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thearena2015-11-30 05:03 pm
etcircenses) wrote in thearena2015-11-30 05:03 pm
Entry tags:
Deep in the meadow, under the willow...
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.
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.
no subject
He can't catch up to him, but he can at least keep him in his sights - and Sam doesn't slow even when he realizes he's getting closer, that Kurloz must have stopped.
But he does skid to a halt when he gets close enough to be able to see what Kurloz is doing. Just in time to watch Kurloz rip Terezi's head free from her body, and any kind of higher thinking he might have been planning on attempting just completely shorts out.
"...what the fuck, Kurloz?"
no subject
The crunch of bone and tear of flesh sounds too loudly in his ears to register that of Sam. At least not yet.
He pulls from her slow, indigo left on her and teal all upon him. The day and night skies come to meet with no violence of red in the middle, parting them. None but her eyes, brilliant and burned, never a light put out but suns set in and contained. That red seeps and bleeds into the color of his, bringing ocular orange to when he finally turns fast to Sam, eyes blazing again, face torn open to bear his teeth, but an off-done calm what settles clear as he can make it go.
At least so long as Terezi is held in his arms. He rises like that, cradling her to his chest. He sees no need to reply to Sam's exclamation. He's home now. They can go where all ever.
no subject
But just because two tours of pararescue and more after left him desensitized to this level of violence doesn't mean he wants to look at it, and he keeps his eyes firmly on Kurloz's.
He opens his mouth, but closes it again, because he's still stuck in what the fuck. There's no way he can come around the slightest bit to thinking that there's anything about this that's at all okay right now, and he ain't even gonna try. The best he can do is keep going with what he'd been trying to do in the first place.
"You gonna come back with me off the battlefield now?"
no subject
He feels fragile. He feels as like his inner self has gone to shake but on the outs he does not tremble. At least, not to his notice.
He brings himself forward, spattered with blood in that eternal trifecta; red, teal, indigo. He's half gone. More than half. But he's still here enough as all to slowly, rigidly, give a nod. Yeah, he'll come with Sam.
He's done here. Whatever the Messiahs willed, he will be here no more. He doesn't know what to think of them. He can only assume he's let them down. They will his soul to ruin... Maybe that's for the best. He's never done anything good with it. So if he can't follow them, he'll follow Sam alone for now, on to whatever awaits him.