What is the First Rule... Slytherin Event

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

____ ____ ____

/35

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

____ ____ ____

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