kodachi | WAR GAMES

Comment with killer and manner of death.

Teams... [As he surfaces beneath a canopy of trees and hears the announcement, his gaze falls on the fellow player within sight—he assumes this 'Griffith'. Xian does not care for team play and says as much as soon as they're free to move.]

I'm not playing this with anyone. I'll survive on my own.

[And he makes to slip beneath the mantle of his power—only, he can still feel the other player's gaze on him. He frowns sharply, and looks down at his hands in disbelief.]

[A forest, and a young woman, and nothing else. Larsen doesn't waste a single moment, except to relay a sharp explanation.]

There are two here I protect. You can accompany me or take your own path, I won't contend your actions in either case. But I intend to find them, and if you stay with me I'll have co-operation in that.

[He makes a sharp motion for her to follow, then turns, striding through the trees in single-minded haste and giving no further consideration.]

Huh, you hear that, Zach? [Indra bounces excitedly on the balls of his feet so soon as he's able to, grinning ear to ear and cracking his knuckles with anticipation.] They want to take us both on at once. You think we can take it?

[The announcement rings out only seconds before the game begins, and it's obscene to feel such a rush of relief. But he can't, he can't, and as soon as they reach the surface and are able to move, Kristopher throws himself against the man at his side and clings with all his strength, babbling senselessly around all his gratitude and terror.]

Oh Drael, Drael...! I didn't know if I'd see you again, I didn't know what would happen, I was so scared, please, don't let anything happen to me, please, you're the only one who'll care, please, please don't leave me alone out here, I'll do my best, please...! [And he looks right up at the other man, openly weeping and his whole body trembling fear as he pleads;] I'll pay you back, any way you want! Anything, just please, help me! Don't leave me alone!

[He stumbles a little as he steps into the wilderness, turning in a quick circle to take in as much as possible. The thick forest seems to close in on him, and his teeth sink into his lower lip as he fights away the claustrophobic feeling. Of course it would be too much to ask to be anywhere near water...

The woman nearby is Lucithe, if he recalls correctly, and he rapidly gives her a nod of the head.] I'm prepared to honour this alliance if you are, m'am.

[He's been paying careful attention during training, trying to pick out groups that seem likely to band together. So when he hears certain combinations - Aubrey and Kieran, Indra and Zacharius - Laurence dares to hope that they'll have chosen to pair him with Vis.

Instead it's Kol, who he recognises by name as being one of the brothers. The thin one, it turns out, and Laurence barely has the good grace not to curse his poor luck aloud. If he couldn't have Visvaldis, mightn't they have at least given him the strong one?

But maybe he shouldn't be dismissing so soon. If he's learned one thing in port it's to never trust appearances. If he's learned one thing at sea it's the value of having a crew at his back.]

Do we want to work together? [He holds his hands up in a gesture of peaceful negotiation, palms out.] Because I'll walk away if you want, but I'd just as soon stay. Let's decide now, and either stick with it or both just let the other go. I'm not interested in killing you whichever way we do this.

[She is not too proud to admit that she remains frozen long after the countdown finishes. She cannot understand the words that still hang in the air and, in a habit that she's rarely acted on since childhood, she twists her hands through her hair, chewing her lower lip.

The man at her side has wings and hair to rival the length of her own, and despite the strength of will that saw her brave enough to reject a king, she finds her mouth too dry to speak even a word to him.]

[Ever since training started, she has kept even more silent than usual, only ever sharing her thoughts with Griffith when she dared creep to his side for some bare comfort. It now seems to her that the people managing this game have been unkind, sending her to the wilderness alone when others were clearly permitted friends or family from home.

She intends to explain herself to Hollingworth, shyness overcome by the need to communicate—and she finds she can't. She... has her own thoughts, of course, but anything she attempts to project remains flat and heavy in her mind, and her eyes grow wide with fear when the realisation hits. They've taken it from her, the people running this game: they've taken the only thing that was ever hers.

She feels the tears coursing down her cheeks before she opens her mouth in a desperate attempt to do what she has never done—but of course, it fails, and nothing but a high, strained squeak sounds from her damnable throat. It's a small cry of upset that comes next, as she thrusts one palm roughly against her temple, the action more than enough to communicate her distress even though her body denies her that ability.

In light of her loss, she forgets Hollingworth, the terror of never being able to communicate again taking her in a violent grip.]

[It's a small clearing, but still enough space for him to get the measure of this new sword; larger than what he would usually choose, but still comfortably within the range of blades with which he might called him practiced. Too cumbersome to be wielded with one hand, except when borne by erratic momentum, but easily handled with two. It's been well crafted, keenly honed and finely balanced. It'll be a pleasure to work with this, and he already has a perfect bloody christening prepared.

They have taken his particular sight from him, these gamemakers. He can not track, can not feel as others feel, and the disappointment of that might have had him distracted still had they not seen fit to gift him this horned spitfire as his teammate. The little man had attacked him first! Armed only with spirit and rage, and what use were those against him? Even with bare fists Thane had soon brought the man low before him, and might very well have killed him right there were it not indeed for those horns. Black as pitch and cool as bone to the touch, and if pried just so, as if to separate them by force from the skull... how the goat had bleated then! Sounds that clawed from the back of the throat, the sort that Thane thinks will draw frenzied spittle to this little man's lips if he goes at it with a blade and removes them good and proper and completely. He'd resolved then to do just that, and searched for weaponry ever since.

The goat had proven selfishly uncooperative toward the task, but that's been fun too. It's taken only the occasional blow to keep him sufficiently staggered, reeling and glassy-eyed - Thane fears not resistance but an attempt at escape. He's never been one for the chase so much as the result.

But finally they've succeeded, the one and singular success they will share as a team. Along with the sword, buried deep in the rotten hollow of an unpleasantly decaying tree trunk, Thane has uncovered some sort of ration packs, and a pouch containing a fine knuckleduster. The pouch he ties at his belt, both ration sets crammed tightly within. The brass knuckles adorn his right hand, a few practice swings gladly revealing that they won't impede his swordsmanship. It's time enough now, and he lifts his chin, grin vicious and bright as he opens his mouth to speak.

And then stops, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. ... There, yes. He did hear something. Thane hefts the blade across one shoulder and strides the negligible distance between himself and his ill-fated pet, catching hold a firm handful of fine dark hair and yanking the man's head to match the curious tilt of his own. He's grinning again, eyes shining, his voice a low enthused whisper.]

Do you hear that? I'm starting to think these gamemakers favour me, goat. Listen, it's getting closer. What do you think it will be? Get lower; [He commands it, drawing them down to a half-crouch with another sharp yank of that hair.] Let's see. If you'd been a good little boy daddy would have let you help kill it. But you weren't good, were you?

[With no more warning he slams his teammate down into the earth in one smooth hard motion, jamming his heel to the back of the other man's neck.]

Daddy doesn't like sharing anyway. Now shush, quiet now, little goatling...

[Thane watches the woodland and waits, bright-eyed and brilliant with anticipation.]

[She has no claim to athleticism; her life has been soft, for the most part, and she has never been pressed towards physical activity. So after spending most of the day picking through the cluttered underbrush of the woods, she finds herself miserable, exhausted and disgusted. She's tired, certainly, but she refuses to stop walking. She knows if she stops, she will stay seated for too long—or else someone will find her, or she will panic.

She has managed to calm her nerves by telling herself that— he would hardly have died so early as the first booming cannon, and that she'll find him if she only keeps going. Focusing on each step keeps her calm. Calm enough.]

[The last several hours have been nothing if not stressful—if Kris wasn't swearing he heard something nearby, Drael himself was seeing shadows of threat in the branches of every tree. And now, just when he thinks he's managed to calm down enough to breathe and relax, to conserve his energy for when he nears it, he snaps to attention and glares through the foliage.

They're hidden well enough, he thinks, that he'll be able to set the stage if the intruders come into view and manage to spot them, and he slides one hand over to squeeze Kristopher's forearm, willing the other man to silence himself.]

As twilight falls, profile pictures appear high in the sky above the players, and a voice lists out the day's dead:

BRIGITTE, TEAM TWELVE
ELLIAS, TEAM TWELVE
IVY, TEAM SEVENTEEN
REECE, TEAM SEVENTEEN
XIAN, TEAM EIGHTEEN

33 players remain.

[Now that night has fallen, Sieg can make the private admission. He didn't expect to survive this long.

They have heard five cannon blasts - one almost immediately, the other four coming as pairs in quick succession. The best case scenario calls for two teams to have been eliminated; the worst, five individuals. If teams have been removed then that brings him - and his designated partner - that small step closer to leaving this deathtrap forest alive.

His partner has proven able. It was Shryke who found their single cache, a length of rope and a snare for catching game. Not the sort of tools to survive conflict, but exactly the sort for staying low and surviving the elements. Their best chance, they've managed to agree. Sieg knows his own lack of combative skill, and Shryke states himself little better. Shryke has also claimed to be denied use of his power - some sort of scouting mechanism shaped in the form of a hawk. Sieg hasn't had much choice but to accept that as true. His own 'blessing' has never been something to function on command.

(Is it possible, then, that he... is well? Whole? Have they spared him his sickness? ... It doesn't matter. He won't live long enough to be sure. He doesn't need any special power to know the foolishness of reaching toward that future.)

They've found a place to settle, far from perfect but better than two other options they'd decided to pass by. It's grown late enough now that to continue searching might prove more harmful than use. Tomorrow they can find a better shelter, somewhere to camouflage and hide. Tonight, they settle here, and hope no follow competitors seek to remove them under cover of darkness.

Not that they will rely merely on hope. Shryke has offered to take the first watch, and Sieg has no reason to contend. It's an arbitrary choice, which of them sleeps sooner, rises later. They will both lose half the night, some way or another. Once they have found their chosen spot he doubts they will do much at all, save sleep and guard and check their solitary trap for the meagre comfort of food.

It's been agreed in silence, though, that neither of them will sleep until the first announcement has aired. Shryke has people here, Sieg knows, although no one he's chosen to elaborate on. They mean enough that the otherwise cautious boy hasn't taken his gaze from the sky for the past twenty minutes. They are seated, not together but close enough - they are a team by force, not by choice, and although Sieg has no issue with his partner he can't look at Shryke without seeing the injustice of their situation. They will be professional, he's sure, and little else. If Shryke needs to spend these minutes in daunted anticipation, then Sieg can be professional enough for both of them. It seems a small concession.

It finally begins with a fanfare, short and blaring, cutting through the false peace of this twilit atmosphere. Then the faces are shown, grim snapshots taken in the hours before their entrance into the arena, and there's a twinge of sick comfort to see that it was two teams, and then the last fatality is displayed.

He's so fucking pale. It's obvious when he's projected up there, white skin too stark against a deepening purple night. The pictures weren't meant to portray emotion. They had been told to stare ahead and remain placid during the process, and Sieg had done exactly that. But it seems to him that there's a faint tug to those lips, a glint to those eyes that's both cynically amused and furiously caged.

Then the broadcast snaps to an end, and Xian is gone.

Perhaps Shryke is relieved now. Perhaps he's mourning. Sieg can't be sure. He can't turn away from the gaping emptiness that Xian had occupied just moments ago. Even when he rises to his feet he can't look away, can't focus on the sudden labouring of his lungs, the ache in his skull. His hands are shaking, but his legs are steady. They can carry him, yes, his legs can carry him, and Sieg finally tears his gaze away. The clearing is crossed in four smooth strides, and when he slams his fist against the oak he hears more than feels the crack of breaking bone. Pain reaches him with the second blow, and afterwards he'll claim it as the reason of his single grieving cry. Shattered fingers to account for his rage; to account for the constriction in his chest, the nausea, the overwhelming dizzying rush of not having done enough, of never having done enough.

Sieg drops first to his knees and then slouches into sitting, curls forward to shelter his bleeding knuckles, and then it's over. He's dry-eyed, tight-lipped, and his furious glare is unfocused, distant, lost.

There is nothing he can do; that space is empty now. So too must be the emotions that accompanied it.]

[When darkness started to tumble around them in earnest, she'd refused to go any further. She wouldn't admit to a fear of the dark—she has no true fears to admit to—but the chances of something rising from the night were too high for her to accept the risk. Instead she'd thought back to stormy days when she'd gotten trapped in the bluff, and elbowed her way beneath a thick, bristly pine tree. There, she'd said, they'd be safe to rest for the night.

But they can't sleep before they know who died today. She'd managed to keep track through the day, and now they're waiting for five images to appear in the sky. Ystelle only sees one. Her hands shake and she chews her bottom lip, and before she realises it, she's muttering hard and furious under her breath.]

... They killed her. They killed my sister. She never hurt anyone in her life and they...

[It's a damp, muddy little ditch, but he doesn't have the energy to feel anything but disquieted relief for the shallow cover it provides.

He killed a man today. The night sky has finally confirmed it. The cannon must have fired, though he has no recollection of the sound. When he'd all but crashed into another team Griffith had been certain it was retribution. The gamemakers had somehow influenced their encounter and now he was going to be punished for what he'd done. They'd even taken his power from him, leaving him all but defenseless against unfair odds.

But, somehow, remarkably, they'd decided to let him go without a fight. The stronger-looking one, dark haired and narrow eyed, had claimed they could find him again any time, that they had more immediate problems. The blonde, who had looked so ready to attack just seconds before, deferred to the decision without complaint, even smiled at him and wished him luck. That's three men he's found today, and Griffith doesn't know which of them will haunt him longest.

No, that's not true. He doesn't even have to close his eyes to see the way blood had bubbled on his teammate's broken lip. He hadn't even remembered the name until that announcer had said it - he was called Xian. Xian is the stranger he killed, and Griffith doesn't know if Xian will let him sleep tonight. Trapped and alone and unarmed, he's not sure if he'll ever have the chance to sleep again.]

[Night has finally fallen in earnest when he rouses from the state of drowsy recovery he'd dropped into after finding a warm, quiet place to hide. He keeps his eyes narrowed as they adjust to the darkness, and skims his hands lightly over his horns; it's been a long time since they've been abused the way they were today, and he's thankful to find the pounding in his head has subsided to a dull throb.

He inches his way out of the burrow, the handsaw clutched tightly in one hand. There is no one around that he can see, or hear. It's dark enough. Time to go.

He darts through the wood, quickly remembering how to lighten his steps to keep them barely audible. Every sound still manages to feel too loud, though—until he overhears what can only be snoring. He muffles his snort of derision; what idiots have both fallen asleep, no guarding themselves and no quieting themselves either? It seems his luck has carried through into the night.

He steals his way into the zone haphazardly considered their camp, gaze roving all the while to ensure their noise hasn't attracted any other predators. Then he chooses one—the blonde, he's snoring louder—and pounces, one hand clasped to the mouth and nose and the other drawing a decisive slice through the neck. He waits one, two, three seconds before moving onto the next, and if the strangled gasping awakens the dark-haired one, it's all too late. He dispatches the second with similar efficiency, and before the two cannon shots boom into the night, he's haring off through the forest once more. He'll survive this. There is no way he won't.]

[He's found Luce to be a very acceptable companion. They both agreed to a plan that saw them alternating dozing hours through the hottest, brightest part of the day, and on-the-move only as the sun began to set. It was luck and sharp eyes—his, he'll claim it—that saw them fitted with rations, a hunting knife, and a longsword, which Luce lay claim to after testing the weight in a few swift strokes. That suit him fine—he likes weapons that rest lightly in his palm, and the serrated knife reminds him of a scimitar he sometimes wears when they sail the southern seas.

It hasn't been so long now since they found a snare in the darkness, and he carefully dismantled it to loop it over his shoulder. They've drifted just far enough apart to scout the area, with a whistle to indicate they've found the people who set it. It's a pity they were foolish enough to leave an indication where they are, but not so much—Visvaldis doesn't think he or Luce is much for drawing out the end, and they've both got weapons to make it clean.]

[They can't have traveled much further, but it feels like hours before they finally stop again in a place Drael deems safe enough. It all looks the same to Kris, except that here at least there's water enough for Drael to finally clean the blood from his hands. Kristopher washes as well, painfully self-conscious even despite everything else he should be focusing on. How they all must be laughing at him, crying and defenseless and... and piss-soaked, oh, how else can he say it, and Kristopher puts his pants back on still damp from the stream because they've already laughed at him enough. He won't add exhibitionism to the list of shames they've heaped upon him since these twisted games began.

They can't risk going any further, Drael says. They might not find anywhere more secure than this, might just leave themselves open and exposed instead. Kristopher tries to inject some sort of authority into his agreement, or at least the illusion that he understands enough to have an opinion, but in the end he can muster little more than a murmur of assent. He wants to disappear, he wants to wake up from this, he wants...

But no, he wants to help, and surely there's only one small way he can. Kristopher reasons and begs, pleads with Drael to take some rest. It takes a desperate amount of convincing, and by the end he's crying again and his head is throbbing, but Drael touches his tear-stained cheek and finally relents.

And now it's night, and Drael is finally still beside him. Kristopher finds himself afraid to move, almost afraid to breathe. Every sound seems amplified, and somehow the thought of waking Drael unnecessarily seems almost as frightening as the threat of something giving him cause to do so. Kris keeps his eyes to the surrounding forest, keeps one hand gently entwined in Drael's thick golden hair, a gesture both comforting and practical. This is all he can do. Protect Drael's rest and be prepared to rouse him. This pathetic task is all he can do, and Drael had hesitated to allow him this much.

And rightly so. It all makes sense now, the way Drael has spoken for these last years of their acquaintance. Drael has always resented him, resented all nobility, and now Kristopher feels that he might understand some part of that. If Drael has lived a life able to equip him for these sorts of horrors... Yes, Drael hates him, but still protects him. Still cherishes him where no one else does, would miss him more than anyone else. Drael would have a better chance of surviving alone, had the perfect opportunity to leave him, and yet he returned. Why? Why would he risk so much for someone so unable to return that gesture...?

Kristopher crouches lower and tries to ignore the soreness, the fear, the aching in his eyes and weight in his chest. Oh, Drael. Difficult handsome blood-stained Drael...]

DEATH TOLL

TEAM EIGHTEEN

TEAM SIX

TEAM FOUR

TEAM TWO

TEAM SIXTEEN

TEAM EIGHT

TEAM FIFTEEN

TEAM THIRTEEN

ENCOUNTER: TEAM SEVEN & TEAM SEVENTEEN

ENCOUNTER: TEAM EIGHT (LAURENCE) & TEAM FIFTEEN (HELENE)

ENCOUNTER: TEAM TWO & TEAM TWELVE

NIGHT ONE

TEAM NINE

TEAM TEN

TEAM EIGHTEEN

ENCOUNTER: TEAM SEVEN (TALBOT) & TEAM FOUR

ENCOUNTER: TEAM SIXTEEN & TEAM NINE

ENCOUNTER: TEAM TWO & TEAM ONE