She tried so hard to be brave, to be fierce as a wolverine and all...

[needlebearer]

Who| Arya and YOU
What| Catch all for Arena 15 so far
Where| Medieval/fantasy area and Winterfell
When| Week 1-3
Warnings/Notes| Memories of torture in prompt C, animal cruelty in prompt C


a) Medieval/fantasy area
She's more than a little weighed down by the amount that she'd come away from the Cornucopia with. Arya's backpack is full to bursting, and the baseball bat in one hand and the guitar in the other both drag along the ground after her. She's very aware of how conspicuous it makes her, lumbering along through the countryside like that, but the alternative is to leave behind some of the gear she'd grabbed, and she'd fought too hard for it to just leave it now, especially as it would only end up in the hands of whoever might be tailing her, and used against her.

She casts furtive glances behind her now and then, but most of the time her attention is taken up by the castles and halls she passes, all with very different architectural styles and very clearly inspired by different worlds, but all possessing the same grandeur and history. She wants to stop and nose around in every one of them but something inside her keeps her pressing on and on ... until finally Winterfell rises up into the horizon ahead of her.

b) Winterfell
Somehow, Arya knew she'd find her home here. A very accurate copy of it, at least; but even if they'd brought Winterfell here brick by brick, it would never be home again, not with the amount of family she'd lost. She feels a mixture of deep pain and nostalgia as she crosses over the threshold, and as she ventures deeper inside she runs her fingers over the stone walls as though to memorise every crevice. The castle is eerily empty - a fitting, desolate monument to the family who'd inhabited it for so long, she thinks gloomily - and part of her feels as though she's disturbing it just by being there. The memories of the ghosts of her parents and brother she'd encountered in the catacombs of a previous Arena played on her mind, and every time she turned a corner she expected to see them again. Still, she can't bring herself to move on, knowing that this would most likely be the last time she ever got to see anything of her own world and her own former life, and knowing every second was precious.

c) Winterfell, night
It's pitch black when Arya awakens, the sharp stinging at her throat making her eyes snap open and flail around, feeling for another Tribute and a weapon. Instead there's the squealing of the rat in her ears, clawing and biting and determined to go for her neck. Rats don't usually bother Arya - she'd eaten enough of them, in Flea Bottom and on the road in the Riverlands and latterly in the Arenas, when food was scarce - but the desperation with which this one is crying and clawing and determined to break through her flesh brings her instantly back to Harrenhal, to the Tickler strapping bucket full of the rodents to smallfolk who he must have known had no information to offer, increasing the heat further and further until the rats ate straight through the poor victim in order to escape. She lets out a scream more of aggression than fear, grabbing at the rat and flinging it to the stone cobbles, and as it tries to scurry away she steps on its tail so it's trapped, bringing the baseball bat down on the creature again and again until there's nothing left but a crimson stain on the stone floor.

d) The destruction of Winterfell
As the bombs begin to drop, Arya scrabbles for anything she can get her hands on, determined to at least not to leave the guitar to be crushed in the chaos. Debris flies up on all sides, and for a few moments she finds herself running deeper into the path of the explosions in her confusion. When she turns back, she's just in time to see the great turrets of Winterfell collapse, and watches the castle fold in on itself with a heaviness in her heart. That was it, then. Gone in a blink of an eye, just like so much of her family. It takes her a long time for her legs to move - not until a bomb blasts deafeningly near to her - and then she finds herself running, leaving the last security of her home and the enchantment of the other castles behind, heading deep into the forest.

Comments

A

[no_longer_caged]

No matter how much Eren had raged, no one seemed about to come back for him. Somehow he'd woken up in this strange room, terrified that he was going to be dissected when in fact, his uniform had been confiscated and all he had to remind him of where he came from was his green scouting legion cape. Then he was being loaded up on some platform and tossed unceremoniously into this strange place.

After his anger had burned out he found it hard not be drawn in by his surroundings. It didn't look like any place he'd been outside of the walls. In fact, it looked like something out of one of Armin's books. Without other alternatives, he began to walk. After about fifteen minutes of making his way around some ancient looking buildings, he made out a figure in the distance. If it hadn't been for the bizarreness of this new reality - he still wasn't sure this wasn't all a bad dream - his first impulse would have been to call out. Instead, he ducked behind a ruined stone wall.

The bastards that had sent him here said something about fighting. He needed to be careful. Though he had no intention of cooperating with people that had kidnapped him, he had no way to know what other people's motives might be. His teal eyes narrowed. It looked like a kid. He hadn't been expecting that.

[needlebearer]

Arya continues trudging along, dragging her multitude of equipment behind her. She stops nearby the wall where Eren's hidden himself, looking around uncomfortably as though she can sense his eyes on her, but when there's no obvious threat to her she continues on her way, albeit more slowly and warily now.

[no_longer_caged]

Eren didn't come out from his hiding spot. He wasn't sure what to make of this situation. Sure, it was a little girl. But he knew better perhaps than anyone what a child could do in a situation where they felt threatened. He also had no idea what she had on her while he was only armed with his fists. But he could watch for a little while and see what would happen. The last thing he wanted to do was get himself killed because he spooked the wrong person. And by observing someone else he could learn more about how this place worked.

Winterfell, night

[ka_sera_sera]

Roland's holding a broken off chair leg, its end flaming just enough to show him what lies ahead - an impassioned child, in this case, and a suspicious red mush. His step is as silent as it ever is, though he isn't especially trying to sneak. Even if Arya were an enemy, he's not sure he'd have to. Not when she's in this state. It's with this state in mind that he stays well back when he speaks, out of everything but throwing range. "Feel better?" he asks her, mildly.

[needlebearer]

She's so focused on venting her own anger that she hardly notices him approach, and is even more frustrated with herself for letting anyone get so close undetected, especially with a torch at this time of night. She whirls around, baseball bat still in hand, relaxing just a little when she sees Roland.

"A little," she admits, realising how overblown her reaction probably looked.

[ka_sera_sera]

"In the last arena we met you were sleeping in a building full of corpses. You're not afraid of vermin. Care to tell me what this was about?" Here he lifts the torch a little, indicating the mess. His voice is a little less mild than it was a moment ago, but not by much; she's the type of child who wouldn't act so without some reason. Roland only wants to know if it's the kind of reason that'll hurt her chances at survival going forward. Can't survive very long, after all, if you smash every small creature you see into much rather than eating it.

[needlebearer]

"I wasn't afraid of it." She sounds both defensive and a little incredulous at the idea, even though she knows that he's doing the exact opposite of accusing her of it. She hadn't even considered using the rat for food until after it was far too damaged to be of use, and she's very glad for Tom's parachute, which will tide her over for now.

She lowers herself to the ground, pushing the bat and watching it roll away from her. Harrenhal is a part of her past that she's been reluctant to speak about, but she remembers the TV special on her life in Westeros - she still cringes thinking about it - and has a feeling that the Capitol will only incorporate this footage into that same, murderous image of her. If she explains now, at least she'll get to own a part of her past.

"Back in my own world, I saw people tortured. The Tickler - he'd strap buckets of rats to their chests and then put a red hot poker next to it, so the rats would eat through the flesh." Her tone is cold compared to the anger that had flared up just a moment ago; it was just a memory now, and couldn't hurt her. "I woke up with it gnawing on my throat, it just..." she feels embarrassed at how she'd let her panic on waking overtake her, flushing slightly as she pokes at the wound on her neck, "...reminded me."

b

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn has spent several days already in her route around the medieval area, the same circle every day, dismounting every so often to scour a new building for signs of recent habitation. In this case, she ties her bay horse off just inside the door - she wants to avoid him being seen from outside, wary of potential thieves, but recognises that she can't walk him all through a castle - then strides into the castle as if she owned it, her head held high and her hand on the hilt of her sword.

She sees Arya across the courtyard, and all that stiffness and hardness melts away for a moment in the face of her relief. Putting two fingers in her mouth, she whistles, high and sharp, to draw the girl's attention.

"Arya! What news?"

[needlebearer]

Arya sighs in relief as Éowyn hails her, glad to see a friendly face. She'd gone into high alert on hearing hooves approaching, feeling more paranoid than usual in the Arena at having spent the majority of it alone. She'd ached for Tom or Éowyn the first few days, before coming to see her isolation as an advantage, hoping that she could just hide out here and let everyone else kil each other off, then emerge victorious.

She scrabbles to her feet, but doesn't move too far away from the little camp she's set up for herself in one corner of Winterfell's courtyard, waving Éowyn over.

"I was beginning to think I wouldn't see you at all this time around."

[shieldofrohan]

"I was beginning to fear the same," Éowyn admits, crossing the courtyard in long, brisk strides and pulling Arya into a brief, but tight, embrace. "Every day I have scoured the place for you and the others, but this place is vast, and I could cover only so much of it. Yet you seem hale enough - and well-armed, I see!"

[needlebearer]

Arya can't help but grin as she looks over the sheer mountain of supplies she's accumulated. "I did well at the Cornucopia. And then I got even more from Tom."

She picks up the guitar, turning it over gently in her hands. "Have you seen one of these before?"

Aaaay gimme dat bat

[expurge]

It's been a long few weeks, but the Batter is proud of himself and his progress. He can't help feeling a little satisfaction every time the cannons rang out after one of his kills. The blood stains on his clothes are dark, but the sword in his hand is clean, freshly wiped off with scraps from the sleeping bag he'd managed to swipe at the beginning. As much as he prefers other weapons over it, the sword's proven itself to be plenty useful.

So far, the day has been uneventful. He hasn't run into many other tributes, his time spent mostly hunting, but he knows anyone could spring up out of nowhere at any second. It's all the more reason he's taken refuge up high, perched on an old ruined castle's outer walls, keeping an eye out for anyone approaching. Not many others have passed, but there's one in particular that grabs his attention, enough so that he doesn't worry about making his presence known as he calls out down below, pointing with the sword.

"That's mine."

The girl down below has his bat. That's just not fair.

[needlebearer]

Arya grips the bat tighter when she sees him pointing straight at it. The Batter looks as though he'd go straight through her to get it, although of all her supplies she's not sure why he'd want that in particular - even if it had served her well so far, it was still just a stupid stick. If she were him, she'd go for the flame throwing guitar instead.

That doesn't mean she's about to give it up. She'd won it fair and square, after all.

"No, it's mine. I got it at the Cornucopia."

Then she sees what he's pointing with, and she's just frozen, staring as the sunlight glints off the blade. A part of her is telling her not to get her hopes up, that it could just be any old sword, but she'd recognise it anywhere, and besides after finding Winterfell here she knows without a doubt.

"Needle."

Her voice chokes up with emotion, something she hates letting slip for the cameras surely on them.

"Give me it."

[expurge]

Needle?

Well, the name is apt. It's not a heavy or long sword, and thinking about it now, it is an appropriate size for a younger child like her. It's an interesting coincidence, that somehow they had managed to grab each other's prized weapons in the mad rush at the Cornucopia and inevitably run into each other now. She's done pretty well, surviving this long.

It's probably because of the bat. It's a good bat.

"No," the Batter responds, just as firmly and stubbornly as she has. Likewise, the sword has helped him survive just as long, taking out many other tributes along the way. He can see the desperation in her eyes, longing for her prized weapon to return to her grasp, but why should she have it and keep his bat? That's just unfair. "It is mine," he adds, just to mimic her.

He turns the blade over in his hand, more of an attempt to tease her than show off any skill with it. Really, she should be grateful he's kept in such good condition for this long.

"If you want it back, you have to give me the bat first."

[needlebearer]

She feels rage flare up inside her as he says that Needle is his, the memory of Polliver taking it as Yoren and most of the recruits for the Watch were slaughtered on the King's Road, claiming it as his own and running it straight through Lommy's throat. "It's not yours. My brother had it made for me. You don't have any right to it."

The bat had served her well, but it was worth giving it up to get her sword back. Still, she hesitates at his offer. "No, you give me Needle back first. How do I know you won't just take off with it and the bat otherwise?"

For Sansa and Arya

[yoknapatawpha]

Bayard's awake too, for many of the same reasons as Arya. He's tired, feverish slightly, picking absentmindedly at the infected rat bite around his collarbone, rubbing his hand until it's raw over the rope he got at the Cornucopia. His injury - a slow-bleeding gut wound that hasn't killed him yet after three weeks - continues to ooze slightly into his clothing, which has gone black and putrid from the refuse despite his attempts to clean it.

But he's wandering towards Winterfell, mostly just looking for one of his allies because he believes himself to be losing his mind after three weeks alone with nothing but mutts, when he hears a scream. Most boys his age would run from it and feel no guilt, especially injured as he is - but he runs towards it, thinking he might recognize the voice. Maybe he would run for it even if he didn't.

He turns a corner in the castle and finds Arya with a bat, which is covered in gore and blood. His face is wan, his cheeks with what looks like misplaced blotches of pink flush over a sallow white candlewax flesh. "Arya? Are you alright?"

[needlebearer]

Arya falters as she hears Bayard's voice, unsure at first if she's imagining it, between the state she's in and the tricks of the Arena. She peers into the half-darkness, gripping the bat a little tighter, but when she sees that it really is him she drops the weapon, hearing it clatter to the floor as she rushes toward him, relieved to see him.

"I'm all right." It's not entirely true, but he looks far worse the wear than her and could probably do with the assurance. "Are you? You're on your own out here?"

[yoknapatawpha]

He's relieved to see her, too, always a little scared of Arya but too proud to bow to that. There's always just that slight moment of relief that she's not about to kill him. He holds his hands out to take hers, just to make sure she's as real as he is.

"I've barely seen anyone since the Cornucopia. Not that this gut wound here made me shy or nothing, because I swear I've been looking, but it's such a big land here." He smiles slightly. "I'm a hair's breadth from making nice with rodents for companionship."

[needlebearer]

She reaches out for him, feeling a little odd holding hands with a boy and telling herself very firmly that it's only to reassure him. She pulls him in the direction of the camp she's made up, her gaze flicking down in concern to the wound as he mentions it.

"Who did that to you?"

Whoever it is, they'll have to answer to her.

B

[ormolu]

She deserved a castle, didn't she? She deserved a castle. She was going to die soon, anyway. Cannon fodder. That's what she was. Beautiful cannon foddger, and she deserved a beautiful backdrop to whatever happened to her. It'd look good on the TV. So she found one of the pretty castles, and she set up in there.

She's not hard to spot, as soon as Arya passes by one of the more opulent bedrooms, unnatural bubblegum pink hair that didn't belong in the arena, and certainly not in Winterfell. What supplies she had was piled in a corner of the room, while Aurelia lounged on the bed, flipping through a book. Where were the pictures?

While it was certainly juxtaposing, it seemed calm enough--except the wooden post that looked like it'd been salvaged off a fence next to her on the bed. A shoddy weapon, but something. Whether or not she could actually use it was debatable.

[needlebearer]

She's impossible to miss, really. Aurelia would stick out like a sore thumb anywhere in the Arena, but especially here with her vibrant pink hair contrasted against the Stark greys of Winterfell. Arya immediately felt her defenses rise on seeing her: she doesn't consider the Capitolite that was reaped to be much of a threat, but this was her home, and Aurelia's presence here was like a slap in the face, a reminder of how the Capitol had brought Winterfell here and had now invaded it with one of their own.

She makes her way through the hallways and stands in the doorway, blocking it so Aurelia would have to go through her to get out, her stance showing that she's ready for a fight.

"This is my Mother and Father's room. You need to leave. Now."

[ormolu]

Being bossed around isn't something Aurelia is used to. Especially by girls younger than her. So when Arya speaks up, the Capitolite moves at a luxurious pace, looking up from the book, and turning to look at the other girl. Aurelia's eyes flick over Arya, identifying her out of the myriad of tributes that she's seen on TV. This one is part of a particularly special little group, and Aurelia feels very little desire to listen to her, not when Arya is being so rude.

Arya can fight, she knows. And she's been trained by Black Tom, someone that is perfectly willing to kill children. But so far, everyone in the arena has treated her well--and Arya owed her.

"Or what, you'll kill me? You already did that, just be patient." She turns back to the book, flipping a page. "I think I should get to enjoy how much time I have left, anyway. I would enjoy myself more if the arena possessed a shower and some soap, maybe some decent food." Page flip. "But I'm working with what I have."

Pause for effect, then Aurelia turned to her, crossed ankles, relaxed posture, bored look. Every social interaction in the Capitol was a production, and the arena was no different.

"Besides. You're in the way. So the whole thing is moot, anyway."

A

[actually112]

Aang never goes for the Cornucopia. It's too much of a risk when he's usually pretty good at taking care of himself with minimal supplies. He picks up scraps of things that will be useful that are just lying around the arena and explores, looking at everything up and down.

So it's hard to not notice Arya when she comes through. She's weighed down by what looks like everything but the kitchen sink. He slows for her, taking on an easy pace. "Do you need any help carrying that?" Aang asks.

[needlebearer]

Arya offers Aang a genuine smile as he approaches. It's the only way she can think to convey to him that she would still stick by him after the demonstration they'd given at the opening ceremony, and knowing that he wasn't exactly popular around the Training Centre at the moment. It was the only way they had to stick it to the Capitol, and she'd do it again.

She shakes her head firmly at his offer of help, though. She refused to be thought of as a weak girl who needed a boy to help her with those sort of tasks. "I can manage them. Where are you heading?"

[actually112]

If nothing else, Aang is deeply grateful for the forgiveness and support he has from the other kids he brought into his demonstration. Sandy and Arya both were standing with him when it would be far more convenient to renounce him like everyone else had. He has friends here.

It doesn't occur to him that she might see his offer as a boy/girl thing. The only place he has gone with clearly defined gender roles was the Northern Water Tribe, and there had already been a healthy movement among the young women to push against the roles. "I'm just exploring. I've always been able to find someplace good to stay when I'm in these Arenas. Do you have any idea where you're going?"