What is the First Rule... Slytherin Event

Wearing:

Reducio

"Uh...you said 'smart' twice," Jack pointed out with a soft smile, unable to help himself. He didn't want to antagonize Erik in the case that, like his Quidditch Team Captain Dan Palmer, he also had an easily-roused temper that could cause him to lose every bit of logic and reason he might have otherwise possessed. However, if the second year meant to intimidate him, Jack wanted the older boy to know he had a long way to go.

Erik's declaration that he was always down for a fight earned a sigh from the redhead as he reached up to close his eyes and rub his temples. "I guess I was mistaken after all..." he murmured to himself, reminded almost unbearably of other violent Quidditch players like Rafa and Kyle on the Gryffindor Team. Not to mention Dan himself. Why did they all have to be such meat-heads? Was it the power or thrill or rush that they got from competition?

Regardless, at least Dan - as he had just demonstrated - had the capability to see reason eventually. Perhaps Erik did, too. He just needed to be given the right reason.

"Alright, let me lay this out for you, Snake Jock," Jack said as calmly and patiently as he could manage, meeting venom-green eyes with the same seriousness they stared at him with. "Do understand that, by my tally, I owe you exactly two favors: one equivalent to the risk you put yourself in to give us a smokescreen at Seilun's party and one equivalent to the damage you took from the spider attack after shutting the door that had been opened."

The first year held up his index finger. "However, I hope there are other things you will take into consideration before deciding to go all out in this." He gestured to the other students meandering about.

"First of all, it sounded like we were the last team assigned and that we don't have a team to oppose just yet. That kind of makes it difficult to 'size up your opponent' as you put it when we don't even know who our opponents are." He rose a brow. "Or, by 'this bunch', do you mean the rest of our house participating in this tournament? Because there are more than a few I'd be especially wary of underestimating." His eyes automatically cut to a few individuals in particular such as Selim and Thomas.

"Second of all, why do you want to face Vladimir? Just to show you can beat him in a fist fight? What makes you think he's going to play fair? Or that he'll answer any questions he's asked honestly? And even if he did, what good would that do?" He crossed his arms over his chest. "Please tell me you aren't just doing this to show off to those girls you were talking to earlier."

Jack's sight wandered back to Victor's deformed figure. His voice lowered, but he kept his volume still loud enough for anyone near by to hear if they paid enough attention, including their fellow team mates if they made the effort.

"Third of all...I already get the feeling this tournament is rigged in one way or another. Maybe several. The minute I got this number on my arm, there was a voice speaking in my head. Said it was 'a pleasure to finally make my acquaintance' and that whoever it was 'did so enjoy playing this game'." He took a deep breath before exhaling slowly through his nose. "Victor...seemed to almost act against his will before, too. He told me to turn back, and said 'don't', but by then I'd already given him my invitation and he'd burned it. I could be wrong, but...I really don't think we're meant to win anything here. I think it's all a farce set up to make us think we can win."

He looked back to Erik. "I'm not asking you to trust me. But in the case I may be right...are you really willing to knowingly step into that trap?"

Ability: Prodigial Charms Learner
Stats: Sta: 5 || Eva: 7 || Str: 3 || Wis: 8 || AP: 6 || Acc: 6

Interacting with: @Erik Tharldson

Reducio

Percival was a little surprised at the boy's excitement for the apparent fight. Sure Percival had seen him stretching before he had walked over. Though he had guessed that the other would have some reluctance to the pummeling of their housemates.

The boy looked around and noticed that he was correct in his statement. It seemed like the group of children were all from the Slytherin House. If there were any other children from a different house he couldn't see them.

Percival placed his socks inside his now discarded shoes. Unwilling to strip off his shirt just yet to fight. Instead, the boy stayed where he sat on the ground. He honestly didn't know what to think or do about the current situation.

Having to leave his friend to fend for himself caused his heart to strain. It felt like his heart was being pulled in two different directions. He didn't know what to do about Hana. The two had a rocky relationship as it is, and he didn't know how the pair would emerge after the fight.

Percival looked up to see Wyatt join the small group forming. Only two people were now missing from their forced pairing, and he wondered who they could be. He took his gaze away taking off the guitar on his back placing it gently next to his shoes. The boy sighed to himself as he began to stretch as well. He didn't want to fight, but if they were being forced to he might as well make sure he didn't pull something.

Interacting with:@Emmanuel Min Requiza
Mentions: @Hanako Tone @Wyatt Starkey
Teammates: @Selim Faust @Ileen Knight

Stamina: 6 | Evasion: 5 | Strength: 7 | Wisdom: 4 | Arcane Power: 8 | Accuracy: 5

Ability: Foul play

The mood was lifted, thankfully. The banter between the four of them was enough to lift Søren’s mood and take his mind off any sinister happenings that may have been afoot. It brought back the mood of the summer trip. There was absolutely no reason to believe something was going to go wrong. Maybe they were just there for a fun little show or raffle. As Erik started walking backwards, proposing a race to the ring, Søren laughed and prepared to take off after him. However, his focus was broken by Dee calling over to the same non-Slytherin girl he had noticed. Before she could even respond, the person who branded them pushed the table aside and exposed a trap door, claiming it was the way to the ring.

Okay, so that was less summer camp wholesome and more ominously creepy.

The person led them down some steps, explaining that magic wouldn’t work and more frightening things that increased Søren’s worry tenfold. The person seemed more familiar after disrobing. Søren could recall seeing the boy once or twice in the Slytherin commons, but they never spoke or spared each other more than a passing glance. His body was different too – mangled and withering in a way no wizard’s body should be. He spoke of something called a fight club, demanding everyone to split into groups and battle each other for the chance to have dinner with some bloke named Vladimir. Who in Merlin’s name was Vladimir? The crowd roared as the groups were announced, as if they somehow enjoyed the idea of watching literal children fight. Gosh, this was a big steaming dungheap.

Listening out for his number, 7, he heard it being called in group five along with 4, 28 and 32. He quickly scanned the area but could not find any of those numbers visible, hidden by sleeves, most likely. After a long moment of contemplating what the hell he had done to deserve this, he pushed his cardigan sleeve up to expose the 7. There was no way he was actually interested in fighting, but it was possible that finding his group members quickly could allow them to come up with a plan. He wasn’t afraid of fighting per se, but he would rather not throw it down with his housemates for some dinner that had no value to him.

Someone came up to Dee, introducing themselves as Cash. Søren agreed with them wholeheartedly, finding it hard to believe that the audience would willingly support something like this.

As if reading his mind, Ileen uncovered Dee and Erik’s numbers. It was interesting that the four of them had been split up so evenly. Ileen in the first group, Dee in the third, Søren in the fifth and Erik last in group eight. Were these groupings truly random or was there some wandering eye paying attention to the chattering going on during the lineup? This meant that they would not fight each other until the second rounds, if they made it that far. Even worse, Ileen looked like she was in shock. The tone in her voice made the gravity of the situation even more apparent to Søren. Dee and Erik offered encouraging words before the latter met up with his teammates, looking excited to fight.

Søren rubbed gentle circles on Ileen’s back, something his sister used to do to him when he was younger. “It’s going to be fine, Ileen. Dee’s right, we’re going to get out of this. And what Erik’s saying is true. If we have to fight, just duck down. Pretend to be hit and knocked out. I know I said you could probably punch better than me,” he laughed softly, “but I don’t think anyone would disbelieve that you could go down in one hit.”

As he continued trying to pry Ileen out of her state, he scanned the area once more. A gust of red hair caught his attention. Was that–? Yes, it was. The prefect that had something not dissimilar to a breakdown during the Slytherin victory party. She was talking to a boy he didn’t know, looking a bit uncomfortable. He left her after some time and then she started... crying? It was unmistakable, the red tears stark on her pale skin. Seeing the prefect like that for a second time did a number on his heart. He was the one who tried to offer his sympathies the first time around and he felt obligated to do it again. Trying to catch Dee’s eyes, he would motion his head over to Ileen as if to say keep watch on her. He doubted he needed to though, as the two girls seemed very close.

Breaking off from the group, he approached the Slytherin prefect who had turned to face the stairs by this point. “Honestly, we have to stop meeting like this. Every time I see you, you’re crying,” he said, trying to lighten the mood for the distraught prefect. He wanted to step closer to her, comfort her in the same way he did Ileen but something held him back. Was it the fact that she wasn’t human? Probably, but as far as he knew, that never bothered him before. It was more likely the fact that he had never spoken to the prefect even once but felt a sense of duty to approach her in this moment. It was the kind of behavior that could come off as stalkerish for some and he didn’t want the prefect to feel that way. He was only concerned. “We’ll be fine, y’know. No one’s going to die.”

Interacting with
@Ileen Knight @Dealla Prince @Nico Shymane
Mentioning
@Erik Tharaldson @Cassandra Ironwoods

Ability: Charmer
Stamina: 6 | Evasion: 8 | Strength: 7 | Wisdom: 6 | ArcPower: 2 | Accuracy: 6

Interacting with @Søren Silverwood

Her brows were furrowed, a shadow casting on her eyes where a red dot slightly glowed in the center of ice. She nearly felt like the anger, frustration and sadness was going to consume her. The pearly red tears quietly rolling down her cheeks as she glared at no direction in particular. Her face must've looked creepy and disturbing. If anyone would approach her now, Nico wasn't sure what she'd do.

“Honestly, we have to stop meeting like this. Every time I see you, you’re crying,”

Who the fuck dared to- Slowley looking over her shoulder she expected some snotty peer to come bully her or throw blames at her... However, when she noticed it was the boy who had supported her in the Slytherin Party, her eyes turned back to normal. Her feral cautious posture had calmed down. This boy wasn't out to make her feel bad. He let her know that she wasn't alone and wasn't in the wrong. Nico wished she knew more Slytherins that she could depend on. The kind of Slytherins that saw that she wasn't some dictator out to grab power and control over everyone. The kind of Slytherins that saw the kindess in her motives and actions...

She sniffled softly and continued to rub away her tears with her sleeves. 'S-Sorry...' Her voice was soft and hushed. The last thing she wanted was to pull any attention from unwanted eyes. Not that the millions of eyes in the crowd weren't already uncomfortable enough. 'I... just can't be .. among them.'

Facing Sorens side, Nico glanced at the mass of students, bickering among themselves. Discussing what happened next. At this moment. Nico couldn't really care much. There wasn't much they could do. Except wait what happened next. For sure, this would be used against her in the future. What a lack of competence she had as a Prefect. Even a letter she had received, rubbed it in her face once more how much she sucked as the person she was. Clearly, there was nothing she could do right. The dhampir didn't care much. She did. But she didn't. The many attempts always backfired. Tch.

Watching them pissed her off so she turned her focus to Soren once more.

“We’ll be fine, y’know. No one’s going to die.”

They could die? She forgot about the risks, what was actually going on in here. 'I'm not worried about dying. They're like weeds. Takes alot to kill them.' What was she saying? Her frustration converted into words. If Soren took them the wrong way, so be it. She was done explaining herself over and over. It was tiring. Exhausting. What would she benefit from it? More hate? She didn't know Soren that well but she'd probably know more soon enough.

'I-I'm... I'm fine over here.' She glanced back infront of her, expecting the Slytherin to walk away from her. She must've scared him off... Unless...

Abilities : Lovely Creature
Stats:
Stamina: 10 | Evasion: 8 | Strength: 4 | Wisdom: 6 | ArcPower: 2 | Accuracy: 6

That burning sensation was the number 31 being branded onto her arm. "What the--" she stated as she looked down. She did not trust this event. On the paper invitation was a mark, one that she had seen before. Well rather, she had not seen it first hand but through other students who saw the marking on Marion Davenport, the Slytherin girl Tyr had yet to get her revenge on for petrifying her at the Secret Blossom Ball.

She had not yet had time to find another student to mingle with when none other than Victor Moore stood up and began addressing the crowd of Slytherin students. Not this little shit. When he makes an appearance, everything goes wrong. First the Slytherin common room event. Then the ball. He looked awful, sickly, and near death's door. That is when he unveiled the truth behind this event. Fight Club. As he listed off the rules, she couldn't help but mumble, "Is this some sick kind of fecking joke?" He began to list off numbers, groups of students based on the branding given to them. Her number was not listed as part of the first fight, relief washing through her as it would give her time to think. Group 7. Facing off against Group 6. This was bound to be interesting.

Abilities: Seer

Stamina: 9 | Evasion: 7 | Strength: 2 | Wisdom: 2 | Arcane Power: 3 | Accuracy: 7

The conundrum placed before the Slytherin house was a simple one - prove your ambition with your ruthlessness and might. For the sake of glory, based on but a word. For the sake of winning, even if they cared not for the prize. The only restriction was no magic, a rule, a suggestion or a law? @Dmitri Jones would endeavor to find out. He would attempt to conjure a spider before descending into the basement. If no magic could be used down there, then perhaps up here...

He would made -a- spider. The skill spell spread would allow him to have an additional target for his magic, not multiply his conjured creations.

Roll: 11 (+11)

A spell he cast easily. From the tip of his wand, a large, black harry tarantula would be conjured. About the size of his balled fist, the newly created creature would skitter across the floor. Stuff a spider down his shirt and bring it to the no-magic place, what could possibly go wrong!

@Santario Martin would look on, a sinking feeling in her stomach. She contemplated the consequence of not fighting - becoming a victim. Not simply losing, but rather submitting to the fury and the strength of her peers whose ambition is the prize, the acclaim or simply the opportunity to decimate their future rivals in melee.

@Flash Holmwood exuded an aura of calm [Calming Presence] despite his own swelling apprehension. The cheering crowd was nothing short of jarring, but what did he expect when he followed the boy into the basement? Well, 'boy' might be a strong term to describe the skeletal boy before them. It was not conventional, natural fire that had burned him from the inside out, leaving him hardly more than a twisted pile of charred wreckage. It hurt still but Victor had gotten used to the pain, how his skin felt like it no longer fit - too tight. How his perception of hot and cold was pronounced. His nerves still raw, he was still thankful. He could stand. He could walk. Chew his own food. Sometimes he could even sleep if he could ignore the pain.

”Can you ‘go limp’ on purpose?”

Flash would ask. Victor would turn his neck,the skin would stretch and pull until shiny taut. Necks don't normally turn--- well, never mind. A lazy green eye would rest on the soon to be second year and the corners of the boy's lips would curl back into a.. snarl? A smile? "You mean, forfeit?" There would be a brief pause, an opportunity for Flash to admit he was looking to back-down. That he was scared. That he did not want to get hurt. "Feel free to disappoint the crowd," his reply loud enough to be heard by Flash, his peers and of course the animated crowd. A few jeers would follow his comment but he seemed unfussed by it all. After all, he was not the one that was refusing to play. "You don't even have to enter the ring for all I care, there is house-favored odds that many of you won't even enter the arena."

Flash's future ex girlfriend @Opeila Seilun verbally expressed his disbelief. How the lips always say 'no' but the heart oft says 'yes.' Don't look too hard at alternatives and you will see none.



For shame. For shame. For shame.

@Bridget Collins would find Flash's notion of surrender admirable. A loophole, something a clever mind would only consider. However, she knew too well that it would not work, not with Slytherins in any case. They were too proud, too excited. The prize, a token to say something was won perhaps, but in truth people fought for a lot less than words, gold, love or even admiration. People fought because they could. Because they wanted to. Because it made them feel more alive. It put an end to the ceaseless monotony.

In fact, that was the point. Their choice. Their failure. Their downfall. A house that embraces ambition but treats it as avarice define themselves in such a shallow manner. Might means right they say. However Flash understood the point for the most part, the arrogance however was only a small part of it. The prize had to have meaning, value, albeit small. Time, exclusive time, was a valuable commodity when it came to the elusive teen.

@Amara Dragamior fit the bill of a true Slytherin. She did not care about the prize but she would use it. She did not even know who she was having dinner with if she won, it was Vladimir not Victor. Not that it mattered, she would find a use for it. She was not a skilled fighter but that did not matter either, she could hold her own and that might be enough. There were no loyalties besides those she had to herself.

@Persephone Barret, much like Amara in some key ways, less one was worthy of consideration and attention. She did not care. Indifferent to the battle, she lacked the ambition to be the victor but she understood. Perhaps she did not realize it, but she got it. This was simply a game, a fight for a prize that did not matter very much. They were brawling, not dying. Nobody had cast them into a pit and commanded them to slather the lotion. A diversion, an opportunity for violence with a 'prize' that was valued more by some and as @Thomas LeStrange would identify - there was no assurance of truth. Or was there?



A voice only Persephone could hear would echo in her mind. It was the voice of a man, perhaps a boy but it had a low baritone. It sounded like a man.



However there were some that had some skin in the fight already, such as @Alexander Varellion. The boy hungered for answers and the fact that he might have to brawl with his peers would not mute his desire for answers. A relative unknown despite being a perennial first-year, finally a second year. Perhaps Vladimir had the answers he was looking for. He did, not that there was any way for Alexander to know that for certain but there was one ultimate truth. A reason for everything. All he had to do to get the answers he coveted was to win.

@Erik Tharaldson was excited, a chance to fight. No ambition, no indifference or feeling like he was bound to these circumstances. This was a diversion. This was fun. This was entertainment. His words to his girlfriends, basically don't get hit and pretend to get hit when I come for you. No comfort. No sentimental moments. He could not strip fast enough, the girls (Ileen Knight and Dealla Prince) would be just fine. Nothing to worry about. He was no stranger to a few cuts and bruises, character-building really.

@Jack Burnett, the resident chatter fox would do what he did best - talk. Try to change hearts and minds with his words, his most powerful asset. Conform to Flash's plan, play dead. Of course Jack did not understand Erik, they defined pride differently. Erik needed to fight. He required that outlet, that excuse to display his brutality and his might.

This was a moment that would serve to define all of them. The students of House Slytherin as well as their presupposed villain(s). Some, such as @Percival Grey might endeavor to hang onto his gentlemanly notions, who said that chivalry was dead, besides @Margo White in relation to Percival number two. @Erik Tharaldson was itching to fight. Friend or foe, ally or not he just wanted to get some blood on his knuckles. He was ready to fight.

Jack Burnett would try to talk some sense into Erik, but ultimately it was likely a lost cause. He would divulge what he knew. Jack knew quite a bit. His interest in Victor, his word play and yes... even his concerns about the tournament itself. That strange voice in his head, the very same that would add a reply only Jack would hear.



A dark laughter would ring out.



@Koko Riddle would look at her teammates, she knew some but she was not allied with her closest friends. In fact, the blonde Prefect's best friend Ruby was in another group. If she entered the game, she would have to fight her friend if she wanted to win. Could she bring herself to fight her best friend. Over the next several minutes, friendships might be forged and relationships might be shattered. Not that everyone had someone. @Maria Dee was alone, she was separated from her House and the only one that shared her separation anxiety would be Dealla. Now she was in a unique position, of both power as well as reliance. The Slytherins did not know who she was or what she was capable of. However, the same was true for Maria, she did not know any of them, not really. She did not know who to ally with, who she could depend on and if a promise was made if it would be kept.

@Cassandra Ironwoods found the sport 'barbaric.' She would approach Dealla. @Dealla Prince was dealing with a private drama of her own. @Ileen Knight and @Erik Tharaldon had entered with her and she was having a crisis of conscience. A dramatic farewell, she would never hurt them. Sure. She was an optimist. Certain of her and their dedication to them and theirs to her, perhaps it would have been prudent to think twice about Erik. Their party of four was evenly split up, @Søren Silverwood to one group, Dealla to another, Ileen and Erik to still two others.

They did not quite get it. The sinking feeling they felt from the use of their hands rather than their wands. The reason why, there was always a reason with Vladimir. In her disgust she partially understood it. It was more real, the feeling of flesh and bone beneath your knuckles. the sudden, jarring impact of a fist to a jaw or a set of ribs. That sickening crack, the grunt of pain. Knowledge that you did harm. The power and the shame that accompanied it. It made the battle more personable. The actions done had greater meaning, it was hard to distance oneself from violence when done by their own hands than a distant stance and a wand pointed at a supposed enemy. There was this disconnect. A feeling that they didn't do it even if they knew that they had. A feeling that it was not too bad, even if they had immolated someone.

But there was more to it than petty revenge. That would be dull, hardly worthy of a game. @Tyranni Whitethorn would have to get over her disbelief. They were in some sort of underground fight club with a prize she might have wanted but not fight for. She would need to find her new, or atg the very least current allies.

Others would prepare to fight, some were going to fight because it was the obvious path to take. because it was the most interesting. Because they felt that they would do well perhaps. @Emmanuel Min Requiza had no protests, he revealed his mark and silently declared his intent to fight. Others such as @Ezekiel Wasek would resign themselves to the fray they would soon be thrust into. No attempt to find a loophole. @Wyatt Starkey was no different, he ambled compliantly to his potential demise. Listened to the yes, blatant rip-off of the monologue Victor had shamelessly stole from a muggle movie. @Caelan Stewart would quietly reveal his mark - 29, like a small banner in hopes that his teammates would find him.

Caelen --

A vision would rock you where you stood. You were not standing where you were but you were standing in a great hall. Marble floors and great green flames. There was a man, well dressed but obviously a wizard.



He had a commanding presence. He was standing in the heart of this great room and as your view of the scene panned out you would see a room full of men and women. Dozens. Each of them would genuflect before him in they place that they stood.

The vision would end abruptly, you would see no more.

Seer

@Thomas LeStrange was here for the chicks apparently. There was the redheaded dhampir (Nico), hawt. Then there was the girl from the ring if she put a comb through her hair (Astrea). LeStrange had some unique tastes. A fatalist, there seemed to be but one path for the teen -- fight. Not for the prize, the prize had limited or no value, just time. Rather, he was doing because that was the path he was on. The boy would make his rounds rather than concern himself with the drama to come, settling at Santario's side.

@Percival Rainwood was dissatisfied from the start. However what was bad only became worse when he realized that he was going to be matched against Hanako, his closest friend. His choices from here would be telling, not only for his relationship with his dorm-mate but also how much he wanted to win. Not just the prize, the prize was irrelevant. The excuse. The fact that they were not nearly as close as they proclaimed. When given an opportunity to beat each other to a pulp, would he take it? Would he give his friend the victory? Forfeit for their sake? He would be approached by a young woman, @Margo White, his competition. She was not there for him, she was there for Hanako. It was time to know your friends, your enemies and more importantly your allies.

Margo was preferred to the name 'fifteen.'

It would be @Selim Faust who made the first drastic action. He had given himself excuses for why he was complaint. Why he followed the rest. Descending those stairs for the untested theory that he would likely be prevented from escaping even if he tried. The burden of curiosity, more a contagion than a facet propelling him onward and downward. He recognized Victor, not that guilt or regret was a symptom he suffered from. His first thought of course was vengeance. That Victor had blamed them for being burned, for being allowed to suffer, for the hideous visage he now carried.

Oh if things were so simple, they simply would have burned like he had.

No, all that they had earned with their selfishness and his suffering was the loss of a potential ally. They were willing to assail him and his friends. They were willing to take what was not theirs. They were willing to let him burn, even die if it gives them some gain. That they were not worth saving and that they would continue to prove that. That people were not worth saving. They were self-serving. That there were few that could be depended on.

@Selim Faust was not willing to play the game. Of course he had options, the stairs from whence he came. The ascent back to the tent above. The canvas, lonesome tent setting in a sea of other tents. The trap door was not locked. In fact, it might even still be open. Victor was among the first to enter. @Percival Grey would watch as the teen brandishing a pair of knives would dash up the stairs, and according to both of their actions that was exactly what they did. Abandon his teammates - Percival, Ilene, Emmanuel, and Wyatt. @Jack Burnett would rebuke him for drawing his blade(s) but that would do nothing to change the trajectory of the agitated feline-like boy.

Laughter erupted from the crowd. The first of perhaps many. Victor would make no move to stop him. The crowd, beyond their heckling would not prevent the boy's egress. He was no longer in the ring, some distance between himself and the brawl. He was nobody's puppet. He did not care about the friends that he left behind. Let them fight for their answers and their glory. Let them fail and fall. He would not aide them. They were on their own and one man short. "Those who had galleons on number twenty-six eloping rather than fighting," yes there were a few cheers. Happy betters that had bet against the alleged assassin-child bothering to stay in the fight.

Part of a slightly larger group. How convenient. Perhaps the house knew that was coming and prepared Group One for that very eventuality. Selim would have a mini adventure of his own, he would feel an itch on his upper arm where the mark was. The mark, now gone. whatever magic was used to label him was fleeting or at the very least bound to a limited area. If he tried to run out onto the grassy field the tent was pitched upon, as he rushed through the flaps of the tend he would find himself stumbling back into the same room. Like a seamless loop.



A voice in his head, one only Selim could hear.

No matter, Percival would just have to pick up his dorm mate's slack. he introduced himself to number 14, Emmanuel and prepped himself to fight. No socks. No shoes. He had nobody to worry about besides himself. Hanako was on another team, he did not need to shield the boy from anything. In fact, this was the socially acceptable moment to let out his pent up frustrations. They were only friends on paper. Their affection and friendship was as deep as a puddle. @Wyatt Starkey made a third for this growing group. He was not a fan of Percival but they were not enemies either. Now they would have to work together, pummel their friends, dorm mates and rivals alike.

Before they even entered the ring Hanako sold his friend Percival out. “ He may look like a gentleman and a tall baby, but he’s the strongest 1st year I know. One hit from him could make us go limp “

He could one-shot either of them.He was the one to watch out for. No the one to target early on. Then came talk of knocking in hooters (uh... what is a hooter? I... uh... Lordie, is it what I think it is?).

"VICTOR!!!!"

@Dan Palmer bellowed. The loud-mouthed Irishman marched his way through the crowd. Victor stood a little taller fully expecting the hot-headed Quidditch Captain to try to strike him down there. Victor had shown no battle promise, he was full of fear and recoiled that day in the bathroom. Fear of pain. No, that wasn't it. He knew pain well enough, he lived with pain each and every day. Since the fire, his anguish only magnified. It was not that.

This time he was not cowering. In fact he extended his arms as if he was inviting the cheap shot he expected to follow.

"I made a mistake! I made the mistake of going into an interrogation hot, and said things I shouldn't have! I made false assumptions, I took out my anger on the wrong person, and I am SORRY!"

He blinked twice, that was not what he expected. He let the air out of his lungs, as he did the scent of blood and ash would fill the air. He would attempt to grab Dan by the collar and pull him towards him, only Dan would see it. Something writhing beneath his skin. The boy of paper had the grip of Hercules but there was a cacophony of snaps and cracks. Too slight for the spectators to hear over the jeering crowd and complaining students. Dan would feel himself pulled forward, into Victor. Once close enough he would whisper something [DM'd] into Dan's ear. Words only he could hear.

If Dan struck Victor, it would send Victor reeling back as he relinquished his grip. The snap of bone, something was most certainly broken.

In the crowd, there was one new enemy for Dan, @Nico Shymane. Blood-stained, tear-streaked cheeks she glared at the duo. Victor perhaps for being a monster. Dan, for not giving her the adoration and love she was due. However there was a sympathetic eye for Nico, @Søren Silverwood approached her. Not that he had said much to get her out of this sense of melancholy, but he was present which was more than what could be said for the rest.

If Dan did not flee, he would soon find himself surrounded by his team mates. Did any of them know anything about their opponents? This was as good a time as any to share what they knew, how they thought.

Threads will be up later today

Wearing:

Reducio

When Erik took too long to answer him and other things begin to happen - like Selim attempting to escape, only to run back into the tent, or the fact that the unidentified voice in his head was taunting him again - Jack cursed quietly to himself under his breath and called out loudly to the others who had been marked, trying to be heard over the lively crowd.

"HEY!! Does anyone else hear some annoying guy speaking directly into their minds all of a sudden?! Or is it just me?"

Before he could wait too long for a response, however, something else caught his eye. Victor had tried to grab Dan and pulled him in close. Jack's eyes widened in shock and concern before he darted toward the burn victim. Making sure to keep between Victor and the rest of the invited fight club participants, the Slytherin figured if he couldn't stop Selim by force or reason, then the least he could do was try to block any physical attacks himself.

Since his own team hadn't yet seemed to have been pit against anyone, Jack was not worried in the slightest about anyone relying on him just yet. He had meant to try to talk to Victor anyway, to gauge his current condition, health status, and mindset, but the older boy's response to Dan gave Jack even more cause to confront him as soon as possible. He didn't want a fight to break out right then and there between people who weren't even in the ring.

"Victor? H-hey, Victor...can't you go somewhere more safe?" he asked, trying to keep his voice down as he attempted to approach the bony being. "It's too open here...and there are too many angry people..."

Ability: Prodigal Charms Learner
Stats: Sta: 5 || Eva: 7 || Str: 3 || Wis: 8 || AP: 6 || Acc: 6

Interacting with: All the others entered into the fight club and @Victor Moore

Mentions | @Erik Tharaldson | @Ileen Knight | @Søren Silverwood | @Opeila Seilun | @Adonis Thorn | @Hanako Tone | @Percival Rainwood | @Maria Dee | @Nico Shymane | @Jack Burnett | @Cassandra Ironwoods
Directed at anyone who's willing to listen!
(Just read the last few paragraphs if the whole thing is too long lol)

Dealla looked up frowning, torn from her thoughts at Erik's words. Was he actually excited about this? About the fights? Couldn't he see they were being played?
She'd given him the benefit of the doubt on the last heir thing for Ileen's sake, but... If that was his reaction to the situation, the Ileen points would only hold for a short while.

She gave a short distracted smile and a wave at Søren's departure. She appreciated his attempts at reassuring Ileen, but the situation was still nagging at her. There had to be a better way than the ones who didn't want to step down just fighting until someone went limp.
A moment later, the boy from the entrance confirmed that they weren't actually forced to fight. They didn't have to enter the arena at all. The ones who wanted to - like Erik - could, and maybe those deserved the fight they were going to get.

But that wasn't good enough.

Even if that was how it was going to be, in the end, the crowd would get children fighting each other for their amusement, and at the top of the tournament roster, there would be Vladimir to beat down anyone who was still standing.

The whole point of this - at least to her - was to not give them what they wanted. Make the whole event as boring as possible, and bring down Vladimir in the end.
And suddenly, she knew she had the answer. A plan. A stupidly idealistic, impossible plan, one that most of the people here most likely wouldn't go along with. Maybe that was why they had invited all those Slytherins. They would walk right into it, proud and blinded by it.
Dealla was proud, too, but her pride, her ambition, didn't drive her to fight. It would be so much worse, so much more humiliating to be played by Vladimir like a puppet on strings than it would be to stand down and let others win the fight.

Her solution was simple: They had to pick a winner. One team that would just walk through the whole tournament unscathed, to face Vladimir at the end. No fights until then, and a real, tangible chance of winning against him.

But this was where the trouble lay: She was friends with Ileen, had met a bunch of the others, at errands or in class, even shared a tent with some in the past few weeks, but she lacked connections, lacked people who would listen to her.
If it were her House - calm and rational, where she held some sway, where people had grown to know and respect her over the past year - that might have been possible. Instead it was Slytherin, proud and willful and conflict-riddled.

She looked around, tried to catch the eye of the people she'd met before. Opeila, Adonis, Hanako, even Percival - the people from her tent. Maria and Nico, who she'd met just a day ago. Søren and that red-headed boy who she had spent an afternoon each doing errand activities with.

Drawing in a deep breath, Dealla turned towards Ileen and Cash, the two people still standing next to her, but tried to make her voice carry when she spoke, hoping to be heard by as many people as possible.
"We shouldn't let them manipulate us," she said, thoughts racing as she tried to choose the right words, the ones that would appeal to a House whose main attributes were supposed to be pride and cunning. She was painfully aware that it was next to impossible that people would listen to her, but anyone who did was a win. "We shouldn't play by their rules - let them play us like we're marionettes. I don't want to dance for their amusement, the people in the crowd's or Vladimir's." She shook her head. "None of us should fight. We should pick a team to fight Vladimir, the ones that have the best chance to win. Let them through, so they will win." Was she pushing too far? But there likely wouldn't be a chance afterwards. One more sentence, maybe, one more appeal. "I don't care about the prize for winning, I just care about not losing - against them, not against the other teams."

After that, she gripped Ileen by the shoulders, looking up at her taller friend imploringly. "Convince your team to step down," she told her, fiercely, her voice much lower than before. "At any cost. If my team makes it through this round, or I can convince our opponents, maybe I can get them to step down, too, and they'll be in the finale without damage. That's a start."

Dan's ears were red with embarrassment over everyone looking at him. But he had to let out what he'd wanted to for ages now, and if the crowd, either one, didn't like it, they could eat shite.

Victor looked like he expected Dan to punch him, but he didn't. Despite this clear act of betrayal, Dan considered them even. He had terrorized and implicated someone who didn't deserve it, and now this was happening. Dan doubted there was a correlation, but the matter still stood. One for One. They were even.

What happened next, even someone of Dan's vast strategic intellect did not expect. One, Victor's morning breath was even worse than his Uncle Sean's. And Uncle Sean was a raging alcoholic. Guinness, whiskey, you name it. He wasn't violent, by any means, but BOY could he get shit-faced. And Victor's breath was even worse.
Then, he grabbed Dan by the collar and pulled him REALLY close to him. Maybe if he didn't look like this, Dan would not have minded that much. Right now, this was... kinda creepy. Dan suspected he wanted to say something, so he made no attempt to run or attack. Whatever Victor wanted to do, save for attacking him, to which Dan would likely respond in kind, he could do.

But Dan saw something. Something disgusting, wriggling under Victor's skin. No, this kid needed a professional level healer. He would get his parents on this immediately when he got home. His Auror father to find Victor, wherever he's hiding, and his St. Mungo's staff mother to fix whatever hellish damage had been inflicted. Hell, Dan would pay for the operation if that's what it took, though he was pretty sure his mother would waive the fees if he asked. If not, his dad would pay for it, most likely.

Then on top of that, he whispered in Dan's ear. He didn't know how to respond to it, so he just stared at Victor. He memorized his appearance so that his Dad could find him, based on the description.

Interacting with @Victor Moore

Selim heard laughing behind him as he charged up the stairs, and the sound of that Scarecrow's voice as 'he' announced that those that had apparently betted on him leaving would get their coin.

(Selim didn't feel like the name 'Victor' suited that boy anymore, he seemed to be someone else now. He had changed. So Selim decided to give him another name, that just seemed to... fit.)

Perhaps, had Selim been in a different mindset, he would've felt amused by this, but he wasn't in a different mindset. A mask had taken over at the beginning of his mission before that 'invitation' interrupted him and caught his attention.

His curiosity had been sated, therefore, why would he have to stay? He had a mission to complete, he'd just have to leave his 'teammates' by their lonesome... not that he cared. If his 'teammates' were in Slytherin, then they'd figure things out and adapt.

If they couldn't do at least that much, then they honestly didn't belong in this house.

Slowing down as he got further from the crowd, Selim eased, the weight of that pointless fight off his mind, leaving him calmer, with a clear mind. He wondered what had pushed the Scarecrow to the edge. Was it really 'revenge'? Or was it something else... or perhaps someone else?

Selim was no alien to manipulation, perhaps that... boy... had someone pushing him to do this.

A possibility, or maybe the teen just had a secret urge for bloodthirst under that scarred skin.

Or perhaps something else drove the Scarecrow. Who knew? Selim liked to keep his theories more open then just labeling this all as 'revenge'. He knew that there were many things that could drive someone to do something as radical as signing up, literal children, to a fight in a club and let them beat each other to a pulp.

His captors had done something similar... well, what they did was just a bit of a step above making children fight, at least his housemates could do something about their inevitable pain... unlike Selim had been able to.

Upon reaching the top of the stairs and calmly leaving the trapdoor, something... interrupted him.

"Be a dear and close the door."

Selim jumped, spinning around with knives bared, searching for the voice... but found no one.

... "What the hell?"

What was that.... it sounded, similar to the voices he sometimes heard in his head... had another one appeared...?

No... no, he recognized that voice... from the blossom ball... "Vladimir." He spoke out loud, his tone flat, if a bit irked.

Perhaps it wasn't that boy... but Selim thought that it was a probable answer. Sometimes memories warped things as simple as voices, but this didn't quite feel like one of those situations.

His eyes scanned his surroundings, taking in the details to see if anything had changed since he had been in this tent recently. There seemed to be no signs of magical amplification, so it was likely that the reason he could hear Vladimir's voice in his head was because of some sort of magical ability the third-year had gained.

Or something else entirely. Really, all he could do was speculate at this point.

Selim sighed, magic was irritating, things would be much simpler if everyone was a muggle.

Ignoring the voice, because Selim wasn't one to listen to perceived sass from a literal thirteen-or-so-year-old, Selim fully stepped into the tent. Vladimir wasn't even technically a teen, in Selim's opinion.

(To him, teens were 15/16-18-year-old children.)

They were all children, some were just more mentally depraved than others.

...Huh, maybe magic actually messed with the brains of children... it would explain why so many seemed to have some sort of mental issues.

Something to look into in the future perhaps...

'Tch' he shook the distractions away, heading towards the flap of the tent, mentally thinking over what he'd tell the authorities in reference to this likely illegal fight club. Then, stepping into freedom-

.
.
.

Aaand he was back in the tent.

Selim swore under his breath. He was starting to hate magic.

Mouth twisted into a frown, he scanned the tent once more. This was some sort of loop, wasn't it?

Letting out a long sigh, he sat on the ground, legs crossed, rightly irritated. He had to get back to his mission, but apparently, despite leaving that fight ring, he was still trapped by the hack that was wizarding magic.

Backtracking mentally to the voice of the preteen he had heard. Selim ran over the information he had gained. Apparently that Ravenclaw irritant had a hand in this... wasn't he friends with the Scarecrow... and that... girl.

He hadn't bothered to remember her name, but it was funny when she threw pumpkin juice on Thomas Lestrange, so she had a minor iota of 'notability' from Selim.

She didn't seem like someone who would make a bunch of preteens who had barely hit puberty fight, from what he'd seen from her.

Scarecrow looked like a broken shell, something he could understand, seeing as he had once been like that during those long days in St. Mungo's Hospital. Jack seemed tor respect the boy for some reason that Selim didn't have enough info to grasp, and if Jack had that 'respect' for the Scarecrow, then it was unlikely that the third-year was, at least originally, amoral.

So that left Vladimir as a good candidate for the cause, at least in some way, for this mess.

Oh, joy, another piece to the puzzle that was Selim's school life. Why couldn't things just be normal? Sure, this was fun for a while, but now it was just... excessive.

Too much of something is always bad.

Like magic.

For a while, Selim just sat there, at some point flopping on his back and absently picking at the ground. His eyes had long since become half-lidded with boredom and a yawn escaped him. The mask he had slipped on for his mission had retreated to the back of his mind, a new one taking place, one that wasn't quite complete, the gaps filled in with similarities to how he acted when he first arrived at Hogwarts.

Finally, he spoke, he didn't know who to... Vladimir, the being that stalked him in the corners of his vision occasionally, or maybe himself.

What he said, though, was profoundly important, impactful, he'd finally found out what he wanted-

"Hey Anthanatos.... can I have some tea?"

... Ok, so maybe it was only 'profound' because of his lethargic mindset of dry humor.

But honestly, if the third year (If that was who was pulling the strings) wanted to keep him trapped in a musty tent until this whole thing was over, then he could at least provide refreshments, it was only polite.

Absently, Selim cleaned his ear, any motivation to escape had evaporated one his 'Mission First' mindset had faded with the lack of action around him. He wasn't fighting in the ring, so honestly, his situation seemed much better compared to the rest of his housemates. If anything, when this blew over, Selim could provide the inevitable basic medical aid needed to at least a portion of them.

If not that, he could catch up on some sleep...

Ooo, that actually sounded appealing. It was daytime so he most likely wouldn't be plagued with Sleep Paralysis and Nightmares.

He only feared to sleep at night.

Another yawn escaped him, sleep seeming more and more like a good possibility... but he also really wanted tea. Maybe Vladimir could at least spare that, it's not like Selim had caused him much ill will before... right?

Unless the Ravenclaw was still salty about him stealing his dolls and mysterious philes of unknown liquid.

.
.
.

...He should've brought his full mission pack to this detour, seeing as how it had tea and snacks in it.

Mmm... tea.

Actions:

Chiling, Being a lazy freeloader, Asking Vladimir for Tea.

Mentions: @Jack Burnett @Vladimir Athanatos Scarecrow (AKA Messed-Up Victor), Marion Davenport, @Thomas Lestrange

Stats & Abilities:

Reducio

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Stamina: 4
Evasion: 9
Strength: 3
Wisdom: 7
ArcPower: 3
Accuracy: 9

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