thecapitol | The Crowning Of The Signless

The Crowning Of The Signless

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!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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?"

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."

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?"

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."

"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."

Porrim merely snorts. There are plenty who would encourage that, in fact, but Porrim's not exactly among them. "You raise a good point," she muses, turning to head to see if she can spot any of her charges, suddenly vaguely concerned for their well-being. But since she can't immediately spot any of them, she gives up and returns her focus to the conversation at hand.

She gives him a wry, sympathetic sort of smile. "I'm glad I avoided much of that. Most of the time I attended events voluntarily, for a chance to make my own connections. At that point, I wanted to follow in my father's footsteps. Perhaps study neuroscience. It didn't quite work out that way."

Jason's gaze locks in on one of his, and he cranes his neck, only relaxing when he realizes that that's a soda can they're wandering around with.

"Didn't have the brain for it?" Jason pauses, as if realizing how bad that sounds out of his mouth. "I didn't mean that. Just curious why it didn't pan out that way."

Porrim only snorts. "No, not quite. It wasn't even anything intentional. I just fell into other interests at just the right time, and found myself immersed in the glamour of the Games before I even realized I was making a career out of it."

She shrugs lightly. "It used to bother me, thinking I was doing something with less substance. But I've come to terms with the fact that my work is important, in its own way."

Jason's politeness only extends far enough for him to not actually snort at her comment. Porrim may believe Escorting is important, that the Games are important, but Jason sees the whole thing as some kind of expensive distraction, nearly a mass hallucination. He practically feels like every dollar spent on the Games is one that should have lined the pockets of a Capitol citizen.

If anything keeps him from saying as much, it's because his family has a long, sordid history of getting themselves disgraced, and he doesn't want to get pulled aside by Peacekeepers.

"At least you like it. That's something, what I say. Enjoying putting all this effort in." He waves a hand at the crowd of people on the dancefloor and by the food. "And your District's even had a Victor in the last few years."

"Mm. Not a complete waste of time," she agrees, lightheartedly. "But I like people--I like working with them, helping them. So for me, it's only natural to find myself doing something like this."

Porrim hitches her chin toward Jason. "What got you interested, then?"

"I don't see a ton to like about our current crew." Jason all but winces when Porrim's next question follows, when she presumes that he was interested in this job and not just ruined enough to stoop this low. That he wouldn't run and keep running out of this disaster of a career, of a city, of a country if he had any say in it.

But he doesn't. Instead he awkwardly laughs, and it almost seems as if his teeth are fighting with his voice as it struggles out of his mouth.

"Probably the fact that I wouldn't be any good as a Stylist, although what I say, that hasn't stropped District Seven's Stylist any anyway."

She lets out a very unladylike snort. "Low blow. But...I don't disagree," she admits. She can tell that this isn't exactly a dream job for him, but she's not going to press the matter.

"Who knows? Maybe you'll discover a hidden talent for wrangling ungrateful Tributes into metallics and sequins."

"Maybe. I came into this expecting that I might allowed to use a cattleprod to get them to put on their dresses and suits, but it seems that's against some regulation now. Shame." He makes a snuffling noise, as if stifling a laugh or a sound of distaste, hard to tell which.

"That portrait up there looks like you. Didn't realize you were posing as an art model on the side."

She might have gone on to give him a short verbal lesson on the importance of humane Escorting, but his little segue neatly diverts her attention. Porrim's eyes go wide behind her sunglasses. Shit. She was hoping that none of the humans in attendance would notice. She glances up, a little too nonchalantly.

"Does it? I hadn't noticed." She offers Jason a charming grin. "Apparently my look is catching on."

Humane Escorting is for when you think Tributes are human!

"Almost exactly." He raises his eyebrows. "You think they might have a doppelganger of you floating around somewhere?"

"Oh, christ. Really?" She gives him a look that is Not Very Impressed. "That's a very uplifting thought, thank you."

She can only imagine what a fucking nightmare it would be if they decided to bring one of her alternate selves to the Capitol. She feels sick at the thought.

Jason, who seems to thrive off of other people's impatience for him, matches her look with one of mild triumph. And so he continues.

"I think it would be kind of exciting, personally, to see someone with my face taking the crown. You wouldn't be the first person to have their double brought in, either. Timaeus Nadir, a few years ago...I think his doppelganger was named Julian Bashir?"

Porrim has to remind herself to stay cool. Calm. He's not exactly anyone who could make it happen, after all--in the grand scheme of things, nobody of consequence. He's just talking shit--shooting the breeze.

"I'm glad you find the concept so amusing," she says. "I suppose it's one of those things that's more interesting when it applies to other people."

"Shhh." He teasingly places a finger in front of his lips, smiling behind the shush. "You mention how uninterested you are in it and our great and powerful overlords might try and prove you wrong."

Because being an Escort is only illusory power, and they're all at the whims of a greater master. Jason has no doubts that the Escorts are not that much safer than the Tributes if the Games need to be spiced up.

Great. Now she's well and truly on the verge of panic. Thanks a bunch, Jason.

She does her best to hide it, though, taking a deep breath. "I suppose you're right," she sighs, feigning boredom with the subject. "Or who knows; maybe we'll see a tall, dark, and handsome new Tribute next round. One with even better hair than yours."

Mission accomplished...?

"If he has better hair than mine I'll just look forward to seeing him killed he can stop making me look bad by comparison." Jason smirks and picks at a marshmallow on the table, then between his fingernails. He can see he's hit a nerve more by the fact that she's retaliated than by her composed demeanor, which masks her fear. "Why are you so scared, Porrim? It's not like it'll be you in the Arenas."

He's so blithe about this, so completely unbothered, that it makes her grit her teeth. She'll just pretend like it's not a big deal.

"Even if it was," she replies smoothly. "I'm pretty sure I could kick more ass than half your Tributes."

"It's sad that I won't even argue that point with you. It's entirely true." Jason sighs and glances at another dish full of bugs, wrinkling his nose. "Of course, their version of you is probably a troll, by the looks of the rest of this place. So you'd do well with the night-vision and all those other ridiculous advantages."

Oh, Jason. You have no idea.

"Imagine that," she replies airily. "Not too keen on the cuisine, are you?"

"Are you?" Jason raises his eyebrows incredulously. "Offworlders, I swear."

He says that with such venom that it seems even the most appetizing food would be poisoned on his tongue.

The Crowning Of The Signless

hope some assumed background familiarity is okay!

absolutely!

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