The Crowning Of The Signless

[etcircenses]

Who| Everyone.
What| The Crowning of The Signless.
Where| An alcove in a nearby mountain.
When| From dusk to dawn, on Thursday.
Warnings/Notes| This event is mandatory for all Tributes to attend. Even if you do not tag in, your character will attend this party. Peacekeepers will be on high alert. There will be no chance to runaway.

Tributes are encouraged to sleep all during the day, before the crowning. The reason for this is revealed when they are roused at sundown and brought to the closest mountain to the city, where they are greeted by an alcove within the moutainside that has been carved into a temple to what may be an illicit faith. The stone alcove is dim-lit by candles arranged along walls and by what appears to be altars set before iron cancer signs, some plain, some inlet with intricate carvings. Bright red drapery hangs about the room, tapestries with the cancer sign and cirles of blending color spectrum. There are also some waist high leggings hung upon one wall. In the center of the room, shackles hang, glowing bright from some sort of internal heat and light. A hole in the ceiling is set on each side of it, to allow the smoke to escape from the great bonfire that roars beneath it. If one takes a seat upon any of large stones and logs aranged around it, they can see both the stars twinkling down and the way the smoke looks as though it is coming off the shackles.

The only windows otherwise are made from stained glass depicting images from the Signless's life, such as his rescue by "Alternia's First Mother" (so described on the metal plate below), "The Recording of His Teachings" depicting The Disciple writing the Signless's words into a book, "A New Follower" showing the Psiioniic joining the Signless, a boat deemed "The First Ship", and "The Execution" which features the death of the Signless before thousands of followers, a fifth troll- resembling Terezi- bearing the shackles as a necklace and another with great brown wings, a single window of Karkat and Kankri Vantas, as well as a sinister depiction of six indistinct shadowy figures of cerulean, blue, indigo, violet, tyrian, and maroon. Cave-style paintings cover the stone walls, styles ranging from simple scribbled etching to circles featuring twelve colors in circle, with bright red at the center, and yet more elaborate shadowy depictions of those in the stained glass, esepcially the Signless himself, both prior and following his execution.

But not all is dedicated to the Signless and his old posse of biblical age trolls. A shrine has been set up for redeemed and then so quickly lost victor, Matthew 'Punchy' O'Conner. Punchy has been painted upon a cave wall like he fits right into the theme. Upon his shrine lay all varieties of bling; Bling-jewelery, a bling goblet, bling boxing gloves, a hoodie, a nun habit, and a stone with a memorial rap engraved atop-- with bling, of course, all shimmering by the spotlights placed before the shrine. Refillable 40 oz bottles are lain out so that sorrowful guests, wishing to pay their respect to the boy so cruelly slain by rebels when he had turned from them, can pour one out in his honor.

Marius is also honored there with a tea light and small framed photograph set upon an empty table with an empty chair, along with souvenir versions of his and Cosette's wedding rings that guests can take home. Beneath all these rings is a photoshopped picture of javert with a single tear running down his manly face.

The only seating besides the stones and logs and Marius's single chair, are those that are sat at a table at the end of the room. Each is draped in a different color, six on each side for each district and each blood hue-- presumably of the Victor's choosing. Between these chairs sits yet one more with a tall back like a flogging jut that got the redesigned at the base to make a throne that some trolls might recognize as belonging to the Empress. The arms of the chair feature open shackles. The throne is decorated in chains of gold and jewels of all colors. The victor is given a crown of gilded flowers and thorns on chain.

Food can be found upon the altars or the victor's table, in surplus. Alternian delicacies are served, featuring insects, flavored or plain, and food made from insects. Guests may find a giant beetle being served upon a spit roast. Even the meats appear to be topped with bugs. The cakes, marshmallows (which can be roasted with stick by the fire!), and orange creamsicles may be the only things truly bug-free. Drink options are water, wine, and soda.

Stylists are encouraged to dress their tributes primarily in black, with a single bit of color put into the design matched according to district (with exception to trolls), or any manner of draping fabrics, cloaks, and costumery reminiscent of religious iconagraphy that one might expect of ancient aliens. Waist high pants and leggings are also in high regard, as well as fake horn, fangs, contacts, and anything to make guests look more trollish. The only rule is for the main colors to match to the blood assignment.

The music playing is the sort one might expect from a church, featuring mournful vocals, soft bells and melodies, and of course, organ music. But for one or two jarring differences. Where this music is coming from remains a mystery but since the space is open and clear, guests have plenty of room for dancing.

Those who don't wish to dance can talk and regale tales around the bonfire, or may instead seek out the book of "scripture" at one of the altars that features nothing more than various parables- with names that Tributes might recognize! Each Tribute has one parable contained within, telling a tale in flourished manner of a part of their life, featuring a pro-capitol moral at the end.

Elsewhere, are models of the flogging just, where guests can put their hands through the oversized cuffs and pretend to writhe in agony, an Alternian bioware helm where guests too can pretend to have their lifeforce and power used a battery for the sake of the Alternian empire, a dress-up station where guests can customize their appearance to match trolls sold into gruelling slavery to seadwellwers, and an area designed to look like a cave with extensive "Alternian" (gibberish) writings of the Signless's words, where guests too can pretend they've lost everyone they love and are carrying on their legacy by writing upon the walls and leaving their own messages of love and mourning. Not to mention, a life-sized drone with realistic piercing claws, for all your picture posing needs.

A sandpit lies just around a corner for children to make castles, dig trenches, and act out games of pretending they've trekked thousands of miles through zombie infested desert just to speak to a couple of people! Guests can also meet a "mutantblood lusus" a four-eyed crab creature with lizardlike structure-- only sized no bigger than the average dog and perhaps about as intelligent. Guests are warned not to put their hand too close, lest the claw pincers manage to pinch them.

Late into the crowning, everyone is brought out to the dark mountainside, well monitored by peacekeepers, and divided into teams. Everyone is given belts with velcro flags attached, colored according to the "blood" they were matched with by district. Those in the eighth, ninth, twelfth, third, tenth, and eleventh districts are deemed the "lowbloods. Those in the first, fourth, second, fifth, sixth, and seventh districts, are deemed the "highbloods". Each team is given a velcro board to attach the flags to. The first team to lose all their flags loses, winners getting tiny necklace copies of the shackles. The last one standing with a flag wins a larger necklace copy and the option to get it redesigned into a symbol of their choosing.

If you failed not to be "culled", fear not! All tributes receive a participation sticker at the end. This sticker features a number. It is not indicative of districts or of age, as will be announced shortly, but of the new scoring. These will be announced for everyone to hear- and pick out targets from.

The crowning officially ends with the coming dawn. And so begins, to everyone's surprise, preparation for the arena. Tributes will be going right from the crowning off to the Tribute launch tubes. Happy Hunger Games!

[Note: This is ICly on Thursday! Just before the arena on Friday!]

Comments

Porrim - OTA

[fusshionable]

After herding her Tributes into the Crowning venue and making sure that they were properly fussed over and participating appropriately, Porrim takes a moment to wander around. She's felt uncomfortably nervous about this Crowning ever since watching the Arena finale--knowing what was likely coming forced her to re-analyze the little chance discovery she'd made about herself, thanks to her Tributes. And now, looking around at the stained glass images hanging around the temple, she just feels ill. The image of the Signless and the troll called the Dolorosa in particular is haunting, because she looks into the face of the woman in the image and can't help but see the similarities.

She spends much of the Crowning in this manner, looking around contemplatively. She's dressed in a sweeping gown of black velvet, a slit up the side going all the way to her waist, with nary a trace of a pair of underwear showing through, and to accent it, a bright blue belt made of metal chain, draped across her hips. Her hair is knotted atop her head elegantly, and she keeps a pair of round black sunglasses on her face at all time--whether it's a fashion statement, or to hide the panic and fear in her expression is a mystery.

But when she's approached, she makes an effort. To seem normal, to talk and laugh and celebrate appropriately. Just like a normal Capitolite would. She knows, of course, what the end of the evening holds, but she's been instructed to keep her mouth shut about it, of course.

FINALLY GETTING THIS CR

[crabmunicator]

Of all the many and various things to be offended by at this party, the windows aren't that bad. They're pretty, and reverential enough, though he never wanted to be displayed in a glass window. (Somewhere down the line there is the one of him and Kankri.) But it's as he shuffles over to the image of the jade mother that he spots a certain Capitolite with familiar, swirling tattoos and a long, black dress. It's not the same--she's not grey, not horned, and the style and accent color are different--but it's similar enough.

"Don't tell me we had Porrim here, too," he grumps.

He's in his own costume with glittery red tattoos of his own, and yes he is carrying a bowl with a frog in it. (Not a real one, though it might look it.)

YEEEEE

[fusshionable]

At the sound of her own name, the Escort turns, catching sight of a member of the evening's celebrated species. She knows who he is, of course; ever since her great revelation, she's taken the time to study up on all the Trolls currently living in the Capitol. She gives Karkat a prim little smile.

"The one and only," she replies. "Except, well, apparently not." She hesitates, before drawing a little bit closer to the young troll. "Did you--did you know her?" Her voice is hushed, but inconspicuously so. No use drawing undue attention.

[crabmunicator]

Karkat actually has no idea who this woman is, but her words don't trip him up. It's easy to take them and assume another thing, since really, there wasn't just one Porrim. She looks like a fan to him, with her swirled tattoos and the way she leans in to whisper, and he finds himself regretting even opening his mouth.

There is something about her face that pings him now that he can see it better, but he brushes the thought away.

"Let me just head off the inevitable game of A Score of Inquiries right now," he says, spreading his... well, hand; the other is busy holding the bowl. "I only met her under weird circumstances and never got to know her well, and that's just Porrim original flavor. I never spoke to the one who raised my ancestor." A brief motion to the window. "You probably know more than me at this point if you took her tattoos."

[fusshionable]

The escort's eyes go a little wide behind her shades as Karkat throws himself into a small speech almost immediately, her lips quirking up at the edges. But that last line nags at her, her brow turning quizzical.

"I...took?" She shakes her head. "I haven't taken anything. I've had these since I turned nineteen." Her head, elegant in profile with a strong, aquiline nose, turns left, then right. "I don't believe we've been introduced properly. Your name is...?"

[crabmunicator]

Karkat's own expression turns just as confused. "What do you mean, you didn't take anything? Porrim had those tattoos, and you just made it patently clear you know who she is."

But fine, introductions, whatever. He sighs, shaking his own head inwardly, then looks back up. "I'm Karkat Vantas. The Signless is my ancestor," he explains preemptively.

[69problems]

The sight of the familiar tattoos, even on skin of the wrong color, gives the Signless pause. He knows by now that there are many different timelines and many different versions of people he once knew (even people he once knew an entire lifetime ago). He moves to stand next to her in front of the stained glass. The last time he saw a Capitol rendering of his mother it was in the arena, a pale copy of her that didn't even have the right blood color. This is better in a lot of ways.

"They don't quite capture her warmth, but it's a beautiful portrait."

[fusshionable]

She feels a presence next to her before she even glances to the side, but when he speaks, Porrim's eyes go briefly wide behind her sunglasses, before she turns her head to glance down at the newly-crowned Victor.

"Ah, congratulations," she says automatically, giving him a smile that's nothing but genuine. Primly, the escort removes her sunglasses, letting them hang from the neckline of her gown, revealing dark, expressive eyes with three jade-green dots tattooed beneath each. Her voice is quiet, inquisitive.

"You knew her quite well, or so I hear."

[69problems]

"She raised me," he says. "From the day I hatched, she cared for and protected me."

He turns to her, studies her face -- so familiar and yet so different than the faces he remembers. Does she know, he wonders, who she's a perfect hornless doppelganger of?

"I miss her dearly."

[fusshionable]

"Like a mother," Porrim muses, suddenly feeling quite...inadequate. Not that there's anything wrong with her, but in this scenario, she's nothing like the woman above, well-loved and missed. She's the oppressor in this scenario.

Still, she manages to remain smiling as she looks down at Signless. "I can imagine." She holds out her hand for him to shake, if he likes. "I'm Porrim." A deep exhale through her nose. "And...I know it's not the same, but I'd like to be friends, if that's alright."

[69problems]

I know it's not the same. So she must have some idea, then. This is hardly the first time Panem and the many universes it's touched have overlapped in this particular way, after all.

He reaches out and takes her hand. His normally-callused fingers are soft now: the stylists went after them with a vengeance in preparation for tonight. They've even painted his claws, something they've started doing recently. Tonight they're simple black, muted so as not to draw too much attention away from his jewelry and tattoos.

"I think that would be alright, yes." He offers her a small but genuine smile in return. "Tell me about yourself. I'm sure you know plenty of me just from looking at the walls here tonight, but I can assume nothing about you."

Any Porrim is a good Porrim, of that he has very little doubt. She may be a Capitolite and that may mean he's instinctively guarded toward her, but simply by virtue of her name she has one foot in the door already.

hope some assumed background familiarity is okay!

[whatisay]

Jason meets her by the beverages, where he's quickly laying claim to the last of the water bottles. He's got his eyes on each of his Tributes in turn, watching them with the sort of closeness of someone looking for a mistake. He doesn't seem aware of any of Porrim's anxieties, and only dimly registers her identity at all for a solid few moments.

Her face is a little familiar, not just from his basic research on getting back into Escorting but because he saw her father a few times in the past; the Compsons and the Maryams didn't really run in the same circles, but every once in a while there'd be a fundraiser for a new research wing to the hospital, or something like that, and the scientific and old money politician communities would overlap for a few hours at a time. He stopped attending those functions when his family fell out of favor back in his teens, but sometimes the faces bubble back up in his sleep like corpses emerging from swamp muck.

"Porrim Maryam." He doesn't lead straight off with an introduction, instead leaping at the chance to try and get a question answered. "Your District has some partiers, doesn't it? Do you know if Tributes are allowed to sneak the alcohol out of the party or if I can report them for that?"

absolutely!

[fusshionable]

Porrim turns at the sound of her name, black velvet swishing around her ankles, resting with one hip popped which displays that yes, those tattoos do go all up and down her limbs, and her torso, too. Her gaze settles on Jason, and his face, too, prompts a vague remembrance--passing each other at various parties their parents had dragged them to as teenagers.

"The one and only." That's a joke, as this whole charade is reminding her all too clearly. Her brow lifts at his immediate question, and she leans in a little closer.

"I think we both know none of them are sneaking anything out of anywhere tonight."

[whatisay]

He taps his nose, colluding and leaning in. He squints at the faint scent of her perfume, not out of disapproval so much as just acknowledging that it's there. "Doesn't mean they won't try. I can't say I'm not looking for a few good chances to teach my Tributes who's in charge here."

Some of the Tributes seem to think they're their own sovereigns. If Jason had a better sense of humor he might find it sadistically enjoyable to watch their spirits be slowly ground to powder, but he's more impatient than that would require.

It occurs to him vaguely that he should catch up with Porrim, although he can't recall if they ever spoke to each other. "The last few years have done you well, I hope?"

[fusshionable]

Porrim chuckles softly, her face relaxed enough that she could be laughing over a joke, not the impending surprise their Tributes are about to receive. "Fair enough. I'm not such a hardass that I'll deny them a drink, though. I don't believe it's strictly against the rules, no."

His inquiry earns him a warm, polite smile. "Quite well. I did a stint as an assistant stylist for 11--seven years, actually, a good deal more than a stint. But I'm liking this a lot more. Far less performance anxiety."

[whatisay]

"I just don't want them stumbling over themselves and seeing double with what they're about to do. Or being hungover if they last longer than that." He frowns and jams his hand into his pockets. It's no secret that his father drank himself to death, common knowledge in the Capitol, and memories of the stink of alcohol follow Jason to each party.

He raises his eyebrows. "Good for you." He says that almost with awe, almost with jealousy, but the truth is he's never had to consider working up to an Escortship or Style position. He could say something to that effect here, but he realizes with bitterness that he can't afford to be making enemies for petty reasons.

"Never been one for performance anxiety, myself. Probably because my parents did more of the trotting me out at social functions to impress people like some kind of talking parrot."

[carnagecarnival]

The blue helps, he thinks, through the thick fog of illness what has come upon him for this crowning. Blue, being far from Jade, keeps the comparison just that little bit away. He's... truth said, he's afraid to face her here. This is the celebration of the execution of her charge in an alternate world. It could either be so distant as to not matter so much, or so close as she could turn on him with fangs bared and he'd deserve--

He walks up slow to her and the window. He holds one arm and keeps his eyes down. He tries all to make enough noise as not to alarm, while still keeping otherwise quiet. The cloak they've throne over his shoulders, around that decorative indigo garb, sways where it hangs near his feet.

He looks up at the stained glass meaning to say something reassuring or apologetic.

"She was motherfucking terrifying, she up and was."

And definitely not that.

[fusshionable]

Porrim becomes aware of a presence at her side for the fourth time this evening, this one careful to make enough noise that she hears him coming. She looks up and over her shoulder to find Initiate standing there, looking oddly contrite. She makes sure to give him a smile--she finds that things like smiles tend to set her Tributes at ease.

"I can imagine, from the way you've described her to me." She gestures up at the image. "And yet, they make her look so lovely and peaceful there. Two sides to every story, aren't there?"

[carnagecarnival]

He nods. Yes, of course that was true. It had been true for all of them, hadn't it been?

"SHE CARED A LOT ON FOR HIM. For Signless. WE TROLLS AIN'T DO THIS NOISE AS YOUR KIND DOES. But he called her mother. WAS MAYBE HALF HER SIZE WHEN AT I MET HER." He remembers drawing his clubs, staring up at her wide-eyed, as Kankri assured, no, it was okay, it was fine, it's just his mother, and his small self hadn't known at all what the fuck that meant. "She was always looking out on for him. GOT PROTECTING HIM EVERYWHERE, EVEN UP IN THE DESERTS."

Finally, he admits, "Mostly was just afraid at I'd hurt him." And it hadn't been at all unfounded.

He points to a stained glass image of the cat troll. "THERE'S THE DISCIPLE. She was part of that group they got making." He points to the yellowblod with blue and red eyes. "THE PSIIONIIC. All four of them got making a family. THE DISCIPLE SPOKE EVER FOND WHEN SHE WAS BEING HERE." He frowns. "I don't know why I'm telling you this none. I AIN'T NEVER KNOW WHAT THE FUCK AT TO SAY TO YOU. You're not her, but you is, and I ain't think I ought to be near either way, but such all as districts be."

[fusshionable]

She doesn't say much. At this juncture, it's not really her place to say anything at all. She's the interloper, here; like a case of stolen identity, except for the fact that she didn't do anything wrong except be born under the right sign at the right time. So she listens to him tell her about all these people--some of them she recognizes from here in the Capitol, but that's irrelevant at this juncture. So when Initiate expresses his own lack of surety about this whole situation, Porrim just shrugs, a little helplessly.

"I...don't know. I can understand your discomfort around me. I promise you, I bear you no ill will. Whatever you and my alternate-self had going on between you, well, that was between the two of you." She gives Initiate a brief smile. "My job here is to make sure you're well-taken care of."

[carnagecarnival]

And there's the thing. The little motherfucking hitch up in it all. For all he can express fear, it ain't her what's the scary one. He looks at her, trying to see through the dark shades. Dark where once she shone bright.

"...EVEN KNOWING I WOULD BURN ALL WHAT YOU'D GOTTEN TO CARE FOR, MARYAM?"

She could spot the double edge there. She could hear it in his preach and make all to stop him. It would be the one damn life in which she could. That's fair, isn't it? If she only guessed what he intended to do to the Capitol, she could halt it.

Or not.

Re: Porrim - OTA

[biiowiired]

Between fits of melancholy and anxiety, Psii had been walking around "accidentally" spilling glasses of wine on anyone who thought it might be a great idea to play with the slave dress-up station. Even if it didn't imply terrible things about the fates of his friends, he took personal offense. The Capitolites, at least, cared enough about their outfits to rush off to care for them. This particular citizen was only ogling the stained glass, so she was safe from the wrath of red wine.

It had been the relative simplicity of her outfit that made her stand out against the rest. Then, of course, her familiar tattoos. They stole all this other Alternian shit, why not tattoos as well? Psii noticed the way she seemed to be staring at the depiction of Dolorosa. There was no way to read her face behind her sunglasses, but Psii felt defensive about his friends' visages anyway. Her blue marked her as not belonging to either his caste back home or his district here, but he didn't care if there were any mingling taboos he didn't know about.

"Enjoying the view?" he asked dourly.

He crossed his arms—as well as he could while holding a wine glass and trying not to tangle the thin gold jewelry latticing across his bare chest. Soft light filtered through the stained glass behind him and the yellow portrait there, a double of the tall troll in front of it. Psii's clothes were, of course, in his own caste color instead of District 9's olive. They'd allowed him that much, even if they sprinkled gold dust on his face and shoulders and loaded his horns with enough jewelry to make a sea dweller weep.

[fusshionable]

Porrim turns her head to see one of the very trolls she's seen in the windows standing nearby, looking...quite displeased. She sighs. Is she in for yet another version of this incredibly awkward conversation? The escort shrugs her shoulders.

"I suppose so. It's all just a bit...surreal, you see." She's not just going to come out and give him a spiel, after all. She really needs to make business cards. Porrim Maryam. Yes, that Porrim Maryam, just a different version. Please direct all inquiries to Initiate.

[biiowiired]

Surreal was right. What part of her face wasn't covered by the sunglasses looked uncannily familiar. Psii didn't have to glance up at the stained glass to make sure. Less than two human lunar cycles ago, he was traveling with Dolorosa, "Alternia's First Mother"—alternatively, "Master Zombie Killer".

"Why? Becauthe you look like my friend? You're a human, and trutht me, you don't want to be a troll, at leatht not on Alternia. The food here ithn't accurate, but the torture devitheth and thlavery are."

He'd say humans were too nice to be trolls, but humans had enslaved him to fight in gladiatorial arenas, so.... Psii honestly thought that was normal, another similarity between humans and Alternian trolls, like computers and chicken nuggets.

[fusshionable]

Porrim turns to face him fully, pursing her lips. "I'm afraid it's a bit more complicated than mere passing resemblance," she admits, reaching up to remove her sunglasses.

"I'm aware that life on your planet wasn't exactly ideal. Believe me when I tell you that I'm not trying to culturally appropriate anyone with my aesthetic."