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

Dave Strider open

[shenunigans]

Tonight, Dave is dressed to the nines. Or for the nines, rather, because that's his District. His old undercut has made an appearance and his remaining hair has been teased and fluffed up just like a real troll. He plain refused to wear troll horns or fangs or lenses or paint thanks to some residual Arena trauma, which is probably why Oceana has him in militaria heels. Thankfully he isn't too bad at keeping his balance, but there is occasionally a suspicious wobbling.

A.Dave knows a little more about trolls than most, what with being the only human here with such extensive experience with them. The Capitol knows as much, so it's no surprise that he's being looked to for his professional opinions on the matters at hand. Every so often he can be found talking to journalists, and he'll talk until someone stop him.

"--And what's with the music? Everybody knows trolls listen to screamo." It's really hard not to suggest Insane Clown Posse, but he knows better. "There's a sad lack of rainbows, too. They have a fetishistic obsession with color. Needs like. Eighty percent more party poppers." He gestures vaguely around and shrugs. "As the official and only real and very legitimate troll liaison, I'm disappointed."

Typically, the questions get more and more uncomfortable as the night goes on, so he's looking for chances to excuse himself. He's looking right at you.

B. So that balance thing, right? The thing he's good at? Wrong. He does fine for the most part, but when he's not doing fine he's falling over his own feet like a sad, baby horse. He'll crash into people and throw an arm around their shoulders, acting like they're the best of friends.

He'll fall against the wall in front of you, bracing himself on it with a hand so he can try to look smooth. "Avant garde, huh? How about avant nipple guard, am I right?" He cocks a thumb at a passerby, trying to straighten himself up to walk off in the meantime.

By the time he makes it toward the food table, he's famished from all the talking and wanders toward it only to stumble forward and slam his hands down on the table. If people glance toward him, he'll brush it off by muttering about a lack of grub mayo or whatever.

C. For the most part, he's trying to avoid Punchy's memorial. It's tacky, he sure as hell isn't going to pour one out so there can be hundreds of photos with hundreds of photo shopped tears. He looks irate, arms folded over his chest as he stands in place and takes it in. It feels like this as good a funeral as he's gonna get, and with all the religious paraphernalia going around maybe it's a good time to like. Pray for a homie or whatever.

But he can't bring himself to. Not when he doesn't know what to say to someone who never seems to help him anyone.

He glances upward, brow arched and looking faintly annoyed. "You really fucked up." He says to nobody in particular, because he's not sure if he should be saying it to God or Jesus or Punchy or himself.

B

[cigne]

"Oh!" Swann stumbles back with surprise when Dave practically slams into the wall, and she quickly rushes to him, the hand that's not holding her wine outstretched to help him, to steady him. "Are you all right? Did you hurt yourself?"

She's genuinely concerned, her brow knit under her crown and her hair, and she keeps reaching for him, although she's so tiny that whether or not she can actually help is debatable.

"You're from Nine, right?"

Haruto Soma | OTA!

[wizardplease]

A

This was not at all the sort of party that Haruto had expected to be attending. The last one, with the police theme... well, he could buy that. That was at least familiar, on some level. But this, the cave, the music, the stained glass... it was otherworldly. He hadn't thought that the Capitol could pull off otherworldly, their idea of glamour and beauty was so crass and strange. He wasn't sure how his outfit (second from the left with a rust undershirt and deep red rings on his fingers) fit into all of this, and he was not enjoying the troll horns stuck to his head or the contact lenses in his eyes.... maybe it would all click once the evening went further along. Maybe.

It's still a party, though, something that he's not all that good at. If he can find an excuse to wallflower around and keep out of the way, he'll do it. And hello, what's this book that people are occupying themselves with? After a pair of Capitolites steps awy from it, Haruto goes up to the altar, starts to skim it... and then realizes, halfway through a parable, that he recognizes this one.

"What the.... 'And little Kousuke learned that his grandmother was harsh with him because she cared for him so very much. And he promised from then on to be no trouble, for he cared for his grandmother very much in kind.'" There is a pause for a snort, and he passes a hand over his face. "No, no, it didn't go like that...."

B

The evening is wearing on, and so is the adhesive that the District 11 stylist used to stick the yellow and orange backwards-arcing horns to his head. They're starting to itch, and it's starting to impede Haruto's ability to pretend that he's enjoying himself. He's off not far from the refreshments table, turned away, scratching like mad at his forehead trying to make the torment stop, when he goes at it a little too hard and snaps the horn entirely free. And away it goes, flying through the air end over end. "Aaah!" But where will it stop? Hopefully not in anyone's eye. Or someone's drink.

A

[infinitemayonnaise]

"Hey, Haruto, what'cha doing?" Nitou comes up behind Haruto to see what's so funny. He looks especially ridiculous; his stylist had some sort of insane vision that involved only a pair of black parachute pants and a hooded cloak with a absurd amount of fur that left him dealing with ridiculous fluff in addition to claws and fangs and nubbly little horns stuck to his head.

He's also holding a bowl of something that's been covered in mayonnaise, and of course he's eating it as he peers over Haruto's shoulder. "Hey!" Oh, he's reading that parable, alright. And he sounds very much indignant about it.

B

[carnagecarnival]

It's instinctive. Doesn't take more than a motherfucking thought really. Or any thought up at all, considering he was making on laying low here, on this night.

The horn is snatched out of the air, motion being like motherfucking lightening. He brings it down to look at slow, eyes narrowing at the false appendage.

Then, he's looking around for a motherfucker what's got one-- a fake one-- to match.

Luke [locked to Jane and Daryl]

[burningdaylight]

Horns and flogging juts and ceremonial robes.

In a better frame of mind, he'd joke about the place looking like the cheap set of some cult-classic horror flick or a painfully cheesy porno. But it lacks the laughable quality of either. Just another tasteless celebration courtesy of the Capitol that they've been groomed for and herded into, another opportunity for him to exercise great patience while quiet defiance seethes in his veins. It's tempting to wash away the bad taste it leaves in his mouth with more than a few swallows of wine. But he knows his limits. And he'd rather have a sharper mind tonight.

At least he's stuck looking a little more reasonable than he had in that slumber party onesie from a few months ago. Although that really isn't saying much while he's wrapped loosely in a hooded, scarf-like cloak that shows more chest than he's used to and the cyberpunkiest pair of pants he has ever been stuffed into, his hair bound back (with indigo ribbon, of course) into a messy bun.

('Work that rugged charm you've got in spades, darling,' his Stylist had said.)

There are far worse things to have to live with. It's impossible to forget while he makes his rounds with a barely-touched glass of water in hand, searching for familiar faces and offering them an acknowledging look. The barest hint of a nod. A small, short-lived smile is reserved for Clem and Beth.

geddit, because it looks like they're in a cult's place of worship... :'D

[cowcatcher]

Within the carvernous temple, Jane is killing time milling about one of the altars set up, a goblet in hand. The somber lighting makes it seem as though she were dressed entirely in black, especially at a glance, but the slightest move on her part reveals the bronze bodice hidden beneath the topmost layer of her gown. Her face has been done up with only her district's assigned color, her lips, cheeks, and eyelids all tinged copper.

She's seen him making his way around the cavern, brow working away as per usual, and it's a wonder he's not giving off smoke of his own. Outside of working a strategy up, he's kept his distance since the arena, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out why, As someone who likes her space, she thought she'd let him maintain the berth he's been giving her tonight.

That was a glass of wine ago, though. Resisting temptation has never been her strong suit. Now that she's had a taste, she figures she may as well indulge, and there's nothing quite like taking the bull by the horns.

She doesn't wait for him to take another lap, either, and for the amount of people packed into the place, it's strangely easy to find him. Reaching out, she winds a hand around one of the tendrils coming off whatever the hell his stylist wrangled him into for the evening, letting him pull it tight himself as he keeps walking.

When he turns, she's there to fix him with a look that isn't without a dash of 'the hell's going on with you?'. For the most part, though, it's not unkind.

"Hey, aren't you gonna drink the Kool-aid?" She means the "Kool-aid" that they have almost zero tolerance built up against.

[weaintashes]

With the exception of Rick and Beth, Daryl doesn't invite company, going out of his way to both avoid other people and intentionally exaggerate his prickly demeanour to ensure they'll want to avoid him, too. And it works surprisingly well, enabling him to wander where he will mostly unharassed. It likely helps that his attire for the evening ranks fairly low on the eye-catching scale, so when he's passing along the edges of the gathering, he more or less blends in with the surroundings and escapes notice.

It's highly unlikely that he would be one of those familiar faces that Luke seeks in the crowd, and it isn't surprising when Luke's eyes seem to pass right over him without recognition or pause a couple times throughout the evening. Maybe it's the low light, maybe it's the way Daryl has his head bowed, maybe it's intentional. He can't say.

He'd encountered Nick by chance not long after the last arena and had done what he could to make amends, but Luke's been far more elusive. There had been that brief, mostly one-sided contact pertaining to the so-called "cure" that the Capitol offers, and it had been over before he'd even thought to suggest Luke meet him in person to sort things out. Beth could easily arrange something, he knows, but he doesn't want to involve her in it any more than she's already been.

The third time he notices Luke not noticing him, he decides to act. Rising from the stone he'd been seated on, he begins to close the distance between them, making an effort to seem less like the looming bird of prey his stylist had apparently envisioned and more like the contrite non-enemy that he is. This isn't meant to be a confrontation, unless Luke makes it one.

Kousuke Nitou | OTA

[infinitemayonnaise]

Nitou isn't exactly comfortable in the outfit his stylist has done him up in, which involves nothing but a pair of black parachute pants with a wide blue sash and a hooded black cloak. The stylist claimed to have been inspired by some of Nitou's own shenanigans with the cloak, for the hood was enormously furry--like Chimera's mane, the chipper stylist had been happy to insist--and so he was distracted from the fangs and the claws and the nubby horns stuck to his head by dealing with a vast amount of fluff around his shoulders. But hey, it's a party, and he's going to try to have fun. He kind of likes the whole ancient temple theme the party's got going; it reminds him of ruins he'd go poke around back home.

[A]
He is, of course, quickly drawn towards the food. Some humans might be alarmed by the sight of so many bugs. Nitou can't say he's enthusiastic about this, but he's had bugs before in his travels. It's common in some countries, and sometimes, a traveling hobo can't be picky...

He cracks his knuckles, whips out a bottle of mayonnaise--where he keeps it in that cloak is a mystery--spins it around, and then starts applying it to the first bug-shaped dish he can find. Really, that's the only way any of this stuff is going to be palatable. He should probably help out his fellow partygoers with this food-based dilemma. So he'll grab at the arm of the nearest person to get their attention. "Hey, you want some of this?"

This man is offering mayo-slathered bugstuff. Surely he cannot be sane.

[B]
Nitou soon moves on from the bugs and onto more normal food, like marshmallows. Of course he's going to put mayonnaise on them. Of course he's going to roast them. The thing of it is, mayonnaise is flammable. This is a thing that Nitou should know by now, given his penchant for cooking on a a portable charcoal grill, but he has a lousy safety record with that thing anyway.

So there's a bit of shouting and waving around a flaming mayo marshmallow stick of doom as Nitou's taken by surprise by the way his mayo-doused marshmallows light up like a torch. He probably needs some adult supervision before he accidentally hurts someone with that mayo torch.

A

[carnagecarnival]

He's already gone to sitting at that table, feeling awkward like he can hide within the chair so close to the throne. He just wants this to be over. He want's be going back to the tower and curling on up of his own.

There's but one good thing here and he's missing it. The motherfucker before him ain't. Just as he's getting up to get, his arm's being grabbed, and for half a second, he flinches, thinking like he'll be struck for being an avox, being the monster shown in many of these stained glass windows, or just because.

Instead, he's offered insects. "I... sure, yeah." And thus, he takes up one of them mayonnaise topped delicacies.

B

[biiowiired]

Every guest was so very flammable in their finery, Psii included. He sported pants and a hood-scarf in black and his caste color, along with stupid amounts of gold jewelry over his chest and arms. As if that wasn't enough, they'd dusted gold on his face and shoulders. He was hyper-aware of accidentally getting the fine gold chains tangled with other people, even more so now that there was a flaming safety hazard right in front of him.

Clearly this human didn't know what he was doing. Psii had the reflexes of.... well, not a trained fighter, but surviving on Alternia had its own unique set of trials. He immediately commandeered a glass of water from the nearest person, then snatched the marshmallow torch away. Throwing Nitou an exasperated look, he dunked it in.

It wasn't water.

The surface of the alcohol flared up, and Psii gave a short, surprised hiss before dropping the entire fiasco onto the floor. Broken glass tinkled, and the fire spread with its fuel. But it petered out as all the alcohol was quickly burnt. He didn't know alcohol could do that.

"Are your human thoporific drinkth theriouthly fuel?"

Next he was going to learn it powered rockets. He was beginning to regret ingesting any of it.

B

[talltaleteller]

Who can resist roasting marshmallows when the chance presents itself? It's normally a once a year treat, if that, when a camping trip gets organized. So Felicity is there in her simple-yet-plainly-Capitolite outfit, carefully holding her own marshmallow close to the coals and carefully turning it this way and that to make sure it doesn't burn....

"Whaa?" And then some crazy guy is swinging around a burning marshmallow! That is very dangerous! She ducks to avoid getting smacked with it, because she has no idea how flame-proof any of this getup is. "Stop it! Hey! Put it down! Drop it! Drop it! Waaaah!"

Rick Grimes | Open

[rictator]

Rick would like to believe that the battle with his stylist had ended in a draw. Like the other attendees, Rick hadn't managed to avoid being dressed up like a prized pony - Which in his case, entailed a surprisingly tame gold accented suit, accessorized with black leather gloves and boots to match. And, after seeing some of the less orthodox getups that tributes had been saddled with, that in itself could have been considered a victory on his part.

It was his hair that had been the true point of contention, sparking a rather heated debate on whether or not he would be keeping the beard. In the end, it had been trimmed into something bordering on presentable, and his wild hair had been slicked back and tamed for the evening. Already, a few rebellious curls had fallen free, framing his face in a way that could almost have been deliberate.

The opposition was less to being cleaned up - which in truth, felt pretty damned good after months on end of the same filthy, sweat soaked clothes - so much as he refused to play along. What they were subjected to in the arena, the mockery being made of survival and what their daily lives had become... Rick couldn't stand it.

He wasn't about to pretend that he wanted to be there. He hung back where he could, gravitating toward the wall and away from the majority of the other tributes. The wine had at least helped to take the edge off, easing some of the tension from his overwrought frame.

What he hadn't counted on, however, was just how diminished his tolerance had become.

Had he stopped to think about it, it would have made sense. Months of living off rations, which he'd pared down yet further to satisfy the needs of others in the group, had not fostered the best eating habits. Still half-starved, he could still barely stomach the idea of half a plate, let alone eating square meals - and the insectoid selection for the evening wasn't encouraging him to try.

Between the lack of food, the lack of alcohol, combined with an already low tolerance and other physical factors, the wine was hitting him a bit more quickly than he'd anticipated. He covered it well enough while standing, but the effects were pretty evident when he attempted anything that required any sort of coordination.

Like moving.

[ooc: Feel free to encounter Rick before or after he's started drinking. He's lurkin', doing stuff and things.]

[weaintashes]

Daryl's attire had ended up becoming a costume by the time his district's stylist was finished with him.

It had started with a simple, sharp suit in solid black as the base. Surprisingly, his request for a poncho had been granted, though the final result was a far cry from what he'd had in mind — made from draping black velvet embroidered with designs in dark thread, the collar and shoulders were ringed with a thick plume of equally dark feathers.

Two lengthened points of the poncho trailed behind him and were patterned with feathers, giving the impression of stylised wings. Olive green was incorporated in the form of gemstone accents on what was visible of the suit beneath, in the hanging tassels of the poncho, and in the iridescence of the feathers when they caught the light. It was simple compared to usual Capitol fare, but still far too ostentatious for Daryl to feel comfortable wearing it.

At least the rest of him had mostly been left as is and just groomed to be more presentable, small consolation though it was.

The mandatory attendance and bizarre, religious themes of the "party" did little to encourage his sense of enjoyment, but he wandered all the same, checking out the various points of interest, sampling the (quite literal) grub, kicking through the sandpit, avoiding the dancing. It wasn't long before he'd located Beth and Rick in the crowd, and once he had, he kept them in sight as much as possible whenever he wasn't standing beside them. He refused to let his guard down, even if they might; he was content looking out for them.

All things considered, though he deeply resented being forced to be there, it could have been worse. For the most part strangers let him be, perhaps correctly interpreting his unwelcoming posture and the practised aura of hostility he was radiating. He'd been keeping a closer eye on Rick once he'd noticed how affected his friend was by the wine, which was why, when Rick nearly stumbled, it was Daryl who caught him with an arm across his chest, hand gripping his shoulder to help keep him steady as he regained his equilibrium.

Daryl said nothing, only stared at him with thinly veiled amusement, eyebrows raised questioningly. Privately he welcomed the excuse for physical contact, no matter how short lived it might prove to be.

Jack Sparrow | OTA

[drinkupmehearties]

To anyone even somewhat familiar with Captain Jack Sparrow, his appearance at the Crowning will be noticeably different from the norm around the Training Center. His stylist had decided to 'clean him up' in preparation of the event, and so she'd managed to pin the pirate down long enough to trim his tangled and frayed dreadlocks off and wash his hair into something more appropriately manageable -- visually, at least -- to the Capitolites.

Thankfully enough, though, Jolie had allowed him to keep the longer goatee and its accompanying beads. His bandanna had been replaced by one dyed the District-and-party-specific jade hue, but Jack had kept the old, familiar trinkets that usually draped over it. The clothes that he'd worn (and worn again and again) since day one of his arrival were replaced with a charcoal-colored jacket and vest made of soft velvet, clean and fresh, and accented with jade-green buttons.

Of course Jack had fought the changes. His image had been built over a couple decades, a culmination of life experiences and struggles, of deaths and tragedies and adventures, all delicately interwoven into his attire. But in the same vein, the pirate understood the importance of presentation to the Capitol. If it meant relenting for just a night, just for appearances, then so be it.

(A. Food)

None of this meant a thing to Jack. He wasn't interested in the religious symbology that plagued the décor, he wasn't interested in the Arena's newest Victor or the apparent torture device -- the flogging jut -- that garnished part of the room. As far as the pirate was concerned, it all held next to no significance to him.

Instead, Jack opted to furtively snag an entire bottle of wine and, after a few hefty gulps into it, sample the bizarre insect-themed cuisine. He'll unceremoniously nudge himself into the nearest space to sit, a plate of food in hand and half-filled wine bottle in the other, and try out one of the dishes.

But based on the dish, whoever happens to be next to him may see the pirate chew a couple times then stick his tongue out in disgust, or -- for those less fortune -- see him lean over and spit it out nearby. Other times, Jack will incline his head and mutter, "Eh. Not so bad."


(B. The bonfire.)

Later into the evening, after the pirate had consumed a fair amount of the wine, you can find him relaxing near the bonfire with a fresh, full bottle of in hand.

Depending on how much later it is, Jack will have started to hum -- then whistle, then sing -- one of his favorite raunchy shanties. If anyone ventures close enough, the pirate will motion towards them to join in.

(C. Wild card!)

Capture the flag? Drunken singing/dancing? Whatever suits your fancy, feel free to post it!

A

[gardienne]

Eponine had been watching the man with some amusement. It was unusual in this place to find someone who had even worse manners than she did, and it tickled her to see a fully grown man indulging himself. The hidden bottle of wine made her laugh too: she used to do that at these parties.

"You're a tribute, aren't you, Sir?" She asked. "I don't know no Capitol people who do stuff like that. And you must be new, for I don't recognise you."

She sat herself down close by, folding her long dress carefully so as not to damage it. "The food is usually so good I cannot stop eating!" She grinned.

B

[needlebearer]

Later on in the evening, when she was beginning to get tired, Arya had gravitated over toward the bonfire, enjoying its warmth, the roaring and crackling sounds that came from it, and watching the little sparks jump from the ling fingers of flame. She'd eaten far too many marshmallows, the sugar from which was probably the only thing keeping her going now instead of curling up and sleeping in a corner somewhere.

A large group come toward her, talking very loudly at each other, and she circles round the bonfire to avoid them. It's there she stumbles across Jack, singing a song with lyrics so raunchy her mother would have been appalled that she'd heard them, though still not as bad as some she'd heard on the Kingsroad. She listens, amused, unable to stop herself from giggling at parts.

bilbo baggins | open

[somethingprecious]

Compared to the last Crowning he had been forced to attend so soon after his arrival here Bilbo preferred this one much more. The exposure to the night sky and somewhat earthly elements made it just a little more comfortable than the stark white walls and clothes of everyone who attended the previous Crowning. It wasn't terribly comfortable, but Bilbo could deal with it.

His choice (or lack of) in clothes this go around was much better too. He was dressed in soft draping clothes of black and a violet that reminded him of the lavender flowers in his gardens back home, his ears pierced with matching violet gems and gold bangles around his wrists. What seemed most striking to him, whenever he caught sight of himself in a reflection, were the violet contacts in his eyes and the false fangs in his mouth that were put upon him without much warning before coming here. Over the course of the night he couldn't help but run his tongue over the pointed edges or fidget with the jewelry hanging around his wrists or pointed ears.

He sat by the bonfire on an empty log with a plate full of cake and marshmallows on his lap. His gaze drifted upwards towards the stars just barely masked by the rising smoke. Every so often he picks off a piece of a marshmallow or slice of cake and pops it into his mouth. By his feet there were a small stack of empty plates with evidence of food once being there and now gone.

At least it looked like his appetite had come back even if what looked like insects triggered its return.

imma just tag u w brackets but if u want i can switch back

[takingback]

[As soon as Thorin had been made clear that participation in the Crowning was absolutely mandatory, he, in turn, had made clear he would make it very, extremely painful for his stylist if he was not given clothing made to the style of his people. His claim to the throne of Erebor may not have counted here, but he was still a king-to-be, and should be allowed the dignity of representing his kin and their culture.

He isn't entirely sure if it was this particular argument or the vaguely threatening hand gestures that made the stylist agree, but truth be told, he doesn't particularly care. The tunic he was given is almost too alike, aside from the deep indigo used in the fabric, and the black velvet cloak hanging off his shoulders. Something about the ensemble makes him look... not quite younger, but perhaps less burdened, if for a moment only.

A glass of wine in hand, Thorin makes his way to Bilbo, sitting all by himself near the bonfire... ah, of course, empty plates. The part of Thorin that admits to having been somewhat stumped by the knowledge Bilbo didn't seem to eat as much as he'd known him to be capable of, here, is appeased. The bigger part of him, however...]

I do hope those plates did not contain any of the... bugs. [He might make allowances as to what to eat, when one must, but insects? Some lines have to be drawn, and one such line goes right. there.]

HEY BRO HEY

[69problems]

"It's good to see someone enjoying the food," the Signless says, settling himself to sit next to Bilbo. He hasn't seen the hobbit since they ran into each other at the beginning of the arena, so now seems like as good a time as ever to catch up.

In his hand is a plate of his own, laden with some of the more bug-based dishes being offered. They're not quite the same as real native Alternian fare, but after over a year of nothing at all they're more than adequate.

piers nivans | open

[ex_boltaction835]

If it isn't one thing, it's another. All of this is foreign to him--not the rush of it, moving from place to place with quick, brisk steps, not knowing where he's going--but the lack of control of himself--where he's to go, what he needs to do, right down to what he's wearing. Piers knows well enough that his uniform isn't exactly party attire, but being without it makes him feel ungainly and a little too thin. It's bad enough that his rifle is gone, this is just another dig, really. He wonders if they leave the dog tags around his throat out of pity or for some kind of gritty stylistic choice. Maybe it's a little bit of both. It'll work.

Maybe being scrubbed clean is a nice feeling for most people--Piers doesn't remember his last, decent shower--but here it's awkward and leaves him all that much lighter than before, as if he might be in some half-waking state and completely without control. Now, lingering around the edges of the gathering, he pulls at the throat of the stiff and conservative, black outfit with a high collar and long, flowing cloak. Looking around at everyone milling about the ceremony, he realizes that he's been given some kind of a mercy. The only thing that stands out is bright green interior of the scarf around his throat and draped artfully over part his head. It just barely hides the casually dusted on eye shadow around his lids--a hue as bright as the scarf and to his dismay, incredibly hard to rub off and not worth the trouble.

But again, looking at everyone else, he could have been worse off (maybe).

( A ) Piers is standing up against a wall facing the entryway, watching the way light filters through the various, colorful panels up against the wall. Everything has already left a bad taste in his mouth and he doubts food or wine of any kind is going to do anything but cloud his mind. Being shoved here and told to make us proud, make some friends and smile has only bristled him all the more. So he's going to do the opposite of making much of anyone proud... let alone smiling.

He'll eventually coax himself from the corner towards the tables--he's hungry, but there's also no way he's going to be eating anything they give him right off the bat. Upon closer inspection of the feast, Piers decides he might be better off, hungry as he is. He's eaten some weird things... but the fact that the entire buffet mostly consists of insects is making the hunger dissipate just a little (maybe it's for the best?)

( B ) Later into the night he manages to find some kind of footing and meander his way over to where a few people are crowding. He nudges his way forward a bit only to find out that the thing attracting their attention is... some odd hybrid of a crab and a lizard? The creature is reminiscent of too many things back home, the misshapen forms of B.O.W.s with too many legs. Why the hell do people feel the need to play with this sort of genetic shit.

"They really do have nothing better to do." Throwing parties not long after they watch bloodsport... it only figures.

( C ) He'll linger by the bonfire for a while, taking up a seat and fussing a little bit with the folds of his outfit until he's comfortable. In truth, it's the first seat he's taken of his own choosing, none of this sit here and let me do your hair, it's a wreck or sit there and just don't move (he'd moved one time during his outfitting just to vehemently slap a pair of tweezers away from his brow, which had earned him a glare, but an equal amount of satisfaction as well). He stretches his legs out just a little and turns his head skywards, finding that it's probably the first glimpse of sky he's seen undisturbed save for the soft curls of smoke.

He's procured a cup of wine in what might be a moment of weakness, but he figures he grabbed in on a whim, he can keep it until he can give it over to someone else or dump it out inconspicuously later. For now, he'll peer into the dark liquid, fingers moving up to his throat to tug apart the scarf a bit and grab at the familiar chain around his throat, finding the tags warmed from their place tucked into the outfit. They feel solid in his palm, heavier than before, and Piers digs his heels into the ground by the bonfire in a dull, scraping motion, the aggravation and newness of the situation not very well hidden in the tautness of his shoulders.

( D ) Wiiiildcard? Choose your own adventure? Do something embarrassing please?

A because he's gonna need some booze to get those bugs down

[voiceinthephone]

Piers would have a friendly glass of wine placed beside his plate and a kind but weary smile to accompany it. Gray had seen Piers in the corner and, while there had been a few scowls, he had a mission to make any Tribute he ran into feel comfortable. After all, people survived best in groups. Piers looked like a soldier, a man ready for combat and, if anything, he'd be a good ally to have on the former guard's side.

"You look like you've seen a lot of action," Phil started the conversation off with, "I can somewhat assure you, there's nothing to worry about in this event." That and the Peacekeepers were doing their rounds, "It's all pretend...even if it's without some tact. They're not poisonous if that's what you're, um, wondering."

Torin Byrd | OTA

[bravelyplucked]

Torin is an old pro at these Crownings, and by this point in time, his particular eccentricities in clothing are well known to District 2's stylists. He favors white suits, he's unhappy in anything else, and heaven help the stylist that tries to get him to wear anything else. They could blame the stylists from Torin's Tribute days for that. He's still wearing a white suit jacket, though he's acquiesced to black pants and a black shirt, along with a red tie. A simple, though dashing, black cloak completes the ensemble.

[A]
That book with the parables gets Torin's attention fairly quickly. As he leafs through it, he's got to wonder just how true some of this is. He's strongly suspecting that the answer would be "not very." Even though he doesn't know all the Tributes that well, it's not really ringing true for the ones that he does. He's trying very, very hard not to look to bemused by it, and if he sees someone who's depicted in that book, he just might try to wave them over. Would they tell the District 2 mentor if the story rang true? He's not sure, but he wants to find out.

[B]
Torin takes one look at the food and decides that no, he won't be partaking of much of that. He's got a glass of soda, and that's enough. He'll opt to people-watch out at the bonfire, keeping a special eye out for any Sponsors he might be able to chat up or any of his District 2 Tributes who might be drinking a little too much of that wine. If there's one thing he doesn't want, it's hungover Tributes the next morning. They're always so hard to deal with when they're hungover.

A

[talltaleteller]

"Uncle! Hey!" Felicity's awe had finally worn down to just simple giddy excitement, and she was making her way through all the sights and displays. It was luck that her uncle was there at the one that she really wanted to have a look at. "What's that? What's in it? Is there something in it?"

She is standing on tip-toe as best she can in chunky black sandals, looking this way and that to try and peer at what's on the pages.

Emily Finch | OTA

[conifer]

Emily's dressed simply in a black dress, and a splash of colour with a matching earrings and necklace shaped like a leaf, to represent the forests of her district, in teal to match the colour assigned to it.

For the most part she hangs back, leaning on a wall and watching the proceedings, sipping a glass of wine and picking at a marshmallow, wishing there was something more substantial to eat that didn't include bugs.

She also spends quite a bit of time at the stained glass and the shrines, simultaneously fascinated by the aspects of cultures completely foreign to her depicted, and finding her own guilt and regret catching up to her as she thinks about the loss of life that meant the shrines had to be set up in the first place. Still, she finds herself envying the new lot of tributes bitterly - the sense of permanence that death brought was a rarity in the current Games, and something she'd had to live with for a long time.

Closed - Maxwell and Dorian

[dreadinquisitor]

He didn't know what the rules were supposed to be; he wasn't even sure they'd given out any rules. His first "flag" was snatched as he tried to parse it out, and the second went quickly after.

He lingered for a moment as his "killer" sprinted off into the dark, then just shrugged and peeled off the remaining belt.

It was hard to be invested in a game you didn't understand. Harder still when it came at the end of a very long night.

Moving through the trees he found a large, flat rock to sit on. Close enough where he could still see the action - was still obediently under the watchful eye of the guards - but far enough away that he couldn't be confused as still participating.

[tevintage]

"There you are," Dorian's voice came, harder than it had earlier in the night, when he finally stumbled upon Maxwell.

"I've been told by a little bird that you approached Jason to appeal to him about me, but I said, No, you must be mistaken, the Inquisitor wouldn't be so stupid to do expressly what I asked him not to."

Brock Samson walks in 15 minutes late with Starbucks

[samson]

Brock would not really consider himself a religious person, but even he can't help but be a little disturbed by all the imagery. He feels like he's going to a funeral or an Eyes Wide Shut-style orgy, not an party full of excess and casual bulimia.

He is dressed more for an orgy rather than a funeral, though, with straps of leather and a gauzy, jade-green kilt slung low on his hips, over black boots and irresponsibly tight black trousers. It would be a weird orgy, for sure, but an orgy. He's also got a helmet on with curling ram horns, apparently thematically appropriate as well as harkening to his recently-selected token, which is pinned to the inside of his boot.

a. FOOD & WINE.

This is Brock's second Crowning. The first had been an exercise in awkwardness all around, so he is getting a head start on drinking in anticipation of more awkward horseshit. Wine is the only option, and he's sure he's going to get shit from his sponsors for not guzzling their crappy beer like last time -- which is their own fault, really, for not supplying it. That will be his excuse. It's only convenient that wine is stronger than that piss water.

The food looks terrible, though, and while he is cradling a glass, he just kind of stares at everything covered in insects. "What the fuck," he mutters to no one in particular. "What kind of place is this person even from..."

b. CAVE.

This isn't the best place to go and get away from the amazingly stupid festivities, considering it is still technically part of them, but it's the best he can do right now. He spends a bit just squinting at the scribbling on the walls, wondering what the significance is before realizing he doesn't exactly care. It's all horrible and dumb.

There are pieces of chalk here in different colors, and Brock picks one up, rolling it in his hand as he considers writing... something. Something rude? Something heartfelt? It's difficult to choose between the two, mostly because he is having a difficult time actually caring. He hesitates and then decides to just to put the chalk down, which maybe looks like he is shy or something? But no. He is just really apathetic.

c. STICKERS.

When Brock gets slapped with a sticker that just says 11 on it, he is already pretty certain what it means. His score.

His suspicions are proved correct when the announcement comes, during which he's trying to very carefully peel the thing off his bare chest without removing a bunch of hair in the process. "It's not like I have this thing they coulda put it on instead," he grouses to himself, because he has a big metal plate in the center of his chest. It seems almost intentional that they'd put it on his skin.

But then the announcement comes and he looks up sharply. Not because he's surprised -- he'd already figured it out, his score staying the same -- but because he's curious to see if anyone he knows moved up. Or down.

c

[reallynow]

Jolie has seen Brock a few times through the party, but she's left him to his own devices for the most part. Better to let him acclimate to his outfit than face him when he's at his most indignant about it. Besides, she has other arms to hang off and other people to schmooze with. She's putting in the effort for her bastard children, nobody can deny that. It's in doing so that she overheard a rumor, one she's pretty sure is founded considering the requests made of staff earlier.

The Arena is starting soon. Very soon. She needs to make sure they're aware of that, but after distancing from Brock it's hard to find him through the evening. As such, she gets to him later in the evening and quite a few drinks into the evening. She might be on the clock, but that doesn't mean she isn't a little tipsy.

"There's my pretty boy!" She calls out, teetering through the crowds so she can gratefully latch onto his arm and regain her balance entirely. Now she's moving to give the mostly bald patch of his chest a pat. "If you'd let me wax it, you wouldn't look ridiculous right now."