What is the First Rule... Slytherin Event

Directly Mentions: Victor Moore a.k.a. poor Leatherface, vaguely references a few others.

In the cramped basement, burning with the voices of what felt like a million patrons, Persephone embraced the silence that fell behind her own green eyes, the painting of artistic indifference. Colors melting into one another in a gradient of dusk to dawn, but all fading to their eventual destined grey, murky and dim like the room each Slytherin had found themselves in. Still, inner tranquility sang. The fight club, the gathering of aggressive animals that spared their rage for futile angst, it was nothing to fear. Death didn’t linger, a reaper wouldn’t lurk just out of one’s peripherals, a subtle fog of grimness didn’t even tail the students in their descension to fate, to the eventual surrender. Logically, while her abject peers ran amuck with anxiety, this was hardly more dangerous than the day-to-day life of the castle; the key difference, today they were their own villains. No hags, trolls, mosps, simply each other. Which truly posed more threat depended on how many of them—more particularly, whom among them—you managed to piss off.

Taking a glance around the room once more, gaze fiercely critical but lacking in its typical smoke, no one around looked capable of murder. Let alone at the direction of a moderator to whom nothing was owed; redemption, vengeance, take what you will, but most attendants had no part in the fate he was exposed to. Above him, more than likely the third year, a nameless face, a faceless name. Perhaps a certain brunette, rather short but tall in the sense of how strongly she was able to irritate, had asked for this, earned it through blood and tears. No sweat, for such esteem never warranted effort. But oh, how the blood rolled without a single cut, how she cried without a single tear. The dear girl had dug a hole, and though could be ignorantly held accountable for this, was really responsible for little more than a cracked heart.

The third year, after all, had appeared much older than proclaimed. He was damaged long before madame two-face waltzed into his ring, his dance, his battle. Those schemes and plots far surpassed her capability of damage. Regardless, Persy couldn’t help but sway to the imagined sound of just take her! We didn’t even do anything!

Eyes gradually easing up, a grimace fell upon the blonde’s lips as she counted the vertebrae along Leatherface’s spine. Chaos had broken out, there were rumbles among the crowd, but nothing stole her attention much like the appearance of an old peer. A fellow snake betrayed and forsaken on the dance floor, fitting. Poor boy, would echo in her own voice within, without any real sympathy. He, or perhaps it now that the humanity had been stripped from the figure, bones held together by duct tape and weak mask of skin, was just so off. Even with no genuine pity, empathy, nothing, her gaze wouldn’t falter. Entranced maybe, but not by that which tainted the youth.

There was no sympathy to give, there was nothing. Persy was hardly even spiteful at this time, teeth dulled, declawed, angry at no one but the one she couldn’t harm. The next best thing, look at others and pretend they are the one she wanted. Needed. No point in pretending, wishful thinking, no point at all when she could simply act. Consequences were a thing of the past unless you were unfortunate cursed with morality. Exchanges were made, questions were asked, but the Slytherin’s ears were not further perked. Just as her eyes began to drift shut, ease themselves away to darkness where the light didn’t agonize so terribly, a voice rang, one that couldn’t be tuned away.

“You’re an interesting one girl.”

Bloodshot eyes sprung open. “What?” Her voice was quiet, soft as though it could grow no louder, but the sharp retort wasn’t intended to be verbalized anyway. It was habitual, to respond verbally to that which is audible, as auditory hallucinations weren’t exactly one of Persephone’s most common oddities. Next to her, nothing. In front of her, no one. To the other side and behind, completely vacant. Yes, she was surrounded by the buzz of flies, the disappointing hum of the majority, but not a single one had spoken to her. It would have been an irresponsible thing to do regardless, as indifference was not equivalent to incompetence. Indifference did not mean she wouldn’t fight to benefit her own spirit.

It wasn’t the blonde’s own voice of melodic loathing. It wasn’t his. Who else was there to listen to? Who else had anything to say that mattered, that altered her state of mind?

“Got my eye on you.”

Rightfully so. One eye locked on Persephone, keeper of hatred and a rotted soul, the other on the rest of the party, tapping from cloud to cloud along the skyline. A win or a loss meant nothing, a grain of sand strayed along the shoreline, a small glass of water stolen from the ocean. Some were afraid to fall, to wither into ashes or carry the remnants of black and blue on plain flesh. Others were overly willing to choke until they slept, claim their reward like good dogs and submit to the hell that came afterward. Ask their questions, wait their damn turns, and watch the universe spin without them, cycling through its seasons. Persephone was neither. There was nothing here to care about except the delayed sunset of opportunity.

So yes, keep an eye on her. But expect to see nothing of interest, for there is little more to witness than a discarded shell, a thoughtless fighter. A nameless face. She shook her head, knowing she was more than that.

When the threat of battle edged closer, voices raised, attacks attempted, she stood as an overseer [think Regina’s burn-book chaos hallway riot scene]. An unknown snake launching into an apology towards Leatherface, who had already turned and shifted in ways foreign to the human anatomy. Pain was his only friend. The crooked man, walking his crooked walk and talking his crooked talk, poor boy looked as though his skin could peel away. His attempt to appear human hadn’t worked as planned, but Persephone had glanced away from the ordeal before it began to radiate a tension that no twelve-year-old girl should bear witness to. A ginger surely on vacation from hell had caught her attention through his typical shenanigans, silly schoolboys and their habits of screaming.

Around the blonde, scrambling numbers had gone to find their team if they hadn’t wrapped themselves in futile arguments. Persephone remained static, because just as expected, the teammates wouldn’t matter to the game. They were the unlucky ones to believe that power came in numbers rather than skill or bloodied knuckles. It did, perhaps, merely not in 25. No matter the good fight they fought now, each fly would have to submit sooner rather than later; see, madness is like gravity. All it takes is a little push.

Ability: Fearless
Stats: Stamina: 8 | Evasion: 4 | Strength: 5 | Wisdom: 7 | Arc Power: 5 | Accuracy: 6

Like rats escaping a flooding sewer, many of the students scrambled around at the utterance of the prerequisites to leaving. Selim himself simply tried to leave, though Thora had already proven that was impossible if he had been paying attention. Well, perhaps there was some way, perhaps it was more intelligent to look for a way around than to try to go through, but Flash was given a win condition, one that got everyone out, so why not take it? Of course, it could be a lie, but functioning under that presumption would only lead to sadness and fear, as many of his peers could currently attest to. At the very least Victor answered his question-- forfeit was allowed, which was a relief. There were no doubt many students who didn’t want to fight.

He followed it with a sort of taunt-- had Victor always been like this? Hadn’t he been a bit of a sweetheart before? Flash couldn’t say so with any conviction, he couldn’t say he did anything at all to get closer to him. He didn’t even involve himself at all in those fumbled interrogations either, but Victor had been in the same dorm with him all year. Flash wasn’t the type to look back and regret things, like not having got to know Victor better, as though perhaps it might have prevented the state he was in now. It was too conceptual, not real. While he took on a great deal of responsibility for himself without anyone asking him to, he couldn’t take responsibility for not keeping an eye on Victor. Still, what kind of fate was this anyway? How was he even walking around and talking with his skin so damaged? Was he even human anymore, was it some kind of magic? He still seemed to boil with some kind of life, some kind of personality, but who was ‘Victor’? Flash was starting to get used to not knowing things.

While Dan and Burnett tried to talk to the repulsive-looking boy, most of the other students who still had their mind about them were trying to find their teams. Reluctantly or not, people were ready to accept the terms, for the most part. Opeila was complaining about the reward, which was indeed one that Flash didn’t expect too many others to care about. Perhaps that wasn’t the point… though once the groups had splintered off, Flash wondered whether he might notice a relation between the people Vladimir pointed out to the professors being scattered across the teams in case they might, who know, disseminate information about who Vladimir was. Hmm… maybe I’m giving him too much credit... Perhaps it was only a defense mechanism, but Flash didn’t want to think too much about Vladimir. This ‘one question’, even if given to every person on the team, was a joke. The kind that wouldn’t entice anyone except perhaps the desperate, and was more likely a taunt itself. So much taunting. Well, it was a fighting ring, perhaps it was just in the spirit of the game.

Flash knew he ought to find his team as well. After all, now that he knew forfeiture was on the table, he could try to plan around it. The numbers didn’t help-- at least not for him, he hadn’t been keeping track of everyone’s place in line, and most people were wearing something beyond a tank top. Flash himself had a simple blue polo on, and rolled his sleeve up again to where the number four could be seen clearly. There were only so many people left who hadn’t found their group, so he could figure it out by asking around quickly anyway. He found the lost Hufflepuff looking around for her team, and the number seven on the arm of a quietly contemplative Søren Silverwood, who seemed to be talking to Miss Nico. While admittedly still a bit frightened of her, Flash took the puff to their side. Perhaps Nico was their last member.

”Søren, Miss Nico.” Flash nodded his head as if it were a miniature bow. ”And pardon my rudeness miss, but what was your name?”

Flash gave the frightened girl a calm, grateful smile, as though her being with him had made everything alright. Flash was good with Hufflepuffs, being a friendly sort of person himself. He knew how to handle them, though he couldn’t say he knew anything at all about Søren. Well, he would find out now, wouldn’t he?

As for Nico, he knew she didn’t like to fight. That was, during the spider attacks she had been crying out to her mother, and during the pillow fight she had spent most of the time cowering from her playful peers. Still… that night, at midnight, she had been something different. Something terrifying. He hadn’t even gotten up the courage to ask about it, but her fellow prefect Miss Meenauh didn’t seem at all phased. Perhaps it was… nothing to worry about?

Interacting with: @Maria Dee @Søren Silverwood @Nico Shymane
Mentioning: @Thomas Lestrange (by nature of looking for teammates, not actually mentioned), Thora Larkston, Selim Faust, Victor Moore, Opeila Seilun, Dan Palmer, Jack Burnett, Meenauh Silmataurea
OOC note: Flash only knows Søren's name because he is a first year Slytherin, so there is no implied familiarity even though he totally saw him dancing at the victory party

Thomas was anything but predictable. He would consider one thing, and one thing only. What did Vladimir Athanatos want? The Slytherin boy was not reluctant to toss himself aside in pursuit of his ends. The present ambition: to further develop his use to the older Raven. The fact of the matter was the bane of the ball had a heavy hand in organizing a house battering match that featured a token Huffle&Raven. He wanted the chaos, but the fluidity of the event hinged on the willingness of its participants. Thomas had no need to be the last one standing. Instead to be a fire starter, a catalyst to set things into motion. If things went as he had planned, the reward would be far greater than one measly question.

Thomas would turn to the girl at his side, reaching out as if to grab her arm, but thought better. Every action was magnified, he could be watching. Any signs of amusement faded as he eyed Santario, offering a stern stare. He pressed his lips together, biting his tongue. Icy blue eyes narrowed with repetitive short and controlled nods. “Good luck.” With that, he walked past her. The regret seeping in, but it was not something he could vocalize. If he was to attain success, it had to be a splitting image of the ball. No one could know.

If Vladimir wanted himself a boxing match, Thomas would do his best to grant this wish.

It was once again time to employ the skills gained from those third grade acting classes. Subduing the ill thoughts that may arrive from the actions to follow. On his way to the ring, he would begin to strut. His best McGregor impression, if you will. One by one, he would pick a lucky few to antagonize. First, the cold-hearted blonde. No acting skills necessary to supply barbs for her. “You’re at a disadvantage, I don’t see any ledges. Break a leg.” Literally. Thomas continued his strut past Persephone to find the token Ravenclaw[Dealla]. Her solid points and reasoning skills needed to come under fire. He would stop near the girl, interrupting her attempt to be the voice of reason, echoing the sentiments first suggested by the spiky blonde[Holms]. “What’s next, to hold hands and sing kumbaya? Live a little.” He offered a cheeky wink, walking past her.

His last stop, Slim Shady. An older, more capable wizard, but relatively worthless without his wand. Making him an easy target. Thomas stopped, squaring himself across the boy to stand toe to toe.[Bet you won’t throw Aragog Jr. at me.]. Thomas would speak as he began to remove his shirt...for the fight of course, not the opposing boy. He would toss the shirt at the senior snake with a pretentious smirk. “A souvenir.” Thomas eyed the ring and began his approach. It’s fookin’ on.

Mentions&Interactions: @Vladimir Athanatos @Santario Martin @Dealla Prince @Dmitri Jones @Persephone Barret

Interacting| @Thomas Lestrange

Santario would press her back against the wall as if she were trying to slide into it, phase through it, anything that would get her out of here. She wasn’t made for situations like this, not yet, she needed more time. Chaos continued to unfold with someone managing to get back upstairs, a motion she didn’t trust, and people yelling about voiced in their head. No wonder they were all in this mess; most of them were psychotic.

Her sapphire eyes slid back up to Thomas’ face when he turned to her… What was that? He started to reach out, but for what? Why? A question she would not get answered here, but she wouldn’t forget to ask about it next time they met. “Don’t die, Reaper.” A sentiment whispered loud enough for him to hear before he walked away, but no one else would be able to hear it unless they had been standing next to her… Which no one was now.

Thomas swaggered away, off to antagonize his soon to be future opponents. San was alone now, something she usually wanted, but she wished she didn’t have to wear the emotionless mask that she did right now. Why did she choose to go to this stupid summer camp again? Certainly, being stuck in France with her elitist grandparents would have been better than this.

Ileen’s gaze followed Erik, as her stormed off. What had she expected? He had already announced it upstairs that he was looking forward to a fight. It was probably already a big sign of his affection that he would spare her - or at least that this was his plan at the moment.
Still, she was... confused? Disappointed? She wasn't sure. Why was she not surprised that people in her house were willing to fight? That they were looking forward to it?
She could feel the anger flaring up inside her. It replaced the numb rigidity and gave her new strength to act. What on earth was wrong with those people? She turned to Dee with flashing eyes. Erik could take care of himself. Hopefully, he wouldn’t do anything too stupid.

Well, there was no way, she would play along. Why would she? She had no reason to fight her house mates or anyone. Especially not for the amusement of a mad crowd. While Ileen was keeping her thoughts to herself, her best friend put them into words. She was going even further. The young Ravenclaw didn’t just want to quit the fight but also to destroy the game itself.
Be better than your parents. The words flashed through her mind and made her swallow. Her parents may had been in a similar situation or not. Did it matter? Yes. Did it affect her actions? No. This wise person who had given her this advice was right. She couldn’t just be numb every time something bad happened, being afraid of becoming evil. She should just act different.

Ileen would have been totally fine with just leaving – if they would let them. But her friend was right. They shouldn’t lose against them. Sad thing, she highly doubted that many people would listen to her.
When Dee grabbed her arm and told her to stop her group from fighting, Ileen couldn't help but snort sarcastically. “I can try. But –“ She gestured towards the Slytherin crowed. “I told you about the party, right? I doubt that they would listen to me.” Her facial expression became gloomy when she looked at the young students. “If they didn’t get it right away, they are stupid after all.” Her opinion of her house was really not the best.

Talking about not the best opinion – were their tent mates around? Not that Ileen thought them to be more open-minded or wiser, but they had lived together for at least a few weeks. Maybe there was a way she could convince them to quit? Very unlikely but worth a try.
She would point this madness out once. If they still thought that an answer from this Vladimir was worth being manipulated and pushed around, then she couldn't help them.
While her dark brown eyes glided over the group next to her, she leaned a little towards her best friend. “If we can’t convince them to stop this madness, we should just try to get out of here.”
It spoke volumes about how annoyed she was at that moment - otherwise the young Slytherin would never have been willing to take a more active role. Otherwise, she would have left the people who were out to be manipulated and beat each other up to their own devices.
When she spotted Percival, one of the less idiotic people, Ileen gave Dee a nod. If they wanted to act, they should do it now.

Mentions: @Dealla Prince @Erik Tharaldson @Percival Rainwood
Team: @Selim Faust @Wyatt Starkey @Emmanuel Min Requiza

Amidst the growing chaos, several of the other students tried to think of loophole or a way out. Maria’s eyes scanned the crowd and the rest of the area. The sea of shadowy faces, the loud noise from the chatter, and the nervous energy from the students made the tent seem so much smaller. A familiar feeling surfaced, and it made her head spin and her stomach do somersaults. She quickly swallowed it down. No, she would not show that here, not with all those people watching. The crowd didn’t matter much to her, but being amongst peers did. It was bad enough that she was around strangers, but she was afraid they would think of her as the weak little Hufflepuff.

Then she heard Dealla tell everyone her plan. The Ravenclaw’s idea was noble and idealistic. Yes, they could fight against having strangers control them. They should, and they very much could. But in the back of Maria’s mind she had to wonder, wouldn’t they have anticipated that? Could this be rigged? But Dee was right. There had to be a way out of this. Hopefully, one that didn’t include a fight. The Hufflepuff wasn’t normally one to back down when threatened, but she realized that the real enemy wasn’t the the snakes of the Slytherin house. It was the lanky boy and whoever else was behind this whole debacle.

She hoped her team would agree with that.

Speaking of her group, she craned her head to see if she could find a teammate. She didn’t have to look far, because someone pulled her aside. Nico was with him, as was a boy with the number seven on his arm. The person in question was a boy much taller than her, with lighter hair and blue eyes. She noticed his sleeve rolled up and the number four on it. Her other teammate it seemed. While she had previously been so unsure of herself, being in his presence made her feel a little bit better. His smile was the same, and she returned it. He asked for her name.

“I-I’m Maria Dee.” Was her reluctant but sure reply. “Don’t worry, I don’t think it’s rude at all given the situation.”

Just as she was about to ask for his name she noticed a boy swaggering off to random people. To her, walk seemed, obnoxiously confident. Fake, but confident. At some point her had taken his shirt off and she could see the number on his arm. If Maria’s eyes could roll any further, they would have rolled all the way back to Hogwarts. This boy was…problematic to say the least. She couldn’t help but let out a sigh. So much for no fighting.

Of course the only reaction she'd get to her plan would be something like this. It wasn't like she hadn't expected it. Still, her temper flared up, bright and hot, and she turned after the Slytherin who had swaggered past her only to ridicule her idea - twisting it into something she hadn't said. She turned after him with a look of disgust on her face.
"I don't care whether any of you get along, you stupid snake," she replied coldly, trying and nearly failing to keep her herself in check. If she wanted this to have any chance of succeeding, she had to stay calm. "You're welcome to beat each other up on your own time if that's what living is to you. You're welcome to be idiots at any time you want. Just use your brain now, instead of dancing to Vladimir's pipes like a bunch of rats, yeah?"

Exhaling sharply, she turned back around to her friend. "As if anyone would want to hold hands with the likes of him," she spat, then forced herself back to the situation at hand, and put on a tight smile for Ileen's sake.
"If they don't listen to you, they're the idiots you always said they were," she agreed and took another deep, calming breath. "But you'll try? Just... get as many of your team out of there as you can. Maybe some of them have a brain. Or half of one, at least."
After a short second of hesitation, Dealla gave Ileen a tight hug. "I'll see you later," she promised. "Just... just don't fight, don't enter the ring, and you'll be fine. See you in a bit."
With that, Dealla turned away to go find the rest of her team.

Interactions | @Thomas Lestrange | @Ileen Knight

Victor whispered his message to @Dan Palmer but the boy did not listen. They never listen do they? He could not say anything more. Dan simply gave him a dumbfounded look and prepared to fight when his number was called. An ache and a weight. He tried.



There was a reason @Thomas LeStrange was Vladimir's favorite. Thomas was a popular young man, he had also caught the eye of @Santario Martin, a pretty little brunette that he would lack the gall to ever confess to. In his defense, he had some stiff competition and to be fair, she had a thing for dogs men that were real animals. While Thomas was a lot of things, a dog in the literal sense he was not. The obnoxious swagger, the cutting remarks, he had no qualm earning a few enemies to earn notice. Thomas had a lot of outward traits that reminded Vladimir of a Griffindor -- he was prideful and brave, also pretty stupid. But Vladimir mentally face-palmed when the teen (well, several teens) peeled off their shirt, who let Victor watch that old muggle movie!

You're really a showman Thomas.

The disembodied voice would announce. Success, Thomas was being watched.

I must inquire of course...
Why have you decided to play this game?



Victor would steady himself, his palm on the edge of a ring to steady himself. He was hardly standing, breathing heavily a fine mist of sweat would start to form on his brow. @Jack Burnett was making a scene, mentions of voices in his head. His green eyes would flicker, someone has been quite the chatterbox. "He's cool," Victor would state out loud seemingly to nobody in particular. "Don't worry about him."

"Victor? H-hey, Victor...can't you go somewhere more safe?"

Victor was not looking at Jack, it was as if he was in a daydream and his words snapped him out of it. He shook his head side to side. "I am very safe," he answered but his eyes seemed... sad? There was little inflection in his voice, just simple words.

"It's too open here...and there are too many angry people..."

His green eyes would scan the crowd. Faces he did not know. They would scan the fighters, faces he did know. "Why?" He shrugged. It was not a question, not really. He knew perfectly well while they were angry, or at least could could make an inference. They were offended that they were in a 'fight club', that they were expected to fight. They were making a lot of presumptions, each one of them vilifying him even further. "Because they were summoned by an invitation that they accepted. That they accepted the branding on their arm, one after another they came in. Less the first, they all saw the process before they too stepped forward. Because the purpose is to fight in a match that they could simply walk away from," his gaze lifted to the stairs and the hatch Selim had exited through. That one was running away to 'tell the authorities' likely about this 'fight club.' Which parts were amoral again? The fact that they were fighting, because students never did that. Because there were witnesses, strangers that were not intervening or stopping them.

"Like your friend." He paused for several seconds more and let out a shaky sigh. Yeah, there were parts he did not like. He had his doubts. But if he was right, and Vladimir was wrong, then he had nothing to worry about. Nobody would get hurt. However, if Vladimir was right, this was right"I don't think he likes you very much," his voice wavered but he endeavored to not allow it to falter. "Join your friend," he was referring to Selim. "I will be fine," he lied. If Vladimir was right, a wager he made in flesh, he would suffer greatly. Jack was a nice guy, he did not need to see it. He did not want to see Jack hurt either, his stomach made a single backflip.



@Ileen Knight, @Maria Dee and @Dealla Prince did not want to fight. Perhaps they could talk them out of it. Allow their logic to prevails. It was potentially effective, but nobody was going to talk @Erik Tharldson out of an opportunity to fight. How could they? This was an avenue Erik wanted to explore, he would have potentially paid hard-earned galleons for the opportunity to beat someone up in a place where it was socially expected. There were few socially acceptable outlets for his aggression. This was a diversion some of the students wanted to participate in. They could just leave, allow the fighters that remained to commit violence upon one another. However it was in their nature to impart their values on others. To enforce their vision.

Some wanted to play the game, find a loophole and take the prize. People like Dealla and @Flash Holmwood wanted to just give the win to a choice group. The fact that the choice group happened to be theirs, totally coincidental. Ravenclaws and Slytherins... looking out for number one.

Not everyone shared their perspective. For some this was freedom. An excuse to let out their inner demons. Their wrath. They had someone to blame. Something to full their idle hours, sate their curiosity. Such was the existence of @Persephone Barret, friendless both by choice as well as a result of poor luck. A self-fulfilling prophecy perhaps. Too bitter for friendships, too young for love. Both usually came with strings attached or result in sentimental fools, like Jack, getting hurt.



@Selim Faust would find himself in a magical loop. Exit through the slit of the tent, but not actually leave. He would find himself walking into the room from the other side. The same room, or so it would appear. An abandoned room with a single table left adjacent to a trap door and a simple wooden chair.

He would ask for tea. Likely sarcasm, but he would get a welcoming response.



Not the response he was likely expecting, the voice in his head was willing to apparently play host.



If Selim continued to walk, to exit the tent once again he would enter the tent again as he had before. This time the table moved over the trap door, the chair tucked neatly beneath and on the table sat a small kamares teapot filled to the brim with a hot, fragrant, milky fluid.



It was a strong, floral scent that emanated from that clay pot. There was no sugar, no milk. From the look of it, the tea was brewed with milk. Goats milk actually.

Coming back from the Group 1 and Group 2 thread.

Soon after he left, Dan had entered the ring with what remained of his crew; the ones who actually wanted to stay and fight it out. However, just as the fight began, he had suddenly turned right around and ran back out. He had ignored whatever the mindless basement dweller crowd had said or done, as he flew directly towards Victor. What he has whispered to Dan made perfect sense now, and it was certainly not something he was going to ignore.

All those not facing Dan would have no idea what was going on, but when Dan was barreling through the crowd, they..... would most likely be more confused than ever, actually.

"VICTOR!!!!!!!!"

As soon as he was in sight, Dan ran right at him, contorting his face in anger. Then, he slammed his fist into Victor's face with all of his 2 Strength. What happened... was not what he expected. Victor went flying. Dan had expected him to slightly stumble at best, maybe fall over if he was unbalanced at the time. But, that didn't matter.

"An' that's what ye get fer double crossin' Slytherin, ye melty-faced lookin' sunnuva bitch! Mhà losgadh a-rithist le dà uair an teas! (May you burn again with twice the heat!)"

Immediately, Dan turned and bolted. He ran past Jack Burnett, and quickly said something in his ear as he passed, (DM) utilizing his incredibly fast Irish boy speech to fit it into the small window he had, as he ran after Selim. Back out the way he had come. He no longer cared what everyone thought. Hell, he wasn't sure he had cared in the first place.

Interactions: @Victor Moore, @Jack Burnett

Selim was, indeed, surprised when he got a response to his verbal question.



He blinked upon hearing the voice speak, once more, into his head. That was still odd, not as surprising as some people might find it though. That may be because most people didn't hear whispers and voices on a daily basis that no one else could hear.



Selim sat up, brow raised, and tilted his head to passively glance at the tent 'exit'. After no more than a few mere moments of contemplation, he shrugged, standing up, and walking out of the false 'exit'.

He found himself back in the tent, of course, but upon glancing around at the seemingly unchanged room, he saw that there was one difference. There, on the table, sat some tea.

A pleased smile curled up his mouth's corners. He walked over to the table, pulling out the chair and sitting down. Athanatos spoke once more, his tone was light, at first, but became a bit more... unhinged (sadistic?) as he continued.



Selim couldn't help but raise a brow at that. Honestly, the comment sounded oddly ominous. He knew that linden (or 'lime') blossoms were often used to treat anxiety and occasionally insomnia. He hadn't heard of them actually causing damage to someone though... maybe if someone overdosed on it... but that was unlikely.

Athanatos continued speaking after Selim's brief uncertainty, snapping him out of his musings.



The first year arched a mildly incredulous brow, idly pouring himself some tea. "Thank you for the tea." He said, because he had manners.

He then addressed what the Ravenclaw said, "You actually want my housemates to injure the Scarecrow?" He paused, sipping the tea he had poured and relaxing slightly, eyes becoming half-lidded, "And here I was thinking that you two were, at the least, allies..." He wasn't sure if Vladimir would actually respond to him, but he had nothing better to do.

He was used to talking to himself anyway.

Idly he wondered if the so-called 'freedom' this cunning -and obviously unstable- Ravenclaw was talking about was death. From what Selim had seen of Victor, the boy was... messed up. He doubted the preteen was happy, he was disfigured, and most likely in pain.

Truly, if Selim saw an animal in such a state, he would've mercy killed it. Death was better than being in constant pain, he would know.

Though, who knew, perhaps Vladimir was speaking of something else, something deeper than just physical suffering.

The last comment about his housemates playing into the depraved Ravenclaw's hands made him scoff slightly, obviously siding with Vlad with his opinion.

Because it was painfully obvious that most of his housemates decided to just go along with the situation without any second thoughts. A few seemed hesitant, if not outright planning, to avoid the senseless fighting ring and messed-up adults watching on as children beat each other to pulps, but inevitably, the majority of them decided to fight, to be puppets, to Vlad or their own desires, it didn't matter.

It was illogical, foolish, to fight each other. They were basically doing all the hard work for Athanatos. eliminating each other so that they were, in the end, easier to pick off.

Selim had immediately left the ring after seeing that small part of Athanatos's elaborate ploy, refusing to be a... puppet.

But, he supposed, he was still playing along to the tune. He wasn't doing anything to prevent this, wasn't trying to escape and continue his original plan of alerting the authorities...

Most would probably continue trying to do so, instead of sitting down, having tea and conversing with the person that was 'forcing' them all to do this.

But honestly. Selim didn't care.

He had long since stopped caring about the fate of others, he had given up the drive to protect those around him when he was six. Perhaps, earlier in the year, his zealous would have driven him to continue trying to get out, his pride refusing to let him lie down and accept this brief fate of his, the fate to be trapped, dancing to the tune of a child who was three years his senior.

But that version of himself was gone, broken and buried in the dirt to be trampled on by his family, by life.

Now he was just a shell putting on a show for the world around him, a mask of lethargy and apathy. He's decided to stop participating in life unless his father deemed it time to use him as a tool to eliminate his enemies.

Until then, he was content being an observer.

(Besides, this tea was really good.)

He didn't care about Victor, sure, he might have a small iota of pity for the boy... but he didn't know him beyond the fact that Jack liked him for some unknown reason.

The truth was, he'd only expend his energy to help Burnett, his dormmate. The redhead had earned a sliver of trust and became the one that had awoken the demon of guilt that now haunted him with all the other unseen ghosts that whispered to him, tormented him.

At the moment, the Fox wasn't in sight, wasn't there for him to watch. Selim trusted that he'd take care of himself, even if his self-preservation was sorely lacking when it came to those he cared about.

The first year finished his first cup of tea, feeling a sense of calm. He was subdued by the linden, probably something that was purposefully planned, but honestly, the relaxation that came with it was completely worth it.

It was that feeling that Selim yearned for, even if it was only a shadow of the peace he craved with every fiber of his being.

So, inevitably, he poured himself another cup, nursing it.

He had one question, directed at the one pulling the strings. "Why?"

His tone was idle, mildly curious, he didn't expect an answer, but perhaps Athanatos was like one of those tv villains who just loved to chat. The thought made him smother a snicker.

Ah, he'd never felt his carefree in a long time. A glimpse into what his life could've been like...

The smile faded off his face, he became somber once more.

He'd probably never feel this carefree again in a long time... when he went back to his clan with a failed mission... well, it wouldn't be pleasant. The summer ahead of him wasn't hopeful, light... no, he knew it'd be full of death and strife... those were the only things that his family spawned.

For a moment, he contemplated running away, far, far away, never looking back.

But that wouldn't be possible, his clan would find him, they always did. No matter how many times he tried to hide, they found him.

Selim let out a sigh, eyes trailing down to his tea. Abruptly, he tossed back the lukewarm liquid, mouth screwed into a grimace as he poured another cup.

Slumping to the side, he propped an elbow onto the table, head resting on his hand, and idly blew a hair off his face. His eyes drifted up to the entrance of the tent, watching whatever was happening outside with envious eyes.

"Freedom, huh?" he muttered, "Sounds nice." He snorted without humor, "Sounds impossible."

Absently he cast his gaze back to his tea, swirling it laxly, then took another sip.

He wondered what it was like, in Athanatos's shoes, having the ability to orchestrate this elaborate trap for his housemates. He wondered if the boy had to answer to anyone, or if this was all the extent of his free will.

If it was the latter... well, then he was jealous that even this Ravenclaw was free to do such things.

He zoned out, faintly wondering if Vladimir had drugged or poisoned the tea.

Then, he found, that he didn't care.

Either was better than continuing to live in chains. Even if one of those possibilities was only temporary.

Even temporary relief seemed like a luxury, a moment of silence, a moment where there weren't ghosts haunting his every step and weighing down his shoulders.

Perhaps a small part of him had moved him to drink the tea despite those possibilities. A small part of him, that wanted that impossible relief.

Actions:

Chilling, Trying to Chat with Vladimir, Being a depressing lazy freeloader, Drinking Tea.

Mentions: Vladimir Athanatos, Scarecrow (Victor Moore), @Jack Burnett

Stats & Abilities:

Reducio

____ ____ ____

1st Year

/35

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

____ ____ ____

2nd Year

/40

Stamina: 5
Evasion: 10
Strength: 5
Wisdom: 7
ArcPower: 3
Accuracy: 10

____ ____ ____