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

[burningdaylight]

Being the sort of man to favour words over weapons and democracy over a dictatorship, Luke likes to think himself as being open to suggestions whether or not he came to agree with them in the end. He's as patient with Daryl as he is with his friends, trying to guess at what he'll say from his expression and his posture because there’s none of the relief Luke expected to find in either. The lines of Daryl's chest and shoulders are taut like overtuned piano strings. He's all the more scrutinizing now, unflinching, chin tipped up almost challengingly, and Luke can almost feel the expectation and uneasy readiness humming through his skin and rolling off him in waves. It takes a conscious effort to will his own muscles to relax, to keep his arms loose at his sides even while Daryl's suggestion has him rearing his head back, blinking.

"--whoa, whoa, hold on now." A frown furrows his brow.

No one would make the suggestion of answering blood with blood just like that. Either a bad experience - or a series of them - had skewed Daryl's perspective on conflict resolution enough to make violence seem like the appropriate response, or he had just made a sad attempt at a joke. Except neither him or Daryl are in much of a joking mood.

"Look..." Luke sighs through his nose, lips pinching as he considers what Nick might have said or done to exacerbate the situation. All it takes is one the abrasive remark to burn a bridge and he knew Nick’s whiplash-defensiveness all too well. "I don’ know what you’re used to – I mean, obviously nothin’ good - or what might a’ happened between you an’ Nick back there. But this ain't how we do things, a'right?”

There's a pause before he chuffs out a mirthless laugh, shaking his head. “We've drawn so much blood already..."

-- glancing blows, faces and fists slippery and dripping red --

"...The last thing we need right now is more a' that between any of us... an’ I think you feel the same." He tilts his head slightly, jaw firm-set and his gaze unwavering. A quiet, unaggressive strength.

"So, yeah." He says. "Jus' like that."

[weaintashes]

There's the old adage, if something seems too good to be true... And he isn't convinced it doesn't apply here.

"Just the way the world is now," he says with all the stubborn, weary resignation of someone who's been on the losing end of it frequently enough to know. Their world, this world, it's a nominal difference — they're both alike in that. Everything comes at a price, and that price invariably boils down to blood or sacrifice at its base. His look is pointed, suggesting the gulf of experience that separates them. "Way it's always been, for some."

He'd been a survivor long before the apocalypse, and it's informed every facet of his life to the point where he can't readily accept something that flies in the face of everything that he's known. Nick couldn't really be blamed for how things had gone down between them, either; Daryl should have thought twice before approaching him when he was knee-deep in some kind of frothy, self-loathing induced breakdown. Emotionally charged conversations rarely lead to productive outcomes. But the truth is, he'd let himself care enough to be concerned for Nick, and he can live with the consequences of that.

He's no fool, but nor is he inflexible. Adapting to changing situations is all part and parcel of survival, and it occurs to him that probably the worst that can happen here is being mildly surprised later if Luke or Nick do turn on him. The change that comes over him is subtle at first, a sort of easing of tension in his expression, some of the rigidity of his posture thawing, culminating in a single nod of understanding. Still uneasy, but less acutely.

"It ain't how we do things, neither," he eventually concedes, referring to his own small group present in Panem. "Not if we can help it." And it's true enough, they don't trade blood for blood. They do try to take the higher ground. Be the greater good. But things aren't always so straightforward, and what he did to Luke is proof of that.

Luke's sincerity is either so practised that he actually believes his own bullshit, or — just maybe — it isn't bullshit at all. Only time will tell. For now, Daryl's willing to give this a very calculated chance. And to that end, he asks, "You met Rick Grimes, yet? He's one'a mine."

[burningdaylight]

Luke knows that worn-around-the edges, world-wearied resignation well. Has heard it thick in his own voice, seen it in his own reflection and in the hollowness behind his eyes. It is what it is. That’s all they can ever say. That’s all it ever is.

Some people didn’t crumble under what brutal pressures they exist under; they’re tempered and transformed by them. Some come out the other side sometimes pared down to their barest functions, all their angles and edges whetted sharp and cutting the hands of strangers who’d try to reach them the wrong way. Pain always did last longer the pleasure. It's so much easier to remember the bad than the good.

He just looks back at Daryl. At the lines etched into the man’s face that have some story to tell, each like delicate fault lines running deeper than he imagines most of the world would ever know. It isn’t hard to understand what Daryl is telling him.

He’s under no illusion that everyone has had a childhood full of dreams and possibilities and the warmth every kid deserves. Never, when all he needed to do is look to Nick and see someone who had grown up with a deadbeat asshole for a dad and a temperamental mom not nearly present enough in his life to make up for it, an uncle stepping in and picking up the slack. A hard life can’t ever excuse poor decisions, but it helps explain them. It helps Luke understand.

He watches the slow unwinding of tightly-coiled muscle. The nod.

“Yeah, I did.” He says, leaving what came before without comment.

In the silence he feels like boundaries are being sharply defined like lines drawn in the sand. My people, your people.

“Told him ‘bout that so-called cure I’ve heard folks talkin’ about.”

[weaintashes]

Luke's original meeting with Rick requires no elaboration on his part, because Daryl already knows the details, direct from the source himself and also from arena footage. The purpose of the question had primarily been to establish his own relation to Rick, both as a courtesy and as a claim.

Boundaries become all the more important when they're one of the few things left that they still possess any control over. The Capitol hasn't been big on agency. Their respective groups don't necessarily have to be strictly divided — Beth has already bridged that gap by befriending Luke and Nick, after all — that business is up to the individual, but Daryl takes care of his own. As long as that's understood and respected, he'll spare Luke from further bristling, lip curling, and flashing of fangs and keep to his own people.

"Don't think any of us're keen to be guinea pigs," he says dourly as he angles his body toward the gathered crowd, letting his eyes wander over them. He's remained aware of where Beth and Rick are without needing to search for either, and they're not what concerns him at the moment. It's the way Luke has of looking at him, shrewd, uncomfortably knowing, like he's able to guess things which Daryl hadn't meant to reveal; so he's turning away with the hope it'll prevent his subconscious the opportunity of assimilating that, for fear of having it regurgitated later into even more disturbing imagery to haunt his sleep.

Discussing the supposed cure wouldn't be a bad idea, provided they can contain their anti-Capitol sentiments. But as far as Daryl's concerned, it's bullshit, just another method of manipulating them, and god only knows what the 'doctors' would really be injecting them with if they agreed to it. They all need to do more research before even considering it.

"...What'd you do before all this?" he asks apropos of nothing, his eyes still on the crowd. "Before the dead started comin' back." It's edging into dangerous territory, with how most people take questions as an invitation to pry into his own affairs in turn, but he's curious to know whether his intuition is correct.

tw - ref to graphic torture

[burningdaylight]

In the silence that settles between them, it's too easy for Luke to imagine someone stretched across a table in a sterile, windowless basement somewhere, shaking and pleading uselessly and wrenching at leather straps while needles slid under their skin and tools poked and prodded and sliced ruthlessly, tears squeezing out the corners of their eyes. The Capitol could dress wonton torture up however they wanted to, because they already did, and force a victim in sobbing agony to twist their bitten-bloody lips into a smile and sing praises to the Capitol. They could claim that subjecting a tribute to a battery of dubious tests was for the good of all, because who would argue that furthering their understanding of a disease and seeking a cure was anything but a noble cause? No one who didn't want to be Avoxed or have a curling half-inch of skin peeled off their face by a glowing brand.

There was no knowing how any one of them would respond to the pills R was provided - meds with a litany of side effects from what he had heard - when R hadn't even been human to begin with. When it - no, he - had had little to lose and everything to gain. Luke's lips pinch, the thoughtful, quietly defiant set of his jaw suggesting where he stands on the matter after spending a few weeks deep in research, surfacing for a breath of fresh air less often than he should have. But this is neither the time nor the place to elaborate and he's glad for that unspoken understanding between them. Gladder still for the question that comes.

It's not often when he's asked about a part of himself that the end of the world has made irrelevant. And he'll always find it tragic that it took the dead walking the earth for it to no longer matter what beliefs you had and the lifestyle you lead, who you loved, and who you slept with. What was worth anything now was if you could hunt and scavenge and if you could defend others. If you could be trusted when it counted most.

Luke shrugs a shoulder. Daryl's shirking his gaze again – not something that can be easily brushed off after he had been sizing him up so intently only a moment ago.

"Well, I figure I was like most folks outta college... jus' lookin’ to make the most a' their degree but stuck workin’ a dead-end job to pay off all them student loans." He chuckles softly, wryly, his eyes dimming at the memory of what had been and what could never be again. And all the things he had taken for granted. "...You?"

[weaintashes]

Huh. So Luke had been a broke college kid. It was at odds with what Daryl had been picturing: a slightly more put together version of him, to some degree successful and establishing himself in his chosen line of work — maybe counseling, or some other field full of schmoozy bullshit, because he obviously had some experience with knowing how to work people. Or read them. Same difference, ultimately. Chances are the apocalypse had simply forced him to grow up, then, since he doesn't give the impression of being a hapless college goon now.

Unfortunately Luke makes the mistake of turning the question back on Daryl, which he responds to with a sharp glance and noncommittal grunt. He's accustomed to people wondering about his past and who he used to be, but he isn't convinced any of them have really cared about knowing the truth, with possibly a couple exceptions. The truth isn't glamourous, interesting, or even pleasant. He can't claim to have been still figuring out the direction of his life — he was literally no one. Nothing. Aimless and drifting, and the closest he'd ever gotten to having any sort of happiness or contentment in his life had been with Merle, who maybe hadn't been much of a brother, but he'd been all Daryl had. All that he knew or cared to know, back then. And that had been enough for him.

Right about now he's deeply regretting even broaching this line of conversation.

Sharing time should really be over. He should just walk away. And as Daryl shifts his weight to a foot in preparation of making his escape, giving Luke a look intended to be his last, he nearly does. But something compels him to hesitate, long enough to reconsider. He still isn't inclined to share the truth, and may never be, but.

Tilting his head in lieu of a shrug, he asks, "What d'you think I did?" The emphasis is caused by curiosity rather than the biting sarcasm he'd normally employ to deflect unwelcome questions from people he barely knows.

[burningdaylight]

“Iunno.” Luke shrugs when the question bounces back his way, not all too surprised by the reluctance. Maybe shame factors into it. Whatever the case may be, though, he doubts Daryl’s actually inviting him to answer, not after the look he shot him which nearly has him regretting what was intended as a harmless, polite reciprocation of curiosity. But not enough to actually retract the question.

“Somethin’ more practical,” Luke takes a stab at it anyway, voicing one of the more flattering guesses that come to mind and expecting to be met with a scoff all the same. “Hands-on.”

He relents with another bob of his shoulders after a moment.

“Listen… if y’don’ wanna talk about it, then we don' have to."

[weaintashes]

It's true that Daryl doesn't especially care about receiving a real answer, but the peculiar, growing sense of curiosity is enough to hold him there, and has him wondering what manner of indirect judgment Luke will pass on him with his response. And surprisingly, the guess isn't met with derision, and doesn't cause him to retreat further into his typical guarded defensiveness. Even though it's essentially a polite way of saying unskilled and uneducated — but it isn't as though he needs validation from someone like Luke, which takes the potential sting out of his judgment.

"Hands-on," he repeats, and there's actually a slow smile curling the edges of his mouth as his eyebrows climb toward his hairline. Really? It's unfortunate phrasing given the subject matter that had brought him over to Luke in the first place, but he isn't sure he can assign malicious intent with Luke seeming so oddly guileless in that moment. Presumably isn't meant as some kind of double entendre either, for the same reason.

"You're not wrong." But he's being offered an out and he's damn well taking it, while it's possible to part on relatively decent terms right now. His mouth has a way of landing him in trouble in these kinds of situations; he doesn't trust himself to not ruin this. An ally who's already proven himself trustworthy thus far — one who's apparently genuinely willing to forgive Daryl's grievous mistake — isn't something he can easily disregard, and the potential of this bond is worth holding onto, to see how it may develop.

Inclining his head slightly, he says, "I expect we'll be gettin' back to you on that 'cure' you've been lookin' into. Stay outta trouble." With that, he drifts back into the party, doing what he can to avoid people while making his way toward a more secluded area.