This was one of the less painful Crownings; anything was better than a model Drone or helmstroll station. However, Psii entered the party feeling miserable and trying to keep to himself. Psii's golden half armor and (dress? robe? probably dress) was surprisingly comfortable, despite its length. That was a mercy after two weeks of literal insanity in the arena, his mind ripped into paranoid tatters by the mask's effects. He knew now that was what caused it. A soon as he was left to his own devices, he whipped off a delicate half mask that came with his outfit and "accidentally" dropped it into the red fountain.
Hopefully there weren't any dumbasses stupid enough to fish it out and hand it back to him. His internal screaming might just become reality. His mind was healed physically from the influence of the arena's mask, but the memories of last week were still raw. He was not at his best, and everyone saw it.
B: the party don't start till i get drunk and set something on fire
Psii gravitated towards The Herald's Rest and its irresponsibility beverages. His instinct was to drown his sorrows and forget his last drawn-out days spent frothing at the mouth about imagined attacks. His original timeline self—the Helmsman—died alone and insane, too. These things were due to no fault of his, but he felt like shit for it anyway.
Psii had a habit bordering on honored tradition, whenever the Capitol or even a friend put on a high-profile event. It involved reminiscing about the dearly departed, contemplating the current shitty state of affairs, and arson. The stuffed animals in the lower courtyard were fair game. He fished out some cigarettes he'd stolen from Signless (he didn't smoke) and began pestering people for a light.
"Doethn't anyone have a fire-thtarting devithe in thith goddamn bar?" he slurred drunkenly. If anyone could understand him through the alcohol and his lisp, it would be a miracle.
Psiioniic || Open
This was one of the less painful Crownings; anything was better than a model Drone or helmstroll station. However, Psii entered the party feeling miserable and trying to keep to himself. Psii's golden half armor and (dress? robe? probably dress) was surprisingly comfortable, despite its length. That was a mercy after two weeks of literal insanity in the arena, his mind ripped into paranoid tatters by the mask's effects. He knew now that was what caused it. A soon as he was left to his own devices, he whipped off a delicate half mask that came with his outfit and "accidentally" dropped it into the red fountain.
Hopefully there weren't any dumbasses stupid enough to fish it out and hand it back to him. His internal screaming might just become reality. His mind was healed physically from the influence of the arena's mask, but the memories of last week were still raw. He was not at his best, and everyone saw it.
B: the party don't start till i get drunk and set something on fire
Psii gravitated towards The Herald's Rest and its irresponsibility beverages. His instinct was to drown his sorrows and forget his last drawn-out days spent frothing at the mouth about imagined attacks. His original timeline self—the Helmsman—died alone and insane, too. These things were due to no fault of his, but he felt like shit for it anyway.
Psii had a habit bordering on honored tradition, whenever the Capitol or even a friend put on a high-profile event. It involved reminiscing about the dearly departed, contemplating the current shitty state of affairs, and arson. The stuffed animals in the lower courtyard were fair game. He fished out some cigarettes he'd stolen from Signless (he didn't smoke) and began pestering people for a light.
"Doethn't anyone have a fire-thtarting devithe in thith goddamn bar?" he slurred drunkenly. If anyone could understand him through the alcohol and his lisp, it would be a miracle.