sixthiterationlogs | down by the river

WHO: Annie Cresta
WHERE: by the river
WHEN: 17th November
OPEN TO: Jo Harvelle
WARNINGS: TBA
STATUS: Closed | Ongoing

Even without Finnick having found one of the slaughtered animals, the two District Four Careers would have been sticking close. Animal after animal, killed and left in the open: it's a threat. But threats don't magically disappear just because one needs food. Quite the opposite, in fact. So rather than hiding and using up their stores, Annie and Finnick are fishing. Still. Again. Leaving some at the inn and then slinking away.

And, always, they are within sight of the other.

Today, Annie is checking and repairing traps as Finnick is further upstream, spear in hand. Even as she works, twisting reeds and weaving them to fill in holes, she's keeping her eyes and ears alert.

It's hard. She's not feeling vague today, but stress makes her distracted when it doesn't send her spiralling into such a high alertness it is like being vague from the other direction.

At least, she's better camouflaged than otherwise she might be. Those denim overalls, that dark coat. Her red hair is mostly shoved down the back of her neck under her coat, but it's messy, strands falling free from the rough ponytail.

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Jo is not going to say any one place is safer than another right now, because it isn't.

Massive animals are raining from the sky, basically, for all they know. Twisted into pantomime's of themselves, wherever, who-or-what the fuck ever, thinks will do the most damage. Especially the fountain and the inn. The inn Jo feels in a personal way, even if it's sharp and dark, and it's not like losing the bar. But it's like having only so many few inches left, and it's hitting all of those inches. Makes her want to bite back.

The roads, the forest, the flats, the buildings: it's all the same. It looks different, feels different, but it's the same. A board game.

But it isn't a reason to start shooting your neighbors,or becoming insular. They were better together. They better prepared, informed, and aware of each other. Part of that is, maybe, checking a little close on those two in the woods, who they could have trusted to see occasionally, but now outside of sighte has a creepier connotation to what could be happening. Which is what puts Jo in the woods.

She's quiet, but not as quiet as she had to be with every creeping step in that dimension. Three years above ground, in a world that was gone, took some of that away, and the lack of demons at every corner, only monsters and more monsters, took away a little more. But she isn't trying to be stealthy, or come off like she's someone attacking. Which is, actually, why she's a good distance away from one of them at the river, when she calls out, "Hey-o, the camp."

It's not a camp. But it's better than having nothing at all to say, and she thinks announcing herself at a far distance goes better.

She hears the blonde woman - Jo - before she sees her, but the words make Annie's head snap up. Sharp and cagey, like a startled animal. But that's what humans are, animals. It's what the games are supposed to show. Or one of them.

But a sharp gaze around shows that Jo is alone, or at least mostly so, and approaching while keeping her and Finnick aware of it. She's not sneaking.

Annie gets to her feet before waving back, limbs loose in case she has to run.

"What brings you out this way?"

It is not a greeting, as such. The wave did that enough, because intentions need to be established.

They're trigger-sensitive these two, even if it's only one of them right now. The knife-sharp movements, that run the line of fear and yet readiness to run and to fight, all on the edge of a razor sharp blade. They remind her of that place. How everyone was there at the small scuff of a sound, always sure of what was going to happen to them if they didn't stay an inch ahead of what was coming from all sides. The way she'd been.

She stays in the open of the forest. Hands and posture the same, which takes some effort, but she's a good enough player. She's not a threat and there's no part of her visit she intends to be threatening. "We've had more appearances of those attacks in the village and I wanted to make sure you two were still in one piece out here."

No insult to their skills is in there. They've survived this long. But after the last occurrence, it was better to know than assume.

Edited 2016-11-23 17:33 (UTC)

It takes her a moment.

This is nothing she's known until here, the other caged tributes going out and asking if their competition is in one piece. Out of concern, even. For their safety. Annie doesn't like to consider herself a slow learner, but maybe here she is, for she still can't quite believe it.

But she is learning, a bit. Enough to take Jo's words at face-value, for now.

So, she nods.

"We're in one piece. We've found some shelter from the elements." Annie doesn't add, and the mutts. That'd just be tempting fate and the gamemakers' glee.

"Uh, but. Thank you for asking. Any. Um. Anyone been hurt? In the village?"

(She's trying.)

Jo gets it. The looks of distrust that questions confused and even more wary for the confusion, and it's part of why she doesn't get close. She stops a good number of feet away from where Annie is, letting her choose what she wants or is comfortable with. The same way she might have with any new hunter or customer she didn't have the feel of yet, or who pinged every possible danger, possible explosion, possible threat button on her.

"No." That's a fast easy answer. "No one's been hurt, but the Inn got hit again. The fourth animal to be found gored and gorey, with it all over the snow and the front of the inn."

In the long run it really had been easier to clean the inn wall until it was dingy shadow, than get it, or the path of it being dragged away by the men, out of the snow. It covered and froze and mingled, shading everything red at the worst and pink at the lightest even in the places where chunks of it had been taken away to try and fix even that.

She frowns, the look more analytical than disturbed - which is another way of saying that the small woman doesn't look disturbed at all. Gorey death and displays are merely data points for her most of the time. Scary, in this setting where she's back stuck again in the arena, but still. Points of consideration.

The problem is, she can picture it. Hear it. The commentators' delighted-horrified gasps, the tense music. Lingering shots of blood against the snow and broken bodies.

Her mouth quirks to the side, green eyes a little distant.

"Are you still using the Inn?"

"Yeah." Though there's some doubt in her tone for it, given it's had something bloodied and broken left at each exit now, and that sticks with her. But so does the fact Jo doesn't believe any scratch of ground outside of the inn is any safer than any inch of ground inside of it, more so now than she had believed it since arriving, and she had the whole time.

"There haven't been any plans to move anyone from it yet, or any of the stuff in the main room."

Annie nods. Another data point. Another act in a whole which adds up to something, if you factor in the context. The context of:

There aren't many buildings to house a number of people, and from what she can see of the people in the village, they are trying to stick together. Work together. They've built up their gatherings and their habits, centred around the Inn always, their field usually.

Their refusal to leave means: they aren't going to be scared off.

"You think that's wise? Or, would leavin' be a worse choice?" Annie asks. Casually. No judgement, either way. It's too early to see what would be a mistake.

Jo lets herself be taken in, and pretends it doesn't feel like every words is gone over with a fine-tooth comb.

Even when it has to be. Jo has the time to spend non-invested, or at least appearing it for hours a day, at work, or watching people go about their own self-appointed daily tasks, and paying attention or processing when she wants, while these people only get interaction at certain intervals. No one forces them more than they're ready or willing.

She blew out of a stream of breath, that fogged white and cloudy in front of her mouth and face, at the question, before choosing an honest answer. The same way she'd chosen honest for Margaery last night. "I don't think any of them are safer than the others right now. The Inn. The houses." A small beat, and a glance over, that was neither an apology, nor an attack. "The forest."

"I think they're making it clear they can get at anyone or anywhere they want, without any hint of warning, with the animals as examples--" Jo'd had time to think about things she hadn't given what had all happened. "--especially as they get bigger, and more capable than most any one person here could."

She doesn't say anything about, do people need a reminder? It is always the name of the game, reminding. And this woman is too sharp-eyed, too victor-poised to need any reminder. The others, maybe, some of them. She thinks of Margaery, kind as the woman is - or kind as she appears.

"The forest is safer from other people," Annie says instead. Explanation, nothing defensive. A bit apologetic, though. In this arena, people seem to take as an insult most of the time, being seen as a threat to life and limb and victory.

Then she looks at Jo again, closely.

"Maybe people are getting too comfortable. Or maybe winter's boring."

down by the river

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