreathed in ivy and even less humanoid than when he first appeared. The hair of moss has become more of a mane, traveling all down his body, giving him a mangy, furry appearance, almost. His eyes glow yellow within deep, dark sockets that seem gouged into the bark-like substance that makes up his skin, and sap drips from his mouth and nose in long, sticky ropes, leaving a sort of snail trail through the forest as he shambles around. The beacon above his head is bright enough to cast a horrorshow light on his already terrifying features, making his brow seem heavy and nose aquiline.
He slouches his way through the woods, muttering out of boredom to himself. He collects his morning star, although the time it'll take to get his body back to something human and that can leave the forest is going to be onerous. It'll take at least a few days to start approximating a person again instead of a beast made of trees with elongated arms and claws. Then again, he has nothing better to do.
WHAT| Tom and Arya start thinning the competition.
WHEN| Week 5 and 6.
WHERE| The forest.
WARNINGS| Death.
Were Tom even slightly more self-aware, he might be embarrassed to spend so much time as a weeping willow, moping around wishing he had Molotov to talk to with his long trailing branches and vines drooping onto the ground. He's been doing his best to coddle Arya without stunting that independent streak of hers, to provide her with food and shelter in his lair of the forest, but for the most part he's lonely. Most of the Tributes have been heading towards the castle or the sea, and as such he can't even fritter away his time killing. His powers have made surviving in the Arena easy, but they've also made it boring.
Today he pulls together a new body for himself like twisting a piece of a wet towel upwards out of the mulchy floor of the forest, trailing still those willow vines, wreathed in ivy and even less humanoid than when he first appeared. The hair of moss has become more of a mane, traveling all down his body, giving him a mangy, furry appearance, almost. His eyes glow yellow within deep, dark sockets that seem gouged into the bark-like substance that makes up his skin, and sap drips from his mouth and nose in long, sticky ropes, leaving a sort of snail trail through the forest as he shambles around. The beacon above his head is bright enough to cast a horrorshow light on his already terrifying features, making his brow seem heavy and nose aquiline.
He slouches his way through the woods, muttering out of boredom to himself. He collects his morning star, although the time it'll take to get his body back to something human and that can leave the forest is going to be onerous. It'll take at least a few days to start approximating a person again instead of a beast made of trees with elongated arms and claws. Then again, he has nothing better to do.
no subject
no subject
"Well done, lass." He lowers a bough of soft leaves. "Wipe your face. You don't need to watch his death rattles, I'll make sure he won't go anywhere."
Another branch emerges to rest at the small of Arya's back in a gentle, guiding touch, urging her to turn her back on the man writhing and bound in the last throes of mortality.
no subject
He frowns, looking more put out than pained, and opens his mouth, blood bubbling out from between his lips. When he tries to speak, all that comes out is a hoarse croak - she nicked his windpipe, and the strength to push air out is rapidly fading anyway - but his lips say Not like this. Tom and Arya may be aware of him, scrabbling at the edge of their minds in a desperate, instinctive scramble for anything to hold onto. That sense of him, of a presence made up of stubborn desperation and a kind of guilt, lingers for several moments after his body has gone limp, lips still halfway through forming a semi-conscious cry pardon.
At last, as the gush of blood slows to spastic little spurts and the last of the colour fades out of his cheeks, even that little shadow of him is gone. The flame above his head, which has lit brightly since the Cornucopia, flickers out, and all is still.
no subject
"That was too easy," she complains a little sorely, when it's over.
no subject
"You did well, though. That was a nice, quick incision. You didn't waste your energy or your blade's edge." He rustles the low-hanging bough again, urging her to clean up the blood. He doesn't like seeing it on her face. It would be too easy to imagine her eyes vacant and dead with a similar splatter across that pale skin.
no subject
The blood on her own face doesn't bother her too much, making her feel more fierce, but she reluctantly wipes a sleeve over her face at Tom's urging, unable to stop herself smiling just a little with his praise. "There wasn't any reason to draw it out. He wasn't bad, just unlucky."
/wrap