EVERY LIVING THING PUSHED INTO THE RING,

[agogemod]

WHO? Everybody!
WHAT? Welcome to the arenas.
WHEN? Two weeks of arena time.
ANYTHING ELSE? Please warn for anything besides physical violence and move to a personal journal if it's beyond PG-13.

GUESS YOU THOUGHT YOU COULDN'T JUST WATCH;

no one's getting out

READ THE JHASHCH INFOPAGE.

THE ENTRANCE

COST and the Regency receive formal invites a week before the arenas open, requesting their presence at the opening ceremony. And not in just any capacity, but as guests of honor. Queen Thsh agreed to host these arenas, after all, as a show of power and confidence in that power; not only to spiderkind, but to those who would support or overthrow her.

The inner rings of Ythaway buzz in anticipation. Aranean architects and their workers put the final touches on the massive structure strung over the pits of Ymir, dedicated in equal parts to combat and gaming and court life. Carved from stone and adorned with wicked sculptures, it looks impossibly delicate, balanced on bridges only just wide enough for a single female Aranean. They are packed with spiders and their decorative servants on opening day, made more hazardous by the crowd and perpetual darkness.

The arena is lavishly decorated on all fronts; while the bulk of the audience only offers standing room, there is peculiarly decorated Aranean furniture along the perimeter of each area, set up high so even those significantly smaller than the average Aranean female can get a view. It's possible to find Aranean children tussling here and at the forefront of the crowds, with even the smallest already sharpening their backstabbing skills.

» THE CEREMONY

The opening ceremony is a grandiose affair, marking the beginning of a two-week event. The arenas themselves are hung with banners and trimmed by gold filigree that represents the Royal Family and each of the remaining Great Houses. Each house puts on their own show, displaying the best of their respective skills and resources.

Jankeh's is technological genius, featuring mechanical wonders and holographic projections that earn noises of admiration from the crowd. Shaiy's is pure luxury, displaying all the latest fashion trends and elegant in movement. Khah's is power, with elaborate dances that mimic military formations and tell tales of the Thshan Empire's victories. It takes the better part of two hours to display everything they have in full, each display more extravagant than the last.

And then, as fireworks go off, it's your turn. COST and the Regency aren't expected to do much, fortunately; you aren't the entertainers here, at least not yet. But you're brought on stage and introduced, expected to bow and carry out your pleasantries. It's short and snappy and the Regency exchanges derisive looks with any recruit who meets their eyes.

Once you've cleared the stage, a parade of uthcki and hhcho are marched out in neat rows perhaps a little too similar to the ones you just departed in. All of them wear the colors of House Chchai and they are, in essence, the last vestiges of the house. They're displayed proudly by House Shaiy, with Lady Thchnk's daughters standing at either edge as an honor guard. And then, at the sound of a rising cry from their mother, they turn as one on the genetically engineered creatures.

It's brutally quick and silent, save for the crack of bone, as each female Aranean cuts down the servants and pets of the now-dead house. Their teeth gnash and blood splatters against their carefully, lovingly crafted dresses. Part ceremonial and all power, they kill every last uthcki and hhcho until the stage is littered with remains and permanently stained red with blood.

As Lady Thchnk's eldest daughter and heir apparent delicately wipes her mouth of blood, none other than High Queen Thsh steps forward, to applaud the display. And, with her word, the arenas are officially open.

These are your battlegrounds.

» DIVIDE AND CONQUER

As ever, "conquest" is the name of the game in High Queen Thsh's empire. While you've made impressions and connections with noble spiders, this is your chance to show off where your loyalties lie. If you claim victory, you can dedicate it to your chosen monarch. While COST would like you to declare for the Queen, you can show your favor for Princess Chch or any other spider allies. COST will not reprimand you and Young, at least, spares Queen Thsh no love.

But note that, while you may kill competing Araneans and Regency agents here with immunity, the same holds true for them to you. To step into an arena is to forfeit any semblance of safety or diplomatic immunity. While there are rules—you still need to follow proper Aranean duel etiquette and can't wantonly attack anyone when you aren't participating in these arenas—they are few and far between.

COST and the Regency aren't the only foreign diplomats in attendance, either. There is a surge of new arrivals through the Jhashchan terminals, some humanoid and some not; if you can imagine it, you're likely to see an alien of that sort in the audience or competing in the arenas themselves. Of course...whether they're here willingly or not is another matter.

That said, for recruits who make a name for themselves: Don't be surprised if an Aranean asks you for a genetic donation to their labs.


THE ARENA

Upon entering the arena, the social niceties that encouraged the spiders to separate COST and the Regency dissolve. You are left to the darkness and your own devices, so don't get stabbed in the back, whether by an Aranean or the Regency operatives. While the three individuals in charge of the Regency—Khnum, Ptah, and Tatenen—icily engage Grothia and Young, the agents under their employ at left to your mercy and vice versa.

None of them are without their shabti; in many cases, when a Regency operative considers a challenge beneath them, they order their shabti to take it instead. It's yet another display of power to the Araneans, daring them to take offense. The shabti never protest; they execute their assigned duties with a minimum of words, uncannily blank faced and almost robotic in their motions. The Regency's unspoken point is clear; they expect the Araneans beneath them to bow just as their shabti do.

Mhic Nathair, earstwhile matron in Gallipoli, keeps her distance, though her shabti secretary occasionally flits through the crowd to get her mistress drinks. The shabti Mhic Nathair owns is a quiet, demure woman, who shies away from conversation as though she expects it to preclude physical violence. No one knows what Mhic Nathair is doing to her secretary, but it hasn't resulted in any bruises anyone can see. But, then again, she's always wearing long sleeved shirts and high collars.

Still, no agent is foolish enough to disgrace one of the Araneans at the top of the food chain. There's real deference in their treatment of the High Queen and Princess Chch; the observant might even catch a few meaningful glances between the princess and some of the higher ranking Regency agents as the Royal Family receives their guests.

It's a cool affair, before they wave everyone into the hands of the Great Matrons, ever playing politics. And the Great Matrons brush the duty off on their daughters, who are as disdainful as they are vain. After all, you haven't proven yourselves yet and the Matrons have their own duties; it's only under their watchful eyes that the arena logistics unfold. And there will be hell to pay if they don't go as planned.

Each of the Great Houses claims domain over one of the arenas. Rumors hint House Chchai would have dominated the court and dabbled in the games, but with the family exterminated, it's only hearsay. As it stands, House Khah exerts most of their influence over the game and the stadium, while Shaiy shows the most favor to the court, but does not hesitate to plunge into the other arenas. House Jankeh favors the stadium and then the court. This is done most transparently in the form of sponsorships, which they'll offer to victors with particularly impressive winning streaks, especially if they dedicate victories to the family.

And remember, even here the hierarchy is in play. But it doesn't always obey the simple layout outside the arena doors. Someone sharp of eye might notice that some challenges in different arenas are specifically gamed so one tier of the hierarchy dominates the others. So keep an ear to the ground and follow the spider gossip if you want to play to your strengths; sometimes the arenas are, without a doubt, rigged.

» THE LOGISTICS

You have the option of choosing the outcome of your arena exploits and tailoring them to your liking. But for those who are interested in a bit more risk...well, there's a bit more reward involved as well. If you'd like to RNG your battle, sign up here. Be warned: Losing may result in serious injury or death.

Of course, if your character dies, they'll be teleported back to BASE and will have to convalesce there for three weeks, although given the way BASE time lines up with everything else, well. There's a good chance they might get teleported back into the mission not long after they died. And they may also experience a strange vision, a magical glimpse into the future...or maybe that's just the excellent drugs Chiron has in Medical.

That said, the prize for winning is much more impressive. Win well enough and by a large enough margin and the loser (or the house of the loser) must give you whatever you claim as boon, within reason. If they own it, you can take it. Up to and including their very lives.

In all arenas, you can name enemy spiders, Regency operatives, and other NPCs; feel free to make up their personalities and handle them as you see fit, down to plotting their demise. If you need to contact an Aranean NPC for something that cannot be handwaved, please go here; to talk to Mhic Nathair, her shabti, or any other Regency NPCs, please go here!

» THE STADIUM

The most openly dangerous of the arenas, combat is for recruits who see strife as a way of life. While the setting varies—sometimes there are even simulated fields in the barren, boiling style of Jhashch's daytime landscape, modified so all lifeforms can survive it—often they're darker than the rest of the arena, so your assigned goggles may come in handy.

Fights take any manner of shape and form, from straightforward combat to competitions that test competitors' mettle in reflexes or speed. Opponents vary; some of them are ordinary humans whose luck has taken a bad turn, while others are aliens on par with your own cognition. Others still are monstrous wildlife, big or small but always deadly. Just remember: it's expected victory end in blood. If it doesn't, rumors inevitably fly.

There is no rhyme or reason to what kind of fight you find yourself in, whether pairing up with a friend or against said friend. You might even find yourself temporarily allied with an Aranean, the Regency, or another being. And recruits are authorized to carry any weapons they like into the arena; perform well enough and House Jankeh might sponsor you with their own arms.

Also, Princess Shai and Princess Aythy compete in this arena. Deadly and graceful, they're a sight to see on the battlefield. Arena encounters with the Twin Generals are only available via RNG and mean your character has an extremely high chance of dying, so tread with caution.

» THE COURT

As ever in the Aranean court, etiquette is key. Entertain, dance, and dine; in this arena, it's as much an artform as stressed by your training. Only here, if you make an error, a droid doesn't cutely—infuriatingly—glitter ball and inform you that you've been consumed. No, here it becomes reality. And these interactions are no longer reserved for Araneans; again, there are other species on the playing field, representing other factions of the Thshan Empire and all here to exercise that specific brand of Aranean diplomacy.

And, of course, there's the Regency. It becomes clear that the Regency is working to fill the power void created by the fall of House Chchai; there are candidates of all sorts clamoring for recognition in these arenas, which serve both foreign and domestic diplomats.

COST recruits receive a list of marks, with pro-Regency targets highlighted. While all members of COST are told to keep company with at least one other recruit, it holds especially true in this arena. The court may not be fast-paced outside of bursts of blood-bright violence, but tensions constantly run high. And, for the unlucky—or the lucky, depending on your point of view—you may encounter Princess Chch herself. While her mother derides participation—well loved as these arenas may be, they're a celebration of High Queen Thsh and don't merit her participation—the princess has her own agenda, so watch her closely.

» THE GAME

The safest of the arenas, by virtue of why it exists in the first place, there's no limit to what kind of games the spiders offer. As long as it has a bit of violent spice and a clear winner or loser, it's all good. Moreover, the night vision goggles you received at the beginning of the mission can interface with the VR equipment, provided you do some tweaking.

This is also the arena that allows interplanetary participation. As such, there are several players who appear as nothing more than usernames on a screen. The spiders in charge of this arena claim participation is locked only to diplomats and individuals with important political sway, as a way of paying homage to and fostering relations with distant stars, so rest assured you're gaming with someone very important.

...Probably, anyway. There are signs something is off about some of these distant competitors, whether through the muttering of spiders or their own silence. They never speak, sticking exclusively to text for communication, and at one point an entire group is banned from the servers. Which doesn't seem to be enough to keep them out; several return, taunting anyone who will listen. Trolls, perhaps; it's certainly how the higher ranking spiders like to spin it.

Prince Shch and a few members of his entourage observe, although as male Araneans it's derided that they participate. It's funny enough to female Araneans that male humans like video games; the idea of a male Aranean enjoying the pastime is preposterous. But he remains a silently ominous figure in the stands, bearing witness to your endeavors and showing understated favor to victors who somehow win his attentions.


THE FALLOUT

All of the arenas run the risk of being bloody. Physical confrontations are almost inevitable and brushes with them are inescapable. While it's possible to sweet talk your way out of them in the court or game arenas, there are a few things to keep in mind for those of you who try and don't succeed...or for those of you who want to be a big damn hero and come to another recruit's rescue with guns blazing. Your pick.

» THE ARANEANS

Araneans are as powerful as their size suggests. Their legs are only deceptively fragile; while their joints can be weak points, their exoskeletons are like armor. They're much faster than any human, with almost preternatural reflexes; they may not be able to deflect or dodge bullets, but in many cases they simply don't need to. Again: their exoskeletons are like armor. They can absorb pure magical attacks, though using bespelled items or elements can work. The underside of their abdomen is a vulnerable spot, but it also puts any targets at the mercy of their eight legs. It's highly unadvised for a baseline human to take an Aranean on solo.

Older female Araneans often go unarmored in the arenas, unless stipulated otherwise; if they're armed, they often carry spears. Male spiders and young female Araneans just stepping into their first arena often don armor. Originally designed as protection and an aid in mining duties, it's evolved with their culture. Designed in a plated style with futuristic trappings, it protects the abdomen and joints but affords the spider full mobility, as expected of a species that prizes agility and jumping. Male Araneans often use longer spears to make up for their smaller size, to give them the reach of a female Aranean, but you'll never see them carrying weaponry that elevates them above a female spider. Historically, that's a sight only seen in rebellions mercilessly crushed by Queen Thsh and her mother.

Their detection ability is a boon against artificial and magical entities—magical ones, especially, who they can sense in the very air. And, as always, mind their fangs. You only have three autotoxin injectors, but keep them handy.

» THE REGENCY

For recruits who endured Gallipoli, facing the agents here isn't too different. Only agents of high ranking have access to power nullification equipment, but they're all in beyond peak physical condition. It'll take at least two baseline humans to tackle one Regency operative, who have additional cybernetic modifications. Some of this is offensive, but it affords them a great deal of additional strength in all cases, depending on what's augmented.

Their actual weaponry varies between arenas, but they err in favor of what the spiders want to see and stick largely with melee weaponry; it earns more respect from the Araneans. They also aren't shy about sending shabti into combat in their place, should they see it necessary. Or if they're aiming for insult and injury.

The shabti are augmented just like their creators; while none of them have the cybernetic implants their lords and ladies favor, there's something preternaturally quick and resilient to each of them. If your timing is equally preternatural, you might see one kill an Aranean...or you might see an Aranean kill a shabti and devour their remains. While spiders are well aware of the Regency's intent behind the shabti, they're also quick to adapt to this hiccup in the hierarchy and treat them as little more than food and decor, just like their own servants. But that isn't to say they're to be underestimated on the battlefield.

» THE LAST FRONTIER

There are far more than spiders and humans in attendance. What they look like, who they represent, and what they're capable of is as variable as you'd expect in a meeting of interplanetary forces. You never know what you might find.


THE KIOSKS

When you aren't participating in the arenas, you have access to your quarters and the Siopai in the Second Ring. Really, you have access to (almost) all levels of Aranean society, should you wish to explore it. However, the sensation of being watched within the dark halls of Ythaway never disappears; if anything, with the arenas, it intensifies.

And the kiosks are no exception. While they're more affordable than the Siopai, they still aren't cheap. They predominantly sell kitschy trinkets and food; none of the latter is labeled outside of a vague description of what it is, so buyer beware. You don't know what's mixed in there, but it's definitely meat. Mystery meat that the Araneans devour ravenously, as if to remind you they once devoured their creators.

The kiosks—and more than a few other locations in the mines—are also overrun by the paparazzi, Aranean and otherwise. They demand interviews, detailing your latest win in the arenas. What's your date of birth? Is it possible to translate it into the Jhashchan calendar? Perhaps your star sign is compatible with a competing bachelorette.

It's going to be a long two weeks.

READ THE JHASHCH INFOPAGE.

NAV. NETWORK LOGS OOC MEMES PLURK

Comments

PLACEHOLDER.

[agogemod]

[DOWNLOADING...]

young is gross fyi

[bynumber]

[GUESS WHO TOOK ADVANTAGE OF GROTHIA GETTING DISTRACTED.

This is not your scout's first summit in Jhashch and, much as she may loathe it, she knows how to play their game. Which is how she ends up in the stadium, and not against her will. She's spent the last few weeks fuming at the Araneans' leers, anger like armor, and—whether Grothia approves or not—she uses it to vent.

It's a short, brutal match. The Aranean involved is a seasoned female spider from House Khah and Young kills her in an almost boringly straightforward manner: with a spear longer than she is tall. What's more interesting—and gross—is when crows burst from her chest to devour the Aranean's remains.

She reaches into the corpse with one human hand and pulls out the spider's heart. And then she eats it.

She walks out of the stadium, officer's uniform splattered in spider blood, as the crows continue to gorge themselves on the Aranean and tear her apart. Young's face is masked as usual down to her nose, and she calmly shoves another bit of spider gut into her mouth.]

QUEEN THSH - BY INVITATION ONLY.

[agogenpc]

For those that do accept the Queen's invitation, they are brought by gilded carriage at the appointed time and place. Though they may go on to do other things, each are brought into the depths of the innermost circle via an appointed guide who says nothing. An Aranean male who stands back straight, his spear held in his prominent hand. It is dark, impossibly dark. Lace-work webs hang from black and gold gilded pillars as he guidese from the public spaces of ballrooms and dining halls.

The test tubes that made up so much of the architectural centre of the palace catch the light off its glass surface. Shapes inside of them show Aranean's in more than their present form. Beings preserved within them, that were clearly the earlier point in the production of the present now rulers of the planet. Human bodies with twisted faces, spiders with living organs spilling out of them. Others, show animals, or alien races that have been kept inside the tubes. In other places, there are portraits depicting the history of the planet, as well as it seems famous figures. A decorative feature of the Queen's wing of the palace until it gives way to something far more simple.

Heavy slabs of stone, carved to both beautiful elegant forms, the ceilings becoming higher and higher, and heavy beams it seems of Ymir, high above, support them, at this distance it is not enough to effect a human, beyond a prickly heavy feeling against the skin.. The corridors grow narrower and narrower, and the sensation increases of going further into the earth, a steady decline, deeper and deeper. Until at long last, at the end of one great hallway, you are brought to a huge, golden door and the herald knocks once, twice and then a third time, and the Kern of COST is announced.

Come, Little Fly, she has a beautiful bed to and many curious things to show you.

( ooc: for all those that do accept to the Queen's invitation, please respond here! )

PRINCESS CHCH - BY INVITATION ONLY.

[agogenpc]

For those that accept the Princess invitation to her suit of seats at the arena. All that is required is as the letter dictates, to present yourself to a guard with the letter in hand, and you are brought to the Princess's private booth.

Though as you are introduced, it less simply a sitting room as an area of extravagance as anywhere else in the palace. But contrary to the darkness of many areas, everything here is hung with bright washes of material, the viewing window has no glass and light pours in. Strings of jewels and gold hang in looping ceiling decorations. Low tables with servants moving about them stand at the ready to present whatever might be needed. At the Princess' feet, a human servant sits, missing one arm, she lays there, comfortably so. A fond pet, it seems. She matches the Princess' beautiful dress, who wears a layered ensemble of golds and whites and faint blues to match the white and iridescent blue-purple colouring of the royal family.

But unlike many of the dour Aranean's with their harshly judgemental looks - when the Princess sees her company has come, her smile lights up with a beatific smile. Unlike her mother, her form is outwardly far more human. Her eyes are normal, her skin still unnatural, but she only has a usual amount of arms for a human display. One of which, she gestures her new guest closer with.

"Oh, do join me. I have waited so fondly to see you, and now you are before me. Please, come, and tell me how that you do."

Nothing but utterly pleasant to each and everyone of her guests.

Daenerys Targaryen | OTA

[dorzalta]

[ The invitation comes; they move as a unit in attendance to the ceremony for the arena, a superfluous affair by all accounts. The meaning of all this, however, isn't lost on Dany. A show of strength and lavishness always tended to be the royals' way. Dressed in her COST uniform, hair half up and braided, she dons the COST insignia on her right breast. Any and all expression is notably absent as she maintains a cool and disinterested face, Irriella tall and proud beside her. It's for good reason: ever since Queen Thsh announced Irriella as her daughter, there has been a notable increase in scrutiny of both spider and dragon alike. ]

I. THE CEREMONY
Being pulled on stage is unexpected, but the announcement of who they are echoes all around them. It's strange to have such a huge audience. To stand amidst so many who openly regard her as not queen, but a foreign figure perhaps far better as a meal than an ally.

( a ) When it's COST's turn to approach the stage, her attention is split. All those around her bow, though not in unison; she is one of the last remaining to follow suit, her focus on the fireworks above. Do you give her a slight nudge, or say something, to make her focus?

( b ) There is a moment where passing the Regency is inevitable. Dany catches the eye of the male who approached her (or perhaps he catches her eye). The exchange isn't one to go unnoticed, either way. The cool, derisive look of the male. Her smirk as she breezes past. You might catch the glint of silvery metal in her hand. He certainly does.

( c ) After both sides are settled, uthcki and hhcho march upon the stage. This has her head tilting. Irriella, to her right, clicks her mandibles in excitement. For what? Dany doesn't know... but it soon becomes clear after the war cry. Blood and bone. Death. The floor is painted, and she stares, biting back her frown by gritting her teeth. "More brutal than the khalasar," she murmurs to whoever happens to be standing beside her. It's clear she's unhappy.

II. THE ARENA
For all the days which follow with her attendance in the Arena, Dany wears her hair as if to battle. The braids, spun about on her head, converging into one which trails long and low down her back, much like the single braid her dead husband Drogo wore. Any COST recruits who were present whilst Drogo lived might notice the similarity in that.

She notices right away that the Regency always has their shabti in tow, thus giving off an air of importance. It's a game well played, she'll admit with grudging appreciation. For the most part thus far, Jon and Chiron have been by her side, but she's no hesitation in approaching a member of COST to 'absorb' them into their grouping. It's less about showing off power (though there is the full intention of that as well), and more about preservation of her allies. It's also likely why you're approached by her now, the Dragon Queen walking amidst a spattering of enemies, Irriella in tow. "You're dancing with risk, standing alone."

So says the woman who has been under the scrutiny of the High Queen's daughters.

III. THE STADIUM (for those who want Dany to help shit talk and enable your character into battle)
Part of her wishes she were more prepared for combat. If her dragons were here, victory would all but be a guarantee, not an if. She's not alone, however, but with her Day-One she raised from an egg. Her daughter. The very same spiderling who was found perched upon her shoulder for some time, running pale silver strands of hair through her mandibles.

( a ) Now, Dany stands in front of Irriella, adjusting the armor provided. "Fire and blood," she says, tightening a strap. "Those are my family's words, and they are yours as well, tala. The blood of the High Queen runs through your veins, but you are the blood of the dragon, as well." Do you overhear her as she speaks? Irriella sure is watching you with eight unblinking eyes, even as she responds: "I will not disappoint you, Lady Mother," before stepping back and skittering away to enter the arena.

( b ) It's a point of inevitability that challenges are to come. The more battles Irriella wins, the more attention the High Queen's daughter and her 'mentor' gain. While Dany won't openly accept a challenge to combat, she has no problem delegating the task to an ally she's spoken in great length to about this. "You expect to battle a queen?" she asks at one such point. Someone help her, please.

IV. THE COURT
This is her realm, like it or not. Or it will be, when she takes the Iron Throne. As such, she treats the courts of the Arena as she had those of Meereen: entirely seriously. A lesson to be learned when surrounded by those who would happily slit her throat to overthrow her, much as they had her father and family all those years ago. Wearing one of the formal gowns proffered by COST, she loops her hair back into fewer braids, a styling in homage to Meereen, truthfully.

( a ) She tucks her hand into the crook of your arm, never once slowing down, pulling you along. There's a tenseness to her with Princess Chch's arrival. "Come." Looks like you're her partner, whether you like it or not. Irriella will lift you from the ground, two of her legs lifting you from your armpits, if you don't keep in step with Dany.

( b ) The meals served are much akin to the fare proffered thus far. Having eaten a stallion's heart has steeled her against some things, proving her stomach is mightier than the mind; however, there are meals even Dany will avoid, if given the chance. "I don't know what the plate on the left is meant to be," she whispers to you, "But I noticed its leg twitching moments after the plate was set."

( c ) "Some say magic died in my world, lost for centuries with the death of the last dragon," she announces to a small gathering of Araneans. She stands tall, fingers linked together before her. Clearly, her entertainment topic is about dragons and conquering, today. Care to add your own embellishments to the story? You'll have to jump in during a lull. "Until mine were born. Those that would stand in direct opposition to me have burned. My warriors, however, do not consume the corpses."

X. Wildcard
Lay it on me!

(ooc: Will match format. Happy to do personalized starters or plot out something with you if none of these TLs work; get me on bubblytangerine, discord, or PM.)

ii

[gerechtigkeit]

Siegfried, honestly, has done what he can to keep himself away from view and safe enough to avoid being stabbed in the dark. Coming into the arena has had him forfeit his immunity, and perhaps the right to live- but since when was that new for a Servant at all? A summoning into a Grail War was the same, a mage telling their Heroic Spirit that they would fight and win, or fight until they died. A gladiator battle between incredible heroes, all with the same goal in mind- win the Grail and get their wish.

How hilarious for him, that he has no wish for the Grail at all. The only thing he desires is something he can do here and now, and that is enough for him to continue to try.

Still, his eyes flicker quietly when Dany approaches him, and there is almost a minute blink as she speaks. Siegfried nods his head, speaking quietly in turn. "Better alone than by someone who would seek to end me before the fights even began." He knows how these things are- win by whatever means necessary, and death is the only guarantee of leaving. Death, or winning. His only intention is to leave by the latter. Death will not be acceptable, to him.

[horsepowered]

I. The Stadium (if you think we're gonna make it you better hang onto yourself)

[Chiron's own preference for weapons in the stadium lies not with the javelin that so many of the hosts favor, but with a bow and enough arrows to accomplish whatever the task at hand is. He would use his own, the one given to him as a servant of the Archer class, but it's a thing made of magic and thus here, it does not give him any advantage. It is a weakness, something he must discard.

He doesn't mind. The bow he has picked is reliable (he bought it in one of the shops, making use of the credits COST afforded him), and he has arrows. Everything else is down to instinct. For the matches where Chiron is paired with another COST member, he makes sure to stand by them in order to strategize as quickly as possible.]

Where do your skills lie, and do you wish to take the lead in declaring this match when we win?

II. The Game (Think about all of the strange things circulating round)
Chiron's no man inclined towards skill in video games, but he wants to obeserve the matter because it is the single event that allows interplanetary participation. It is, to him, the most obvious way to manipulate the system and if no one makes an attempt to do so, he will be extremely surprised.

He watches match after match with a cold air around him, his arms folded over his chest and eyes everywhere at once. He has no intention of getting eaten, and if there are signs of cheating, he wants to know so that COST can try to gain any ground lost.

But he notices something else as well. Time and again, Chiron's eyes return to Prince Shch, his interest, all of it, that is important. That's information that can be used, especially if the princess is bullheaded enough to continue to pursue any alliance with the Regency.

"How very fascinating," he mutters at some point, as the games continue. "If I'm reading this correctly, that is."

III. Kiosks + Last Frontier (Pushing through the market square)
[Chiron's preference for stepping aside from the arena is born of both a need to rest (fighting is still a strain of mana and he cannot push himself too hard) and some level of curiosity regarding all of the others attending the games. With the games being interplanetary, that means that there is opportunity to learn far more about this time and place than simply requesting more information about COST would afford.]

a) [Speaking with a woman who cannot be more than thirty, her hair stunningly elaborate like that of a Roman matron (sewn into place she says, a mark of pride in her voice at not only her status but at the skill of her hairdresser), Chiron hears tell of her own homeworld and how seeing this spectacle is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Chiron smiles at her, kind as anything, only for her to apologize, as she's late to meet a friend.]

Mm. I wonder how quickly word can reach within this empire, and how recent events have been reported.

b)There's no look on Chiron's face that has ever screamed HELP as it has in this moment. There are far too many boisterous paparazzi with even more legs surrounding him, making a polite ducking out all but impossible to avoid.

Some of the questions, How long have you been focusing on archery?; Is it a disadvantage to not use magic in the arena? It's quite obvious that's a part of your skillset; would you be prepared to move on to a different level of difficulty with an opponent? would be easy to respond to if they were being asked by one person. But the constant flow peppered with I've heard that there's a number of competeing Araneans who've taken notice; would you consider private meetings with fans; are you aware of the society pages that say make it all but impossible to get away without making an absolute ass of oneself.

"This is all very," Chiron tries to respond over the din. Raising his voice is not something he's keen on doing, but in about five seconds...

IV. Recovery (I'm so wiped out with things as they are)
It had been a fight that Chiron had engaged in. Impressive, terrifying, energizing, and lost. It was hard not to think of it in terms of a fight in the Grail War, one with a few handicaps given how much magic was a disadvantage here.

To sit in bed and rest was not something Chiron was inclined to do. Not when there were others who needed support, not when his own Master was still fighting. But to force himself to move too quickly would be a drain on that same Master's mana, and it would destroy her chances of success. That was unacceptable.

And so for two days, Chiron remained in COST's temporary lodgings, far removed from everything and what felt like everyone.

I

[doublejumps]

[ There's much about this planet that is foreign to Genji, and the arena is no different. Gladiatorial combat fell out of favor on Earth centuries ago, and so while much of Jhashch is advanced, this part of it feels antiquated. Still, fighting in the ring will earn COST more favor among the Araneans, and Genji knows that he's well-suited to it. He's done plenty of sparring, though this is on the other end of the spectrum when it comes to the risk involved. He's already seen competitors die in the ring, and that level of ruthlessness seems to be encouraged.

He's been paired up for this particular fight, which eases some of his anxiety, at least. In theory, if there's two of them their chances of winning will be better. He hasn't met this other COST agent before, let alone fought beside him, but Genji's body language eases slightly when he sees the bow and arrow.

He knows how to fight alongside an archer, after all.

His partner gets down to business, which Genji appreciates. He nods down to the wakizashi sheathed across his back. ] My skills lie with the blade. I can get in close and keep them busy, while you shoot from afar? [ A simple strategy, but an effective one. ] As for declaring, I don't mind.

Mamoru Hijikata ✛ ota

[prizeneck]

I - It is not a Hunger Games reference until someone quotes Lorde lyrics AKA The Ceremony

1. [Brought in together as a group, standing close together as some sort of parade towards a stage, Mamoru's mind goes straight to a very distant memory. The dampness of the summer air against his 13-year-old skin, seeping through the excitable chatter of the boys in his class surrounding the TV. They're watching the opening ceremony of the Olympics, the transmission focusing on the happy and nervous faces of the athletes, waving at the crowd behind the standard-bearers as they walk on a running track.

So distant, the memory, it actually catches him off guard - maybe you're behind him and he slows a tiny bit down but enough for you to kick at his ankle by accident, making both do an awkward shuffle in the middle of the group. Or maybe you spot his face and the little shake of his head, his expression an obvious self-admonition. Focus, it says. ]


2. [A look around, even though Mamoru doesn't really need to look at his colleagues to know that the air suddenly snapped at the first crack of a bone. Mamoru is only a little visibly unphased. But he's not entirely without feeling - his hands, once carefully resting one over the other on the handles of the two swords at his waist, have lost their color at the knuckles, grip tight around the leather of the wrapping of the wakizashi. It's in the subtle set of his jaw, or rather, not so subtly, at the tension that's lacking in his shoulders. He knows how an execution ground feels. Has been the executor many times. Barely escaped his own some others. He knows it's to be expected for the spoils of war to be taken.

The origin of his disdain for this hierarchy as a whole had been hard to pinpoint. Until then. Killing for fun, for a show, rather than efficiency. Nothing is worse than this, he says, barely noticing he whispers it.]

II - If I start punching people but go "My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius", can I not go to jail? AKA The Arena

1. [Mamoru is easily found in the stands of the Stadium. Like a scout for an opposite team, he's standing and leaning against a wall - he's not about to leave his back uncovered, even if he only needs his sunglasses to maneuver himself in the dark - watching carefully at the happenings in the center. Taking in every sweep, every challenge, every defeat and victory, the Aranean and Regency reactions alike. The fighters from distant lands and times, who looked like they could only be invented rather than created.

If you approach him, he'll jerk his head to the space beside him against the wall. It's a good vantage point over an Aranean family that isn't too rowdy to block the view in the stands in front of them.]

What d'ya think?


2. [His time is almost here. Throwing himself into the stadium, facing a challenge against an opponent that he doesn't know. On a stool before the entrance of the arena, Mamoru is getting ready, sitting quietly, head down, arms crossed over his chest, ankles crossed.

A fighter going into the zone before stepping into the ring, mind entering into flow state. His face shows an expression of...

... focus?

No, man. Dude is napping. Try to wake him up, yeah?]

III - THE FALLOUT boy

[Maybe he survived his turn in the arena, maybe he did not and you find him walking out of a scouting trip to the stands to take a look at his opponents. Maybe you're coming back from your videogame marathon, or maybe you're walking tired in court shoes after talking pretty and looking pleasant - or was it the other way around?

Regardless, you've found Mamoru walking back to COST's quarters after what seems a long day in this even longer couple of weeks. Catch his eye or catch up to him and he'll nod in acknowledgment.

His voice, however, sounds even grittier and without humor, even as his lip tugs into a slow smirk.]

You look like shit.

IV - This is a story about a girl named Lucky AKA The Kiosks

1. [The edge of his blade is resting against the throat of an obvious - and oblivious journalist - pinned against the wall and against the glare through the red lenses of Mamoru's shades. Being part of the underworld meant that interest had only one goal in mind, which is why the fumbling mess of the photographer waving a camera and stuttering about how he could reach to his pocket if he let him, man, there's a Press Pass there that he could show him, is failing completely. Mamoru looks unconvinced. It has to be a ruse, and the intent he read aimed at his jugular had been nothing but some dissimulated attempt at hiding some sort of aggressive action.

... Save the journalist, please? ]

2. [Or maybe it's you who needs saving. Be it by weaving through a crowd with surprising ease and learning a shortcut or two? Or a hand on your shoulder and an intimidating aura behind your back to keep the uncomfortable questions at bay? He'd be happy...? Maybe not but he'd help anyway if you give mouth him a "get me outta here" or something.]

V - I have a hideous poker face So wildcard me!

[I shall match formats if the brackets aren't your thing! Throw me anything, I love surprises. Also if you wanna discuss anything I'm mikefoxtrot or Disco: jackuzis#7200. WInk wonk ;)]

3, fallout

[dorzalta]

[ Court's bested her in the only way it can: with poison. A minor attack by a stupid Aranean. If she looks wilted, too pale, or like death warmed over, that's likely why. Having it pointed out earns him a glare.

For once, Irriella is not by her side. ]

You try being poisoned.

kel cheris ( "kana chriferafa" ) | ota

[bivariant]

I. COURT

A. [ -- there is an Aranean female, dead at her feet, when she remembers her training and dips into a shallow, but strong bow before the watchful eyes of the court surrounding her. There's something mechanical in the way she turns on her heel, sharp and habitual, bowing to the ruling family and voicing her gratitude to House Khah for being an inspiration. It's clear that she aims to favor Khah in her proceedings, but whether that is due to militaristic familiarity or a deeper machinations remains to be seen. There has never been much sophistication or grace to her motions, but as she turns on her heels and strides purposefully from the floor and into the crowd.

It takes her some time, to shake the inquisitive conversations and gleeful inquiries into her lineage, her skill, the sudden influx of invitations for further duels that are pressed upon her. Eventually, she's able to slip from the depths of court into the halls surrounding it, and while she is not alone, it is only now that she visibly reveals her nerves. The way she clutches her chest, the sharp intake of breath, the glazed look in her eye as she finally notices her fellow COST member nearby. There's a splash of color on her face. Aranean blood. ]

I am not a diplomat, [ she's said it often, and solemnly, ] was it foolish of me to come to this place? It's too intricate, for both of us.

B. [ She returns, eventually, under the premise that she needed to use the washroom to tidy her appearance, unwilling to present any sign of vulnerability or emotion to exploit. She is a victor now, a subject of gossip, and a hybrid entity that had been taking full advantage of her taboo presence to keep the Aranean curiosities at bay. Cheris takes the floor with all the regality of a general, there is nothing elegant about her stiff posture or tight stance, but there is a better mastery of her surroundings.

The duelist she bested, Shygkh, has been removed from the field. Conspiratorially, Cheris seeks out the next of her COST-affiliated companions and holds a hand below her mouth as she mock-whispers into their ear: ] What shall I claim as my victory boon? I have never had a duel feature such a stipulation.

[ As always, she wants to Make It Good For All. There's no sense that she requires anything, personally. ]

II. ARENA & GAMES

[ Through the week, she stops in on COST's other members. Be it just before a match in the arena, or to offer her voice as support in the crowd of a gaming parlor, there's a sense that she's doing her best to make her presence known among her team -- whether she's offering some of her cross credits to a gamer, to give them one more round ( there's no need to spend them on myself, she explains ), or to tersely double-check the armor and gear provided to participant in the wargames, to ensure only the highest quality is being wielded, she's there. ]

Chin up. I'll be watching.

III. AROUND, DRIFTING THROUGH

[ There's a deck in her hands, a black-and-gold set of twenty-five elegant cards stylized with Aranean imagery, that she practices with. ( Her face wrinkles, now and again, as she sights the limbs of a spider. The spread of a web causing her to physically flinch, as though something about it affects her deeply. ) Taking Vax'ildan's shuffling lessons to heart, as she settles in visible places and cuts cards across her knees and her wrists, with elegant gestures that do not suit her personality nor her traditional manner of dealing with things -- bluntly, and with a passion for literalism. No, someone else steers her hands, shuffling decks and drawing answers to unheard questions. ]

I won them, [ she explains eventually, ] at the auction, of House Chchai's former belongings.

[ Once more, she cuts and folds them, before placing the neatly-cornered deck in her lap. ]

They tell the future, I've been told. Would you let me practice on you?

IV. WILDCARD

( Cheris attended House Khah's party and was very likely to be caught by anyone else who attended, as she spent some time attempting to schmooze the Great Matron of the house, Lady Jhhck. I'll throw up backdated logs for spiderparty, if anyone wants some one-on-one time with that! You can reach me on Plurk @ forzare for any curveballs you want to throw or plotting you want to get done. )

iii

[handsomefoil]

[ Henry watches her movements carefully. It's not out of any recognition of something out of the ordinary. Unfortunately, the fact that someone else can influence her movements is something beyond him at the moment. He's more concerned about keeping up his appearances and not to draw too much attention to himself, his gaze flickering to the sides at every passing person, Aranean or otherwise.

Hands in his lap, back straightening a little, he cants his head with a smile. ]

I'd be honored.

[ He gestures slightly at the cards. ]

minatsuki takami / "hanamira kougousabi" ( ota )

[jailbirds]

I. IF I TREMBLE (THEY'RE GONNA EAT ME ALIVE) — THE STADIUM

[ if you see Minatsuki in the arena for her debut fight? she wrecks it.

but the thing is that she seems— different, during the fight. she's very good, experienced at both the combat and at playing to a crowd. her ability comes out for the first time here, too, this strange flurry of whips that she makes out of her own blood. it's just that the longer the fight goes on, the more she's falling back on something to cover her nerves, a personality that she left behind almost a year ago; she starts laughing more and more, this awful, high, grating noise. she toys with the Aranean she's up against, insults and dances around them, dragging out the fight just for the sake of mockery, and at the end—

kills her, without hesitating for even a second. she stands proud like a seasoned gladiator in the face of the cheers, bowing in the proper Aranean style to the crowds.

when Minatsuki comes out the other side at last, something is still not quite right. she's shaking head to toe, pale, but still laughing. she claws absently at the side of her head with her fingernails, hard enough that it must hurt, blood dripping down the back of her neck from where the Whip Wing had clustered. ]

Ha... Ahaha... [ if you come towards her, she startles, skittish as a wild animal, and then gives a knife-sharp smile. ] I wondered if I was gonna be rusty, but I guess not.

II. IF I STUMBLE (THEY'RE GONNA EAT ME ALIVE) — MINOR CELEBRITY

[ in the aftermath, Minatsuki inherits quite the fanclub for killing Jngja, and even though she has no interest in it, Hanamira Kougousabi eats it up. if you're around the stadium, you might see her fairly often, making an appearance to give tips and take part in practice bouts with up-and-coming fighters. she pays a lot of attention to any of her admirers, too; she'll sweet-talk anyone who stops her in the street, coy and a little cocky. (if you want to rescue her from one of these run-ins to pay her back for using her status to bail you out last week, she'd appreciate it.)

naturally, a lot of Araneans and others who've seen her fight want to know more about her abilities. the blood. she's not at all magical! what kind of fascinating artificial enhancement does she have? so it's common to find her in a conversation where she's being interrogated as such, and she gladly offers information, even if you can see her hands clenched into tight fists, nails digging into her palms just past the end of her long kimono sleeves. ]

Oh — you want to know more about my Whip Wing? Certainly, certainly. I'd be delighted to show you. [ she plucks out one of her earrings; blood oozes out from the place where her earlobe is torn, forming a long, prehensile tendril that flicks up into the air and curls like a question mark. ] It's a blood mutation that was created in a lab, and then transplanted into me. Very few people have this, so as you can imagine, it's quite desirable.

[ she hates this. kill her. ]

III. CAN YOU HEAR MY HEART (BEATING LIKE A HAMMER) — STRESS RELIEF

[ is she just always going to be a bad person, she wonders in the wake of this latest development. when they fought that faker Mockingbird, it was different, because that wasn't the same tightrope fear-triggered survival drive as a Carnival Corpse, she was working with everyone then to end things. but put her back in a stadium and — well, you can take the girl out of Wonderland, but you can't take Wonderland out of the girl.

fuck that. it's not her style to sit around brooding about shit like that, and she's done plenty of it already, anyway. she did what she had to, and it's natural that she'd fall back on bad habits; it's not like she's turning this into a regular thing. ... she did think that being on the good side was supposed to involve less of the same life she's already led.

she doesn't want to think about it. not now, not here. it's a rookie mistake to get caught up in her own head when she has an act to keep up. if she's going to put her head back on straight, then she should look for a distraction that will take the edge off her twitchiness. which is why she strolls up to anyone she sees hanging around COST's lodgings. even if she's never spoken to you before and doesn't know your name. ]

Hey. [ she nudges you with her foot. it's possibly more like a gentle kick. ] Come shopping with me. There's nothing I want, but I've got a shitton of cash now, so I'll buy you something as long as it's not stupid.

IV. HELP, I'M ALIVE — WILDCARD

[ she's going to keep doing stadium fights despite the effect they have on her, so if you want to partner up, there's plenty of opportunity; she is also absolutely down to be a trophy if you want to take her along for court mingling. if there's anything you want to discuss, hmu @ dragonstrike! ]

III

[horsepowered]

Hm?

[Chiron has been lost in his own thoughts for days. Weeks now, even, although the Arena has destroyed much of the time he was using for self-reflection and trying to work within the mission's confines, staying on point in regard to the spiderarchy, dealing with all the implications Ymir brought, and just about everything else.

Being nudged and processing the words said, Chiron inclines his head slightly.]

It would probably be wise to buy more arrows before tomorrow's match in the arena, I suppose.

ryo asuka ( tennou vergilius maro ) | ota | general

[reillumination]

I. TIME CAST A SPELL ON YOU, BUT YOU WON'T FORGET ME (OR THE STANDS & ABOUT THE QUARTERS)

A.

[ Before his tussle in the Stadium, he can be found quietly attending the matches. He sits in the highest rises, one leg crossed over the other and eyes fixed on each of the matches with an almost desperate edge. It is clear from the odd pallor cast across his features that he doesn't seem to be enjoying this, the blue painted meat of his lower lip caught between his teeth. Occasionally, he'll lean forward further to see a square-off against an Aranean, but that's it.

Otherwise, he quietly nurses something from an opaque bottle in his hands. His knuckles go white occasionally, but sometimes — sometimes, there's something strange and foreign that edges around the corners of his expression. When people sit next to him or linger beside him, he won't look up immediately. However, he will eventually. His eyes are always dark.

It might be difficult to hear him above the rising and falling clamor about them all, but: ]

Are you competing?

[ It isn't so much an interest, as it is almost something that's expected these days. ]

B.

[ After his tussle in the Stadium, Ryo keeps to himself near COST's quarters.

Occasionally, he can be seen in the interconnected garden between their rooms, his injuries largely healed by the next week. All that remains is the ugly purples and greens about his knuckles where they'd fractured under strain, the duller pallor of his skin from residual blood loss. He looks... Tired. The bruises that once adorned his face like splashes of dark paint are gone, leaving deeper shadows beneath his eyes. No matter the amount of makeup he places over them, he can't hide them entirely. It's questionable if he tries.

More often than not, he drinks from his own stores he's purchased here. He'd rather not go out to a bar if he can help it. He doesn't want to see himself up on the screens, much less hear about it.

If anyone comes to sit beside him, he wordlessly extends whatever glass he has in his hand without looking. He doesn't want to. ]

It's better than the stuff at the bars, [ he says, as if it excuses and explains him reaching out with it all. ]

ryo asuka ( tennou vergilius maro ) | ota | stadiums

[reillumination]

II. BABY, I DON'T WANNA KNOW (cw: excessive gore, dissociative states).

[ There was no way to win.

In the fray, in the impossibility presented here — he's only a human, he's only a human — Ryo had been presented a challenge that should have ended just like this: death by the hands of the Araneans whom he turned down or death by the hands of the Aranean who issued the summons that trapped him to begin with. The time it'd taken him to be called from the party to this moment, right now, had been gruesomely short. And in the end, in the pressure to choose his hand, he'd tried his luck to buy time to live.

But, nerves had rattled him. So, too, had the many eyes cast down from the stands, the weight of the gun in his hand. No matter how well he shot, his opponent was fleet and experienced. He'd seen far more powerful than him fall to a spider's maw, their bodies devoured with a primal adroitness. He'd seen the tender color of their flesh, the insides of exoskeletons. The scent of their deaths reached him, even up in the roar of the stands. And now, he was surrounded by it. He was coated in it.

Everything is a furious rush in his head, his vision blurring through tears as he reloads his gun again. No matter how sure his fingers are, it's no use as he's crowded in by dark limbs. The crowd is a smudge in his periphery as he tries to shove the butt of the gun up into the spider's mouth, air breaking from his lungs in hysterical laughter. He's lost so much blood, so much blood — the blunt row of his teeth is stained in red as he pulls the trigger, only to miss and clip the Aranean's armored exterior as he pulls back from the blast. He'd long used up the more useful properties. Left to only bullets, he feels the weight of a leg press against the meat of his shoulder and shove him back.

He's already unsteady. It doesn't take much. His feet are out from under him already, clotheslined by another limb.

The world upends and all that's left is the sharp buzz that erupts from within as the back of his head hits the floor of the arena, the massive body of the spider a long shadow over him. Distantly, he can hear the proclamation that he's about to receive a killing blow — ]

[ It doesn't happen.

The air of the arena shifts, a living and tangible thing. It comes in the sudden surge something so cold and so bright from Ryo's vulnerable form that it seems to burn against the underbelly of his opponent. They rear back, hissing loud enough to be heard across the stadium.

What happens in the next few moments is difficult to describe, in part because it is difficult to see. Ryo pulls himself up with an inhuman fluidity, the lines of his body lit like a match. From his hands, he drops his weapon and reaches up to remove his goggles.

His opponent charges back in.

There's something bright that sparks off him, like a current. It cuts into the softer portions of the spider's body, but at such close range, it is difficult to tell what it is. It engulfs the pair and the ensuing scuffle sends the spider skidding backward. With the Aranean's underside now exposed, Ryo emerges from the bright with a looseness that has never been suggested in him.

But, it can't be argued. Somehow, he's already leapt up onto the vulnerable point of the spider. Feet planted on the underbelly, Ryo lets out a ringing laugh as the spider tries his best to right himself — legs tearing at Ryo's form with an instinctual viciousness. In the darkness, his eyes cut like the knife he jerks out from his boot as he bends down, one limb cleaving a line across the high of his cheekbone. It should have drawn blood.

It doesn't. The skin mends. The skin mends and Ryo bears his teeth, rears his arm back —

It's excessive, in the end. His opponent struggles and squirms — cuts into his sides and across his arms — but ice spreads out from beneath Ryo's feet as he hauls his arm back again and again. Even once it is evident that the Aranean no longer lives, Ryo doesn't stop.

He doesn't stop, until he notices the stadium has exploded into riotous cheering. His eyes blink the gore from his lashes — once, twice — as he lifts his head.

He straightens, tearing a loosened limb from his opponent as he goes. He doesn't stay still for long, as he hops off without the wobble and sway that had dictated his movements before. He lands light, slower than he should. The tips of his toes brush the ground beneath him as he settles like one stepping back from a waltz.

He hoists the limb up, mouth upturned in a way both hungry and beatific. ]

House Jankeh, [ he calls, his voice projecting further than its bodily constraints. It rings clear and bright, like a champagne flute struck with the flat of cutlery. He glows amid the darkness, the smallest slip of light in a sea of unseen bodies.

Lord Ngsh's blood rains over the golden crown of his head. ]

A.

[ There's something strange and feral behind his eyes, his skin somehow alight against the slick of ichor. His movements don't seem to fit in his body as he moves outside the Stadium's ring, the weight of his presence a visible luminescence in the dim. As though beneath a dark ocean, he appears a bright and beautiful thing, his head held high and blue eyes chatoyant. Across the obsidian bodies of Araneans, the upward sweep of his right hand to rest against his chest casts a cool and brilliant glow. It softens their hard edges, makes them somehow more approachable than the one who stands at the center of them, encircled as soon as he exits the doors.

It seems a struggle for many of them to remain in his range for long. Their clustered, wet eyes wink and glitter like strange stars against the way he cuts at their comfortable dimness. But, their mandibles still clack and their legs still reach with questions and inquiries. Ryo's face is a neutral mask, blood dripping from the tips of his fingers as he holds what appears to be a portion of a limb, the straps of his gun and his goggles in his left hand. It is hard to hear his answers unless someone steps in, though his voice seems to have no trouble rippling outward like a low tide at a certain radius. ]

It was what had to be done, [ he says, silvery and soft. His eyes lid against the gore that brushes against the high points of his face. His mouth goes sweet and pliant, adorned with the glimmer of white teeth beneath the ugly and artful split of his lip. ] Move back. I need to clean myself off.

[ When they don't move back, there's a subtle and slow dip of the air about them. It comes like a pale frost. It spans past metaphorical, webbing its way across anything living or warm closest to him. Even then, it's with a reluctance that they seem to scuttle back and allow him move.

If he passes by the person who has come to witness this, especially if they've lingered in curiosity, he lowers his right hand and idles — for a moment. ]

What is it? [ He asks. His eyes skim a slow line from head to toe. Somehow, the tone of it is too absent to be absent at all. ]

B.

[ He doesn't come back to the stands.

Instead, he's tucked himself into a quiet corner just beyond the entrance. Most seem to have overlooked him here, no longer bright in any sense of the word. To them, it was another body curled in on itself. Covered in blood as he is, with his hair matted to the curvature of his skull — he could pass for something near to death. But, death doesn't touch Ryo Asuka as much as others might have thought it had.

Close to him, one can hear the short and shallow intakes of breath. He'd pressed himself here in the darkness some time ago, his back up against the corner and his arms bent and pulled flush against his raised knees. His forehead has long rested hard against the tops of his knees, his fingers buried in the slick of his hair with enough dedication to reopen the wounds that litter their way across them. An observant eye can map what's caused them: a digging in of nails and joints beneath the soft plates at the bend of chitinous legs. The subsequent drag back had skinned them here and there, his pale skin a raw and vicious red beneath the discoloration of oxidized gore that does not belong to him.

Touching him only escalates the staggered nature of his breaths, the minute trembling of his body. He can't seem to get words out to questions, as much as he can seem to get words out to himself. His voice is how it always was, though rasped and low — tremulous, now. ]

What did I do? Why didn't I lose? What did I—?

[ It doesn't matter if anyone goes. But, if someone stays and waits, it might be possible to guide him back out of the Stadium to get himself cleaned up. ]

ashitaka | ota

[lonelywar]

THE ARENA
(A) They have been told that the social graces that might save them from a knife placed in their back on the streets of the city are not present here. With that heavy in the minds of most, there's a dangerous sort of energy that pervades the darkened hallways. Ashitaka, respectably clad in his blue robes, keeps a wary eye about himself, always with a hand resting on the hilt of the rapier hanging from his side. He especially tracks the movements of the Regency members found throughout the throngs of creatures. They had always worn masks, casting themselves as faceless pieces in their war over time and everything held in its cradle. It is so strange to see them as they were, though he finds he cannot see them the same as he sees himself and the others of COST. There is something cold to them, something alienating in the gleaming pieces of machinery that many wear as points of pride.

The Commander and Young split off from the rest of the COST agents to speak with what looked like the leaders of the Regency, and the subordinates of all factions begin to disperse, either towards the various arenas of skill or some even back towards the Rings of the city and the amenities they offered.

Ashitaka has watched the behavior of a hunting predator to know that this is a tenuous time. He approaches another nearby COST agent, looking towards them with cool eyes and giving them a nod in greeting. Then he speaks in terse undertone, "We are being watched." It's an obvious statement, as everyone is watching everyone, but he seems to mean something a little more specific. "It is at times like these that a quiet attack is most well-hidden."

He is silent, contemplative, for a moment before he continues with a severity of tone and expression. "Though we could also attempt to trap the hunter, if you are so inclined."

THE STADIUM (CW: BLOOD, GORE | MID-MONTH | this isn't actually a prompt, god forgive me)
Ashitaka has always been a grounded young man. As he strides out into the harsh ring of packed dirt monolithic and rock which stood as the arena for this match, he does so with his feet firmly on the ground, his eyes set level and forward. He has never had delusions of his own strength, and having come to lend his aid to COST and see the others that had done the same had only further tempered his internal expectations. In the end, the culmination of his life's training and what strength the curse recklessly gave him were not much when compared to the gifts of others. He was well aware of this, and yet he was also sharply aware that he had little else to give. To some, his straight-forward nature and predisposition to not mince words was something charming in and of itself, earning him trust where others might fall short simply because it did not seem to be within the fabric of his person to show deceit. That is still true. Though he could pace through the motions of the niceties and tradition of court and fumble his way through the layered conversations (a form of combat he had never been trained in), he knew that he would earn COST no renown there. And so he had put himself forward for the stadium, spending life and limb as the only currency he had to use.

He does not wear the extravagant blue robes he had been seen in at court and during the opening ceremonies, instead wearing plain pants with a deeper blue vest which cropped short at the sleeves. He walks with bow already drawn and strung, arrows kept in a quiver slung across his back, his shortsword buckled to his side. Along his right arm, bared for the first time to the world without long sleeves and gloves, was a blue and purple mark which wound its way towards his shoulder, partially visible at his collarbone where it continued around his chest. Until this point, Ashitaka has kept the physical mark of his curse a secret, thinking it was his own to bear, but he got the feeling it would not be so easy to keep hidden here. So he had cut away the one piece of deceit he performed to the world, brandishing plainly the mark of one who would kill a god.

He had not heard much of his opponent, and facing him now, he realizes how little he expects. The Aranean ringfighter known as Nkh stands tall, and despite being male, that is still markedly taller than his human competitor. Despite maintaining distance at first, Ashitaka can see the glint of the scimitars in his hands, a look of severity in his eyes.

Tension builds, thrumming in the crowd as hundreds of Araneans tasted the barest trace of the magic in the bowl of the stadium.

And then the fight began.

Ashitaka realizes immediately that he has never fought with a creature that moved exactly in this way, with such speed and an ability to change course and direction seamlessly. Nkh is fast, so much so that he knows he will not be able to outpace him, so speed and precision is of the utmost importance. The ringfighter immediately begins a circular flanking route, and Ashitaka nocks an arrow into his bow, training it on the moving target. He's seen these creatures, studied the places where one could pierce between pieces of chitinous armor. The first arrow he looses goes wide, crashing into a rock and splintering into pieces; the Aranean was too distant and too fast. He takes another breath, draws another arrow back, staring down the fighter who is now rushing him with blades drawn, testing the air with curving slices. This time the arrow flies and strikes true, perhaps having found its target growing lulled with a false sense of security at this human boy firing sharpened sticks. The arrow sinks nearly half its length into a gap in the plates of armor in his shoulder, and the Aranean screeches, slicing off the feathered protruding end with a scimitar blade before tearing out the remaining part. He continues to charge, and Ashitaka manages to fire two more arrows before Nkh is upon him: one shatters uselessly off of a plate of armor and the other finds its mark in the connecting tissue of one of the spider-like legs, very nearly severing it completely. The noise begins the build in the crowd, growing louder to a clamor as Nkh falls fast into melee range and Ashitaka realizes there's no way he can disengage and find good ground to continue a ranged attack.

It's at this point he begins to doubt.

The scimitars cut a storm of sharp slices, and in blocking the first few blows he loses his bow, dropped and immediately forgotten in the dirt kicked up. Nkh retreats for a moment, Ashitaka draws his sword, and as the ringfighter rounds to his flank and comes in for another attack, he defends with speed that blurs, the sound of metal ringing against metal marking time in the murmur from the stands. It grows louder as something odd begins to happen, a dull blue glow that emanates from Ashitaka's right arm, extending down the length of the sword. When fighting, when the intent of violence and the desire to spill blood fills the air, the beast that Ashitaka tries to keep bound and caged slips through his fingers, seeping out of his very pores.

Nkh's body language changes, grows more sharp and aggressive with the scent of magic stronger in the air; for several more exchanges of blows Ashitaka keeps pace, scoring a few minor blows, but then he misses a parry on one of the scimitars swiped at his side. The blade cuts deep, glancing against bone, and blood spills. Ashitaka gasps in pain but manages to parry another few blows — before missing another, gaining a deep gouge along his left shoulder. The blue glow grows restless, stretching out like reaching fingers, forming into waving tendrils of corrupt magical energy which extend out and around their host, wrapping around the blade of his sword. Behind them he leaves footprints seemingly burned into the earth, seeping like poison into the ground.

And Ashitaka leans into the strength that the curse offered.

The pain of the cuts and the feeling of losing blood eases out of his mind, replaced only with the roar of the increasingly-raucous crowd, the song of metal slicing through air, a howling in his ears like a pack of a dozen wolves. Now it's him that unleashes a series of blows against his opponent, scoring several hits from superficial to potentially significant, though the aggressiveness left once-careful guard wide open. For every blow he gains on Nkh, the Aranean scores one or two more. Ranging from grazes to deep cuts, they each rob from Ashitaka blood, and soon things start to grow hazy. In desperation he reaches for whatever the curse will give him, and the curse gives in kind all that it can, jealously wanting for nothing else in existence to rob from it the host that it itself wished to claim the life of. Each of Ashitaka's wounds seem to open more, spilling blood, but keen eyes of observers would find that it was not blood but scores of waving red tendrils spilling from the wounds, spreading over Ashitaka's body like an infestation. His movements grow less exact and more wild and reckless as he hands himself over to the demon that he had killed, that lie in wait to one day kill him, and he does score fleeting momentary victory. One of Nkh's scimitars falls to the ground as the arm holding it was maimed in a way that it fell limp, and the ringfighter decides to retreat again, leaving Ashitaka to slow to a halt where he stands.

Blood pooling ruby red at his feet, by this point he is barely visible beneath the seething cloud of wormlike corruption, waving and writhing however it can, intent to turn away blows that might kill its host. Ashitaka heaves for each breath, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth, barely able to see through the haze of rage and what he's become. He hears first the sharp crescendo of excitement from the crowd as the harbinger of Nkh's final charge before he hears the skittering of spider-like legs on the packed earth.

What happens when they clash for the final time is a flurry of blows, Nkh's remaining weapons growing strained and brittle as they came into contact with the defensive nests of tendrils. It's during one clash of blade upon blade that Nkh, with a twist of his wrist, manages to disarm Ashitaka by tearing the blade from his weakening grasp. The ringfighter takes a step back, and Ashitaka attempts to take one forward to follow, but something in him gives out, sending him down to one knee. Everything grows dark, and red, and angry, swarming around him from dozens of bleeding cuts. He slumps to the ground, tasting iron hearing chaos, and then the very last of the curse's energy fails him and he falls unconscious.

For a long moment Nkh stands, as confused as the onlookers, before what had once been his opponent, unsure how to place what had happened as the prone body swarms with the curse's infestation. In the end the ringfighter proclaims his victory and dedicates it, and the broken body of what had once been Ashitaka is removed from the stadium by a half dozen magically-immune Aranean hands.

RECOVERY (LATE-MONTH)
(B) Ashitaka is not seen for a week.

His wounds were extensive, landing him within an inch of death. But the stubbornness of both himself and his mortal curse kept him clinging to life just long enough to get him stabilized, and a week confined to bed rest later and he is mobile once again. He at first walks very slowly through the halls of the villa that COST has been stationed in, and carefully-assembled bandages and wraps of gauze can be seen in what few places the blue robes reveal: some around his neck, below his chin, and in places on his hands. He eventually comes to stand in the garden at the center of the building. He stands before the statue of the blindfolded Aranean and the beast, realizing after a long minute what they were. The Watcher and the Hunter, or the essence of them, retold in the reprise of an entirely different people.

He wonders if anyone would have dedicated a piece of art to her in memory of him, should he have died.

He decides that it would not have mattered regardless.

WILDCARD
(C) As usual, anything and everything else!

B

[mylawn]

In addition to his own fights, 76 is paying careful attention to the other recruits' battles, if only to stay abreast of any particularly interesting developments. Ashitaka's fight is brutal in more ways than one, but it seems he survived his recent bout. 76 has questions, of course, about what he's seen, but the important thing is that he managed to escape with his life. He's wandering the courtyard of their villa when he spots him, and the bandages say it all.

"You look like you're doing better."

In that he's alive, and up on his feet, even if it's been a week.

"How are you feeling?"

A loss like that must sting, if not physically then psychologically. He knows Ashitaka is a thoughtful man, but 76 can't quite imagine what must be going through his head as he stares down the statues.

Vash the Stampede | ota

[criticality]

( THE CEREMONY )

[ It has been a dizzying week in terms of large events happening to Vash. Which was saying a lot when considering the rest of his long and eventful life. He had watched helplessly as his closest friend sat dying, only to be rescued at the last moment in what Vash had could only explain as God finally listening to one of his pleas. Then the whirlwind activity of training. Vash has always done things a certain way, lived his life in a fashion that many disproved of, but it was the only way to put his mind to rest at the end of the day. Now he is in the ranks of an organization that expect him to act their way. Vash is uncertain that he can do that.

Still, he stands at attention in his new uniform that in his opinion is not his colour. Blue is just odd after so many years of bright, flashy red.

He watches the spiders parade out, still very wary of them. Anything too far removed from humanity makes him uncomfortable and cagey. He does not like their habits or their violence. And the fact that they celebrate his oddities and alieness does nothing to relax him.

But, evening knowing about their tendencies, he is still surprised when sudden, unpredictable violence happened. Blood is every where and without even really thinking about it, Vash’s hand jumps to his colt slung around his hip, with the intentions of moving forward, even if that will cause certain offence and pandemonium. ]

( THE ARENA aka THE RUMOUR MAN GETS RUMOURED ON)

[ He should have tried harder to get out of this, he thinks as he steps into the stadium. A wall of eyes and sound are coming from every direction. He feels a bit naked without his leather armour and feels that all the more keenly when his opponent steps out. It’s a huge Aranean. He’s fought bigger things before, but nothing with an actual, literal taste for blood.

The first throwing star whizzes past his ear and then he has his gun out, shooting down every single one into the dirt with ease. His opponent seems to be getting more and more worked up and suddenly charges. Vash goes into a neat somersault to get out of the way and then aims and shoots at the point of the spider’s knee in all four left legs. The bullets deflect, not damaging the tough exoskeleton. Vash makes a note of this between weaving and ducking between a new wave of stars and rushed attacks. Vash fires three more into the same spot he had hit before, splintering the armour. Chshch hits the ground and does not move further.

Vash becomes distantly aware of the fact that the stadium is losing it. It had been an impossibly quick fight. The audience seems to be calling for blood amongst their excited cheering. He holsters his gun and smiles a little at his opponent and then waves at the audience, before he walks towards the door, leaving Chshch with just the minor injuries. The roaring has turned to murmured chattering and hisses.

As Vash joins his fellow COSTs he is looking over his shoulder, a little troubled. ]

What are they saying?

( KIOSKS aka WILCARD BS)

[ After the arena he definitely needs to blow off steam and relax. The kiosks are swamped with reporters, but he is very good at slipping away and being the vaguest person to ever live. And besides, he wants to see what Aranean like outside all the bloodshed and political backstabbing.

He steers far away from the questionable meat but the little trinkets are fun. There’s a keychain that looks like a gross misshapen monster, he holds it up to the person next to him. ]

What do you think? Good ice breaker when they ask for an interview?

[ As if he isn’t doing everything possible to prevent that from happening. ]

closed for wolfwood (after wolfwood's fight)

[criticality]

[ Vash doesn’t it like it, of course he doesn’t like it. He just watched a few weeks ago as Wolfwood put himself through hell and came out barely alive. If it wasn’t for small miracles he’d most likely be buried in their nameless planet’s sand, forgotten to everyone except a small, few people. So, of course he hates the fact that he is fighting again. But he just needed to accept that that was simply Wolfwood. What they had both signed up for.

He trounces his opponent and a weird moment with a mask happens, but much to Vash’s surprise, Wolfwood walks away without shooting her down. It feels very strange and he’s not sure what to think.

Vash waits dutifully by the doors of the arena for his friend. ]

Still got it, huh? I was afraid the uniform would cramp your style.

[ He’s grinning but there’s a question he definitely wants to ask, he just doesn’t know how to say it. ]

Closed to Genji

[widow_of_the_crag]

The arena was too bloody for Jeyne's liking. While she had done her best to watch and support the others, trying to present herself as unafraid, it didn't remove the disgust she felt witnessing so many people being torn apart. There were other things to do. The kiosks were usually busy, despite the trinkets being tacky. No one really spoke to her, as she didn't participate in the arena and wasn't magical at all, but they chased after others, asking a number of different (and odd questions.)

But there was one person she could understand the attention and stares. He was strange looking, mechanical in a way she couldn't describe, unless she drew comparisons to armor (but even that was flimsy). Once the fans died down and started to drift away, Jeyne gave a sympathetic smile. "It can be a bit overwhelming, their attention?"

[doublejumps]

Genji's fight alongside Chiron had been a successful one, and the crowd had cheered at their triumph. It seems that the Araneans don't care who wins, so long as someone comes out on top and enough blood is shed. Genji can't say he finds their thirst for violence very appealing, but they've been brought here to make a statement and curry favor. This is a way to do that.

He isn't expecting to be flocked by the crowd after he leaves the arena, overwhelmed with questions and praise and interest. Some of the Araneans look particularly hungry; he isn't sure if that's actual hunger, or something more sensual. The Queen hadn't held back in objectifying him and Jack at the banquet.

Eventually a new fight gets going and the crowd disperses, allowing Genji a moment to catch his breath. He doesn't immediately realize he's still not alone, not until the young woman speaks up.

"Oh -- it can be, yes!" he admits with a quick laugh. "If only because I know they may not have the purest of intentions..."

He draws closer to the girl and holds out his hand. "I don't believe we've met."

Matt Murdock | OTA

[murdocksboy]

Matt is too new to COST to have made the kinds of acquaintances he feels comfortable hitting up for narration of the events around him, so he makes the best use he can of his enhanced senses to keep track of everything. There's a lot to be learned from listening to the battles, the games, the conversations and arguments taking place in the court, and he's shameless about eavesdropping even in the recruits' quarters. Lucky for him that he's used to pretending to be oblivious.

1. Stadium
For at least the first few days of the Arena events, Matt can be found among the audiences, listening to the battles and learning everything he can. He'll offer a friendly word of encouragement to COST recruits he notices heading into a fight, as well. Unless he's preparing to make his own entrance, in which case he wouldn't begrudge a passing wish for luck. (Or a warning that he's an idiot about to get himself killed, he's used to that and it'll make him feel at home.)

[ Any encounters with Matt will have to take place before he heads into the Stadium himself. ]


2. Court
Matt's main objective is to play nice and not offend anyone, although he's not nearly as comfortable navigating politics as he is the relative black-and-white of the judicial system. The COST-provided finery feels awkward and constrictive, although that probably isn't something he should be worrying about. Climbing and parkour tends to be frowned upon in most formal settings. At least he's got the familiarity of a cane in his hand, albeit not quite the type he's used to.

He's more than happy to join up with any fellow loners wandering haplessly through the Court They can watch each other's backs, so to speak. Or maybe he's made of fool of himself with the way he's tied that ridiculous thing around his neck. Someone might want to point that kind of thing out to him.


3. COST LIVING QUARTERS
Jhashch is an overwhelming place. A lot of Matt's time is going to be spent meditating, or listening to his BCE read and re-read all of the material COST provided for the mission. Which means he can be found doing a lot of what looks like staring blankly into space. That kind of thing just begs for an interruption.

[placeholder: stadium battle]

[murdocksboy]

Nicholas D. Wolfwood | ota

[terroristpriest]

no one’s running this whole thing | the ceremony

[Anyone who has seen Wolfwood around COST quarters has plenty of reasons to expect he won’t last the week. The guy’s posture is terrible, shoulders pulled forward like he’s protecting his stomach and his back constantly curved even with the weight of what looks like a six foot tall cross resting against his shoulders, his manners are terrible - he’s barely said five words since getting here, seems pretty content to ignore anyone who tries to speak with him - and isn’t the least bit concerned with appearances if his constant bedhead is anything to go by.

Still, when it comes down to the opening ceremony, it seems he’s gotten his act together - mostly. The hair is still a problem, but he’s courteous if not a little forceful in his smiles, all sharp teeth and his spine is straight as they bow together in unison. Seems like someone was paying attention after all.

He seems almost pleased with himself, right up until the uthcki and hhcho are led up on stage where they had been standing moments ago, and devoured as some kind of spectacle. Wolfwood’s expression is an empty one, the only noticeable sign of his discomfort in the way his fists tighten in the hold of the cross still leaning against his back.]

Fucking animals. [He hisses under his breath, unable to keep the disgust and horror from his voice, but just quiet enough that anyone standing next to him can hear. Do shut him up, before he causes a scene.]

they’re watching me watch them watch me right now | the stadium i.

[The Stadium’s got a certain air to it, a current of direct, measured and precise violence that Wolfwood could’ve felt at home in, once. Before… Well, before a lot. It’s a good a time as any to assess opponents and allies alike, to get an idea for just what exactly he’s gotten himself into. He splays himself out over a stadium seat, long legs stretching out into the seat in front of him as he tries to get comfortable for the next showing. That damn cross is still with him, so maybe it’s time to ask him about it? Or maybe you just want to sit next to a familiar face, one that doesn’t look like it’s going to eat you for some unknown slight.]

if you could compact your conscience | the stadium ii.

[When it’s time for his own match, there’s a nervous energy surrounding Wolfwood that’s only apparent by the ring of cigarette butts decorating the floor by his feet. The cross is free of it’s wrappings now, his hold on it more possessive than is strictly necessary as his name is called and he takes his first steps into the arena.

He can’t say how grateful he is that his opponent isn’t one of the eight legged freaks, but what looks like a human - however modified. The battle starts, Imset whips out those electric blades - and Wolfwood can’t resist a laugh. Knives to a gun fight, in his opinion, never was the smartest idea. But in that same breath of laughter, she charges at him, swiping both scimitars at him with a deadly quick precision that he just narrowly blocks with the hard casing of the Punisher.

All right, less funny now.

He creates some distance between the two of them, putting all his weight into pushing her back and knocking her on her ass before swinging his giant gun around like it’s a paper weight, and opening up with a few controlled bursts of machine gun fire. No reason to drag this out, the fight proceeds with a few narrow misses on Imset’s part and Wolfwood wearing her down, taking aim at sensitive joints and nonlethal areas - aiming to intentionally maim and injure, but not kill. When it’s all over, she lets him demask her and he finds himself standing in front of the crowd, blocking their view as they shout for more blood. And it’s tempting, in this moment, to end the threat. Succumb to old habits, and flex his fingers on the trigger.

It would be easier.

But instead he walks away, once again swinging the Punisher over his shoulder.

Once he’s outside of the arena, back among the surviving COST agents, he’s immediately sucking down another of those cigarettes and beginning the arduous task of rewrapping his gun.]

Not as bad as I thought. Guns not a big thing with these Regency folks?

[The remark is casual, light. A deflector if anything ever was.]

the stadium i.

[inconstantly]

[John is only here to watch. He has his own battle later and it would be stupid to not do his own investigations. When he looks for an open seat in the arena he spots one next to someone sitting remarkably like he would. This bloke looked like he would either be good for a chat or not be a bother during John's studies. Neither option was a terrible one, though John suspected that he was more likely to see the latter.

He walks lazily down the steps of the stadium, filtering through the row until flopping onto the open seat next to the man. No, not the one occupied by the cross, the other one. With a practiced motion he slips a cigarette from inside an inner pocket of his COST uniform and lights up with a palmed lighter. The lighter is dropped into a trouser pocket and for a while John stares forward, not saying a word.

When he does speak, it's without bothering to remove the cigarette from his mouth and speaking around it as he dips his head toward the cross.]

So does your date have a name or are you still getting to know each other?

SEBASTIAN AND HEI, THE ATE-TEAM (GET IT?)

[dipolar]

(victory has been declared, hchch and ychth bested and pinned by the combined ability of two savage fighters. poison means nothing to either of them, carrying immunities and the skills to negate it, the aranean males' weapons reduced to ordinary trinkets in a dance with a demon and monster. still, the fight manages to prove arduous and heavy damage is exchanged—a close match that keeps the entire stadium entertained and on the edges of their seats.

hearing horns to flag the end of the match blare, the crowd roars its judgement. they want death and their entertainers oblige them.

there's blood everywhere, loose ground of the arena soaking it into clots they crush with the soles of their boots. in the final struggle, sebastian feasts in a display of hellish black tendrils while hei stands resolute and on guard as though the demon could ever need him. a red hand comes away from his face and something viscous beads from his chin. macabre, all of it. he doesn't know what sebastian's take on it is, but the first word that comes to him is "messy"—needlessly gory and inefficient, but dispatched with a performance in mind.

and they have to continue the show:) To Shaiy! (hei spits it loud and through bloody teeth, voice carrying startlingly well. he hears it echoed by sebastian and smirks despite himself, spreading an arm out wide to present his partner.

they even find the time to sweep into deep bows, postured, respectful, and synced—a good a moment as any to find and chat these victors up while they're still in the arena with scattered limbs, overstaying their welcome. note: replies will come individually so be sure to address a specific character unless you want both to strike up separate chats.)

[cutlery]

[ There's a visceral thrill in all of this if he wonders if anyone among COST's ranks truly understands.

He sees it the most in Hei, which is why he had agreed to partake in this at all. He's not the sort to generally fight with a partner, but in taking larger, more vicious enemies, the idea of it seemed far more palatable. Though he has the (likely unwarranted) confidence that he could take on even the most dangerous and vicious opponents that the stadium could throw at him, it would expose more abilities than he would like. Even a narrow victory is more beneficial to him than a resounding one, because in every action, Sebastian carries himself with the sense that someone is waiting to learn that upper limit of just how strong a demon is. The threat has never been so pronounced as the one the Regency poses.

As such, there's a special pleasure in standing victorious. The victory is narrow, even more narrow than he'd like, but he carries it confidently. Just as with Hhjh before, there's a ceremony here in appealing to the crowd. He's lowly in their eyes, and he wants to elevate himself, even if only in the sense that he would be more desirable to consume. The first bite of flesh is taken as would be expected, a deep and vicious bite into flesh that draws thick blood. But the rest is more ethereal than that when he shows part of his being to consume the rest. Inky black conceals bodies until they're no more, and while their unpleasant flavor lingers on his tastebuds, Sebastian is all smiles and contrasting elegance against the bloody spectacle. He gestures with the hand bearing Shaiy's ring enough to make his intentions clear, since his voice is much softer than Hei's. ]

To Shaiy's honor, I offer these lives with my thanks for their grace.

[ And so come the twin bows, but when Sebastian stands straight again, there's a huff of mildly pained breath that only Hei would be able to hear. He may not suffer the physical effects of poison with his form only being a facsimile of a human body, but it tears through fake organs in a way that's unpleasant. As disappointing as this is, he thinks it'll have to be his last battle in this particular arena, since COST's unfortunate restrictions leave him as less than he's meant to be. Regardless, with a straight, proud back, he nods to Hei first, and then to the exit. ]

Quite excellent, all things considered. I was almost worried, but you hold your own quite well.

thor odinson | ota

[thunders]

it's all fighting all the time

a. [ Once the Arena opens, Thor spends the vast majority of his time there. For the first time since joining COST, he feels entirely within his element. His battles range from punchy, entertaining spectacles to outright brawls from which he emerges covered in dirt and blood. While he enjoys the majority of his fights, he ends them too cleanly to really please the crowd.

He'll readily join forces with other COST recruits to take on more interesting opponents. Maybe he invited you to fight as partners after seeing you in the arena? Or was it the other way around? Be ready to get dragged to a bar after the fight, whether you participated or just happened to be in close proximity after a victory. You're buying, right? Right.

Or maybe circumstances weren't so fortunate, and you've somehow ended up fighting against each other. However this fight shakes out, better make it look good. ]

b. [ At some point, Thor is matched up against a pair of fighters called Thngk and Thchou, neither of whom he seems to take seriously in the slightest, if his comments are anything to go by. They go at him with a pair of electrified whips and completely ignore all of his inspired suggestions for a safe word. Anyone with a keen eye will be able to tell that the fight isn't nearly as easy as he's making it out to be, and Thor is putting some real effort into holding his own right from the start.

He gets in close to exploit their weaknesses as he finds them, goading the spiders and trying to turn their attacks against each other. When he lands a blow, sparks glance between his hammer and the spider's seemingly unbreakable carapace. Though he learns their weaknesses quickly, the spiders are seasoned fighters and know how to guard themselves. It's clear to anyone that this isn't a fight that favors him. Every solid blow he manages to strike, they return with equal fervor, and he doesn't have the body armor of a spider to protect him. Every time one of their whips find him, it's more difficult for him to get out of the way of something sharper. He breaks one of Thngk's legs, and blinds Thchou with a searing flash of lightning, but it isn't enough.

As the fight progresses, his attacks become more ferocious, and also more desperate. The spiders taunt him about how readily he'll be devoured, not unlike the god they harvest now - but smaller of course. Weaker. They don't seem to notice or care about the way the sky above the arena darkens, storm clouds gathering too rapidly to be natural.

As circumstances begin to look truly dire for him, Thor launches himself into the air. The spiders are quick - one whip snaps around his arm, and the other latches onto his leg, but that's exactly what he wants. A flash of lightning strikes his upraised hammer.

His eyes go white, electricity crossing his body in wild arcs before a bright burst of power surges back through the whips and into his opponents. Two smoking carapaces fall to the ground, and Thor lands heavily, his power spent. He manages to dedicate his victory as the storm clears just as rapidly from the sky. He even staggers a few steps toward the exit. He looks like he's doing just fine, until Mjolnir slips from his hand.

He falls immediately unconscious, and goes down like a sack of bricks. He'll stay that way for a while; hopefully someone feels generous enough to get him back to COST quarters before any admiring fans try to take a bite. If that person is you, be careful - he's a lot heavier than he looks, and the hammer will have to stay where it is.

He'll be conscious again well after the battle is done. Perhaps you're the daring rescuer who's dragged him in and you've been waiting for him to wake up, or you just know him well enough to visit him in his quarters. You can catch him just as he wakes and starts to push himself out of bed. He's clearly in no fit shape to do so. He's bruised and bloody, and there are deep red lines along his arms and much of his body - burns and the finer patterns of lichtenberg figures.

If he makes it to the door without interruption, he'll hail the first person he sees. Despite leaning heavily against the door frame, he has one thing in mind: ]

Where can I get a drink?

b;

[watchin]

[ well, this man can clearly handle himself--- leo was watching the fight and for a bit there he felt like he was watching a superhero in action. whoever this guy was, he kicked serious ass, two on one even, and can shoot lightning with his hammer? he obviously doesn't need any help. ]

[ ... in general. he might need help now. he's unconscious, and no one's stepping up to get him off the arena. more than that, some female spiders are glancing his way.... yikes. well, as unsuited as he is for it it, it does't look like anyone's going to step in, so leo scrambles down to the arena with a lot of apologies and starts trying to tug the guy. ]

[ .... no go, he's extremely heavy, and leo's not even gonna touch the hammer. ]

Please wake up, please wake up...

[ if he doesn't, leo's just going to start pushing him, then pulling.... then eventually actually rolling. he's doing his best, it's hard being short. ]

John Constantine | post stadium battle | closed to Dorian

[inconstantly]

[Jhashch has put him through the gauntlet. Every series of steps since arriving has been deadly, a constant game of question and chance and navigating a situation as best as possible with what resources were available - including one's own wits. The journey to the arena has been long, with a series of stumbles and ill choices that originated from a simple auction. Upon reflection John still isn't quite certain how he got here, but he's here all the same.

And now after everything he has found victory under no uncertain terms. What remains of the Aranean John faced now fall around him in a shower after the concentration of poison and fire lit up the spider in a brilliant explosion. He grins widely through the rain of innards and blood, exhausted and satisfied.

Yet there is nothing in him left to drag himself away and savor his win. John lies on his back on the ground, propped up with an elbow and held in place by the sharp leg of the Aranean currently piercing through his gut. Now that the remains have stopped falling John touches his fingers to the wound. He's bleeding profusely and it hurts like hell. There's a pounding in his head and he can taste the blood in his throat from his coughs that left spatters against his chin. If he gets up he can save himself, stop the blood loss and find a medic.

Wouldn't that be ironic for John Constantine to find death after passing out, not having consumed a single drop of alcohol? He laughs grimly to himself, scrambling slowly and futilely to find a foothold. There's no energy left to stand, and John is unsure if he could even if he tried.

Well. If this is how he has to go out he sure put on a hell of a show.]

[excelsus]

[Dorian had promised he would be there, John had suggested it and it seemed like the best thing he could do at the time. What he failed to realize was that it would be this hard to watch, in spite of John's phenomenal and surprising victory he was still injured, alive, but still injured...and alive was conditional. He didn't think it would be quite so agonizing to watch or that his own reactions would be so visceral, but what had he expected? Not the lancet of emotions that pierced his skin and shook him more than he thought it would or more than he thought it should.

They were sharing a bed, Dorian enjoyed John's company and most things about the man he found charming, they had similar interests and relatable gifts and humor. It was cliche and Dorian would never admit to it out loud, but he didn't realize the scale and scope of his own affection for the man until he had to see him nearly die at the hands and legs of this creature. While Dorian wasn't running like a panic stricken maiden, he certainly moved quickly when the opportunity presented itself, knowing that if he ran he wouldn't be able to keep the panic inside of the box.

As he moved he removed bits and pieces of his armor letting the hard metal and sharp edges fall where they may, he could retrieve them later, but he knew silk and soft leather would be less jarring and painful. Once he reached John, Dorian stooped down knees in the dirt and filth]

Makers breath...I should have paid more attention to healing spells. [Dorian is extremely careful, he doesn't move John much, he just angles him gently so he doesn't choke on his own blood] I need to get you to a medic...are you fit to move with assistance or...perhaps magic...less pressure?

[This was, clearly, not his area of expertise.]

vex'ahlia / ota.

[faenthras]

1 / while i'm breathing, while i'm breathing ( gen arena, pre-fight ).

[ ( a ) Throughout the week Vex'ahlia can be found in the stadium stands or about the court; to support her fellow COST members and gather information, an idea of what they will face in the arena itself. Most of that time she watches from afar, but other times she travels further down, tries to catch the victors as they leave. A friendly smile, a touch on the arm, she does this a number of times to those of COST who win their bouts in hopes they learned something about their opponents.

( b ) The day before her own fight, however, is different. Once again she is found in the stands of the stadium, fingers curled tightly around the bow in her lap as she watches a fight against an Aranean further below. Vex breathes out, tension lining her shoulders, seemingly ignoring the on goings around her, even someone sitting down beside her. Silent for a moment, attention focused on the ring below, before she leans back and glances towards her company. ]

Enjoying yourself?

2 / back to where we started ( gen arena, post-fight ).

[ The twins, Vex'ahlia and Vax'ildan, fall in spectacular fashion against the Twin Generals. They tried for victory, of course, throwing spells and daggers and arrows, fighting with every ounce of themselves. But even so Vax was the first to fall, consumed by the generals as his sister laid bloody in the sands, unable to stop it from happening, her cries drowned out by the crowd's roars. Her own death followed soon after, sealing the generals' overwhelming victory.

Neither of them were seen for some days after.

The recovery had been a difficult, lenghty process that left an itch underneath her skin. The moment she could return to Jhashch Vex'ahlia does with her brother in tow. She returns with her head held high, as though that defeat never happened, never scarred her mind with visions difficult to shake. It is important not to show weakness and Vex doesn't, playing her part as well as she did before the fight that took her life. Smiles and pleasantries, all the while fingers curl around the blade on her hip, or the bow on her back.

She doesn't let down her guard, not for a moment, even as she returns to arena with what determined purpose. The first thing she does is seek out familiar faces, members of COST, a familiar head of white hair, someone who can tell her of what is going on or at the very least point her in the direction of where she wants to go. ]

3 / i'm falling away ( wildcard ).

[ got something else in mind? hit me up here!! or shout at me on valyria ]

what up

[decisions]

[ the taste of bile never quite leaves his mouth.

percy has seen enough in combat that he would have thought his stomach were cast iron at this point. but to see first vax and then vex torn to shreds by their opponent is something that he hadn't anticipated. there is no pike, no hope of a prayer, no diamonds, no temples. it's just... gore spread on the arena and sweat pooling in his palms and rage compounding in his heart layer after layer to the point where he's not sure where the grief begins and the hunger for something desperately violent ends. to be truthful, percy is very certain it won't end. not when he observes the rest of the arena matches, not when he see the familiar sway of her braid or the faint streak of color from the feathers in her hair.

he knows better than to approach from behind, or to grab before warning, but it's impatience (and anger, and the feeling of loss overwhelming him that has him moving up quickly beside her in the circulating crowds of people, donning the COST uniform (as close to mourning colors as one might get.)

his hand finds her firmly. ]

You've returned.

[ a squeeze. he doesn't shake.

shaking's for wusses!!! ]

76 | ota

[mylawn]

i. spectating

[If this part of the mission is good for anything, it’s that he’s able to see firsthand what the other people in the cell are capable of. He watches as many matches as he can, taking in the fighting styles of COST, Aranean, and Regency alike, filing it all away for later, as he expects it to be extremely relevant.

He spends most of his time in the holding area, observing the fights, and if you’ve managed to come back with a victory, he’ll offer an affirmative nod.]

Not bad.

[If you’re waiting to fight, or an observer yourself, he’s a little hard to miss. 76 is banged up from his own matches, but doesn't seem like he's very concerned.]

ii. the stadium

[This is, arguably, what 76 is made for, which means if he’s going to contribute to this mission, it’s going to be in the arena. Fighting Araneans and aliens and Regency agents can’t be any different than some of the battles he fought in the Crisis, and he goes into his fights with that in mind.

He brings a large rifle, but knowing how the Araneans look down on firearms, mostly uses it as a blunt weapon. Whereas he’d needed to use discretion with his enhancements in Gallipoli, so as not to attract unwanted attention, here he allows them to be on full display, moving with a speed and landing hits with a strength uncharacteristic of a man his age, or even a normal human.

However this came to pass, 76 is your partner for this particular fight. Everything about him looks tense, like he’s about a half second away from snapping, and his eyes behind the red visor are trained on the expanse of stadium in front of him. The game plan he offers is minimal, but he’ll be able to refine as soon as the fight starts and they meet the opponent.]

If you can draw their attention, I can get in close and incapacitate them.

iii. back to BASE (for dead people and new guys)

[It’s a humiliating loss, all things considered, though realistically 76 knows that the matches can be more luck of the draw than anything else. Still, he’d rather not be stuck on BASE for two weeks, if only becasue he’s vaguely ashamed of blowing it in the one arena where he’s supposed to know what he’s doing.

Not that he’s really thinking about that, stumbling naked out of the stasis pod and promptly spewing black gunk all over the floor. Sorry, were you in the way?

There isn’t much to be done about the situation while he’s recovering, at least, and it’s a small mercy that time isn’t passing back on the mission the same way it’s passing here. Still, he’s restless, and as the days go by and he purges the chemicals out of his system and gets his strength back, 76 takes to his usual training regimen. He’s most easily found in the rec area, venting his frustrations on a punching bag.

The tank top he’s wearing exposes the creep of branches across his shoulder, the marks disappearing under the low cut of the shirt’s front. He’s generally so focused on what he’s doing that he doesn’t stop when someone else enters the room, but eventually he’ll step back, reaching for water and acknowledging anyone who might be watching with a nod and a gesture to the punching bag.]

All yours.

iv. the network option, end of the month

[76 is well aware that his unfortunate demise in the arena was very public--though everyone should know about the revivicator technology, he finds it prudent to at least let people (specifically, his people) know that things are fine, or about as fine as they could be. He's got no idea what he may or may not be walking back into upon his return, even if he's only missing for a few days at most.]

>>FROM: @DIEDHARD
>>TO: @ALL

Should be back in the field soon. Am I missing anything important?

v. wildcard

[Anything you want. Hit me up on plurk at whitticus.]

@HAMMERTIME

[thunders]

Welcome back. How was Valhalla?

Jeyne Westerling | OTA

[widow_of_the_crag]

I. Court

[Somewhere between the Chrth's veiled words, all proper and polite but dripping with barbed insults, Jeyne felt herself disappear. The arrogance and confidence she had adopted had become more than simple armor, it became a part of herself. She met each comment with a sharp retort of her own, channeling more of her mother than she normally felt comfortable with. But as each word landed, silencing the Chrth, she came to enjoy her mother's power.

She had planned to use a more deadly poison if things slipped beyond her control, if her mask of strength disappeared and she found herself floundering back into that timid girl she knew. But her power grew and the Chrth seemed to shrink further and further back, at a loss for words and humiliated before the court.

At the end of it all, Jeyne slipped a bit of Mist Walker venom into the Chrth's drink, watching instead as her joints swelled and her body failed to move easily. For the spectators, it was an amusing joke, no different than one of her backhanded compliments. Laughter filled the room until finally the Chrth excused herself, claiming to need to go on a holiday before disappearing.

Jeyne wanted to slump against the wall, but everyone was still watching her. Instead, she sipped her wine with a cool and steady expression, as though she had known it would go so well. She hadn't, but her mother never let her doubt show. Why should she?]

She had nothing to offer, only words and wind.

II. Kiosk

[There's an entourage following her now wherever she goes. Where she'd been ignored and overlooked, now there were five aranean females at her heels. For the most part, they're relatively harmless. At worst, they ask random question at times where she is thinking or distracted by something else. The questions could border on difficult when it would touch on who taught her court intrigue and what made her so good at it. She couldn't answer her mother and realizing her family's part in her husband's death.

She was learning to embellish and lie, as well as omit and hide her emotions. If they assumed they were learning from her, she was clearly developing because of them.

But there were times where their presence could be a nuisance, especially when she wanted to slip through the crowds and look at the various trinkets for sale. Having an entourage meant having attention cast on her. More araneans would come up to her and begin asking questions, some centered around her personal life. They didn't dissipate. Having an entourage now meant she was someone important and they seemed to gather at the scent of power.

Near the end of it, she finds herself ducking behind a kiosk, if only for a moment to go through the assortment of poisons she has on hand. There had been one she'd been thinking of mixing with Drip Venom, if she could get her hands on it. Lost in her thoughts, she nearly backs into someone else, feeling the brush of them before turning quickly and putting her finger to her lips.]

Careful. I don't want them to find me.

III. The Arena

[Despite her earlier distaste for the games, since her victory at court, Jeyne pushed herself to attend as often as possible. Not only to be seen by the Araneans, but to also be on hand if there were injuries that needed care. Considering how many of her friends had died, she doubted the last part would do much good, but it gave her something to focus on and practice was better than being idle.

Whenever someone prepares to go into battle or is carted out, she is near the doors, watching and waiting. There are antitoxins for those who were poisoned, venom of her own making for those that wanted to poison someone, salves and tonic to ease the pain, and thread and needles for those that had more serious injuries.

If the warriors wanted one of their own to tend to them (rather than trust strangers), she would be there for them.]

III

[thoughtimight]

[ Her eyes are still wide when she leaves the arena. When the doors close behind her every bit of stone-faced composure leaves her. Her limbs are suddenly heavier and her walk much more rigid. She's tired and the adrenaline hits her like a rush.

It was a spider. It was part of what took William away from her. She drops the oversized limb torn from the corpse by her side in surprise when she recognizes a face outside of the arena. The person is exactly who she needed to see without her being even remotely aware of it until the feeling hits her solidly in her gut. ]

Jeyne.

William Twining | OTA

[notsolomon]

The Court

[It's fortunate that this mission gives William to chance to enter an arena that actually interests him. The one of the political intrigue. Even though this is nothing like a dinner party back home. Some of the manners are alien, the others merely dated. Really, so many old fashioned dances?

But he's been doing well enough despite all this, maintaining his distance where possible, so as to preserve his life. It's difficult when all these beings know he has magic and react like he's a treat at best. So for the moment, he's going to join in here and there on conversations as unobtrusively as possible, at least until he manages to get some better social standing. And learn from the failures of others, however gory they might be.]

The Court-II

[He's managed to make some friends now, if you can call these creatures friends. A young lady of House Shaiy and a gentleman from House Chchai are chatting with him currently. The lady, Nhsh, is dressed in a fashion that straddles the line between gaudy and innovative and she leads the conversation. The young man, Khjy, dressed more plainly, seems to hang on her every word, with the lady giving him an occasional squeeze of the hand and responding when he makes the appropriate response, but nothing more.

Ncsh is useful though, giving William all the those fine bits of information that hadn't come through during training. She seems to like his garb and has deemed William, if not an equal, at least someone worthy of interest. Eventually though, she lets him go, after what has to be an hour of conversation and William is relieved and takes a moment to move away from the crowds so that he can observe at a distance and relax himself. Having to look constantly into their eyes is taking a toll on him.]

Exhausting. [He sighs to himself, not immediately noticing you there.] I never thought I would escape.

The Stadium

[No warrior, William is in the audience, watching the bloodshed and doing his best to appear impassive, despite the intensity of it all. But he's here and cannot exactly look away from this, now can he? Besides, being in the stands is useful, because you can see who is cheering for who. And which loss leaves a member of the Regency sore is something worthy of note and in some instances unexpected.

It's also another way for him to get to know these people he's going to be working with for the foreseeable future. Here, where they are going to be displaying their powers for the world to see and in most cases not holding back. It was also a demonstration of personality and intellect as much as of strength. The way one conducted themselves here said a lot of about them. Even the choice of entering this arena spoke volumes.

He'll even offer a comment here or there after a fight. Something encouraging or in the cases of out right stupidity, something far more critical and nagging. He really knows how to make good impressions, okay?]

Wildcard

[He's going to be mainly hanging around the court or spectating at the stadium and the games. He can also be found around the kiosks/quarters, exploring or taking time to decompress, since this is a lot of be thrust into the middle of.

I'm okay with whatever anyone throws at me and can be reached through pms, Kanetsugu or on discord@thesecondbesttheory#8142. I'm fine with prose as well, so feel free to tag me with that instead of brackets.]

General Hux | Closed

[neutronium]

The Court

Hux knew that he couldn't compete in the Arena--not against the Araneans, and certainly not against his fellow COST, not unless he was allowed a blaster...which he knew he wouldn't be. His strongest gift was his brain, and that would best be put to use in the Court, and in the Game--though if the Court went well, he would refrain from the game. He wasn't one to push luck. It was always better to take one route and push forward to its end, while keeping other avenues for escape (it had served him well).

At the start, Hux is careful, speaking with quiet tones, respecting the Araneans, his elders--his perceived betters. But the necklace sits about his neck, and there is a sense that he is mocking some behind his eyes.

So when he receives the invitation from Hayng to attend her salon, Hux isn't surprised. It's what he's wanted. Yes, it is stepping into a viper's nest (he hadn't expected to pull someone with such popularity, but...well), but better to know the venom than to make unknowing steps.

Hux arrives dressed neatly, a bit less ostentatious than at other events--it's on purpose, to keep the focus on his words, instead of his person. It also might cause Hayng to underestimate him, which would be for his own benefit.

While he sees a few other members of COST and the Regency there, it seems a great many are just Araneans--but given that these salons are popular with their kind, it isn't a surprise.

Giving a proper bow towards Hayng once he sees her, Hux smirks. "Thank you for the invitation. I always cherish the opportunity to debate politics, especially on unique and new subjects."

"Ah, so subjects you know nothing about. A dangerous thing to admit, I would say," Hayng moved forward, letting out a little laugh (as did some of the others around her). "But come, come, let us talk," [read debate] "perhaps about the best system of governance?"

And that was how it started; in truth, Hux was barely aware of the others around him once it truly got started between him and Hayng. His focus stayed on the Aranean, watching the way she moved, spoke, choosing when and where to slip in slights and jabs, sensing the shift in the room when the energy started to flow towards him.

Once this starts to happen, Hux moves in for the kill, starting to circle Hayng, hand gestures becoming more confident, his tone becoming more clipped and smooth. Hayng, for her part, seems slightly panicked that she could be losing to a human male, and her tone is more vicious, but her arguments are weak--Hux is vaguely aware that he could be eaten by a sore loser--but it doesn't stop him.

Once he sees the spider look about the room, Hux smirks. "Come now, this is between us. I think you can agree that I have proven that I'm right, hm?"

Between vicious jaws, Hayng hisses, "Yes. Now get out."

Smug, Hux bows, and gives a slight nod as the sound of clapping and murmurs echo around him. "Fair enough, this is your salon. I am just glad that I could provide a win for Princess ChCh."

Knowing it was time to remove himself, Hux exited, continuing to talk to some of the Araneans that decided to follow. Well, this would prove interesting, at the very least.

Jon Snow ✥ OTA, THEN CLOSED TO ANGELA & CLOSER CR [BUT SEE NOTE]

[northerndragon]

The Stadium & COST Quarters

[Prelude to Brooding (OTA)]

Jon is a strong fighter, but plenty of others here, on any side, are stronger: either because they're much bigger, or because they're not human, or often because of a combination of both factors and the interference of whatever stands in for maesters here. The fights themselves are not real battle, or even like a trial by combat... they're for show, and if it's meaningful, it will only be in the end, in the weighing of dozens of factors. He doesn't enjoy them at all; he's only ever enjoyed training, never spilling blood. They're a necessary evil, though, in the hope that the balance of opinion will tip towards COST.

And a problem, in light of the fact that he's promised to be careful about what risks he takes.

He fights, mostly alone, mostly opponents of moderate difficulty. The first few are reasonably skilled but not enough to pose a real challenge, but he notices that they become more difficult. There's a shabti, then another the next day: the second one dies on his blade, the first of his opponents to do so, and he hates the look on her face when it happens. She'd attacked with speed and aggression and, he thinks, fear, and she is not his enemy, only his enemy's tool. The Night's Watch don't care if you live or die. Mance Rayder don't care if I live or die. We're just soldiers in their armies and there's plenty more to carry on if we go down. He doesn't sleep well that night.

By day, if he's not fighting or pursuing some planned activity, something related to a sword hilt and some kind of venom (he's not very specific on the details), he begins to isolate himself more often, alone or with Daenerys. Sometimes he can be seen deep in thought in the courtyard of COST quarters.

He doesn't appear to be drinking alone, or at all, but there's something about his manner that suggests that he might as well be.

[Ouch. (Jon's Last Match, predating the match in which the Overwatch team members die. Closed-ish.)]

This opponent challenges him, and it's a surprise. The man, Hedjwer, fights not with a spear or a hammer or knives or any of the other weapons he's faced in recent days, but with guns... and Longclaw doesn't allow Jon the use of a shield, but he doesn't think one would help anyway. He's seen this man fight already, and there's something unnerving about the way he shoots, as if the bullets seek their targets whether or not the gun was aimed at them the way he'd learned to aim at things before Gallipoli. They're hard to see, but what little he can see suggests that they move more like birds of prey than like bullets or arrows, and that if they struck a wooden shield, the shield would likely shatter in the moment before the bullet took him in the head. He hears approving whispers in the crowd that this gun, these bullets, are a clever cheat.

Thank the gods he's not trying to fight with a spear or a bow. Reluctantly, he allows Jeyne to taint his blade. Nothing fatal, but something that could slow an opponent enough that he can disarm them.

The match itself is not long. A sword is not a gun, and his goal is to get the gun out of Hedjwer's hands as quickly as he may, even if it means taking those hands off at the wrist. He attacks aggressively, but not before a bullet leaves the barrel; he's only able to twist out of its way, feels something grazing the side of his leg that reminds him of burning his hand. Hedjwer gets a cut for that, though most of it is a bash with the side of the blade as Jon attempts to knock the gun out of his grip. Jon tries to stay too close to shoot easily with a rifle, but doing so also makes it hard to use Longclaw. He can see that Hedjwer is having trouble, after a while, and can only assume that it has to do with whatever is in his blood now.

In the end, Hedjwer is able to take enough distance to fire again, and Jon is pushed back as if by the hand of a big man as a searing heat blossoms in his shoulder. It's the end for one of us -- that thought, fully formed in his mind, only that and the pain. But no second bullet comes, and he sees that Hedjwer is having trouble with the gun. He lunges forward while he can, and Longclaw goes halfway through Hedjwer's throat, then out again.

Jon is pale and sweating and on one knee as Hedjwer dies on the ground in front of him.

Longclaw is light for a sword of any size, especially for one of the size it is, and he can hardly lift it. He uses the crossguard to pull himself to his feet with his good arm, then approaches Hedjwer's body and wipes Longclaw's blade on his fallen opponent's clothing, then sheaths the blade, which takes considerable effort. His own clothing is ruined, but at least most of it is his own blood, flowing freely from the wound in his shoulder. The world is his heartbeat and the fire and the wetness of the blood. The crowd doesn't matter.

"I declare this victory in name of the queen," he says, trembling, his lips numb, as much power in his voice as he can give it. That may not be much; he coughs before saying the words. And then he staggers away, trying to stay on his feet, trying to find a wall or a bench or something to cling to before his legs give out.

Angela reaches him first, but others may not be far behind her.

[Later that night, still pale and looking unsettled but otherwise in much better physical condition, he can be found having a drink in the COST quarters, but nothing about him suggests that he's much in the mood for small talk.]

[If your character knows Jon well enough to care about his well-being or is just the type to care even though they don't know him, or who saw his extremely narrow victory and want to talk about it, feel free to hit him up mid-brooding or post-healing! I just thought that since we're running close to the end of this phase, here, this would probably only attract castmates & closer CR. Then it occurred to me that the setup paragraphs could pretty easily be OTA anyway, so go for it if you want to!]

[dorzalta]

He told her never to view his injuries as ones to herself--something far easier to say, but not an idea she's ready to embrace whenever he steps into the arena. Each and every match finds Dany in the stands. Not quite frowning. Not quite stoic, either. It feels all too much like the fighting pits in Meereen, except it's not Jorah revealing himself in a bid to regain her favor, it's her lover, fighting for reputation to earn COST favor.

Chiron's recent injury prompts her to fight her way to a lower area, closer to the exit; Irriella makes it easier for this to be accomplished, though it's clear in her disappointment that the higher vantage would yield far more towards their entertainment. Dany's displeasure is clear, and Irriella relents in the face of her lady mother's reaction.

So they stand and watch. Watch as bullets fly, soaring through the air not as the bullets she's come to learn of in Gallipoli, but like little vengeful Dragokeets. Before she knows it, there's blood. Blood of Jon's, blood of his opponent, a corpse collapsing, the roar of the crowd around her as Jon dedicates his battle to the queen. He looks awful, and she's taken back to that moment where Chiron collapsed in defeat.

She's moving before her mind realizes, shoving past bodies both human and spider-like, facing another struggle of escape, despite her well-intentioned planning. It takes too long, and she loses sight of him, and her mind is racing. Where is he? Did the Araneans attack him? Is he slumped on the ground somewhere? Too focused on taking the stairs without breaking her neck, she cannot use the mind ravens; she's half a mind to summon Chiron.

But no--no, soon, as Irriella leads her to where she wishes to be, her footsteps are coming to an abrupt halt and she's left staring at--

"Lord Father looks intact. I did not realize he possessed the skill of healing, Lady Mother."