The Initiate Fraysong ♑ (Young GHB) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
carnagecarnival) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2013-08-09 07:47 pm
carnagecarnival) wrote in thearena2013-08-09 07:47 pm
Entry tags:
Well you disappeared so often like you dissolved into coffee
Who | The Initiate and Redglare
What | It's time for the bratt to die
Where | Desert Arena
When | Last week of Arena 7
Warnings/Notes | Death, being eaten alive, animal violence to Reptiroos, language
He's slowing down. He doesn't know if the Neophyte had noticed, but he feels it. For now they've split, just for a while, to hunt. But he can spare a few moments. He settles down on a sand dune, takes a bit of shredded suit-cloth, and bows his head low, hair hanging in front, as he wipes the remainder of it off. He can't let anyone see, and he knows they must be watching somehow, he'd seen the last arena shown on the screens. The little Pyrope would probably be watching. Maybe the Helmsman too.
He reapplies his paint, a little more generously than he had been in his past few weeks, thanks to the little Pyrope having sent him another vial after her death. He pulls out the note that had been with it, tucked by his hip. It's just a simple smile of written in teal, a taunting grin or just to show her horns; he imagines it's both and rolls his eyes to himself, face still hidden. He tucks the note away, exchanging it for the Helmsman's note, a mix of quirks in yellow. He looks it over again, as if he'll find new meaning it, then tucks it back once more. He folds his hands in prayer for a short moment, then rises, looking up to the dark sky and giving the barest of bows-- the closest to a thank you Terezi was likely to get. He starts off again.
It's gone quiet as his beach back home, and for a moment he's lost in that, forgets his lack of voodoo song doesn't necessarily mean nothing is near, here. His grip tightens on his Morning star. He hears the growl, and his ears flick toward the sound.
The creature pounces and he spins. The club smashes into it's side.
It falls down, limp, only for another snarl to sound behind him.
He gives a growl right back, crouching and barring his fangs. The creatures, frills about them, and scaled like something reptilian, surround him. One pounces just as he does. The Initiates claws tear at flesh just as it tears his. Red and Indigo spatter onto the sand in unison. It yelps as it lands and makes for his ankles. Another tries for another leap and is met with the Morning Star.
The Initiate feels the teeth sink into flesh and rip. He gives a cry, smacking at another of the leaping creatures and reaching to grab and toss the other. It lands on its feet and gives a run forward with the others of its group, greedy creatures uniting for a chance at a good kill. He roars at them, his club swung as the leap. He hits one, but another latches onto his arm, and the third, lands behind him only to pounce from behind.
The one on his arms bites deep, but not near so much as the one at his neck. The Initiate howls. He reaches back, claws tearing at the beast, spattering red but not removing it. He has to get it before it gets too much, before it kills him. The others nip at him all the while, shredding skin and cloth. Finally he rips it off, but not before a good part of the flesh around his neck and shoulder is nothing but raw indigo muscle, blood flowing free, thick and cold. He swings his club at the ones by his ankles. Too sloppy; he misses most of them. They reel back and pounce and he swings and the blood is dripping too from his arms and his legs. They pounce and he swings, over and over, and his flesh is torn loose and he feels their bones crunch. His breath is heavy and his heart pounds. One more makes to tear at his face and where it succeeds, he slams it down and rips at it's scaled flesh with his own fangs. Teeth red and jaws indigo.
A final one makes way for his neck once more. He abandons his club, sinking his claws deep into the creature, and with all the strength being a highblood afforded to him--that the capitol hadn't taken, he crushes down on it, until it gives a pained yelp, then with a quick motion, he snaps it's neck. It goes still in his hands. The others lay around him, dead, for all that didn't take off. It falls from his hands, limp, and he drops to a knee. He gives a small whine, then a growl, as he forces himself to stand. His color stains the sand and what's been left unmarred of his skin. He gives a shudder, and grits his teeth.
Each step forward is slow and he has to bite back the noises of pain wanting to escape. He can beat this. He's survived worse hasn't he? He's fought trolls upon trolls, at once even. For his hive, for his religion, simply for his continued motherfucking existence. He's been ganged up on and won. Hasn't he? Maybe not down a horn, or without his voodoos... or right after two fights prior... but what did that matter, really.
He slumps to both knees. Just for a moment, just to rest. His breath comes in rasps, punctuated by the occasional cough. And staining of more earth with blood.
Maybe he should pray. Maybe he should just let the Messiahs do as they will.
He remembers the Neophyte suddenly and lifts his bowed head to look across the shore. The sand. The sand, not the shore, there's no ocean here, no old goat watching him and judging him from afar only to disappear back beneath the waves. But the Neophyte's there somewhere. Maybe... he'll seek her... in a moment more....
He reapplies his paint, a little more generously than he had been in his past few weeks, thanks to the little Pyrope having sent him another vial after her death. He pulls out the note that had been with it, tucked by his hip. It's just a simple smile of written in teal, a taunting grin or just to show her horns; he imagines it's both and rolls his eyes to himself, face still hidden. He tucks the note away, exchanging it for the Helmsman's note, a mix of quirks in yellow. He looks it over again, as if he'll find new meaning it, then tucks it back once more. He folds his hands in prayer for a short moment, then rises, looking up to the dark sky and giving the barest of bows-- the closest to a thank you Terezi was likely to get. He starts off again.
It's gone quiet as his beach back home, and for a moment he's lost in that, forgets his lack of voodoo song doesn't necessarily mean nothing is near, here. His grip tightens on his Morning star. He hears the growl, and his ears flick toward the sound.
The creature pounces and he spins. The club smashes into it's side.
It falls down, limp, only for another snarl to sound behind him.
He gives a growl right back, crouching and barring his fangs. The creatures, frills about them, and scaled like something reptilian, surround him. One pounces just as he does. The Initiates claws tear at flesh just as it tears his. Red and Indigo spatter onto the sand in unison. It yelps as it lands and makes for his ankles. Another tries for another leap and is met with the Morning Star.
The Initiate feels the teeth sink into flesh and rip. He gives a cry, smacking at another of the leaping creatures and reaching to grab and toss the other. It lands on its feet and gives a run forward with the others of its group, greedy creatures uniting for a chance at a good kill. He roars at them, his club swung as the leap. He hits one, but another latches onto his arm, and the third, lands behind him only to pounce from behind.
The one on his arms bites deep, but not near so much as the one at his neck. The Initiate howls. He reaches back, claws tearing at the beast, spattering red but not removing it. He has to get it before it gets too much, before it kills him. The others nip at him all the while, shredding skin and cloth. Finally he rips it off, but not before a good part of the flesh around his neck and shoulder is nothing but raw indigo muscle, blood flowing free, thick and cold. He swings his club at the ones by his ankles. Too sloppy; he misses most of them. They reel back and pounce and he swings and the blood is dripping too from his arms and his legs. They pounce and he swings, over and over, and his flesh is torn loose and he feels their bones crunch. His breath is heavy and his heart pounds. One more makes to tear at his face and where it succeeds, he slams it down and rips at it's scaled flesh with his own fangs. Teeth red and jaws indigo.
A final one makes way for his neck once more. He abandons his club, sinking his claws deep into the creature, and with all the strength being a highblood afforded to him--that the capitol hadn't taken, he crushes down on it, until it gives a pained yelp, then with a quick motion, he snaps it's neck. It goes still in his hands. The others lay around him, dead, for all that didn't take off. It falls from his hands, limp, and he drops to a knee. He gives a small whine, then a growl, as he forces himself to stand. His color stains the sand and what's been left unmarred of his skin. He gives a shudder, and grits his teeth.
Each step forward is slow and he has to bite back the noises of pain wanting to escape. He can beat this. He's survived worse hasn't he? He's fought trolls upon trolls, at once even. For his hive, for his religion, simply for his continued motherfucking existence. He's been ganged up on and won. Hasn't he? Maybe not down a horn, or without his voodoos... or right after two fights prior... but what did that matter, really.
He slumps to both knees. Just for a moment, just to rest. His breath comes in rasps, punctuated by the occasional cough. And staining of more earth with blood.
Maybe he should pray. Maybe he should just let the Messiahs do as they will.
He remembers the Neophyte suddenly and lifts his bowed head to look across the shore. The sand. The sand, not the shore, there's no ocean here, no old goat watching him and judging him from afar only to disappear back beneath the waves. But the Neophyte's there somewhere. Maybe... he'll seek her... in a moment more....