Neffa a Reyeth (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lessthanelementary) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2013-06-21 03:46 pm
lessthanelementary) wrote in thecapitol2013-06-21 03:46 pm
Entry tags:
[where did the party go?]
Who: Neffa a Reyeth and Asha Greyjoy
Where: District 7 suites
When: After the execution, before the Arena
What: Neither of them is the kind of person who deals well with trauma alone.
Warnings: Talk of violence, probable shameless innuendo, very probable making good on shameless innuendo
Two hours gone, and Neffa's all but worn a rut into the carpet of his room. He couldn't stay out long - the sight of the feast made him nauseous, his reward for being too unobtrusive to murder.
It's too many different kinds of fear at once, is the problem - there's the constant glance-over-the-shoulder wariness that's part and parcel of life in the Capitol, of course, the kind that cuts sharper every day before the Arena, the kind that had put circles under his eyes before Ariadne ever pulled her stunt. Then there's the fear of Ariadne's stunt, the biting knowledge that the Tributes are not truly safe even from each other. Hard on the heels of that, there's the implicit warning of the feast, the cuffs-- it isn't really fighting for your life, is it, he thinks feverishly, until you know you they can't just kill you, but kill you.
He ends up in the common area long after the rest are gone (retreated to their own rooms or the suites of more sympathetic companions) and the feast has long grown cold. He considered, for a while, trying to wrestle the communicator into providing him with some conversation, but he's already feeling-- well. Less than eloquent. The silence is nerve-wracking, but he's not even sure what he'd open a conversation with-- there are only so many variations on a cheerful gruesome, eh? he can think of.
The block of cedar he didn't turn into a gift for Timaeus was there, lying temptingly under the pile of clothes where he left it, and they didn't execute him for the first conduit he carved; and so he sprawls in an armchair and takes a knife to it, buries his terror in the rhythmic scrape of the blade against the wood, whittles half-signs of protection and scrapes them down to nothing again, runs through all twenty-three signs in his head forty times, and it's almost close enough to not thinking to count. Almost.
Where: District 7 suites
When: After the execution, before the Arena
What: Neither of them is the kind of person who deals well with trauma alone.
Warnings: Talk of violence, probable shameless innuendo, very probable making good on shameless innuendo
Two hours gone, and Neffa's all but worn a rut into the carpet of his room. He couldn't stay out long - the sight of the feast made him nauseous, his reward for being too unobtrusive to murder.
It's too many different kinds of fear at once, is the problem - there's the constant glance-over-the-shoulder wariness that's part and parcel of life in the Capitol, of course, the kind that cuts sharper every day before the Arena, the kind that had put circles under his eyes before Ariadne ever pulled her stunt. Then there's the fear of Ariadne's stunt, the biting knowledge that the Tributes are not truly safe even from each other. Hard on the heels of that, there's the implicit warning of the feast, the cuffs-- it isn't really fighting for your life, is it, he thinks feverishly, until you know you they can't just kill you, but kill you.
He ends up in the common area long after the rest are gone (retreated to their own rooms or the suites of more sympathetic companions) and the feast has long grown cold. He considered, for a while, trying to wrestle the communicator into providing him with some conversation, but he's already feeling-- well. Less than eloquent. The silence is nerve-wracking, but he's not even sure what he'd open a conversation with-- there are only so many variations on a cheerful gruesome, eh? he can think of.
The block of cedar he didn't turn into a gift for Timaeus was there, lying temptingly under the pile of clothes where he left it, and they didn't execute him for the first conduit he carved; and so he sprawls in an armchair and takes a knife to it, buries his terror in the rhythmic scrape of the blade against the wood, whittles half-signs of protection and scrapes them down to nothing again, runs through all twenty-three signs in his head forty times, and it's almost close enough to not thinking to count. Almost.