thearena | (no subject)

Who| Anyone who replied here

What| A spread of supplies, ripe for the taking.

Where| Fantasyland

When| Mid-morning

Warnings/Notes| The winning rolls are under the cut

In the remains of a little pavilion, with broken teacups scattered around the remains of a fence at the edge, a tea party is set up.

At one end of the table sits a white placemat with a white satin bag, neatly tied up with pretty white ribbons. And the other end is the same display, in black. Along each side there are 5 a piece, one for each district, in their colors.

The table is also covered with teapots, contained for tea and sugar... however all of them have covers. Covers that are moving, being pushed up from within by a tiny creature with bright eyes and sharp teeth. As soon as the first tribute touches one of the bags the pots burst open and dozens of small, mice muttation pour out, with mouths full of sharp teeth and paws with razor sharp claws on them.

Anyone who makes it away with one of the pretty satin bags will find it contains a large thermostat of tea, 4 petit fours, a small locket containing a small amount of shimmer medicine-about enough for one wound, and a sturdy hat pin, with a very sharp point at one end. Although both the tea and cakes are very sugary, they are also very filling-they will last a few days if rationed well.

The Winners:

Shatterstar
Punchy
Daniel
Eliot
Pruna
Topher
Beck
Sandy
Asha
Kurt
Glinda
Giaus

Unfortunately Rictor and Morrigan will not be making it out of this little tea party..

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The elbow and the kick finally drive his attacker off of him, R’s teeth snapping together with a loud click. He nearly bites off his tongue. One of his back teeth calls it quits, a few splinters dribbling out his open mouth. The zombie stumbles backward off without getting a single bite in. Really? He has to get the guy who apparently has some kinda training? R needs to pick better targets.

R starts to right himself a few feet away, his shoulders hunching as he gears up for another attack.

Jesus Christ. This thing just doesn't want to learn, does it. Hyperion readies the knife, coming to realize how useless is probably is in this fight, still unwilling to let it go. He's better off forcing him to stay away instead of just inviting him to do so with another piercing cut.

"Am I gonna have to kick your teeth in?" He arches his brows, taking one steady step back, "Back the fuck off, buddy. Go pick on someone else."

For the step he takes back, R takes a stumbling, clumsy step forward. He opens his mouth to tell him that he'd probably try gumming him to death if he lost his teeth and instead moans, the sound vibrating up from his guts and chest. He's all too aware that he lost the whole element of surprise thing. The Tribute could literally take off at a moderate-to-fast jog and R wouldn't be able to catch him.

He hates to say it but the guy has a point. He would be better picking another target, one that wasn't so sharp on the uptake and stab-happy.

It's just...he's right here. And R's hungry right now.

R aims another swipe at the Tribute.

Another swipe gets another dodge and a blade driven right into the center of his wrist, yanked out in a secondary movement as Hyperion draws back to reestablish some space between them. Hyperion never runs. He hates to run. When a Scrounger comes after him to kill him for being infected, he does everything within his power to convince them there's a better way, gain their trust and snap their neck when they aren't looking. That doesn't seem to be a likely scenario with this creature, and so Hyperion is making considerations that scratch at him like fingernails on a blackboard.

The impact of the knife shivers up R's arm, his hand twitching on him as he misses all over again. Is this guy going to keep stabbing him until he gets lucky? R's sure if that's the case, the odds are in his favor because there's got to be a point where his arm gets tired or he slips up, and that's all it takes. A zombie like him can wait...in theory.

The need to sink his teeth into his skull, though, gnashes its teeth at the idea of waiting.

R reacts like a broken record with another lunge, this one clumsier than the last thanks to his fingers doing all kinds of funky things with the new stab wound.