Tribute 37
Once upon a time, there was a large Dragon named Tybalt. Tybalt was a fierce warrior that had (according to recent polls) become the victor of the fifth Smoothie Games. He had wounds on his face, large holes in his wings, but his ego remained perfectly in tact. That morning, the rain that had plagued the arena finally began to taper off into nothing more than an annoying mist. The tributes remaining had begun to realize that there was no where left to hide. With so few left, there was bound to be a second bloodbath very soon. That was no trouble to Tybalt. "Surely there is nobody brave enough or strong enough to defeat me!" He said to himself with a smirk, tossing his head. You see, the Dragon was notoriously selfish. They believed that all were beneath them. That they were gods. But even gods can be killed.
So the big dragon wandered through the woods with a cruel gleam in his eyes. He was ready to win, no matter the cost. He walked and walked, searched and searched, but there was nothing. No scents. No sounds. No souls. Silence. Tybalt growled in frustration and pawed angrily at the dirt. His limbs ached and fought him for every step. His wounds burned. So he looked around one last time. There was nobody, and nobody would dare challenge a dragon, even a sleeping one! He chuckled to himself and stretched, feeling a satisfying pop as his joints relaxed. "Just a small nap." He muttered as he tucked his massive paws underneath his chin. His wings folded neatly against his sides and his tail tip curled over his nose. Soon, the mighty Dragon was fast asleep on the forest floor with visions of victory dancing in his head.
Then along came another tribute. This one was a small kitten who'd only recently celebrated his thirteenth birthday. He had a crazed gleam in his heterochromic eyes as he eyed the sleeping Dragon. "Is he dead?" He asked himself, cocking his head. He wasn't scared, even as the dragon growled in his sleep and shifted his head.
"No, idiot!" Another voice hissed from him. He didn't like this voice but he listened anyway. "He's weak, vulnerable! Kill him now!"
The kitten hesitated and flattened his ears. "But. But. Killing is wrong! Mama said so!"
"She's an idiot, Stanley! Listen to me. I am here to help you stay alive! Now let me in control, Stanley. Let me in control." And he did.
When Stanley finally found himself back again, the cannon was booming. He gasped and backed away. Blood pooled around the dragon's head, staining a pair of hopelessly mangled eyeglasses. A lone dagger lay near the carnage. He wasn't carrying a weapon? How did he get it?! His heart hammered against his chest as he looked down at his own paws, stained just the same color. "No." He whispered, eyes flicking wildly side to side. How did this happen? He would never hurt anyone! A horrified scream burst from the young cat's throat. "NO!" He pivoted and darted back into the darkening forest, still screaming bloody murder.
- 3 tributes left in the arena -
[In the years that would follow this kill, the tale of the Kitten and Dragon would be passed on through generations of every district. A cautionary tale against being too cocky and letting down your guard around those smaller than you. It is also around this time that dragons were ridiculed by the other districts, despite the fact they were the largest species.]
Once upon a time, there was a large Dragon named Tybalt. Tybalt was a fierce warrior that had (according to recent polls) become the victor of the fifth Smoothie Games. He had wounds on his face, large holes in his wings, but his ego remained perfectly in tact. That morning, the rain that had plagued the arena finally began to taper off into nothing more than an annoying mist. The tributes remaining had begun to realize that there was no where left to hide. With so few left, there was bound to be a second bloodbath very soon. That was no trouble to Tybalt. "Surely there is nobody brave enough or strong enough to defeat me!" He said to himself with a smirk, tossing his head. You see, the Dragon was notoriously selfish. They believed that all were beneath them. That they were gods. But even gods can be killed.
So the big dragon wandered through the woods with a cruel gleam in his eyes. He was ready to win, no matter the cost. He walked and walked, searched and searched, but there was nothing. No scents. No sounds. No souls. Silence. Tybalt growled in frustration and pawed angrily at the dirt. His limbs ached and fought him for every step. His wounds burned. So he looked around one last time. There was nobody, and nobody would dare challenge a dragon, even a sleeping one! He chuckled to himself and stretched, feeling a satisfying pop as his joints relaxed. "Just a small nap." He muttered as he tucked his massive paws underneath his chin. His wings folded neatly against his sides and his tail tip curled over his nose. Soon, the mighty Dragon was fast asleep on the forest floor with visions of victory dancing in his head.
Then along came another tribute. This one was a small kitten who'd only recently celebrated his thirteenth birthday. He had a crazed gleam in his heterochromic eyes as he eyed the sleeping Dragon. "Is he dead?" He asked himself, cocking his head. He wasn't scared, even as the dragon growled in his sleep and shifted his head.
"No, idiot!" Another voice hissed from him. He didn't like this voice but he listened anyway. "He's weak, vulnerable! Kill him now!"
The kitten hesitated and flattened his ears. "But. But. Killing is wrong! Mama said so!"
"She's an idiot, Stanley! Listen to me. I am here to help you stay alive! Now let me in control, Stanley. Let me in control." And he did.
When Stanley finally found himself back again, the cannon was booming. He gasped and backed away. Blood pooled around the dragon's head, staining a pair of hopelessly mangled eyeglasses. A lone dagger lay near the carnage. He wasn't carrying a weapon? How did he get it?! His heart hammered against his chest as he looked down at his own paws, stained just the same color. "No." He whispered, eyes flicking wildly side to side. How did this happen? He would never hurt anyone! A horrified scream burst from the young cat's throat. "NO!" He pivoted and darted back into the darkening forest, still screaming bloody murder.
- 3 tributes left in the arena -
[In the years that would follow this kill, the tale of the Kitten and Dragon would be passed on through generations of every district. A cautionary tale against being too cocky and letting down your guard around those smaller than you. It is also around this time that dragons were ridiculed by the other districts, despite the fact they were the largest species.]
A/N wrote:So I might have taken the part where Stanley doesn't know when he's doing something right and turned it into Multiple Personality Disorder...it happened, I have no clue.
But three tributes left !!! We made it !!! *happy screeches*
