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

[dead_black_eyes]

He stares long and hard at the stained glass at the question, and then glances her way, for a very brief moment.

"Some things, recently," he says softly. "That much, I will admit, is a gift, and I am grateful for it."

He raises his sleeve and rubs at his makeup again, smudging it further.

[reassures]

He doesn't specify whatever it is that he's seen beauty in as of late, but it's enough for a small, warm smile to spread across Nill's face. It looks a little out of place given the attire they've stuck her in - warmth hardly matches with the vines and sharpness of the makeup - but there isn't a single thing about it that's not genuine.

that's really good to hear.
do you want help taking your makeup off?
I don't think your stylists would mind.

[dead_black_eyes]

If it isn't completely obvious what he means, drunk and high and scarcely hanging onto presence in the moment by a thread, perhaps that's something like a small shred of dignity spared for District 6's resident trainwreck.

He fixes his glazed eyes on her words, and he lowers his sleeve, where some of the white powder has smudged against the dark material. The cheekbone he was rubbing at, mindless of the pressure he was exerting, looks a little red and angry.

"Yeah, it's... uncomfortable. Thank you."

The handful of marshmallows goes into his pocket, and he withdraws a handkerchief, starting to sit on the floor, dipping the corner of it in his white wine. Clearly, if Nill's pragmatic suggestion was to go elsewhere to remove the makeup, she'll need to repeat it and be a bit clearer about it this time.

[reassures]

She had intended to go elsewhere - maybe closer to a source of something they could clean his face off with that wasn't wine, for instance - but they aren't in the middle of the room at least. The glass is at a wall not terribly close to some of the other attractions, and it's high up enough in the wall that Linden probably won't actually block it by sitting there.

She doesn't move to sit with him, but she does crouch down so they're relatively on the same level, already writing a message which she holds up for him after a moment.

I think water might be a better idea.
will you be ok if I go get some?

It's very obvious that he's not all there, and while he's no doubt not actually as bad as he could be, she's also not entirely sure how bad he can be at this stage. Her only mode of comparison was the night before the last Arena, and that was practically an overdose (or so she assumes, at least). That concern is mostly at war with the possibility of getting wine in his eyes.

[dead_black_eyes]

He peers up as she crouches down, holding a handkerchief with one corner dripping with white wine. It'd probably be incredibly drying on the skin, if he tried to use it to rub off his makeup, and it would doubtless sting the portion of his face he's already rubbed red. He blinks, readjusting his gaze when he sees the new message.

"I guess..."

He seems uncertain, a Victor sitting there in partial makeup and incomplete attire, a wine glass sitting on the floor in front of him. It's not a dignified way to leave him, but to be fair, dignity and Linden don't frequently cross paths publicly. It waits for intimate, quite moments to appear, because that's the only time it's even a little bit safe to reveal intelligence and insight.

Even then, it's dangerous.

[reassures]

Nill seems just as uncertain, and his reply isn't terribly reassuring. Her expression falls a little, and she lifts her head to scan the crowd.

She knows people have bid on him. It seems he's got some kind of reputation going for him, and Nill isn't totally sure that there aren't Capitolites in attendance to the crownings. There's no way for her to know all the tributes and be entirely certain of that. Some creep showing up is about the last thing in the world she wants.

However, as she scans the crowd, she sees a good solution to this problem. Nill is on her feet in a second or two, quickly writing wait here before she scurries off, writing even as she walks away.

There's someone not too far away that she knows, and they seem to have water. It should be within sight of Linden. They read her note, and after a second or two of saying something they give her their glass. On the way back she grabs a napkin from an Avox - the cloth sort - with a grateful smile. The whole thing takes maybe thirty seconds before she's back and moving to stand on her knees in front of linden again, holding up the glass and napkin.

That worked out better than she was expecting. Anyone sketchy looking that wandered too close to Linden while she was a few feet away got watched like a hawk.

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden does have a reputation, just as unnerving and upsetting as many other parts of his life since winning the 63rd Hunger Games. It's the type of reputation that draws a certain type of opportunistic Capitolite, and one would think that it would inspire him to be a little more careful with the vices he imbibed. Unfortunately, that isn't quite how addictions and coping mechanisms work; at the end of the day, Linden would rather risk waking up confused and ashamed the next morning than endure a night sober.

A chill runs through him. The truths that occur to him in this state cut through him the most intensely, ripping him to shreds and exposing all of his flaws. He's weak for doing this to himself, a vicious voice whispers. He's selfish, he's the kind to blithely hurt any who dare to give a damn about the person he's been slowly killing for a decade. When Nill returns, she'll find him staring again at the stained glass, with voided-out eyes that still fail to see what makes it beautiful.

He reaches for the napkin, dipping it in the water... and instead of wiping the makeup off his own face, he starts on Nill's.

"Cover you up..." he mumbles, "they shouldn't, really... poor decision-making."

[reassures]

It's not how addiction works at all, and it certainly isn't how coping works, at least as far as what Nill knows of it goes. She's never once known anyone that chose sobriety when their lives were an especially unpleasant kind of hell. That rule rang true even in her own world; where people weren't owned by typical drugs they were surely slaves to their own minor vices. Nicotine, adrenaline, blood lust - it all depended on the person, really, but Nill had yet to know someone without a vice. (Save, perhaps, for Kankri.) But that certainly wasn't close to anything that came out of her own world, and Nill could never really fault anyone for their vices, no matter how sad they might make her. After all, at this point she had a fair number of her own.

Unfortunately Nill doesn't know what his gaze on the glass means, but she takes up the space she'd originally been kneeling in, setting what she managed to find in front of her.

It occurs to her, then, that maybe he's less present than she'd thought he was.

She doesn't have much time to think on it. Linden reaches for what she's brought before she has the time to do so herself, and a moment later he's working on taking off her makeup, not is. Her cheeks go a little pink, but he might not notice that.

She writes on her notepad without actually moving her head, and holds it up for him to see. The writing is larger than normal for the sake of ease, and not as neat since she can't see it, but it's at least concise.

what?

She has no idea what he means by that.

[dead_black_eyes]

Maybe it was true for every world inhabited by humans, or any creature human-like enough within a certain set of parameters. Linden would agree with the sentiment that every creature that feels pain will, inevitably, do their very best to escape that pain, from the fox that chews its own foot off to escape a trap, to the addict enduring the sting of a needle for the peace that follows.

As he rubs off some of her makeup, he is, in fact, able to notice the slight pinkness in her cheeks, and it makes him smile, a twitchy half-grin that goes poorly with the somber and edgy look his stylists have elected for his ensemble.

"I mean your stylists didn't know what they were doing tonight. You're really pretty; most of their work is finished before they even start."

[reassures]

The rarity with which Linden actually smiles, and the fact that the one on his face now is definitely wider than usual, makes Nill's eyes go a little wide. But then again, that could be the compliment as well, because they certainly don't get any smaller.

It might be because he's actually touching her face and saying she's pretty, or maybe the earlier comment about beauty has started to actually sink in. He says she's pretty and her cheeks almost go red with how quickly a full blush creeps onto her face. She still doesn't move her head, but her gaze darts around, and it doesn't return to him until she's written another message and held it up.

are you ok?

She's really starting to think she underestimated his level of sobriety.

[dead_black_eyes]

He dabs at her foundation, and is noticeably gentler than when he was working at his own, to the point where he's having more trouble taking it off. On the plus side, he's not in any danger of rubbing off poor Nill's skin.

His eyes stray when she has a message for him, and he tilts his head, hand slipping slightly against her cheek.

"No..." he laughs lightly. "But that's normal. And I think I actually want to remember this crowning, which isn't normal, but... it is OK."

[reassures]

She doesn't understand the shift - she'd assumed he wasn't aware of how hard he was rubbing his own skin, but if that was the case his gentleness wouldn't make sense. He'd be doing the same to her, but he's not. The extent to how intentional his care is is obvious.

He wants to remember this and Nill is pretty sure he never really wants to remember nights like this. It was part of why he was so far gone at most of them; the sooner he started the quicker he forgot, or so it always seemed.

That... wasn't because of her, was it? It couldn't be. Why would that make any difference?

After a moment to consider his words Nill writes another message, and she lifts one hand to gently touch her fingertips to his cheek, holding the notepad in the other hand.

can I do anything?

[dead_black_eyes]

He feels a little bad interfering with her communication to the extent that he is; it must be difficult to write with a strung-out addict dabbing with varying degrees of effectiveness around one's eyes and nose.

He stares at the latest message like he doesn't quite understand it, and really, he might not. It's a vague offer, too vague for his state of mind, and he's having trouble coming up with specifics.

"I don't know... probably not. Most of the things I want aren't like that."

It's a strange answer, one he's not quite sure makes a lot of sense in the given context. He thought about asking for another glass of wine, but that would push him well into blackout territory, and from there on he'd be a on vacation from himself while his lowered inhibitions wreaked havoc on the people who cared enough to remain close. If he was lucky; if he was unlucky, anything could happen, and he'd be the one dealing with the fallout the next day.

"Just... oh." He's thought of something. "Close your eyes, this stuff really burns when you rub it too close if you're not careful."

[reassures]

She probably shouldn't have expected a more put-together response than that in all honestly. The fact that he's still actually reading what she writes probably says a lot more about the fact that he likes her and is still willing to try to put the effort in even while half out of his head rather than an ability to really understand what she's asking him very well. Nill doesn't really understand his response, but she chalks it up to him probably not really understanding the question.

For a moment her hand moves to actually cup his cheek, and she gives him a very small, halfhearted soft of smile, before her hand slides back to herself. There's not much more she can write, and even if she did, what would be the point? She probably can't manage to write with her eyes closed. The smile fades and Nill closes her eyes, which is a lot more than she allows most people. Touching her when she can't see it? God, no. But she trusts Linden, even if he's high off his ass.

He's probably going to be the death of her some day.

[dead_black_eyes]

By now, they're drawing more than a few stares; even if they're off to the side, well out of the way of most foot traffic, it's difficult to ignore the past Victor and current tribute sitting on the floor with a glass of water and wine between them, making quite a lot of the stylists' efforts in vain.

His cheek is warm to her touch, likely due to the likelihood that there is more wine in his veins than blood at this point. Despite his considerable intoxication, his touch remains gentle; he probably senses, at least on some level, that he's being trusted with more than most, and that Nill's eyes closing at his request means something incredibly significant. He takes care as he wipes around her eyelashes, smudging her makeup more than actually cleaning it from her skin.

"Hm. They set it pretty well, I think I'm just making a mess. Sorry."

[reassures]

Nill has always let her stylists do whatever they want for the most part, outside of dealing with her hair. She's no doubt earned enough brownie points to make this a bit more excusable.

Besides, it's not like they won't need to fix her up in a few hours anyway to send her into the Arena. Not that she knows that. Or anyone, really. But she cares about the stylists very little in this regard, and she'll care significantly less tomorrow when all she makes it out of the cornucopia with is beer.

At his apology she actually giggles, lifting a hand to her mouth even though sound doesn't really accompany her laughter anyway. Then she lifts her hands to rub at her eyes, enough so that she can open them, and goes for her notepad again.

it looked a little strange on me to begin with.

[dead_black_eyes]

That gentle bit of laughter catches him off-guard, and he nervously laughs a touch, himself.

"It'd look strange on anyone, don't be so hard on yourself."

He says so after he pulls the napkin away, allowing her access to her eyes. They are highly smudged at this point; it looks like she's been sobbing her eyes out.

"That looks... still good," he lies, poorly.

[reassures]

Her hands definitely have odd glittery-green smudges on them now from the odd eyeshadow that her stylists were trying to pull off. They would have been better off using a different tribute for it. There was some girl on her floor-- Elsa? They'd never spoken, bit Nill's seen her around. It definitely would have worked better on her. Nill doesn't seem terribly bothered by how smudged the make up is however, and she takes a moment to rub where her skin is still wet. The smile she settles on him is small and warm, and terribly fond.

(And, you know, a little concerned. But that often tends to be a given when it comes to Linden, and right now it's a very mild concern, the sort that lets her know she should probably get rid of that glass of wine at some point.)

do you still want help with yours?

[dead_black_eyes]

It's a good thing Nill isn't miffed by the state of her makeup, because there's no fixing it without washing it off completely and starting over. Her stylists won't be pleased with her, or Linden, but to be fair... with the arena start coming up so soon, he might be unwittingly saving them a bit of trouble.

That smile cuts through him like light through fog, and he has to look away until he's being shown another written message.

He glances up with eyes that look even darker and more hollow with the makeup he's wearing, giving a few brisk nods in response. "Yeah, could you?"

[reassures]

If Oceana gives her shit about it Nill will guilt her for not sending her cigarettes in the Arena as needed, or just use the general no-one-told-me-there-would-be-another-arena-after-this excuse, which is perhaps more justified, even if it would be more understandable to tributes rather than capitolites. Though it's not as if she often makes too much of a fuss about these things anyway. She's really done a decent enough job at staying on her stylist's good side.

Nill's smile doesn't change in the slightest; it's still careful and warm and concerned, but it widens just slightly and gives him a thumbs up, taking the napkin. She uses a corner to rub at some of the makeup on her own face before folding it over to dip a clean bit in the water.

She doesn't start cleaning his face immediately, and instead lifts hand to cup one of his cheeks, head tilted just slightly to the side, waiting mostly to see if he's uncomfortable, and if he minds her touching his face with both her hands. He can still decide against it if he wants to. She certainly won't push it.

[dead_black_eyes]

Even though he told her it was OK, even asked her to help, he still seems startled when her hand touches his face. His eyes flick back and forth for a moment, glassy and hunted, before fixing back on her. He relaxes noticeably when he has put everything together and shifted his line of thinking back to where he is and who he's with; he's even comforted, knowing that she's there and helping him so patiently and gently.

"Thanks for reminding me I'm still here..." he jokes, the attempt pitiful and slightly broken, but totally genuine.

[reassures]

Yeah, definitely getting rid of the alcohol when she has the chance. The way his eyes dart back and forth is very reminiscent of the evening before the last Arena started, and while she's entirely certain this is nowhere near as bad she'd still rather keep an eye on him. If he didn't want to go back to 6 she could just take him to 9 again. That way she'd know if anyone sketchy looking tried to find him, since she knows the faces of all her district mates. Hopefully the crowning would end before he forgot where he was again, but if it didn't at least he seemed to recognize her regardless.

The joke is met with the same smile as before, though it's faded slightly, shifting a little closer to the worried and slightly sad end rather than the careful one. At least's still warm. But he's more present now, and so Nill sets to work at trying to clean up his makeup. She's as gentle about it as he was, though unlike Linden she's actually kinda succeeding at getting the stuff off.

[dead_black_eyes]

His stylists, as is typically for them, have really caked on Linden's makeup; under it, his skin is translucent, the color of bleached bone. Even in the Capitol, where there's often a sick fascination with death and those near it, it's a hue too uncomfortably honest to look at directly; better to turn him into a stark caricature of cold severity rather than face the less glamorous aspects of addiction and self-abandonment. As the layers of foundation and the darkness around his eyes are cleaned up, the illusion of an intimidating, vengeful ghost is soothed. Rubbing away the painted character that the Capitol is familiar and enamoured with has the result of revealing a plain, pale, tired face that belongs to nothing more than a brittle survivor.

"This isn't something you have to do..." he says, as though suddenly aware of their situation and the glances of passerby. "Escorts, stylists and Avoxes all exist to take care of messes... you were enjoying yourself before I showed up and stuck you with a mess, and now I feel guilty."

[reassures]

Given just how much there is she probably won't be able to get it all off completely without some warm water and soap, but it won't exactly stop her from trying.

There's something to be said, however, for the contrast. Nill has never known Linden to not be a wreck of himself, or whatever he used to be. Care about him though she might that's her baseline, the norm in her eyes, and she doesn't hold it against him. How could she? His own wreck is just a lot less visible than hers; while he has bruises on the inside of his arms and skin that looks ready to slip off him, Nill has little scars all over her hands, fingerprints on her skin, distrust in most things except this. She doesn't get people like Gary anymore, who are constantly happy no matter what. This is what she understands now.

This is a lower dip than usual, but still not too far from what she's accustomed to. Because of that it's a little jarring, seeing the color of his skin go from just cold to the normal ill that it always looks. It shouldn't be of course, because somewhere along the line everyone was a healthy individual, but it's hard to equate with Linden. She's seen pictures of him painted like this, but it's different in person. It's more painful than usual to see an actual physical representation of what he's done to himself, unintentional as it may have been.

She still smiles at him but it's considerably closer to the somber side of things now. She takes a moment to finish a particularly stubborn patch of foundation before reaching for her notepad, though she keeps one hand on his cheek. The page ends up smudged with the makeup from her hands.

everyone is a mess.
if I didn't want to be here with you I would leave.

[dead_black_eyes]

He weathers her attempts gamely; he can barely feel his skin as it is, and even a rougher, more determined touch is unlikely to register.

"I'm so sorry..." he says. "But you're going to leave. You won't have a choice, after the Crowning, and I'm... so sorry for that. But thank you for spending the time you have with me."