dinalao-blog

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goes to…Dina Lao!

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goes to…Dina Lao!

s/o to Polarity Coulomb!

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Favorite parade costume goes to…District 1!

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goes to…Soo Joo Park, the beautiful face of Dina Lao!

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was…the fight between Vodka and Dina!

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day frickin’ three.

[location.] a castle that looks like a dollhouse painted black. i like it.

[3 items.] shield. taser. knife.

[injuries.] blade tore through my chest (bandaged), upper arm gash/ripped open (bandaged), shattered cheekbone (left alone), strangulation bruises (bandaged).

[notes.] used adrenaline tablet to counter my broken face, and i’m thanking the capitol for the medical help. i’m going to need it. god, am i going to need it.

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day frickin’ two.

[alliance.] well not anymore. apparently still vodka’s fiance, though. so i mean, there’s that.

[location.] who the fuck knows. i met plarity. i mean polarity.

[weapons.] sword. shield. [4] crossbow bolts. muscle paralytic.

[items.] blue pack. rope. shawl. blanket. candy. stun-gun. and of course, a diamond ring.

[injuries.] none. just a little dirty. so i guess that’s an injury.

[dinalao-blog]

She thanks me. I stop and watch her, backpack still balanced upon hip. Right now, it almost does not feel like a game. Had I known her in my own District, had she been in my class, we may have been acquaintances. Or friends. I reach my hand out, folding the sodden towel once. Twice. And stuff it into the backpack.

“You looked cold,” I nod, finding my smile to be soothing. The girl is calm. I appreciate that, and realize that she mirrors me in many ways. We move, breathe in the same fashion. I do not know her, or her life, or even her last name. But I think we are alike. I am not sure if I like that, though. 

At least we are compatible.

I take the bundle of twine-held herbs and roll them in between my fingers. They crinkle, dried from sun tanning and air. She watches me, and I try my best to figure out what they do. If anything. They make a rustling noise as I spin them, and smell of heavy musk and dirt. I grit my teeth, the greens shedding on me, but I try my best not to let it get to me. I am clean for now.

Not sure how long that will last.

“That one,” I pull out a dark strand of leaves, thin and piney. It’s flat in my fingertips, strong aromas masking us. Assaulting my nose. “Rosemary. Mostly for the skin, with those leaves. Not very strong. That’s okay.” I fiddle around with the rest of the bundles, scrunching up my eyes to try to find tell-tale signs of which is which.

“That’s yarrow. Actually kind of useful.” I nod, putting it closer to my nose, but not touching. Tiny white flowers sprout throughout the dry branches, but are long since cracking and shriveled. It’s a corpse of what it was before. I hold it out for her to see which one it is. “Good for fever, really. And other things.” I murmur. For colds, for skin rashes, for... I try to remember, but I am not an encyclopedia. I trained, yes, but it only really goes so far.

I frown, shaking my head. “That’s the only thing it’ll be good for here. And last one is woodruff. Mostly useless, actually. Tastes nice in water.” I motion to the last of the herbs, the one with dying white flowers like the yarrow. They all look like they belong in a tea rather than in an arena.

This is What Makes Us Girls :: Polarity and Dina :: Arena Day 2

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The girl mimics me. I try not to stare at my new ally. I figured she isn't going to attack me, and therefor is truthful. Not trustworthy, exactly. But I wouldn’t have to worry all day and night about her drawing that axe on me. I swallow hard at her words, thinking about what I know. Which isn’t exactly a lot, granted; I’ve not explored much, and I know Vodka already made a kill.

I shove my oh-so charismatic fiance from my mind. 

Rubbing my arm through my woolly shawl, I try to recall anything of importance. I pick at the threading. Besides the run-in with the old lady in the dirty cabin, I’ve been mostly free of tributes crossing my path. I keep picking at the threading. So I shake my head, watching as her hand slides through her hair. I purse my lips at the motion, watching how her fingers weave through the locks on her forehead. As if in slow-motion, in my eyes. I kneel, swinging the backpack around to pull out the blanket I stole earlier.

“Here,” I hand it to her, and she gives me a puzzling look. I open my mouth to speak. And then close it, choking on my words. I am not very good at interacting with others, even when I want to. I try again, forcing myself not choke on letters and syllables. “You can dry off.” I manage, and even smile to myself after. I did it.

My life, since the age of ten, has all been training. Practice. Drills. Scenarios. Tactics. Pointers. Battling. But they never sat us down to teach us how to look someone in the eye, so I find myself struggling to do so now. I fear that maybe I’m not as strong as I would like to think I am. Social skills are just as important as technical ones. I swallow my fear, pushing my anxious thoughts to the deepest corners of my mind. Still, they come back to bite me in return.

Flawed.

I shake my head as I hear a faint beeping fade in. Snapping my head up, because I know that sound, I search for the automated little box to float down from the simulated sky. A parachute attached to a silver square lands in my hands, and I glance up at Polarity while opening the lid. Inside of the coal-colored, Capitol-smelling box is a single vial of what looks like… water. I frown again, tapping it, but then freeze when I remember my training.

Not water. Definitely not water. Actually, the opposite of water.

Polarity eyes me, and I swivel the box around to show her the small gift. “Poison.” I mutter, tapping the vial again. Thankful for Gem and her fire, I put the vial and its box into the backpack. I do not want it to crack open while running around the arena. “Muscle paralytic.” 

This is What Makes Us Girls :: Polarity and Dina :: Arena Day 2

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I don’t exactly care if her words are true or not. That’s not what I’m assessing as I drag my eyes over her. She has a weapon, and a bag, and I’m not exactly sure what else. She looks stable, not too roughed up, and more r less serious. I’m sure I could cut off her hand in one movement, but that isn’t necessary at the moment. I don’t see her as a threat, but I don’t see her as harmless, either.

“You want to alliance?” I say, keeping my sword extended. My reflection glares back at me, the metal is so clear. The girl doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. I keep quiet, trying to recall anything I know about her. Her frigid reaping, her parade, her private training score. Nothing stands out to me, nothing out of the ordinary. 

What the hell.

“Fine.” I utter, dropping my arm and watching her relax. I’m not sure she’ll be of any use, but at least that’s one less tribute I’ll have to keep tabs on. I slip my sword into the belt of rope I wove, hanging by the shield. I hardly remember her name. Polar… something. Polarity. “But not for long.”

I didn’t know exactly how long this alliance was going to last. As long as we went into this knowing we weren’t friends. The alliance couldn’t hurt; I knew she couldn’t kill me by betrayal, I was sure. And in a fight, she better make herself useful. Or at least clean up the mess afterwards.

“You understand?” I narrowed my eyes up at her. I could so easily just change my mind. But I’m driving myself on, trying not to think of dreams and dirt.

Sometimes I feel like the real arena is in my head.

This is What Makes Us Girls :: Polarity and Dina :: Arena Day 2

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I hear her before I see her.

I spin on my heel, whipping my sword upwards to rake through the air. Maybe I wasn’t paying much attention, or my assailant was just light on their feet, but I’m caught off guard by the noise. And, wouldn’t you know it, it’s the sleepyhead. She looks worn down and soggy, with dirt smudged on her cheeks. I wrinkle my noise, extending my arm with sword attached to point towards her neck.

“I can’t say the same. Talk,” I grit my teeth, irritated beyond belief with the situation. On one hand, it’s not Vodka – obviously, or I would have a knife to the gut for reacting so slowly. On the other, it’s the girl from Three. I shouldn’t be stopping for her; I shouldn’t be talking; I should have taken her head when I had the chance. 

But I didn’t. So I hear her out, through narrowed eyes and bitter hands.

This is What Makes Us Girls :: Polarity and Dina :: Arena Day 2

Heading North with my pack on my back and my axe in my hands I feel ready for whatever the arena has to throw my way next. As I walk I decide that my legs have improved vastly from yesterday. The bats didn’t do as much damage as I thought, and although the little puncture wounds in my pants are unsightly, I feel no pain. My arm is sore, but I’m working the stiffness out with a few swings of the axe, and my positive attitude helps immensely. 

The trees on either side of the road are incredibly dense and I keep my eyes on the shadows as they dance in the rain. I was right about movement being good for warmth, but I still haven’t found shelter, and being wet is getting rather tedious. Thankfully, the drizzle is nothing more than that, and I’m not being pounded by any sort of true storm. 

The one question dancing around my mind is who in the world took my sword from the woodsman’s head. I know they’re out there, and possibly on this same path. I slow as I’m pondering the options. It had to be someone strong, and it had to be someone quiet. Just as I am reaching this conclusion I hear a rustle up ahead and freeze like a rabbit caught in a garden. I heft my axe and step around the bend to come face to face with Dina, the girl from One. 

I don’t know this tribute very well, other than that she’s deadly, and from what I’ve seen, I respect her. I take one hand off my weapon and raise it palm up, but do not lower the axe. “I don’t want to kill you. Can we talk?” 

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liquor lips > day 2 > os

I dream of Vodka’s fingers around my throat.

Groaning as I pull myself out of a nest of blankets, I touch my neck gingerly. There is no bruising or tenderness as my mind would lead me to believe. A sigh of relief escapes my lips, and I try to shake the feeling the dream leaves. I push it from my mind; I am not afraid of him.

This is what I tell myself, anyway.

Folding the little blanket and putting on my dried clothes, I know that the many of the other tributes must have slept outside last night. I’m still warm from the dying fire, bones comforted by the small hut’s walls. I have to leave soon. I don’t want to, but I need to start moving.

As if reading my mind, I hear a snap. Whipping my head around, I see the wall behind my slump. The wooden boards lean down to the left, and than I hear another bump. And a crack. And than I’m standing, grabbing my things and booking out of the hut. I stumble on a rug, and a piece of wood smashes into my shoulder. I curse, propelling myself forward and out of the collapsing house.

Well, at least they didn’t light me on fire.

Looking back, the cabin continues to pile in on itself as if it is a living landslide. I stand in front of the structure, watching it visibly decay into a pit of logs and dust. My shoulder is sore from the escapade, red from abrasion, but it’s a blessing considering I’m not bleeding. Or dead. I shiver, the cool air outside meeting my cheeks. It’s much colder than inside that building, and it’s even damp from a night rain.

I tug the shawl up and over my mouth, keeping warm as I start walking. It’s quieter than the day before, no loud footsteps and rustling in the leaves. Yet, anyway. I follow the path that I came, with no sign of other tributes so far. From the bloodbath yesterday, I’m not that surprised I haven’t run into anyone yet. There’s less than half of us left, from what I gathered from the anthem the previous night.

I halt in my step when thinking about it, gritting my teeth, remembering Vodka’s damn note in Eleven’s blood. Somehow, I think that it’s going to be a pattern.

And what kind of wife would I be if I didn’t respond?

Continuing on, I focus on being quiet and figuring out where all of these paths lead. I turn left, away from the bloodbath graveyard, and start down the path I haven’t explored yet [11].

Not far into my expedition, lo and behold, is a small shelter that isn't that well hidden. The girl from Three is curled inside, her dark hair shrouding her face. I draw near, sword in hand, and crouch down to eye level. She’s leaning on a tree, fast asleep.

It would be so easy to just decapitate her.

But I don’t. It wouldn’t be much of a victory, and I’m not exactly in the mood to get my sword dirtied up again. I rise and eye the girl again, leaving as quietly as I came. The path split into another two, but I turn left again and continue down [10]. It’s still quiet, but I keep weapon in hand just in case. Who fucking knows.

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Candy. Of course. I actually don't see a point in leaving the candy on the corpse. Although there's not one in taking it, either. But I collect the candy anyway, throwing it into my bag and rising from the squat. My first kill out of the bloodbath, and it's some seventy year old woman who has skin that looks like worn leather. I put my boot on her chest and scoot her body into a bush, ridding her slowly decaying cadaver from the front of the cabin. I know I can't stay here for long -- I'm not dense. The Gamemakers will decide I have had it too easy if I set up camp, and probably light the walls on fire. But staying in the hut for one night seems safe enough. I'll leave in the morning, I decide while heading back into the small house. It has only a living room and a kitchen, hardly even a building at all, but it's better than being an eyesore. It's better this way; no one will be knocking tonight. I won't have to fight some chatty tribute and get blood under my fingernails. Speaking of. I walk back into the kitchen after scraping the bottoms of my boots off on a welcome matt -- it's only polite -- and go straight for the kitchen. I shrug off my shawl and jacket, tossing them into the sink, and run the red handle. Water comes out very slowly from the faucet, and although it's not exactly hot or purely clear, it's enough to wash with. I know Capitolites are probably watching me now and laughing. Girl doing laundry and washing her hands in the arena. But if I'm given a resource like this and don't use it, it would be horrendously stupid. And besides, the shawl is pretty and shouldn't have a huge red stain if I can help it. I scrub at my knuckles and bat the fabrics around in the sink, until the water is a murky pink and I no longer feel like I've been caked in paint. Finishing washing my face and wringing out the clothes, I find myself back in the living room where I started. Food still sits on the table, just as inviting as ever. Yeah, right. Sitting by the fire, I let my clothes dry by the warmth of the flames. It doesn't seem like an arena, with this short-lived comfort here. I suppose I've just gotten lucky, finding a small solace for the night. And I don't know if that's a good thing or not.

the immaculate conception > day 1 > os

In her apron is a handful of candy!

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day frickin’ two.

[alliance.] well not anymore. apparently still vodka’s fiance, though. so i mean, there’s that.

[location.] who the fuck knows. i met plarity. i mean polarity.

[weapons.] sword. shield. [4] crossbow bolts. muscle paralytic.

[items.] blue pack. rope. shawl. blanket. candy. stun-gun. and of course, a diamond ring.

[injuries.] none. just a little dirty. so i guess that’s an injury.

[dinalao-blog]

Of course.

“No,” I rub my forehead, eyeing this stout woman. She has wrinkles, and smells of dried flowers. Her little shawl moves as she does, and I can’t help but feel slightly underwhelmed as she draws nearer to me, into the threshold of the kitchen.

But I start taking her seriously when she swipes at me with a huge blade.

It’s way bigger than a regular butcher’s knife, an oversized weapon for a tiny lady. She lunges again, and this time I smack her back with my sword. I do not want to play cat and mouse with this grandma, but she apparently does. She keeps croaking in my ear, her voice acidic as she circles me. It’s a small kitchen, but she’s far more nimble than she looks.

She’s jumping on the counter tops.

“Why such the hurry, dear? Stay and have a snack,” She hisses, leaping from tale to table. She’s flying through the air, and I dart out with sword in hand. It knocks her balance off, trying to maneuver around the blade. I’ve forced her to come back down to the ground with me, but I know I’m not going to be able to fight in indoors. 

Tiny little kitchen.

I backpedal, keeping my eyes on the woman. Her eyes glint with hunger, and she keeps trying to taunt me with recipe lines. I cringe, pushing the front door open with my foot, and bring the fight outside. As soon as she’s on the ground, I whip forward and my blade bites her wrist. She bleeds down her finger tips, and tries to have a go at me.

“Come have a snack! My treats are to die for,” She sings, and her knife slahes through the air. I curse and drop my sword, rolling out of the way on instinct. My shoulder connects with the dirt path below, but I keep going. I roll out of her way, sweeping my leg under her ankle. The woman fumbles as I rise, retrieving my sword and bringing it down into the side of her stomach.

She screeches, but doesn’t lose her grip of the knife. Again I clash blades with her, her blood flying into the grasses. She’s being so loud. I’m sure other tributes can hear where I am. 

So I fix that.

When she’s opening her mouth to give me yet another delectable detail about her cooking, I plunge the sword straight into her mouth. Even further it goes, curving down into her neck. She drops her knife, and I move closer, twisting the sword clockwise. I hear snaps and rips, her muscles and esophogus and stomach and whatever else rupturing. 

She gurgles against the sword, and when I pull it out, she collapses into a pool of dark, sticky blood. No longer chiding about her kitchen and whatnot, I lean down and take the blood-stained shawl off of her, and put it over my head. Mine now, grandma.

I pat down the woman’s body for anything else of value.

the immaculate conception > day 1 > os

The only other room you enter is a kitchen. There’s a pantry shelf, a refrigerator and, “A visitor? Why, I wasn’t expecting company.” a sweet voice comes from the elderly woman cutting vegetables at the center table, “Are you hungry, dear? Would you like something to eat? I already have the oven nice and warm.” A sinister smile crosses her lips.

Write an OS about your fight with the witch! She’s a lot stronger than she looks, even without that butcher’s knife in her hand!

[dinalao-blog]

I don’t trust this house.

It is too nice, too peaceful to be in an arena. It looks like something from a movie. I delve further into the house anyway, sword dangling at my side. If this house is not rigged, it would be a good place to sleep and rest. That is, if the roof doesn’t collapse on me.

Maybe I am being too paranoid.

Maybe I am not.

I pick up the blanket, prodding at it and smacking it against the floor to dust it out, and stuffing it in my bag for later. Continuing my little parade around the room, I notice food on a table. I’m not sure if the Gamemakers expect me to sink my teeth into some conveniently placed cuisine – whatever it is – but I’m not dense. I ignore the food, hoping against all hope that when I do need to eat, I have a sponsor that will take care of it for me. 

I keep exploring the little cabin.

the immaculate conception > day 1 > os

The fire provides a relief from the crisp air outside. In fact, this whole house offers you a moment of solace. You enter into a cozy living room complete with a sofa and rocking chair, a blanket draped over the back of the chair. To your right is a table piled with various foods and after the day you’ve been having, it seems pretty tempting to dig in. 

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I walk up to the little hut, holding my sword down and pressing a finger tip to the building’s wall. There’s no vibrations I can feel, and the only sounds around me are the wind rustling leaves. I rub my hand on my shirt to get rid of the dust from the cabin wall, but scold myself for it. 

I need to stop worrying about filfth for the few days I’m in this hell-hole.

With effort, I wrap my hand around the door handle and stand in the threshhold of this little house. It’s warm, from a fire within, but other than that I can’t make out much at first. Though, of course, this has to be some booby-trapped set up meant to give the watchers back at home a thrill. I walk straight into the house, sword tapping the ground as I go, like a cane.

the immaculate conception > day 1 > os

The trees part ways to a small clearing where a hut is tucked away, a faint stream of smoke coming from the chimney. Nothing seems amiss and there aren’t any sounds coming from within. Do you enter or turn back to the trails?