Deep in the meadow, under the willow...

[etcircenses]

Who| All those on the liberation mission and all those being made to fight against them.
What| The liberation of District 12.
Where| District 12.
When| This week.
Warnings/Notes| War, violence, death. Please warn for more in headers.

It doesn't take long to get to District 12, the closest district to the rebel district. It's one of the smallest districts, and you only know you reach it when rolling hills grow and grow until they become large, fertile green mountains. The environment looks green and lush, beautiful, really--That is, until you reach the part of the District where people actually live. The weather is chillier than the Capitol, though the wind bares the worst of it. Anyone planning on spending any time outside should definitely get a coat.

The town is smaller than any of the others, and more worn down. Everything seems to have a thin layer of cole settled over it, no matter how much cleaning is done. The center of the town isn't too shabby, and there are a few things that stand new and shining--A metal whipping post and stocks. The latter occasionally has an unfortunate person in it, though most people have learned to buckle down and accept the new rules.

In the merchant part of town, there's some signs of wildlife, knobby trees and green enough yards. The merchants used to ply their trades here, though for now, everything's locked down. As you get farther, it gets shabbier, poorer. Into the Seam, where the poorest of the poor live. Here, the houses are barely more than shacks. Trees grow wild, and what animal life exists is quick to run from any humans, no doubt having survived at least one attempt by the people of the Seam to capture them for the supper pot.

One thing in common with all the sections of the District is a feeling of hopelessness. The mood is dour, as heavy and permanent as the cole dust that seeps into everything. The only sign of anything even resembling any rebellion is a few chalk scratchings on the sides of abandoned buildings, a few zodiac symbols--Anyone who knows the trolls can recognize the symbols of Karkat, Terezi, Psiioniic, and even the Initiate. That, and the grand pictures of Sam Wilson and Joan Watson, and the bold words stating NOT ALONE and WE ALL DESERVE BETTER.

The war continues, and in the back of everyone's mind is a familiar phrase; may the odds be ever in your favor.

Comments

[carnagecarnival]

A lack of fear is foolish. He's seen fear destroy people in all ways and forms, being its personification, but a lack of fear? That only ever ends in devastation. He fully intends to schoolfeed this motherfucker on about.

He has to admit though, Derek's move surprises. Not a whole lot of trolls go for the throat first and the humans he's met haven't much either. That sort of shit had reservations by beasts, daywalkers, rainbowdrinkers...

And him.

As he's yanked close by his throat, pain pricking up there, he turns his teeth upon Derek, pulling them intimately close as he sinks in fangs with intent to tear.

[sociopathicwolf]

It's not that Derek doesn't agree. There's plenty of things he's afraid of, normally, most of them centered around the Capitol and Chuck and the district four pack and District Four itself. But there's no room for fear when he's fighting, and he's had too much practice letting his mind shut down.

Still, surprise is a good thing - but not for long, as Derek realizes that the troll's skin is thicker than he expected, and as the troll decides to take the chance to bite him.

If Derek wasn't a Capitol soldier, wasn't a Victor, maybe he would flash back to the last time he had teeth tearing at him like this, to the dead and decaying mutts of the last arena he was in - to the thing with Chuck's face that damn near killed him.

But he is a Capitol soldier and a Victor, and like this - like this, he's empty. Like this, there's no thought but survival, but doing absolutely anything he has to do to stay alive. And right now, that means biting the troll right back. He doesn't have fangs like the troll does, but his canines are sharper than they should be, and he sinks his teeth into the troll's neck.

He tears when the troll does, and howls both in pain and in challenge, indigo blood dripping from his lips.

[carnagecarnival]

His teeth sink deeper when he's bit, ruby flooding his mouth and spilling over his lips. Without a tongue, he's got far less control. It's swallow or spill and so spill it will be as he pulls flesh apart and steps back, all down and over his chin, between his fangs.

He's got a drool of bright red going, while Derek wears indigo. How pretty is the scene. How motherfucking nice them colors always looked, like a blaze in the night, like carnival colors. It would delight him any other time.

He snarls back, but for a minute, that grimace almost forms a grin. Almost. He takes that moment's daze and their close quarters to throw a punch. Then, he's quickly grasping Derek, bringing a knee sharply up for a crunch. This is quickly followed by a roundhouse.

Why make this quick? Why make it easy? This motherfucker ought to suffer.

[sociopathicwolf]

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Derek is acutely aware of the picture they paint together. It's not conscious, it doesn't interfere with the way he fights, but he's a Victor. He's always aware on some level that this bloodshed is for someone's entertainment and he knows that this is a good one.

It's because he's a Victor, and a Career at that, that the almost grin that the troll shoots at him doesn't startle him. He's no stranger to people who find joy in this particular dance of brutality. It pulls an instinctive response from him, teeth bared in something that might almost be a predatory grin - right up until the troll lands his most damaging hit yet.

Derek's arm damn near cracks under the repeated blows, and the way it hangs uselessly at his side, completely nonresponsive even when he pushes past the pain to move it, tells him that it's broken in more than one place. Unlike with the bite, he doesn't react to the pain with a howl - he reacts by acting, jamming his knife into whatever part of the troll is closest and following it up with a kick to the hilt to shove it in as deep as he can. Then he staggers back.

For the first time in his life, Derek is honestly not sure if he's going to win this fight. It's a thrill, this challenge, and it almost makes him want to throw his all into it. To figure out what it'll take to bring this troll down, even if it means going down with him.

He might have done it, if it weren't for Chuck. Derek doesn't value his own life much, but he knows Chuck does. They'd promised each other, and Derek is no longer sure he can keep that promise if he keeps fighting.

So also for the first time in his life, he backs away from a fight.

[carnagecarnival]

The bite administered sings with pain all along his neck and shoulders, make a ringing screech at the back of his skull, and he thinks how Derek would be feeling none too different. His title, fraysong, proves ever true again in new and interesting ways.

This is the oldest dance of all time. This is the Messiahs at motherfucking work, though there's no angel of mercy here. There is no demon of good, only demons. He thirsts terribly to shred this fucker apart and the idea of being ripped to bits along with him ain't so bad a reverie.

Even when the knife is shoved in and shoved deeper and for a moment he wonders if it might rip open his breathing bits, bleed them, drown him slow, oh so slow, wouldn't that be poetic, wouldn't it be motherfucking just, the terror of no air to grasp as the drowning is ever internal. Or perhaps a tear through his guts, a carving out of his heart, it's all so fascinating, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts and the blood just spills on down like a river. Royal midnight. Is he dead yet? Has he died? Why can't he just motherfucking die?

Derek is the answer, Derek is his tie. He needs to crush Derek's bones one by one. Already one arm down. One, two, three, four, finish. Make him pay.

He curls his hand around the knife as best he can, dislodging is slow and sloppy with a muted groan, going into a snarl as he tears it fast and tries to throw it, make one last hit though he sways.