Donatello Hamato (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
polyturtle) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2013-08-01 06:55 pm
polyturtle) wrote in thearena2013-08-01 06:55 pm
Entry tags:
The end is the beginning
Who| Don, the Neophyte, the Initiate, and Lindsey
What| You live crazy, you die crazy. Its Don's time to die and there are some District 5 Tributes who might do the job.
Where| Desert Arena
When| Closer to the end of Week 7.
Warnings/Notes| Violence, death, and possibly some gruesome shell-related happenings afterwards.
His leg was dead weight. It was a pity. It had lasted a good, long time, but like all things, its had finally expired, the nerves which connected his leg to his shell wrecked beyond repair from his constant use and disregard for rest. His face still caked with old, dried blood, Don frowned at this new development. Pity it would take too long to just cut it off and adjust to the new balance, if he didn't bleed out entirely.
The voices still bothered him, the visions of his brothers and fatherbut they weren't, he knew this to be true, for clones like him did not have real 'parents' or 'family' save for their hidden genetic progenitor. They were a bit stronger due to his lack of sleep, and the further injuries he'd received; that his makeshift belt survived when his costume didn't was a miracle. The scorpion bite festered on his hand, causing it to be swollen and full of pus. It didn't seem to do anything to suss out the monster in him; clearly only catastrophic injury did that. And nothing had been catastrophic enough, apparently.
Not that it mattered if he'd become a literal literal monster anyhow anymore. He already was one in every other sense of the word, wasn't he? He no longer cared if he died as himself or as a snarling beast. They were one and the same in his mind now. His already broken mind pushed just a little further from exhaustion, hunger, injury, and his own deep, dark, but truly impotent and pointless anger and rage at everything.
And in that mind he weighed what might happen to him now, so late in the game. Maybe he'd die. Maybe he'd win. He'd not make it easy on his opponents, either way. It was what made the crowds enjoy the Games, after all.
And--they always did say an injured animal was the most dangerous kind, didn't they? Maybe there was one more show for the folks back in the Capitol after all.
He just needed to find those left in this combat and encourage their co-operation.
What| You live crazy, you die crazy. Its Don's time to die and there are some District 5 Tributes who might do the job.
Where| Desert Arena
When| Closer to the end of Week 7.
Warnings/Notes| Violence, death, and possibly some gruesome shell-related happenings afterwards.
His leg was dead weight. It was a pity. It had lasted a good, long time, but like all things, its had finally expired, the nerves which connected his leg to his shell wrecked beyond repair from his constant use and disregard for rest. His face still caked with old, dried blood, Don frowned at this new development. Pity it would take too long to just cut it off and adjust to the new balance, if he didn't bleed out entirely.
The voices still bothered him, the visions of his brothers and father
Not that it mattered if he'd become a literal literal monster anyhow anymore. He already was one in every other sense of the word, wasn't he? He no longer cared if he died as himself or as a snarling beast. They were one and the same in his mind now. His already broken mind pushed just a little further from exhaustion, hunger, injury, and his own deep, dark, but truly impotent and pointless anger and rage at everything.
And in that mind he weighed what might happen to him now, so late in the game. Maybe he'd die. Maybe he'd win. He'd not make it easy on his opponents, either way. It was what made the crowds enjoy the Games, after all.
And--they always did say an injured animal was the most dangerous kind, didn't they? Maybe there was one more show for the folks back in the Capitol after all.
He just needed to find those left in this combat and encourage their co-operation.
Is there a posting order for this?
As it turned out, the first one was false and one swipe of his scythe was enough to dispel it and unbalance him. So he fell, tumbled, forward into the sand and sank down onto one knee. It was then that he saw the other lumbering creature in the distance, this one with green skin and walked funny and... looked a little like a turtle.
Was it Don? It might be Eliot's friend, but Lindsey wasn't sure anymore. He just knew that the creature looked like it carried with him something and something else that gleamed deadly in the midday sun.
Climbing back to his feet, he set out towards this one. For all he knew this could be another illusion and he could strike it down with a few blows. And in the distance, there looked like there were others converging on the same thing too. Good. He couldn't explain why, but Lindsey thought it was a good plan. He blamed the sun.
no subject
His hands are still sticky purple from the Orphaner's death, as is the morning star, stolen from the corpse of the other woman, whoever she'd been. He'd claimed the life of the teal sea-dweller girl, but he'd yet to find again the three that had been with her. And for that matter...
He sees the silhouette in the distant, impossible to forget, more even than the ache of his missing horn.
He shifts his grip on the Morning star and turns to the Neophyte. She hadn't taken to the little Pyrope's death well, that much he could tell. She too would have to die soon, but not yet. He nods at her, then in the direction of the silhouette.
He says to her, "SHE SPOKE OF US BEING PARTNERS IN A TIME DISTANT. What say we preform mother fucking inquisition most harsh upon a sinner shellbeast?"