TEST DRIVE MEME

[etcircenses]

Welcome to Panem. You have been selected to participate in the 75th Annual Hunger Games!

Premise: This Arena is designed to be a small mock arena not all that dissimilar to the in-game arenas we run here at The Games. The party is similar to some of the gathering logs we have inside the Capitol when an Arena begins. Our hope is to give new and prospective players a place to get their feet wet, and get a feel for the fun (and bloody) mess that goes on around here.

This meme is open to anyone and everyone who would like to play. Current cast members, veteran and new, as well as anyone just wanting top drop in and have some fun!

How To Play.

Current cast members - you may tag into this arena in any way you choose, even cast members who aren't or are no longer tributes.

***An important side note, as it is within the confines of the Area in-game, all powers are lessened/nullified to bring any character down to a vincible level. (I.E. Make more magical/super-powered characters easier to actually kill for a normal person). Rule of thumb: If it's a physical difference, the Capitol will not mutilate it out (wings, etc), but other wise it's gone.

The Arena.

Tributes are raised in a circle around the Cornucopia; they are all dressed in safari outfits, including the little hats, and slathered in bug spray and sunscreen. They look amongst each other at the start of the Cornucopia. At the center of the circle is a fountain where a dancing hippo spits water into a circular pool around it. There's an engraving in embossed letters around the one-foot rim of the pool: PANEM NATIONAL ZOO.

Floating in the water of the brass fountain are supplies that the Tributes should find useful: medical kits, sleeping bags, and most importantly, weapons. Ropes, bo staffs, nunchuks, daggers and spears are all in ready supply a mere hundred yard sprint from the Tributes.

There are four paths away from the Cornucopia - into a swampy pit to the south, which, unbeknownst to Tributes, hosts alligators and crocodiles who've missed their scheduled feeding. To the west, into a dark building where boxes cut into the walls reveal that there were once tanks for creepy crawlies, but the glass has been removed. Through a gift-shop to the north, stuffed with plush animals (many of which are filled with razor blades, or other sweet little surprises). Or down an asphalt pathway to the east, winding through tall cages that may provide shelter from the other Tributes - but not necessarily the enclosure's inhabitants.

The countdown blares out in the humid air.

3...2...1...

Let the Games begin.

-/-

The Party.

Back in the Capitol, the Cornucopia is being celebrated with a lavish party. Animal couture is all the rage, and Capitol celebrities have dressed for the occasion by having their teeth elongated and their irises surgically altered to give the appearance of slit pupils. The wine is flowing freely, and the centerpiece of this particular viewing party is what appears to be a pig the size of a hippopotamus being roasted on a spit.

Screens throughout the large ballroom in which this takes place are showing the gruesome footage of the first bloodbath of what promises to be a delightfully ugly Arena. Tongueless Avoxes carry platters with little quail eggs in cups, silently offering them to all the guests. Caesar Flickerman, trademark blue hair now replaced by what appear to be feathers growing directly from his scalp, announces every gory detail between oohing and ahhing over the dinner. Tributes die; Citizens feast.

Everyone who's anyone is invited.

Comments

Boromir, Son of Denethor | That one movie with the mind-control ring | OTA

[tarried]

The last thing Boromir remembers is the comforting heft of his sword in hand, and Aragorn's face looming above him. The world had gone soft and dark around the edges, blood at his lips as the arrows he'd been shot with wrought their terrible toll. He'd failed, miserably, and the knowledge of his failures dragged him down, down, down; deep into the cold grasp of death.

He did not expect to wake up. Nor did he expect to wake up in a place so utterly different from the grassy slopes of Amon Hen, populated with a vast array of people more myth than not. But to some grace -- or curse, a punishment for the greed he succumbed to -- Boromir awoke. With the arrow wounds healed, and new clothes forced upon him, he stood upon a platform ready to dive into this newest quest presented to him.

It is enough to drive fear in the belly of any being, the dilapidated, horror of this place. But Boromir is -- was -- Captain of the White Tower. He bore his people's weight upon his shoulders, faced down the hideous, Mordor born scum without pause. His heart has long since been hardened towards the horror of war.

This is not that.

The gong sounds, and he lurches forward, eyes roving over the land before him, and the weapons lurking in the brass fountain. His own sword was not there, but a spear, a staff -- those he could use. Even if he was repulsed by the idea of attacking innocents locked in this place with him. Should someone find themselves at the mercy of one of the beasts in the water, he will help instead of leaving them to their fate.

[alwaysshielded]

Animals kept for recreation, floating prizes, and all the other nonsense that came along with these first opening moments. Were she not so aware of the small but terrible chance that those she swore alliance with may not return upon their death, she would not lower herself to such entertainment and sport. As it was, however, Cassandra could not simply let such advantages pass by without some attempt to obtain them. But it did not mean she had to be so very base and bloodthirsty, particularly with those newly introduced to this nightmare.

"Do not stand in my way."

It was short, but sound advice, handed to the clearly disoriented man. One which she had not seen in the training rooms before this spectacle, so likely one pulled from home and tossed into this mess with little warning. A shameful, disgusting practice, but what could be done?

"Assist, if you will. Or stand aside."

[tarried]

Boromir is accustomed to snapping to attention at orders. More so, he is accustomed to weighing the sound of advice, of intelligence, and moving accordingly. But he is not used to such advice coming from a woman -- even one who looks as if she is very used to what she is doing. Instead, Boromir shifts out of way, gracefully, despite his broad frame and the disorientation that such a place as this has brought to him.

"As wished, Lady."

It is no hardship, and an offer of assistance -- or rather the beckon of such -- means he trails after her hungry for the weapons to be found. He feels naked without his sword and dagger, or the shield he bore upon his back. The absence of the Horn of Gondor upon his hip is even more cutting, though in a different manner.

[alwaysshielded]

A small scoff meets the title even as she presses forward- for all lady seeker she had heard over the years, she has been far from a noble maiden for well over a decade, making the simple 'lady' rest uneasy on her shoulders. There is little point in pretending at such a title now, not when alliances based in reality were of far more value. Particularly when that potential ally was remaining close at hand as she moved forward, bracing herself for the battle with this small dragons up ahead, but not yet throwing her to the beasts for his own gain.

"Seeker Pentaghast. I will trust you come with name and title as well."

It was not snobbery, no matter what some dwarf may claim. Merely practicality. Those ready to defer to honor and protocol rarely came without some knighthood or other earned title.

[tarried]

This practicality is familiar, and given that Boromir was raised the Steward-son of Gondor, he has more than a little practice with nobles. But among the army is where he is most comfortable, and though he does not know what her title means, he can respect it. Were that his brother here, perhaps Faramir might know! But instead, it is upon Boromir's shoulders that this quest falls, once again.

"Boromir, son of Denethor. Captain of the White Tower."

He eyes the crocodiles warily, the sleek silhouettes unfamiliar by far. Were this an introduction in a safer, formal place, he might have bowed. Instead, Boromir shoulders forward, ready.

i'm sorry, couldn't resist

[theevenstar]

Arwen has become better at evading the bloodfest that is the rush for the Cornucopia, though this time she managed to filch a bo-staff without enduring grievous injury. There is a long slash across her left upper arm, bestowed by another Tribute, and some bruising underneath her clothes, but nothing serious enough to put her health at risk.

The crocodile-like thing advancing on her is another matter.

It's small, most likely an adolescent, but even young monsters are capable of inflicting great damage. Clearly, heading south was a very bad idea, and she's backing in his direction; trying to keep an eye on the reptile and stay aware of others in the area who might decide to preemptively take her out.

She wasn't at the council, nor did she mingle with many of the assembly before the Nine left her father's home, so Boromir probably won't recognize her. The pointed ears peeking above twilight-dark hair are a dead giveaway to her race, though.

don't be sorry!!

[tarried]

Boromir does not, in fact, recognize Arwen. Oh for certain, he spies her and the otherworldly beauty of elfkind is familiar, as is the pointed ears he can spy beneath the fall of her dark hair. She steps back, carefully eyeing the crocodile before her, and Boromir steps forward, wickedly sharp spear in hand.

"Stand steady, Lady."

Low, calm, he shifts to step before her, aiming his weapon. The crocodile's mouth parts at the sight of a new target, a great hissing sound emerging from that deadly maw. Boromir readies, the crocodile gets closer, and then sharp, quickly -- he shoves the spear hard into the soft mouth of the animal, up through the palate into the brain.

[theevenstar]

She is currently judging how far forward the creature will lunge if she decides to run. In a best case scenario, not far enough, and escape is entirely possible. In a worst case scenario, the thing will feast well on elf flesh, and she'll wake up in the Capitol tomorrow with a new set of nightmares to deal with.

The urge to obey is instinctive still, at least when presented with a request that sounds reasonable, and Arwen is suddenly motionless - save for the look over her shoulder at the owner of the voice.

Grey eyes widen, she knows that face, even if recognition is not a two-way street. The elf remains absolutely still while Boromir steps around her, grateful his shoulders block her view of the spearing. For a long moment her throat is dry, and all she can hear is the beating of her heart. Then, finally, she speaks.

"Thank you." Arwen is still a little tense, knowing now that would-be allies might turn on one another. But there's a small hope he's made of more noble stuff. "I would not have been able to take its life, milord."

i'm sorry, i thought i replied to this already!

[tarried]

The crocodile thrashes, blood spilling, but it dies quickly. In truth, this has to have been one of the easiest kills Boromir's had in a while, but he cannot truly compare a simple beast to an Orc or Uruk-hai. There's the slick sound of his spear sliding free of the beast's head, and Boromir turns, grey eyes serious and calm. Her thanks was not needed, but it softens his mien anyway, little crinkles at the corners of his eyes, mouth curving faintly into a smile.

"'Twas no hardship."

He bows, slight, hand over heart. True, Boromir knows that this game is but a farce. They will have to kill one another to escape, and escape is only arbitrary. But he is -- he died. That he still lives and breathes is no miracle, but a curse perhaps. And even such a curse as a life in which he must die and be revived, only to slaughter his own fellow prisoners, is not one that will make him go back upon the honor he holds as a Lord of Gondor.

"But mayhaps finding another route would prove best."