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Post by The First Inhabitant on Dec 15, 2012 23:25:24 GMT -6
The Inhabitants waited ever so patiently for the unconscious nations to stir. They were almost identical in shape, voice and form, so it would be impossible for the nations to distinguish them apart. That wasn't of importance though. The least thing the countries could be worrying about right now was whether they were in the presence of the First or the Second Inhabitant. Fear was also present here, using the special occasion to take the same form of one of the Inhabitants in order to satisfy the third person in the little game. Eventually, they grew impatient and with a wave of a skeletal hand, the so called immortals were plucked from the depths of unconsciousness. At this time, the Inhabitant slowly waited a few moments for the confusion to set in. The Inhabitants had in fact gone out and knocked the nations out before bringing them to this room, which they nicknamed 'The Gallows' for this very occasion. It was a plain, broadly sized space with no windows, furniture, or any source of weaponry. No, the nations were dragged in as they had been previously, meaning the only thing they had for combat was what they had on hand. Unfortunate for some, but incredibly in favour for others. Though, weapons wouldn't be the deciding factor in these games. “Awaken,” the Inhabitant boomed as the nations were sluggish to stir. It probably didn't help that they were bound by twine and had ragged gags stuffed in their mouths. The Inhabitant could detect the struggle, the possible panic that ailed them before the Death Reaper was certain that it had the nation's attention. The darkness hid the Dead Man from sight, but it's hollow, icy presence was enough to guide the country's eyes and ears in its general direction. “Congratulations...” the Inhabitant began, its voice chilled with venom, malice and the slightest touch of childish amusement. “You have been chosen to partake in a little game. Now I beseech you to listen well because I will not repeat myself nor will I answer questions,” explained the levitating skeleton. It did not wait for any signs of response, because it was more than aware of the gag that stopped the nations from human speech. “It is noteworthy that you have survived this long, but it is likely that your luck will end here. Again, you will participate in a delightful matchup of ours. The rules are simple, little nation. You must either kill, or be killed.” The Inhabitant paused simply for dramatic effect. On the other side of the room, the other nation would be receiving the same speech from the other Reaper. “There is a catch though. You will not be facing a monster...” the skeleton said softly, its face pulling into a hidden sneer. With a snap of its bony fingers, the rope that held the nations in check disappeared, as did the gag. “...You will be fighting another nation. But there's a twist to your match. You will be having a three way fight to the death.”The words hung in the air as the Manor's Servant watched the individual move. It grinned wickedly, eager to continue pressing the grave news down the nation's throat. “There's more. Two people must die here. It is not negotiable. If you refuse to kill the others and they mirror your choice... well, look downward.”Below their feet, what seemed like solid floor was in fact a mere wire grating. Base the iron mesh were eyes. Yellow, red, white, but they all shared something in common. Hunger, thirst, desire. A low moaning sounded on cue from one of the vile creatures while another clawed anxiously at the grates that held it in check. The Inhabitant wasn't sure, but it swore it could feel a touch of anxiety from the 'immortal' that stood before it. The Inhabitant let the nation have a moment to process what it was implying before it finally continued, ignoring if it had actually said anything. “In case I was not clear, if none of you will fight, you will be torn apart by these beasts. Don't think you can survive them either; there are more savage creatures below than you could possibly count, even in your extended lifetime. So I will emphasize one last time, kill or be killed. Good luck, Mexico/Serbia/Monaco.” And with those parting words, both Inhabitants (and Fear, who was disguised as one) disappeared into the air as the light above flickered onto full power. Light blasted the darkness from every inch of the room, save for the cages below that grumbled and growled in response to the stimulus. Brown, stained wood-panels covered all four walls while the ceiling held what looked like a crystal chandelier that dangled a good 15 feet from the floor. Below, the creatures could be seen churned about as they stalked the shadows that the nations created. And now, let the games begin. ___________________________ (In case this was not clear, each nation received the exact same speech [there are two inhabitants]. Someone must die in this game; this is not an option. The posting order is Mexico ---> Serbia ---> Monaco. You have 2[/u] weeks to make the starting post or we will assume you have no intentions of fighting, hence you will be killed off. This is to ensure people will not feign inactivity in order to not complete this event. After the first post, we expect you to post at least every two weeks UNLESS your posting partner will agree to wait longer. Good luck)
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Survivor
Offline.
Why would I want to destroy something I helped build?
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Post by Mexico on Dec 16, 2012 19:40:13 GMT -6
“Awaken,” Mexico's head was pounding. It felt like she had been hit multiple times with something that resembled a large baseball bat. She was dizzy and disoriented, trying to recall the memories that had lead to this. Ana María knew she was waking up, but when had she fallen asleep. As she started to stand up slowly, she tried to make out the environment around her. What was this place? It was somewhere she had never been. There were no windows, or doors, no furniture to decorate it. It possessed an air of despair and emptiness. There was nothing within this room that screamed life. The room itself was dead. Mexico tried with all her might, to try and reason how she had ended up in a place where it seemed impossible to enter or escape. Was this one of the Manor's games? She certainly didn't hope so. The last one had left a serious wrench in her heart, her soul, her sanity and though she was holding together, after nearly falling apart, she didn't know what was in for her and wether or not it could that way.
"Congratulations..." There was a voice somewhere along this walls. Mexico could hear it only as a faint whisper. Her senses were slowly regaining their strength. She tried to make out the voice, to know who it belong to, but she had never something similar. It was mean, no, mean didn't even begin to describe it. It was taunting, mocking, a scarring voice inside the phone call you never want to get. It was full of malice and hope for vengeance. It was a dead voice that seek bloodshed and pain and suffering. It deprived you from your soul with a mere whisper. It frightened Mexico, because it couldn't mean anything good. She turned around hopelessly, trying to find the source, wondering if a face would help. But something inside her told her that she really didn't want to know.
“You have been chosen to partake in a little game. Now I beseech you to listen well because I will not repeat myself nor will I answer questions,” A game? What sort of game? What twisted little torture did they are prepared that they dared call a game? Ana María listened carefully, but her eyes still searched within the darkness for something she might've overlooked. A part of her thought about all the possible scenarios. It played all the different things that they might consider "fun", ways to end up dead, or insane, but mostly dead. Mexico knew and understood that this manor was designed to test them in the most cruel way. It was created to kill them. One by one or all together. “It is noteworthy that you have survived this long, but it is likely that your luck will end here. Again, you will participate in a delightful matchup of ours. The rules are simple, little nation. You must either kill, or be killed.”
“There is a catch though. You will not be facing a monster...You will be fighting another nation. But there's a twist to your match. You will be having a three way fight to the death.”
Kill, or be killed. Kill. Be killed. Kill... No. No! It couldn't be. No, she refused to- It wasn't supposed to happen this way. Mexico tried to protest but couldn't. Only then did she began to notice her inability to speak, the piece of cloth placed on her mouth like a prisoner. Like an animal. And as such, forced to compete to the dead. Forced to rip someone else's heart, watch the life shine out of their eyes, be the reason for their last breath. No, Mexico would refuse to kill another nation. It was not her place. It was not her who determined who lived and who didn't. She couldn't imagine tearing the life from another nation. How would that be? How could she live with herself when she hurt an innocent and what he or she represented? There would have to be a way around it...
“There's more. Two people must die here. It is not negotiable. If you refuse to kill the others and they mirror your choice... well, look downward.” Mexico did as she was told and her expression turned to stare past her feet. The girl was shocked to see wire grating. Even more so when she looked at what it held. Her eyes drew opened, surprised and scared at the monsters she saw. She gulped. The rules were simple then. One of them would have to attempt to kill the other and succeed or fail. If any of them refused, they all died. Damned is she did and damned is she didn't.
Ana María closed her eyes for one second and tried to take it all in. She displayed her options. It would be honorable to refuse to fight, or take her own life in order to save someone else. Honorable, but if Mexico was to be completely honest, it was also very stupid. She had not survived, not stared at Death in the eye, and cling to what was left of herself in order to let it all end at the mercy of someone else. It would have to be someone she truly cared for. Someone who she had vowed to give her life for. A lover, a best friend, a family member. If it wasn't the case, then she would not do it. Selfish, but true, and right now, she didn't care. It was smarter, it made more sense to have one survivor than none. If one of them could go on and save his or herself then they ought to do that. A life was worth that much, not just for them, but for the people and the country that they represented. They owed it to themselves to fight. She knew she did, Even at the expense of others.
“In case I was not clear, if none of you will fight, you will be torn apart by these beasts. Don't think you can survive them either; there are more savage creatures below than you could possibly count, even in your extended lifetime. So I will emphasize one last time, kill or be killed. Good luck, Mexico.”
Good luck. Such a pathetic thing to say. No, such a mean thing to say. Insensitive, cruel, sadistic, well, she could come up with a whole bunch of adjectives but nothing was going to help her. When the voice vanished, Mexico felt a huge lump in her throat. As though someone had twisted her inside into a million tiny little knots that made it difficult to breathe. It was real. It was piercing. It was real. And she would have to fight Serbia and Monaco. Serbia. Monaco. Ana María let the names ring inside of her head. Each time the name sounded harder, meaner, it was a shrieking chorus, voices singing endless anthems while everything bleeds and rusts and fills up with loneliness for a bitter feeling of end. Mexico could try and forget this names but eventually they came back. And the faces, the freaking faces that would make everything else come to a terrible end.
Mexico stood up. She brushed the dirt of her clothes and turned to look straight. It was inevitable. It was the reality within the dream, the dream within the reality. She waited. Ana María would have to fight the other two if she wanted to survive. And she did want to survive. So she kept waiting, trying to forget who the others where, so that this, up to some point, would be a little bit easier.
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Post by Deleted on Dec 17, 2012 17:36:18 GMT -6
“Awaken.”
Snezana slowly awoke to an aching sensation. She felt an inescapable sickening feeling. Her body gave her a coughing sensation, but she then realized she was gagged and bound. Her attempts to free herself seemed for naught as it only seemed to entangle her more and more, though she was much too stubborn to simply stop struggling so easily as this. This was not where she remembered being, nor was this where she intended to be. Hazy memories, and false realities manifested all too quickly for her to determine which had been true. Had the inhabitants found out about her secret escape plan? Moreover, and much more importantly, had they taken Kosovo? Just what had happened? Her soaring thoughts suddenly faltered, as her heart sank.
An imperceptible..cold...dank feeling was dwelling within Snezana. It wasn't the fear, nor was it her regret. Such things did not provide such scorching pains. It was the presence of a wickedness beyond her, or perhaps anyone's comprehensions. Unable to thwart the surmounting temptations, she gazed into the shadows. She couldn't see much of anything, however, she felt it too clearly. Within the trifle darkness, beyond the world she had once known.. And the world she had once loved, hated, and celebrated... There was a very sinister presence that was hiding within the darkness, and she felt herself being gazed upon by such an iniquitous, vile presence. Despite this, the aforementioned presence wasn't what was addressing her: It was something else that spoke in the empty voice.
It was unclear what atrocious acts had been committed whilst she was out cold, much less what had incapacitated her in the first place. The biggest worry, was that she'd lost track of Astrit, who she'd often boasted about keeping under her protection and guidance, before the war. The apathetically spoken voice, the cold feeling, and a sense of regret filled her amidst her confusion. Helplessness was the last thing Snezana ever wanted to feel, unfortunately she had long since become acquainted with such feelings in her lifetime. Such feelings during her time as a slave nation to the Ottoman Empire were the closest comparison to being bound and gagged by... Such a terrifying creature as the ones holding her captive. She couldn't help but wonder what sort of torture she'd likely endure.
“Congratulations...”
The voice seemed to change, if only marginally. A tint of crudeness and malevolence hidden within the tone. Such a sarcastic utterance as this didn't sit well with Snezana. Was this creature attempting to mentally dissect her? Such a thing would need much more effort than simple sarcasm. That such creatures would reduce themselves to the lower class amusement of man's speech didn't much bother her, as the situation at hand was much more sensitive to error. She didn't want to wear herself out trying to escape, but she did not want to allow herself to remain bound by their seemingly impregnable restraints, and be a vessel for their whimsical enjoyment. She was not going to give in to the specter's mind games.
“You have been chosen to partake in a little game. Now I beseech you to listen well because I will not repeat myself nor will I answer questions.”
Game? Her suspicions were confirmed. She'd been reduced to a ghost's play-thing. It was a revolting thought, to say the least. What kind of creature would take the prestige of a nation and reduce it to sick and twisted games? And answering questions? She couldn't even move, much less speak! Such rubbish, this situation had become. The more the creature spoke, the less scared, and more irritated she became.
She began to piece together that she likely would have to fight something, but she couldn't free herself enough to note whether of not she would be able to use her improvised weapon, her Wilson K-Factor tennis racquet. It was durable... But it wasn't necessary her trusty basket-hilted sword. Why would she bring her weapon, knowing that this was all supposed to have been for one meager party? None the less, she had a great skill with tennis, and the racquet itself was prided for it's durability and the strength of the thick strings that are said to withstand several hundred tennis matches. Considering it was unused prior to the party at the manor; she assumed that it would sustain itself against whatever she'd have to "play with".
“It is noteworthy that you have survived this long, but it is likely that your luck will end here. Again, you will participate in a delightful matchup of ours. The rules are simple, little nation. You must either kill, or be killed.”
As expected, her hypothesis was correct, to an extent. However, she had taken a mild offense to the ghoul repeating itself after explicitly stating that everything would only be stated once. The idea of killing was never pleasant, but she knew the feeling all too well. She also remembered the unforgettable excitement that came with it. An unfortunate side effect, blood lust was something that would often lay dormant in a nation, and often times one victory was never enough to satiate the chaos. Snezana had little chance to experience this for herself, and thankfully so. Reality would often warp in the eyes of a cold-blooded killer, and she was thankful for her sanity.
This did not stop her from knowing that this would be a difficult experience, none the less. Unaware of where she was, or if she was anywhere at all, there would be little time to acquaint herself to her surroundings. She tried to calm herself, but the situation made her reasonably upset, and the gagging didn't help.
“There is a catch though. You will not be facing a monster...”
These words upset Snezana. There was no telling what the depth of these words had meant, but it changed her entire strategy she was trying to work out. What sort of match could this be if she weren't going to fight one of those sick blood-thirsty fiends? Before she could piece the clues together, however, the inhabitant had removed her bindings with a loud, echoing snap of the fingers, which restored lighting by some extents as well.
Immediately, she coughed and rubbed her arms, which she'd mildly strained trying to escape. Rope burn, while potentially an inconvenient development, was the least of her many worries. 'If I'm not fighting a monster...? If not that... Than... That means...'
“...You will be fighting another nation.”
This came as no surprise by this point. The inhabitants of this manor were twisted enough to do something like this, after all. Assuming the worst is generally the best precaution to make in a hell like this one It didn't change the fact, even so. These were absolutely heart-rending words. The prospect of fighting or even killing another nation was never something to take lightly. While this had been done before a multitude of times, especially when she was occupied by the Ottoman Empire, killing for the amusement of others... It was a sickening thought and Snezana wanted no part of it.
But there's a twist to your match. You will be having a three way fight to the death.”
'Surely... There could have been a plethora of alternatives to fisticuffs and barbaristic slaughter? Having to kill not one but TWO others?And...what? Did he say your match?'
This specific word made Snezana grow suspicious. She pondered the wording, she pondered the meaning. There was more than one match? She wasn't simply being punished for plotting a daring escape through the manor? This didn't bode well, and she had a sickening feeling that somewhere, little Astrit was in trouble....Or worse. What if Astrit was one of her opponents?
“There's more. Two people must die here. It is not negotiable. If you refuse to kill the others and they mirror your choice... well, look downward.”
Snezana was hesitant. There was enough illumination to see around, but she didn't want to look. The thought of killing others had not yielded the sufficent time to completely sink in, nor did the thought of atonement for refusing such a ludicrous command. Instead, she reached for her tennis racquet, which was fortunately within her grasp. Gripping it tightly, she took a moment to be thankful for the framework and stability of what she had in her possession. It was by no means conventional, but neither was she.
Looking down finally, she gazed upon the eyes. The piercing eyes which looked as though they were hungry. Very hungry. Monsters were bad enough as is, but with such a fall, into the mouth of a beast suffering from malnutrition as a factor? Reconciliation was out of the question. Snezana prayed to herself that her opponent's weren't her family, her friends. She couldn't bring herself to value herself over Turkey, Russia, Kosovo, or even Norway or Liechtenstein. The racing thoughts of having to slaughter her comrades was too much for her to bare.
“In case I was not clear, if none of you will fight, you will be torn apart by these beasts. Don't think you can survive them either; there are more savage creatures below than you could possibly count, even in your extended lifetime. So I will emphasize one last time, kill or be killed. Good luck, Serbia.”
Those words were obviously sarcastic. Under any normal circumstance, she would have told the being off, but she couldn't even bring herself to look at it. Instead, she took a moment's respite to ignore the situation, and calm herself. If when she looked forward, she simply couldn't bare to see Astrit's afraid face staring back at her. She would refuse to fight herself, and instead go wild on whoever else was in this room, as to protect him. She'd all but convinced herself that she would be in a death match with the person she cared about protecting more than anyone else in the entire world when she reached the nerve to look up, and examine her foes.
A girl with darker skin, and another with blonde hair. It took her by surprise. Snezana wasn't used to pitting herself against females, but it wouldn't stop her. She didn't know these two, and bringing herself to accept that they were equal to her was out of the question. The longer she looked at them, the worse it'd eventually be on her conscience to kill them. Two reasonably attractive women long from their golden years, and each thinking of their own families, friends... It wasn't a subect Snezana could linger upon for too long, or it'd consume her.
She glanced around... The room was pretty barren, and the flooring was surprisingly stable, despite the fact that the savage creatures below wanted nothing more than to have a Serb's-kebab. From the ceiling of the wooden room was a chandelier made from extravagant crystals. It was very well crafted, and she wished that she had something that she could use to make it... Of use to her. But now was hardly the time for her to gaze upon the scenery. She was in a life or death situation that she had no intention of being forced into. Two would die, and she didn't plan on leaving behind her body, her nation, her pride. Not if she could have the slimmest chance of survival.
That's when it hit her. There wasn't simply one match. The specter had directly stated that this very match was going to be special. That meant that there was another match, and another match meant that there were other nation's pitting their lives on the line. She was together with Kosovo before this incident happened, surely. That meant that little Astrit had a very probable situation of being in a similar situation. That he could be hurt, or fatally wounded. This thought alone caused Snezana to weep silently to herself.
The one thing she assured herself, was that she would protect him. This was not going to be where it ended, far from it. The two had a rocky relationship, but family ties are almost impossible to sever, and Astrit knew that too. A furious rage was slowly building in Serbia, thinking that she could possibly lose him. She was steadily losing the restraint and unwinding eras of discipline within herself that kept her within good judgement and morality. Gripping her racquet so tight that her veins were exposed, Snezana slowly rose, horrendous pain of loss and thoughts of vengeance boiling to a head.
Her tears had vanished. Her sorrow had turn into disgust and resentment. The longer these two lived, the longer she would have to wait to rescue Kosovo. Tracing her hazy memories, she remembered how afraid he had been in the past, and how happy he had seemed to see her when they first met in the manor's library. She wasn't going to let him go back to being afraid, and she wasn't going to break her promise to protect him, no matter the cost. No matter the loss or price she would have to pay. Any signs of the merciful Serbia that she generally was were quickly erased.
"I'll kill ALL of you bastards... Once I'm done here... I'll..."
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Post by monaco on Dec 27, 2012 20:35:15 GMT -6
Where am I? was Ciel’s first thought. She realized she was waking up – but waking up from what? She didn’t remember falling asleep, which left her with only unpleasant options and hypotheses about being purposefully made unconscious by someone… or something. Everything ached. Her head was pounding, and eyelids refused to open, struggling to even blink. It felt as if they were weighed down heavily, and she couldn’t move, as if she was paralyzed and had no control over her body.
She tested her mobility by attempting to lift her arms. She quickly discovered, however, that she was bound by rough rope that began to rub painfully against her skin as she began to try and move. There was also an unwelcome dirtied rag present in her mouth, which only served to frustrate the Monegasque more.
”Awaken.”
The cold command appeared out of nowhere, and Ciel concentrated with all of her ability to see exactly what was in front of her. Her glasses were sliding down the bridge of her nose, and she was unable to fix them like she normally would. She could make out something with a white face – a skull, perhaps? – clothed in a black cloak, and it reminded her very much of the supposed stereotypical Grim Reaper every Nation has tales about.
“Congratulations...” Ciel shivered. Its voice was bone-chilling to the core, a perfect mix of everything cruelly beautiful that could possibly exist.“You have been chosen to partake in a little game.” A game? Ciel had had enough games. As far as she was concerned, she never wanted to be a pawn in a game ever again. But the seemingly innocent sentence only led to endless questions in the Nation’s mind: Were all of the nations involved? But the thing had said ‘chosen’, so perhaps it was only a percentage? And of course, what was the game and what was its requirements? If she was lucky, she would most likely receive knowledge of the answer to only one of those questions. “Now I beseech you to listen well because I will not repeat myself nor will I answer questions.”
It’s not exactly like I can reply, was the sarcastic remark that echoed in her head. That was another thing. Ciel had become much more snarky and ‘rough around the edges’ than she ever would have been due to the Manor and its little games.
“It is noteworthy that you have survived this long, but it is likely that your luck will end here. Again, you will participate in a delightful matchup of ours. The rules are simple, little nation. You must either kill, or be killed.” A matchup? That did not fare well to Ciel’s ears. “There is a catch though.” As expected. “You will not be facing a monster...” Ciel was sure the blood drained from her face. If it was not a monster, then that only left one other thing – or rather, person to fight. A snap was audible, and all of a sudden the bindings constricting Ciel’s body disappeared, as did the gag. She immediately pushed her glasses up to their rightful place to examine the monster in front of her; it most definitely reminded her of the Grim Reaper. The only thing it was missing was the trademark scythe. After, she checked to make sure her revolver which she always carried on her person was still there – it still was. She exhaled in relief, but quickly focused her attention on the thing again. “...You will be fighting another nation.”
She would have squeezed her eyes shut if the thing wasn’t standing in front of her, planning God knows what. She had been right. And for once, Ciel had wished she hadn’t been.
“But there's a twist to your match.” What? Wasn’t making her fight another nation until one killed the other enough? But by listening to the thing’s words, Ciel was able to deduce that her match was a special case. It had said “a twist to your match”. She could only hope she was right, and no one else would be in the dilemma she was trapped in. “You will be having a three way fight to the death.”
There was a pause. Ciel could feel the dread building up inside her. Two other people. She would have to kill two other Nations. She felt sick. The bile was beginning to rise up in her throat. No matter how intelligent she may be, Ciel was averse to violence and had always depended on other people to protect her. Now, she would need have to defend herself. “There's more.” Even more? “Two people must die here. It is not negotiable. If you refuse to kill the others and they mirror your choice... well, look downward.”
She did as she was told. She didn’t have any other choice. But she was listening to everything the thing said as to find a loophole, a strategy, something to save her and if she possibly could, the others from dying. Nations weren’t supposed to be able to die. But something was off about this Manor; Ciel could feel that they were no more than regular humans here.
Beneath her, it seemed to be a solid floor. Glowing various colors. Ciel looked more closely and almost panicked when she realized exactly why it was glowing.
It was eyes of a wide range and variety of colors. They were filled with hunger, lust for blood and a intent to kill. She forced herself to steady her breathing and to calm down. Panicking wasn’t going to help her in any way.
She peered closely at the floor – it was a grated. Thin wires held together made the grating and restricted the beasts from being unleashed and killing her right there.
She swallowed, nervously.
“In case I was not clear,” Ciel redirected her attention back to the thing, “if none of you will fight, you will be torn apart by these beasts. Don't think you can survive them either; there are more savage creatures below than you could possibly count, even in your extended lifetime. So I will emphasize one last time, kill or be killed. Good luck, Monaco.”
The thing disappeared, vanishing from sight after one blink of the eye, and Ciel was alone with the monsters. She stood up, still looking at the ground, warily. She still didn’t quite trust that the ‘floor’ would hold. Ciel felt a variety of things at that moment – scared, the most prominent one, and analyzing. She gave the well-lit room a onceover. She glanced up at the ceiling. A crystal chandelier hung suspended approximately fifteen feet in the air. Ciel took a mental note not to forget about it – it would probably be crucial to her survival.
The rest of the room was bare; the walls were wooden and looked relatively thick. And so, Ciel examined the last two important things in the room: her opponents.
The first had long brown hair and was clearly Latina; Ciel recognized her as Mexico. She was covered in dirt, but she stood tall. She hadn’t interacted with the other Nation very much, but she knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Ciel could tell she was determined to win – no matter what it took.
She let her gaze trail to the last Nation – surprisingly, another female, but with white, silvery hair. Only a few Nations had silver hair and were female; Ciel was easily able to discern her as Serbia. Again, she didn’t know very much about her, but she knew this was going to be difficult.
And there was one last problem: Ciel needed to find the resolve to kill. She didn’t want to be a part of this, she didn’t want to die, but she didn’t want to kill. She knew the other two Nations had family and friends they loved, just like she did. They all had their reasons to survive – but the question was, who would be the last one standing?
"I'll kill ALL of you bastards... Once I'm done here... I'll..."
Ciel needed to come up with a strategy. Fast.
The first thing that came into her mind was to somehow throw her opponents off-guard. Perhaps pretend she was weaponless. It was perhaps a dirty trick, but it was killed or be killed – life or death.
The second was to pit Mexico and Serbia against each other first, and take advantage of the winner. If she could somehow convince the two she was harmless, and that she was far too weak to do anything, she might stand a chance.
The third was suicide. But Ciel did not want to die. Of course, nobody did. But with death, Ciel used to have nightmares about it. She was such a small country…
But she digressed. And Ciel couldn’t afford to be distracted. She wanted to live.
The probability of Ciel being the winner in this little game was extremely low. It would take a large amount of effort on her part, and an actual resolve to kill.
But maybe it wasn't a resolve to kill that she needed -- maybe it was a resolve to live that was necessary.
And so, Ciel decided she would try her best to survive this three way match to the death.
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Survivor
Offline.
Why would I want to destroy something I helped build?
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Post by Mexico on Dec 28, 2012 23:30:29 GMT -6
Mexico had never killed a nation before. It was something she never had to do. The feeling of guilt was already rushing through her veins like a poisonous dream. So this is how it feels to be alone in the darkness. Scared. Abandoned. Underneath the surface. The voices faintly scowling from the distance. Is it still a war if one side has no possibility of winning? Is it still a victory if it cheats Death? Sometimes, it seemed better to be dead. When you’re dead you can’t feel. You can’t hear the whispers; watch the nightmare consume you, tearing you away from your soul. When you’re dead you can’t make the wrong choice and watch someone pay the price of your actions. You’re immune to the bitter plot twist that’s called Life.
It’d be the perfect ending. But ending it does not mean it’s over. Sometimes we run/hide/lie because it’s easier than admitting. Sometimes we run/hide/lie because we want people to follow. Sometimes we can’t tell the difference. Ana María was standing there, a thousand miles away from her world, in a mess she hadn’t wished for herself. It was a room that contained everything that was wrong with the world. It was a room that demanded bloodshed at the expense of others. All the cruelties that ever existed where wrapped within the walls. Mexico knew they where there. She could feel the air of anguish and despair all the way into her bones. She wanted them out, but they banged hardly against her skin in a type of pain she couldn’t describe.
She was lost.
Mexico finally understood what losing meant. Losing meant that you lose that feeling. The feeling of being able to move forward despite adversity. Hope starts to drift away from a life, leaving a burning scar in which it once laid. There are no hurting words, just a heart-breaking silence. Losing meant memories that become meaningless. It’d be easier to scream, get mad and yell. It’d be easier to pretend it didn’t hurt, but that was a lie. The stranger in front of you becomes yourself. Ignorance reigns mutually. Losing means that you cease to care. Ana María felt like a failure at the one thing she had given it her hardest.
Survival.
She couldn’t survive here. No one could. It was the biggest trick the Manor held. It made them believe they had a chance, for this was no more than a big slap on the face. It was a joke. The best trick that had fooled them all. For the ones that survived would live to die in another game. They couldn’t get out. Ana María realized that. If there were a way they would’ve found it by now. If there were a weakness spot, she would’ve reached it. The Manor had no heart, both figuratively and literally, and she couldn’t hurt it. She couldn’t kill it. As much as she wanted to inflict the worst kind of pain on the thing that had deprived her from her home, she couldn’t. There was no way. And that frustrated her. That made her hands turn into bloody knuckles as her nails dug into her skin.
Mexico took a step forward, so that the light coming from the crystal chandelier could light up her face. For the first time in years, the girl was indifferent. There were no emotions present, nothing that could be interpreted as to what was going on inside of her. She held out her hand so that it was visible above everything else. Her chocolate eyes stared firmly at it, as though she could see far beneath the flesh. Her right hand reached slowly to the side of her dress where a mere belt held her weapon in place. Her fingers held on to the handle. Her machete was from 1857. It was made by hand, with a wood handle and a hand forged blade that measured exactly 45 centimeters. Rust marks were visible and it had a slight distal taper. Her initials A. M. had been engraved on the lowest part of the blade. It had not been sharpened, for who would bring a sharpened weapon to a costume party?
This was the same blade she used when she did the Danza de los Machetes (Dance of the Machetes) in which she juggled, blind-folded, several machetes and pitched them at increasing speeds between one another in synchronicity. It was quite an entertaining dance, not recommended for the faint of heart. But now, now she was forced to use the same weapon to kill another human being. To kill another nation. If she stabbed someone with it and drain a life, Ana María will never be able to see her beloved artifact the same way. It would collect dust in some corner of her basement along with the other countless stuff she had chosen to forget.
She did not wish to forget.
The girl’s fingers pressed firmly against the handle, until she finally decided to pull it out. The dimension of such a weapon would’ve startled anyone who had a limited interaction with it. She held it a her eye sight and for a moment it looked as though she was going to attack, but as the seconds went by, the probability of such began to decrease. Instead, Mexico slashed her left palm. It was such a quick movement that she didn’t feel it. The blood began to pour out almost immediately. She watched the red color condense within her skin, until she tilted her hand to the side and watched it fall. Her blood fell to the creatures that fought themselves furiously for a taste of such magnificent essence. Mexico didn’t flinch as they savored her. Instead, she turned her attention forward.
Ana María closed her palm and put away her weapon. “It is inevitable.”[/color] She stated, in a voice that seemed far off in another world. “We will not survive these beasts. A single drop of blood drives them crazy.”[/color] She sighed. Utter terror filled her body and it gave her goose bumps. The only way out of here was alive. She hoped the others knew that. Mexico closed her eyes. For a long, vile minute she did not say anything. Credit was due where words were spoken, and there was a need for words. She wanted to say something comforting for a change. She desperately wanted this to be better, to plant the idea that there was something better to look forward to. But once again, she failed. She could not, would not lie. Not now. Not when each and every single one of the three girls here needed a small piece of the truth. A little piece of something to make theirs.
“You understand this, don’t you?”[/color] Mexico stated as she opened her eyes again. This time, they reflected the sadness they held within; a sadness in the loss of hope. “Two must die so one can live. You see it, don’t you? You understand. Two. Must. Die.”[/color] Mexico made the words sound heavier so that she could grasp them. She needed them spoken out loud so that it wouldn’t just be in her head. She needed to understand that this was real, and it wasn’t just a nightmare of something happening inside of her mind. A hallucination. No. A reality. “One must kill the others. There’s no way around this. If we refuse we all die. I want you two to know, that it was never in my intention to want to kill you. I do not want to kill you.”[/color]
But I will if it comes to that. She thought.
Mexico had never killed another nation before. She wondered how España had done it. What would he say if he were to see her? As much as she didn’t like to admit, that boy with brown hair and green eyes, still meant a lot to her. He was, after all, the one who raised her. And even if he was stern towards her, even if he had killed Aztec, he was still like her hermano mayor. An older brother. And in this moment all she wanted was to run towards him with tears in her eyes and hug him. She wanted comfort. She wanted to know that everything was going to be okay. Mexico needed unconditional love. Parental love. An España was as close as she could get.
Mexico had never killed another nation before. But she had killed innocents. Her own country had stole lives in order to flourish as it did. Endless humans had died to for her, for their nation, so that it wouldn’t surrender when things got tough. Mexico owed it to them to fight as well. Even when her own life was on the line. Even when she could die. The girl feared what could to her people once she was gone. Would they perish? Would the entire population fall to despair? What happened when the Great One lost? She had seen it before. When the white skins had conquered her land. Her people would disappear as a whole and become part of something else. Something that was not hers.
This was a nation’s greatest fear. But it was inevitable. If she died it would happen. She knew that. She understood that. And now, she would fight as to not let it happen. But if she did, and she failed. Well, all that’s left to do is say I’m sorry.
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Post by Deleted on Dec 29, 2012 2:55:20 GMT -6
"I'll kill ALL of you bastards... Once I'm done here... I'll..."
So suddenly as she had decided she would massacre these innocent girls, these girls she hadn't even been able to meet honorably, and look in the eyes, did an eerie sentiment force her to succumb to her instinct. She froze mid-sentence, and could not budge from the surmounting feeling, the sensibility that she was known for.
The inability for a nation to possess solicitude was the very thing that Serbia abhorred most in this world. From her time spent under the Ottoman Empire, to the travesties that had happened so suddenly in the past. Defending Astrit, during the battle of Kosovo. She exhausted all of her resources to defend him, but it would have proved all for naught, for the mighty Ottoman Empire had held his ground, even though she fought as well as possible. They had become slaves, students, and expendable all at once. For many long and dreadful years, she had been forced to take orders from another, and no matter how much she would try and repress such hellish memories, they haunted her. Were the long-lost souls of the departed now hoping for this tragedy to turn into their sick and twisted comedy?
Even later, still, when the world fell into darkness, and the nations had faced a World War by her hands, a simple dispute with Austria having ascended rapidly into a conflict that would shape the course of history. Her ability was without question exceptionable when she was called upon to fight. However, this very conflict created a wound that still felt fresh to her. Her strength had never fully recovered from this conflict. It was not something that was easily noticed, at least not for awhile. A short-lived peace was once again interrupted by evil. An evil that well more than matched the creatures within this inescapable hell, this inmeasurable pandemonium.
Losing wars was one thing... Losing a part of herself... A part of herself that she risked her life for was another. Astrit's seeking of independence; this was something that uprooted years of suppressed emotions, and was what she thought to be an unparalleled anguish. His unrelenting effort and his many allies proved too much for her to repel. This was a mortifying moment in her history, for the had finally seen that she had much more to learn. A silent vow, sewn together with flowing tears. She would not allow him to face dangers anymore. She would patiently await his return, and welcome him back in a merciful, sympathetic gesture. Just as her first deceleration of independence from Ottoman Turkey was premature, so would be this decision to revoke his Serbian pride, and to seek his own fate.
These memories, this ancient history... None of it mattered in this place. Everyone was equal here, and everyone wanted to leave. She had promised herself many times in her youth that she would never under any circumstance lower herself to such levels of apathy and narcissism as to kill for one's selfish desires and pursuits, but the situation at hand was testing her youthful hopes and desires of fairness in a world of lies and delusions. She wanted to save Astrit more than anything else, but the boy was likely in his own perilous "game" as the sickening inhabitants had referred to it. Her promise to always protect him was already broken. She had nothing more to lose.
Snezana was shaking. This was actually happening. There were two others who were staring her down, two others which wanted nothing more than to simply leave without incident. Unfortunately, the mesh flooring that while stable, could not likely be trusted, held below creatures starving with deprivation. Their noises were enough to send chills down her spine alone, disregarding their sheer number and that this was her alternative. A slow and painful death, being mutilated and devoured by such barbarous fiends. They'd not only make her a meal, but their clammy, viscous jaws would very likely be the most unpleasant sensation that she could ever perceive. This was no alternative, this was merely dry humor at its finest.
She peered up once more, her eyes glowing mildly. An instantaneous gander into the eyes of her opponents would not suffice. She would need to see her enemy, to use what she knew against them. She knew much, many reclusive hours spent researching, and meditation, as a reflection upon her thoughts and feelings towards her scientific treks. Learning to add thought and rebuttal to theories that seemed to be replaced ever so often gave her an advantage to blindly following any belief, or using any outdated tactics. To know your opponent is to know your destiny.
The first girl she had noticed was the darker-skinned girl. She was an obviously latina nation. While her knowledge of said nations was less than that of those around her, she could tell that it was most likely Mexico, her resemblance to the ancients that inhabited those noble lands was impeccable. She was very much beautiful, albeit dirty. Her golden-brown hair was smooth and well cared for, something that brought out a mild sense of nostalgia into Snezana. She had holstered to herself what appeared to be a larger knife, of some kind. From the distance, she was worried it would have been a bowie knife, or a machete. Those things were deadly, and could pierce her a vulture seeking its fallen prey. Mexico was a reasonably difficult place to live, so naturally she would be anything but incompetent. She would prove to be worthy foe, one that would not fall easily. She had her family, and she had her values.
'How could I deprive her of her own salvation, for the sake of a country who stands at the edge constantly, always close to conflict... This girl, who only ever defended her own land without too much international quarrel...' [/i] Hesitating, Snezana averted her eyes from the young maiden. There was another that she would have to face in lethal combat. It only took her one glance to see the French in her, at very least a strong, natural beauty that's associated with him. A thorough visual examination confirmed that she was undoubtedly his kin. It took longer to identify her, but Serbia was convinced that it must be Monaco. She was an elegant optimist that most often avoided conflict. In normal circumstance, she would easily defeat her in battle. However, with her powers as a nation being revoked, replaced with a false sense of humanity, the entire equation was different. This was not a sign that would bode well. This young tenacious lady would likely prove to be even more dangerous than Mexico, if not just because nobody would have any idea what to expect from her. Her eyes resembled Astrit's own. She did not appear to have had ever slain another nation, much less many people. Snezana would not discount this mysterious, tiny girl. 'They're both so young... And they're both so beautiful.'[/i] Against her better judgement, Serbia examined her weapon closer. It was very pricey, and very exceptionable... For playing tennis. It was no knife, it could not pierce the skin so easily at all. As she doubted her situation, Snezana's grip gradually tightened. Her thoughts were focused upon the possibility of the knife possibly going right through the strings and into her face, arms, or torso. An unpleasant thought, quickly replaced by flashes of Kosovo trembling, crawling to her for support, begging for assistance. She almost hear his afraid voice clearly, echoing inside of her head, throughout this maddening room. "I don't want to feel this cold embrace... I don't want to suffer anymore, Snezana...nobody wants to. I don't like this awful feeling... I'm fed up with being weak... Don't leave alone me in this darkness... Why did you let them get me after you promised to keep me safe..." Snezana closed her eyes, embracing a somber silence. The feeling of melancholy reinforced with visual imagery of his potential demise. Her emotions getting the better of her, tears began flowing, much like raindrops upon the serene lilies in her homeland. 'Astrit... After this is all over... Maybe I prepare some Gibanica* with you, teach you how to make it yourself... No... We'll absolutely do it! I won't be stopped... And this is your chance to prove your deceleration of independence held some merit... I'll... Remember... What Turkey taught me...'Indeed, she remembered what would be one of the more important lessons that Turkey ever taught her, while she was young and foolish. Turkey had taught her that combat is much more a mental concept, rather than physical. If she held any laments, she would be defeated. If she cringed at the thought of combat, she would be defeated. If she hesitated in the heart of a fight, she would be defeated. Moreover, if she could clear her mind of any distractions, only then would she reach her fullest potential. She couldn't cry, nor could she hold feelings of remorse. Focus. Focus. As Snezana concentrated all of her energy into clearing her mind of anything that could be seen as a hindrance, when she heard something that sounded like a blade, probably Mexico's, being unsheathed. This was going to happen, and soon. Unaware exactly of how one clear's her mind that was so used to running amok all over the place, clustering with wishes, hopes, and seemingly random thoughts, Serbia decided that it must have been a metaphor. Opening her eyes, hesitation having vanished, Snezana stared down her Mexican adversary, free of worries or regrets about what would soon take place. So suddenly and unexpectedly, she lowered her weapon into it's sheath. “It is inevitable.”[/color] Snezana squinted her eyes, trying intently to understand what the girl was going on about. Was she going to state the obvious severity of the situation? Or was she throwing in the towel? Either way, she discounted this statement as an unexpected, minor development. Her seemingly distant voice wasn't helping her in getting her point into the light, much less across it. “We will not survive these beasts. A single drop of blood drives them crazy.”[/color] Mexico was trembling and sighing with this added note. She had not yet been able to accept that they were simply puppets in a game. It was understandable, but it was a weakness. She showed her terror in its truest form. They all very well had expected that this would be a much different situation, being pitted against some method of beast that, while much more dangerous than any of them, would make for a more humane kill. This was the precipice of tension. Everyone had to be afraid, and everyone had to have shame in the idea of killing for another's sport alone. There was no respite, no light at the end of this tunnel. Victory was merely delaying the inevitable. The beasts were not the problem, the problem was the matter at hand yielding no rewards, no hope for anything, except hiding out in that damned manor. Yes, Serbia had a plan for escape, but it was a long shot at best. There was a hope in escape, in a revival of the days long forgotten that kept her going. This was not a thought to relinquish, but to savor. This was her motivation. The possibility of normalcy was more than enough for her to wish to save Kosovo, to help poor Astrit reach his bed and to find his well deserved rest. She had planned to free each and everyone who was enticed into going to that forsaken party, just as she had. There would be at very least, two less that she could free. At least, free from the manor physically. The other two would be free in a spiritual manner. Was it a good alternative? Snezana could only hope that they would understand, that she was no beast in a cage any longer. “You understand this, don’t you?”[/color] It was difficult to try and understand a situation that was filled with such anguish and solemn tears. Serbia looked over, noticing that Monaco had been just standing there, trying to pull herself together and likely form her own course of action. Without a word, but with a very likely plethora of thoughts and her own concerns, all understandable and valid, most likely. Serbia stared back towards Mexico, noting a change in her. She seemed crushed, as if it finally clicked inside of her that this situation would require everything they had. It would be disrespectful to hold back, as they all had loved ones and even their own rivals that would be heart broken by their passing. “Two must die so one can live. You see it, don’t you? You understand. Two. Must. Die.”[/color] Hearing it spoken was more difficult than one would think. Within the safety of just your own mind, it can be filtered and sorted as necessity. Hearing the panicking voices of another with the same concerns was a larger, much more difficult wall to ascend over. She couldn't listen to this much longer, her humanity was beginning to overshadow her pride and restraint. “One must kill the others. There’s no way around this. If we refuse we all die. I want you two to know, that it was never in my intention to want to kill you. I do not want to kill you.”[/color] That was it. She exposed her hesitation. Even if momentary, she exposed her weakness, and it was nigh time to fight. Shuffling over to the left, away from the center chandelier, Snezana eyed both of her opponents, tightening the grip upon her tennis racquet noticeably. Her focus was undaunting, and her resolve was clear. As Mexico had just put it, one would have to kill the others in her own way. Serbia herself planned upon a victory, but a defeat was not the worst possible alternative They were simply being controlled by the higher-ups in this hell. If they wanted a show, she would give it to them. With a final peek towards each of her opponents, and safely out of range of the chandelier's path, never knowing what could happen in the art of combat being a large plus, Snezana tightened her guard. Yes, they were helpless to change their situation, lest they become food for the most vile creatures beneath them. However, Snezana knew something that most didn't... Even the most helpless slave, when treated like a dog, had their own fangs to bare. "If you want to give up, don't. It's insulting to me, to you, and to your loved ones. Gvožđe se kuje dok je vruće."**[/b][/center] * Gibanica**Gvožđe se kuje dok je vruće = Iron is worked when it's still ablaze. Meaning, strike when the opportunity is right, even if it's not safe. For clarification's sake, Kosovo's spoken lines are thoughts. They didn't actually happen, except in Serbia's mind. Hope this isn't too long, and thanks for making this something to look forward to!
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Post by monaco on Jan 14, 2013 20:15:40 GMT -6
Ciel’s mind was stirring rapidly, more so than it has ever done before. Were Mexico and Serbia having their own internal conflicts? Were they finding their resolves to kill? Or had they already possessed it from the very start?
For the most part, both of their expressions were unreadable. It was surprising, and at the same time, understandable. Clearly, Mexico and Serbia were not like the other nations Ciel conversed with on a daily basis. And while she possessed a large amount of knowledge concerning these types of things, this was different.
It was life or death. Which changed everything.
If her adversaries were serious as her – or possibly even more so about surviving, then to put it bluntly, Ciel was screwed.
Her mind began to scramble once again, hurriedly trying to push itself for a quick and easy solution—
“It is inevitable.” Ciel was torn out of her crazed thoughts, and exhaled deeply. She needed to calm down. There was no way possible she’d ever be able to produce a strategy to grant her the gift of continuing to live. She glanced over to Mexico, her eyes widening in surprise when she realized the Latina was no longer holding her intimidating machete. It had been sheathed, and the girl’s own eyes were closed. Ciel admired her courage to lower her guard to her enemies, and thought about how easily she could drive a bullet through her chest… But she was not so dishonorable. …Or was she? She inwardly panicked for a moment; Ciel herself didn’t know. “We will not survive these beasts. A single drop of blood drives them crazy.”
Ciel glanced down at the endless pairs of glowing eyes, and involuntarily shivered as guttural growls emanated from beneath her feet. To cover the motion up, she smoothly pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, retaining her composure.
“You understand this, don’t you?” Mexico’s eyes opened. Beneath the eyelids were two brown pools of sorrow; pools that had already surrendered hope to the gleaming eyes below.
“Two must die so one can live. You see it, don’t you? You understand. Two. Must. Die.” Ciel understood this too well. She barely fought, let alone defended herself. She had nearly always been dependent on Francis, and was now regretting it.
“One must kill the others. There’s no way around this. If we refuse we all die. I want you two to know, that it was never in my intention to want to kill you. I do not want to kill you.”
Ciel should feel grateful to Mexico for these words. She knew she should. But she didn’t.
Instead, she only felt a growing animosity welling up inside of her, and Ciel took a moment to glance at the last nation in the room. It seemed like Serbia’s hackles rose like a predator’s would when a juicy piece of prey exposed just the slightest moment of weakness. Ciel feared for what could happen next; clearly, Serbia was intent on getting out alive. The white haired girl visibly gripped her weapon, what looked like a tennis racket, and began to shift gingerly out of the way of the chandelier. Her eyes flicked up to the suspended light, and made a mental note to remember it. She would most likely require it later, if she wanted to even have the slightest chance of surviving.
"I do not want to kill you.”
The words resounded in Ciel’s mind, and she narrowed her eyes. Although Mexico was much more sincere about not wanting to partake in this death match, she still seemed willing to attempt and win.
She smiled, and normally she would close her eyes for a moment of peace, but didn’t dare at this time. Instead, she nodded her head in one, curt movement, signaling her understanding.
"If you want to give up, don't.” Serbia’s voice rang out clearly, loud and strong. Ciel redirected her attention back to her. It's insulting to me, to you, and to your loved ones. Gvožđe se kuje dok je vruće.”
And even though Ciel couldn’t say she quite concurred with Serbia’s words, there was truth to them. As Mexico said before, reminding them of the thing’s words, two must die. Ciel was not going to be killed without a fight; she would be disrespecting all of Francis’s former acts to shield her from all possible danger. She owed him her life.
Even if he didn’t know it, Ciel decided she was going to make certain his attempts weren’t futile. She would fight with all of her strength, and if she truly did die, have died fighting for her life. She would be honorable until the end.
But perhaps she was getting ahead of herself. Ciel had been prepared to kill with whatever was accessible to her, and utilize anything that would aid her in her vow to live.
However, as each moment that felt like a lifetime passed, Ciel began to rethink her former thoughts. The prospect of death was refusing to leave her mind, and continued to cloud it. Terrible as it was, she was beginning to adjust to the empty feeling and starting to even embrace it. She might as well accept the fact she was going to die. After all, Mexico clearly still had some intent to live although her machete was sheathed, and Serbia possessed a fire burning in her eyes that Ciel knew she would be scarred by, even while refraining from touching the rising flames.
Her own eyes were filled with something like serenity as she began to accept the emptiness, and took to even cherishing it. Her heart felt like a dead weight in her chest, meaning nearly nothing to Ciel.
She was so afraid before, but now she felt at peace.
Of course, even though she was now enveloped in a void of tranquility, she certainly wasn’t about to give up. Oh no.
”Yes,” She said, a small smile curving upwards upon her face, ”Let us enjoy this, and celebrate the our victor in advance, whoever it may be.” She uncrossed her arms, and respectfully nodded to both of them, one directed towards Mexico, and the other to Serbia.
Ciel would make sure that this would be a fight to the death the victor would never forget.
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Post by Mexico on Jan 20, 2013 16:10:25 GMT -6
Draw your sword in defense. Stare into the opponents' eyes. The color of their irises ringing in faded shades of blue, of green, of brown, of red. Look deep within their souls… What do you see? It is a battle that can't be won. It is a heartless game clinging at their pride.
In this picture it is who you are. Coats and coats of paint that has worn off over the years. Maybe after a while it will all come off. It is a battle that can't be won. So don't be scared. Let them know what is inside the cage. Have them take a peek, just one, after their final judgment, after they can't change their mind. And then see how it all comes crumbling down before you.
Pieces and pieces of scattered dreams. Pieces and pieces of mislead adventures. Pieces and pieces of heart breaking stories. Pieces and pieces of past laughs. Pieces and pieces of everything said and done.
Just pieces.
Pieces and pieces.
They start to rise before you, in the deep coldness. They form weird pictures. They make no sense. And in a flash they are the pieces of what was once yourself. How does it feel to stare at an old memory of who you where? How does it feel to stare at yourself made of broken glass? Hand in hand. Fingers almost touching. And when they do, they brake. Millions of pieces, impossible to see them all, splash around creating a rainbow of light.
It hurts to try to put them together. It hurts as they pierce into the skin because the one left behind is as fragile as porcelain glass. The one left behind has to pick up the pieces. Again. There is no justice in being broken. There is no justice in allowing them to do so. But it's done. The crystal is finally patched together with nothing more than sweat and tiny drops of blood. You stare at your hands; they are aging by the minute. A body covered in scars, and that's all they see.
Do you believe it? How can you believe it? How can you believe the lies? How can you believe it is the right choice? But you don't. Problem. Problem. Problem. You draw your sword and know that it is not right. How can you be allowed to determine who lives and who dies? Who are you to pronounce dead and acclaim it? The feelings are coming back again. It's getting harder to breathe. You want them to feel it. You want them to see what's deep within. To see the meaning of the scars. It is hard to look. To read within the lines that don't belong to you. It is hard to see how much they don't need it. And then it's painful. Your heart skips a beat. Then two, and three, and four… until it stops beating.
"If you want to give up, don't. It's insulting to me, to you, and to your loved ones."
"Gvožđe se kuje dok je vruće."[/b]
"Yes,"
"Let us enjoy this, and celebrate the our victor in advance, whoever it may be."
They should all shut up. They should all just keep silent. Just once. She needed to think. Just. Shut. Up. Mexico had never understood the meaning of silence. Not until now. Now that every single word pierced her skin like razor wire. They were all creatures. Creatures did not speak. They did not use words to communicate. Words were only words. She wanted something else. Her eyes stared forward but they didn't see anything. Nothing appeared. Nothing worth saving.
Mexico had never killed a nation before, yet she had seen it done. It was a long story. Longer than what she had thought it to be. In a place that now only existed in her dreams. The place of her dreams had started to fade. Had it once actually existed? Or had it been created in her mind? Was it a game? She could almost see it there before her. The memory so real she could lean in and touch it. What would he say if he were really here? If he stood in front of her, proud and determined, would he tilt his head in disapproval? She could imagine his words. They were a whisper trapped in the deepest and most secret reaches of her heart. They weren't his last words, but they were his words.
Her name was not Mexico. It was not New Spain, or Nueva España, either. It had never been what it always was. Her name had been Mēxihcah. That's how he called her. That's how she was known to her people. She was a small child but he showed her off proudly.
You do not draw back in fear. You stand tall, you look them straight in the eye and you wait. It is not by brutal force that you conquer the weak. It is by patience, by looking and understanding. There is the weak and there is the strong. As long as each side has that well defined, the labels are bound to stay the same. If you're the first one to attack, you'll have the advantage, but you need to know how to attack. Listen to the heartbeat. Sense the fear. Use it and exploit it. Then you attack.
He was great. A great warrior. Very proud, brutal, militaristic, and his ego got the best of him. He went off to war and brought back prisoners. He placed them on the altar and ripped their hearts out. Sacrifice after sacrifice, he poured the blood of his victims to please the gods. He blindly obeyed, even when he couldn't see it. Ah, but he could, couldn't he? It was all around him. The sun, the moon, the rain. Fertility, death, war. It was things he couldn't explain, and he didn't dwell on it.
If only he had focused on creating alliances instead of fear. If he hadn't been so involved in destroying the empires around, in expanding, conquering… She sighed. Mexico couldn't remember much. The civilization that reigned was a blur and she hated that she had forgotten the beauty that her mind still wanted to reproduce. She did remember, however, how it all ended. It was a massacre; there was no other word for it. People had foolishly believed that those pale skins were the gods. They had treated them with respect, gave them gold and every kind of treasure imaginable. They bowed to them, cherished them in a sort of parental love, immediately distinguishable from the rest.
And then,
Then came the betrayal.
The Triple Alliance broke. Swords sunk deep into chests. Horses chased the selected victims. People screamed in agony for what they once cherished was now the greatest enemy of all.
Traitor.
Mexico could still see the people running. Could hear their quiet hopes and silent screams. She couldn't remember moving or running or doing anything other than standing still. Maybe she had hidden in some place. Maybe she had watched from the sidelines. Maybe she had been the spectator. At times she wondered why she had never done something. But what was there to do? She was small, she was young and she was defenseless. The pale skins would have driven a knife through her heart without hesitation.
Just like she was about to do now.
Mexico had never believed in karma. It possessed no validity in her religion or beliefs. But she was well aware that what we plant we get. What comes around goes around. Maybe it was time for those who had hurt her in the first place to pay the price. Maybe it was time for the blood of those who had perished to be worth something. Maybe it was time for revenge.
Ana María did not consider herself to be vengeful, but she was resentful. She resented the death of her empire. She resented the years of imprisonment, of slavery that had lasted more than her actual life as a nation. She resented the eleven years that it had taken her to be free. She resented the loss of half of her territory.
She was angry.
That anger hadn't build up inside her until that very moment, but it was clear it had always been there. It was a rage that burned inside of her skin, that made her shake uncontrollably, wanting to smash her fists into the wall and watch it crumble in effect. Mexico walked over to the middle of the room. She knew that the chandelier hanged above her, but she didn't find it as a big concern. She wanted to take that anger and guide it into something productive. Something that could kill.
Ana María looked at Serbia and Monaco. This was a three-way. Whoever stroke first fell to a dangerous disadvantage that could potentially define the outcome of this match. Listen to the heartbeat. Sense the fear. Use it and exploit it. Then attack. Mexico was not going to attack. She wasn't going to take the first step because she wasn't desperate to make a move. She wasn't desperate to kill. Death would come when it was due. And it wouldn't be her. She knew that. She was certain of it.
Perhaps it was immensely foolish that her over confidence had developed by the course of a memory. Emotions are powerful. They should not be treated with disrespect. They should be treated with caution. Highly flammable. Memories aren't reliable because what we felt in the moment drastically changes the proportion of the truth. But it is our truth, is it not? That should be enough. It took one memory, one trip down the course of her life, for Ana María to decide this was what she wanted to do. She wanted to live. And no one was stopping her. Not this time.
She fought for independence. She fought a revolution. She stopped an invasion. She put an end to a student boycott. What was there to say that she wouldn't fight this? It was so easy. It was just the three of them. All she had to do was drive her knife through both their hearts and watch the life escape their eyes. It was the same way Aztec had died. Holding the heart of the enemy. It was how they all died really. If she could hold their hearts in her hand and crush them so sternly that the blood would drip down to the creatures who would rip each others' throats in a salvage manner, then she would celebrate victory.
The girl would laugh, in a cynical matter, because those beasts only yearned for what their flesh would taste like. She would taunt them. See just how far she could push her luck, and when they were crazy with thirst, she would back away.
It was a dark thought, very dark indeed, and Ana María wasn't about to go crazy over it. She wouldn't give the Manor any further satisfaction. She might be feeling things differently from that moment on, but people change.
Just like she had changed when the Manor had stripped away her optimism.
It just took it. Her happiness washed away and locked in a tiny crystal box, compressed with everything that was sincerely joyful. What did it turned her into? Give back what once was hers. Give back what made her who she was. Give back the missing pieces. Was it the real reason behind her fight? Maybe. It was certainly a reason. Ana María would not leave, she was now aware, without every single part of her. If she wanted to make it out, she would have to remain whole, and so far that was not the case.
Mexico took out her weapon and held it firmly with her right hand. Her left fingers traced the edges of the blade, measuring how much force it would take to stab her opponent. For a small blistering second, she regretted that her machete was not sharpened as it should. It would make task much more easier. It would make death appear faster. Sure, Ana María wanted to kill them but that didn't mean she wanted them to suffer. If she could simply kill them with no pain it would make her feel a little less guilty.
"C'mon my dears, who wants to be the first?"
Her voice was piercing sweet. Both girls turned into things. In some obscure part of her mind, Ana María reasoned that if she projected her opponents as creatures rather than nations it would be easier to be done with them. Maybe she would be lucky enough to feel no remorse. Ah the remorse. Mexico hadn't thought about that until now. What would happen if she really did win? What would happen when both their bodies laid lifeless on the floor? A part of her did not want to think about that. She didn't want to have to feel it now. It was true, it wasn't something to feel now, but it was something to think about. Whoever won would have to deal with it. Ana María felt stronger, strong enough to handle the inevitable pain of killing two nations. Not one but two. Just her luck.
But just because you feel like you can do something doesn't mean that you actually can. Especially when it was a mystery as to how firm her emotional stability really stood.
The girl did not swing her blade towards her opponents or draw it in her defense. She wanted to invite them to attack, to be the first, not scare them into being defensive. She didn't deny that it wasn't risky coming at them this way, but it was the best way to get this fight over with. Her eyes searched for the threat that persisted in her enemies eyes. In all honesty, the only thing that could potentially have her draw back in fear was having two against one. She couldn't fight two at the same time. She would have to be very careful of the one that did not proceed to attack her.
But it wasn't impossible.
Not here.
"If you don't come out here to play, I'm gonna be forced to come to you."[/color]
A part of the Mexican wanted her words to sound mean and harsh. She wanted to provoke both girls. Have them come at her with nothing holding them back. She sighed. It is easier to hate the one thing we can't understand. Her eyes drifted to the girl with the silver blonde hair. Dime, ¿acaso esto es insultarte? Smile. Smile. Smile.
---- Translation: "Tell me, is this insulting you?"
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Post by Deleted on Jan 21, 2013 23:36:35 GMT -6
There were several people who questioned whether or not Serbia's strokes were too clean to be a nation, rather affirming that her arm had to be mechanical by comparison. Her ability in tennis was undisputed, she was one of the best in the world, if not the very best. She knew this, but she didn't win every time, nor did victory get boring. She simply enjoyed it as a passion, and wanted to revive tennis as a sport of purity, athleticism and simply, fun. This is the very reason that she had brought the racquet in the first place, she had expected to play tennis. Whilst she enjoyed playing all sports, she had only found her métier in tennis. She remembered showing off her skills to a Kosovo who seemed to have been an eternity younger. The old Kosovo, who respected her, laughed at her terrible jokes, and always begged to play with her, to learn how to play tennis and football and diving. He was interested in her customs, culture, and just her in general. She had lost everything she had worked to obtain, for the sake of protecting him. What had happened? She often wanted to blame Albania for it, and sometimes openly would. This, however, was nothing that was not her own responsibility. He had been pushed, and even turned against her, stabbing her repeatedly with his words. He left, and the world supported him. Much of the world still supports him. Being assaulted and losing yet another important figure in her life, if only she could go back and change how she had scolded him. If only she would have shown her smile more often. If only she could have escaped with him already, before this whole ordeal had even begun. A tranquil walk, down the far reaches of the Danube River. This situation, however, did not allow for such enjoyable festivities. Had it been a tennis match, she would easily have won, and been able to have acted upon her plan for escape. Escape at the current time seemed like an improbability, something to not even try and think of. This situation required complete concentration, a remembrance of what she had to fight for, and a good use of her skills. Her skills, however, were in a sport, and her only means of fighting off the Mexican's long knife was a meager tennis racquet. Even with an inhuman level of precision in her swing, her racquet would not be hitting a ball, and moreover, her opponent was more cunning, and threatening, than a fuzzy green ball. Missing her target in this match would prove to be her final match. Therefore, it was hard to not cling onto her hope. Odds were never in her favor before, this was only an advantage, that having the odds out of her favor was already embedded into her psyche, it was her second nature. While the other two seemed stressed, and losing their mind, the longer this ordeal played out, the more calm Snezana was becoming. She had learnt not to question her better judgment before, so why would she start now? Two beautiful nations would become lunch for the literal bottom-feeders below. The great hope for escape, it was enough to keep her reasonably positive about the outcome. Astrit, another Serbia, and just as energetic as the original, was out there somewhere. She would do everything in her power, no matter the cost, to protect him from danger, to keep him innocent from the harms and temptations of this cruel world. This was her unforgotten vow, from a time that was better off forgotten. However, nations must remember everything, if they want to learn from their mistakes. Serbia regretted that she did not know everything about herself, and next to nothing of her origins. Snezana knew very little about her mother. She only knew that Byzantium had taken her over following her disappearance. The mother of all serbs, the White Serbia, after traveling away from the oppressive reaches of the world, who only wished that her daughter could grow into the woman that she chose to herself, met an untimely end at his hands, most likely defending the baby Snezana. The thoughts bubbled up, and time could never cease their rekindling. The emotional toll of knowing that one's mother had perished without explanation created a rage within Snezana, and she particularly detested the Byzantine Empire for it, him being the only one who would have known, but his lips never uttered the words she had longed to hear. This was a prohibited topic, a taboo in her mind to ever talk about. She always wanted to, though. She always wanted to know everything there was to know about her mother that could never truly be there for her. Holding back tears, she knew that this was not the time, nor was it the place. She would not give them the satisfaction, not again. This was a mental game that she wasn't going to lose. The metaphorical tennis ball was a formidable opponent in itself. No matter how many times she would try and dismiss the nostalgic thoughts, they returned, more painful than before. This was not something she was supposed to think about, except in the privacy of her own home, in her own room. For a very long time, she would set another plate at her table, destined for someone she wanted to come home more than anyone else. Someone to read her stories, and assure that her nightmares couldn't harm her. Someone who never came. But, what if someone knew something, and her mother turned out not to be the hero that Serbia needed her to be? What if that made her less of a nation because of it? These were thoughts that she could never accept, and it was a very touchy subject, a personal wound. She always wanted her mother, or anyone really, to tell her that they were proud of her. To tell her that her ideals, her thoughts, her bravery and her pride were not in vain. Her own family was always bickering and never really seemed to notice what was really happening to her inside. Nobody could see her pain. She had to believe in hope. It was a fundamental part of what got her through the hardest times of her life. She had to hope that what she was about to do wouldn't shame her mother, her family, and Astrit. She wanted to believe and hope that her decision this time was right, and furthermore, that there would be others who supported her. That slimmest bits of optimism forced a smile to her face. What of the perished? What would they think of this match? Would they even have the courtesy to care she was in peril, or would they rather laugh and root against her? Was her mother, by the slimmest chance, watching and rooting for her? This was the most beautiful thought Snezana had in years, during the worst turn of events. Snezana had always been a woman of faith. Of faith in her people. She had faith in those around her, as well. Faith that they would one day remove selfish borders, and become friends. It was the reason she had risen from a nobody to an empire. Her resolve, however, was the reason she had fallen. Her ability was always among the best. Her quarrels were out of hope, but she did not have the ambition to destroy others, this was not what she was expecting. Others had fallen by her hand, but as the numbers increased, as did her hatred of ambition, her hatred of enjoying it. She had taken the lives of other nations, but she had only ever killed herself in the process of such atrocities. The faces she wanted to believe in her, the blurred faces and forgotten voices of the past. Is this going to happen all over again? Was she truly going to revert back to that state from her darkened history? No, this was actually different from the past. This was much different. She would not be able to negotiate from her mistakes, and this time it would not be an army leading the attack, a force of power to support her. This was a three-way duel. She could not have the luxury of the support of her people, nor could she have any of their assistance. This was different.. At least before, she had her people supporting her close by. Was this what being alone really felt like? “You still have a lot to learn, Sırbistan...”She remembered a time in which Turkey was teaching her. Or rather, when he thought that he was. At the time, Snezana felt his equal, and that he was foolish for trying to teach her what she simply dismissed off as common knowledge, and useless tactics. Even so, she would listen to humor him. For a nation that so many, herself included, had seen as some kind of monstrous killer, deep down he had much kindness and wisdom, for a non-European, anyway. “Vakitsiz öten horozun baþýný keserler*... You must not only know that fighting is always detestable, you must know when to fight. You must know what's worth fighting for. Everything else is worth losing.”His words held merit, and they were relevant. Nothing from the outside world seemed relevant in this place, yet everything still was. She was still a nation. She was much more than just Snezana Bodnia. Rather erudite, fairly vigorous, but greatly misunderstood. However, there was only one who needed to understand this situation, and that was Serbia. The other two? What did they mean to her? She had her promise, her mother's forgotten legacy, and the rest of her family to not only prove wrong, but establish that she was not merely a dying beast, history's forgotten empire that was slowly crumbling away into ash. Her resolve, that she would fight to the best of her ability, would not falter. The other two might has well have been knitting a sweater, the silence was dreadful. Had this time passed in vain? Were they unable to understand that they were both puppets, the same as she was? The thought of being undermined and counted out as just another loser wasn't something she would let manifest into an insatiable rage, rather, she would prove those who ever doubted her wrong. Strike the sword while the iron is hot, her own words. Her own advice to her two fellow puppets in this display. The Inhabitants wanted a show, and Snezana was prepared to deliver one hell of a spectacle. No matter what the truth was, no matter who would or wouldn't be there for her after this was over, Serbia had resolved upon two critical points. At this critical juncture, she promised herself that no matter what happened that she would assure that Kosovo would be safe. This was the most important point, and assurance that in the event of her death that he would be well taken care of was vital. There would be no other choice, he was what was the most important in all of this. Not her self, not her pride. A young rebel going through some confusing times and making mistakes he would eventually regret. The other major resolve, while not as significant to anyone else, was crucial to her. She would not allow herself to preform insufficiently. This was going to be a clean fight, an impressive fight from three different competitors. She had to show her late mother that Snezana Bodnia was indeed someone to be proud of, that she was just as well a legacy worth passing on to the new generations. Fighting for the approval of someone that had long since passed away was all the likely an unorthodox view to many, but these were the type of thoughts Serbia had used to assist her as a toddler. One's parents are often seen as heroes, and to not have them there for you is enough to crush one's spirits. If such a thing had happened to others? Perhaps it was so, but they didn't understand her, they couldn't even begin to. "Yes,"Amidst her thoughts, the shyer, and more happy of her two opponents would have been the one to break the silence. It was almost ironic, if not admirable. She had expected something to have happened by now, or at very least Mexico to have been the one to have collected herself. It only proved that some of what Turkey said was more true thane even he believed it to have been. The beautiful girl was strong in heart, even though her fear was still present, she had affirmed to herself that she was going to do this. It had to have been the case. Her accent, admittedly, was cute, but it was different than before. Her voice wasn't stumbling, nor was it broken in an almost forced tone. The terror in her voice was seemingly absent. Perhaps, however, she had been quick to judge the girl after only saying one word. "Let us enjoy this, and celebrate the our victor in advance, whoever it may be."These words were startling, almost. Snezana had heard much worse in her time. It was clear that Monaco was eternally fading away. In Serbia's mind, Monaco had already given up, or snapped. This would prove to be interesting, likely either ending in blood lust or total defeat, despite her prior, and fair warning that things were going to get hot quickly. Monaco didn't seem as though she had it in her to begin the offensive. Nor did she appear to be fully aware of where she was in the moment. Was she, in fact, broken? Either way, she was not as much of a threat at this moment in time as the quiet, mysterious Mexico. Snezana averted her eyes from Monaco, as if discrediting her statements, and studied the Mexican inquisitively. She saw it clearly, a familiar face. She was fighting inside of herself, unsure of something. But in her case, she had done anything but given up. No, it almost appeared as though she enjoyed it. Regardless of the truth, Mexico seemed to be transitioning into something frightful, letting out a distorting laugh and giving a fiendish smile. A formidable opponent, with an unparalleled, difficult to measure rage. Perhaps her past was worse than Serbia could understand from simple studies. Her history was also dark, and it seemed to be getting the better of her. Her body seemed much more tense, and stiff than before. Her expression giving into an inner chaos, an indescribable madness, perhaps. Did she have the tenacity to attack her head on? Serbia easily deduced that she was the likely target, that she would be the greater concern, at least in Mexico's eyes. Her heart was clearly racing, and her resolve seemed much easier to decipher than the Monacan girl's mixed signals and mysterious personality. It was enough to make Snezana loosen her grip upon her weapon, almost dropping it. It startled her, that this girl had the same expression that she had so long ago. An undaunting rage, and a prideful expression of desire to protect someone, or something. Did she too have her own Kosovo to protect..?..or that she failed to protect? It seemed as though with each passing moment that the hatred and that her thoughts grew darker. The split second in which she almost related to the girl had passed, and she saw what she could only describe as madness. "C'mon my dears, who wants to be the first?"It was confirmed. Both of her opponents were reduced to some form of a crazed mental status. Could she really blame them, though? Serbia herself had always felt like the world saw her as a monster, despite her intentions having always been good, if not for the best of what she saw with her biased, fixed eyes. This must have been why she had calmed down so quickly. It would be inopportune to strike against a crazed berserker as this, but if she targeted Monaco she would be easy fodder for that blade Mexico had sheathed. Why did she have it sheathed? Why was she just standing there, looking as though she wanted to kill, without actually doing it. Monaco may very well have been her target, after all. She seemed more interested in blood at this point than in a fight. Thinking Monaco was crazy after hearing Mexico's voice, after seeing her slowly give into her instincts? This was not a good development. Serbia was beginning to regret another round of examining the two, since they seemed much more willing to fight than before. A good match was one thing, but this felt like suicide. Seeing the monsters within the manor was enough to scare her. Seeing her fellow nations slowly becoming monsters? For a brief instant she almost preferred being eaten. "If you don't come out here to play, I'm gonna be forced to come to you."[/color] Her words were simply salt on a wound. She was sane enough to try and psyche out the serb, and this wasn't all for naught. It wasn't exactly scaring her, but it did make her hesitate in thought. Was her resolve finally enough? Was she making the right decision? The rope burn, all but forgotten, didn't seem to hinder her as much as she had thought prior. At very least, it shouldn't affect her infamous swing negatively. But there was a fatal flaw in Mexico's logic. Discrediting her fear was not real strength. It was merely impudence. It annoyed the serb, but it didn't amount to something that she wanted to get to her mind. Was it? Yes. But this wasn't something she was willing to allow to happen... Not willingly. She was not going to be defeated with such a meager endeavor as this. It would take overcoming that in which you fear, to truly reach strength. Serbia's greatest weakness was once her ignorance. She would face defeat and blame herself too harshly, rather than learn from her mistakes. She would repeat them to a horrible extent, and she nearly disintegrated in the past because of this. Wars seemed to brew like the morning stew, filled to the brim with death and destruction. Serbia was no exception to this, nobody was. It was beginning to become difficult to differentiate illusions from realities, and Serbia just wanted to get it over with. That's when Serbia noticed the gaze Mexico had given her a dreadful gaze. In an enthralling glance, her eyes reflected her hatred, and enticed her, almost. Unfortunately for her, Serbia was used to the surmounting feelings of dread and having someone stare her down that wanted her dead. All too familiar, but that didn't ever ease the feeling of having done something horribly wrong. There was no reason for this fight, and there was nothing to be gained but a quick laugh. At very least, this much was true for the fiends that decided such a combative event could possibly end well at all. Serbia had decided, that they must be trying to weed out the weak, and then attack the strong until they were too exhausted to keep on fighting. Their sick game was only beginning. A slow start, and reasonably so. To rush head-on into a battle of this magnitude with no preparation, no mental strategy would be foolish. The other two had obviously found it in themselves to accept what was happening in their own ways. It was impossible to read their minds, but calculating what they were probably thinking was always a decent alternative. An open invitation, an obvious trap. She wanted the Serb to rush in, only to meet her knife. There was enough space in between them, after all, for her to draw it at the perfect time. This was her ideal situation, easily assumed. The girl would either go for a quick and painless kill, or if already she had succumbed to her savage nature, she would go for a very messy end. None were preferable, but both were highly probable. Snezana would do anything in her power to prevent her death, much less before she gave off a good fight. Serbia was clearly outmatched by the Mexican in terms of what they were both armed with. Mexico, having a rather large knife, against a tool of tennis. However, Serbia was reasonably skilled in a particular martial art: Aikido. Much more specifically, Real Aikido, a Serbian variant in which schools in Serbia would teach children compulsorily. Aikido as a word comes from two others, Aiki, and Buhdo. Aiki is a word simply meaning "love". "Buhdo" is a more complicated word, represented as the path of the warrior, and most often written as "Bushido" in Japan. Combining the spirit of the Earth, the sea, and the sky within one's heart, their love shines through all troubles. Nothing can shake the resolve of one who has become one with nature. The ego is blasted away, and insecure gestures fade away whilst in battle. To channel nature, and to use the will of one's foes against them. The goal of Aikido, Serbian or not, was never to reach perfection of combat, or to kill. Rather, the goal was to improve your own lifestyle and ability more according to the rules of nature, rather than of instinct. Her movements would be lighter than most, but not overly so. The same given principal applies to nature, to the ecosystem. The major principal of finding your center, and aligning it within that of natures. This was the purpose. This was her secret weapon. It was nothing anyone could read, see, or take away from her. Disarming Mexico could be easily done, if the battle carried out. Snezana had no idea of the fighting patterns taught in Mexico, and that she was dealing with a brute was a difficult enough thing to try and analyze in itself. Aikido. To love, to forgive, and to become nature itself. Skin hardened like that of the earth, legs flowing gently or furiously as the water, arms blowing like the wind, and the mind being the core, the epicenter of all that was required to ensure a perfectly functioning, well oiled machine of the body was in motion. She was far from a master of the art. She had spent most of her time in sport, not worried about needing to defend herself, or to defend Kosovo. The idea of having to kill did go against her wishes, her philosophy. However, Snezana knew that she must defend him, to protect him from all comers. With her mind finally in the right place, her resolve was made. Without a warning, nor any hesitation, she began to run, her athletic ability being properly displayed for the first time. As she ran towards Mexico, silent and steadfast in her intentions, her grip tightened substantially, holding on for dear life. There was no more time for laments, there was only time for her to act. Her steps were soft, and despite her speed, there would be ample time for Mexico to prepare her own counter. Serbia leaped high into the air, a blank stare countering at Mexico's own angry demeanor. It had seemed for a moment, that she would swing at Mexico from the air, and be left wide open. This, however, was false as Serbia landed upon the ground, several feet away from her adversary. Jumping into the air, while a bold action draining away at her precious reservoir of energy, got her a better, aerial glimpse at the Mexican's blade's length. As thought, Serbia had an advantage, after all. She continued her assault after a moment's reprieve, rushing the girl from the left, and swinging forward her racquet to hit the girl in the face. Mid-way through her swing, she spun around in a circular motion, now to the girl's right, and leaped forward once more, trying to stay far enough away that she was out of reach, but close enough to let her first hit, be a powerful hit. Rather than aiming for the face the second time, her attention, despite her fake-out, was focused solely upon Mexico's throat. Such a hit early on would make her opponent considerably hindered, and give Serbia a much needed early advantage. Her body had leapt a reasonable enough distance, but this tactic was not fool-proof... Unaware of whether or not her blow had hit, nor how hard, Serbia was temporarily winded. Taking in a deep breath, and looking down, she began to doubt her rush tactic. She was vulnerable, and while she hoped for the best, history had taught her that expecting the worst was always the better, safer option. Even if her blow did land, she had a very angry, and likely unstable Mexican to deal with. With her unorthodox strategy, the possibility that she had shattered the throat of her adversary was about as slim as Kosovo winning such a fight as this. Hopefully, his fate was shining brighter than hers. "Ako želiš jezgro, slomi ljusku."**
*Vakitsiz öten horozun baþýný keserler (Turkish) - the farmer cuts off the head of the rooster who crows before the time is right.
**Ako želiš jezgro, slomi ljusku (Serbian) - To get to the core, you must first break through the shell.
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Post by monaco on Feb 3, 2013 19:39:59 GMT -6
Judging by Serbia’s expression, it had seemed that Ciel may have said something the other Nation considered less than sane. She nearly laughed when she looked away, glancing instead to Mexico. It was all too amusing, really.
Something is wrong.
"C'mon my dears, who wants to be the first?” Mexico’s voice soon filled the empty void in the room after her own words, clearly echoing off the walls. The monsters below seemed to snarl and roar in delight at her words, as if they knew blood would be shed soon enough. Although, Ciel couldn’t say she was surprised; the Manor certainly had its lasting effects on the its residents.
That was another thing. What entered the Manor never had the chance to leave, did it?
“If you don't come out here to play, I'm gonna be forced to come to you."
But oh, returning to the matter at hand, it would seem she would have the privilege of enjoying a nice, entertaining show.
She was prepared to remove her weapon from its hiding place, in case it was needed, but Ciel soon found out it wasn’t when Serbia began sprinting.
The white-haired Nation started towards Mexico, completely ignoring Ciel. The Monegasque felt like she should be irritated by this, but instead, she found herself perfectly alright with it. At this point in time, she would prefer to be a spectator, after all.
What am I doing?
It was like an elegant dance as Serbia moved, her body uncannily graceful with her face completely emotionless. A dance of death, perhaps? It was an entertaining thought. And quite a plausible one, at that. The dance continued when Serbia managed to launch herself at a relatively good height in the air, but instead of driving a straight on attack like Ciel had initially expected, Serbia landed on the ground again without landing a blow.
But an instant later, Serbia was in the air again. It was rather incredible; Ciel would never be able to accomplish anything like that in her life. Then again, she wasn’t very good at physical activities – in fact, she was the complete opposite of an athlete. Ciel had been able to infer that Serbia was an athlete, however, considering that her weapon of choice was a tennis racquet.
This time, everything seemed to slow down. Serbia seemed to pause in mid-air, calculating on whether or not she could land a good blow, maybe even a fatal one, on Mexico. She then began her swing, the racquet coming down on full force to slam Mexico’s face, but before it even landed, Serbia spun herself while still in mid-air and the attack made contact with the Latina.
This isn’t right.
Normally, or any other time, Ciel would have averted her eyes, feeling immediately sickened by the sight of blood. Even violence was usually enough to make her feel nauseous. But not now.
At this point, she only cared to observe her two opponents duel each other, fighting tooth and nail to survive. The very idea stirred within her, causing sparks of excitement to fly.
It was completely wrong.
Ciel was never sadistic, nor had she ever shown any sadistic tendencies. Yet here she was, locked in an eerie, cramped room with only a chandelier to light up the darkness; monsters salivating beneath her feet, and trapped with two other Nations who intended to each be victorious.
Wasn’t she allowed at least this pleasure before she died?
No.
Yes.
It was all very twisted, but Ciel really didn’t mind. She was destined to fall, so she might as well get some amusement before she was killed mercilessly by Serbia or Mexico’s hands.
At these thoughts, the Monegasque returned her focus to her fellow countries. Serbia was now breathing heavily, the deep exhales and inhales echoing throughout the room, and looking downwards of all things. Ciel was very tempted to wield her gun now and simply shoot her.
Put her out of her misery already. Stop fooling around.
But that would ruin all the fun, wouldn’t it?
No, she would continue to merely watch. If she wasn’t dragged into this battle sooner or later, Ciel would simply battle the victor. There would be no foul play – at least, not yet. No one could predict what would happen.
"Ako želiš jezgro, slomi ljusku."
Serbia seemed to like speaking in her native tongue, spewing out philosophical sayings, didn’t she? Typically, Ciel would enjoy some intelligent conversation. But at this point in time, it seemed to be more of a nuisance than anything else.
What are you saying?
However, it wasn’t her time to interfere. Oh no, that would come later. For now, it was entirely on Serbia and Mexico’s shoulders, and it was their responsibility to provide quality entertainment.
You’ve gone insane.
And when the curtain finally fell, Ciel would be sure to applaud the actresses enthusiastically.
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Why would I want to destroy something I helped build?
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Post by Mexico on Feb 4, 2013 22:00:28 GMT -6
We all have light and darkness within us. We are not pure beings. We do not hold our lives up and claim we are good and kind and humble. Especially when we stick around to see the verdict. We all have light and darkness within... It's supposed to set a balance, because no one can be completely good, or completely evil. No matter how much we want to.
A nation is not physically born. When a country is formed the nation that represents it appears as a small defenseless child. We know what we are from the very moment our eyes open for the first time. We can feel the responsibility, the weight of our people that we carry without complaint on our shoulders. Sometimes we are born alone. It is up to us to develop, to hold the hearts of the people, to sacrifice our own personal gain for them. Sometimes we are born into a family. Fellow nations who teach us how to survive in a world where the strong one prevails. They tell us stories, they offer guidance and advice, they raise us as their own, treat us as their kids, love us, cherish us. It is the only meaning, the closest we have to a real family with a mother and a father. It is all quite spectacular, even for a moment we are entitled to feel young and naïve. We are, after all, children. Our maturity is that of a child. Even as nations we can still be clueless to what happens around us. We are still being protected of our innocence.
But it can all be taken away.
Every nation knows pain. They know it in one form or the other. Every nations has stood up fighting for something, blood pouring down the edges of their clothes. We all had that one battle that felt like the greatest battle. The one that would've marked who we are as nations, who we are as human beings. It is the greatest of times, the worst of times. We cherish the memory and at the same time wish for it to sink away into the empty, lonely places of our mind. It is was a battle worth fighting. A battle we would fight again no matter what, but a battle that, if we had a choice, would remain just as a memory. No one wants to bring back the pain of the past.
Mexico was a girl that always had to fight for her freedom. The course of her history was stained with blood marks, some so deep that they were impossible to remove, not even with the best of cleaning products. Those blood marks became scars and scars become skin. Skin is what everyone can see. What you do not wish everyone could see. What you sometimes hide and cover with charades and pretty lies. What would happen if everyone could see each other exactly as they were? If humans were not blinded by hatred, choosing to see what was there without digging deeper, would the world be better? Would everyone treat each other better? What about all the silent victims? The embodiment of all the poor, innocent, angry souls that have lost their lives to the world's many wars...
Did anyone even remember them?
"If everyone cared and nobody cried. If everyone loved and nobody lied. If everyone shared and swallowed their pride, Then we'd see the day when nobody died."*
When you have to fight for your freedom, cling to it with every ounce of hope, everyone seems like a potential threat. Mexico did not like to get involved in affairs that didn't concern her. She had too many things to do within her own nation to worry about what was happening in the rest of the world. She was very private about some aspects of her culture, of her history. She did not welcome external help if it wasn't asked for first. It was a paranoia that she couldn't explain. A fear of being deprived of everything sound and familiar, like so many times before.
Mexico did not understand why all of a sudden she wanted to kill, to spill the blood of her opponents. It wasn't simple. People don't kill others for no reason. Not even cold-blooded murderers. Everyone had a story. Everyone had a sick little twisted reasoning that gave them the answer that they needed in order to carry on with their task. Mexico did not want to lose. She did not just mean being defeated. Sure, losing a bet, losing a battle, losing an argument were all sore spots on her pride. No one wanted to lose and be seen as a fool or even as weak. But that wasn't her main concern. Mexico wouldn't mind losing this fight if it didn't imply all the things that were inevitable to come afterwards. The United Mexican States. Los Estados Unidos Mexicanos. That was her entity. That was her whole; who she was and what she represented.
…Once upon a time she was a small part of the great Aztec Empire. Her people called her Mēxihca, but in reality she represented the city of Tenochtitlán. It was a great culture. A period in her history that now only exited as a memory, unknown to others as whether or not it ever even existed. That was stolen. Ripped away from her heart and destroyed in front of her. Blood pouring all over her. Tears of sadness, of anger and frustration over something that hurt more than she could ever describe. She missed it. She missed the land of gods and sacrifice and a culture that yearned to rise above adversity. That was all she ever wanted to be. All she could ever be. Sometimes she doubted to ever have been a descendant of such a powerful empire. At times she felt like nothing more than a disappointment because in the 203 years since her independence, she still couldn't find stability. She couldn't give her people hope without having them risk their lives jumping on a border wall. A border wall to another country.
…Once upon a time she was a colony named Nueva España. After the fall of the Aztec Empire, Spain had taken upon himself to raise the small child that was left and treated her as his own. He granted her a name so ambitious, so full of hope for the future of this land. A name after himself. Because what other honor could be greater, could suffice the situation than to be named after one of the greatest countries in the world. One of the strongest, the land of the Conquistadores, invincible and feared. An empire so big that it spread across the Americas, defeating every obstacle ever placed upon them.
She should've felt honored. But at the beginning it had left a wound so fresh, that even the slightest touch burned into her skin. It was a feeling she didn't understand. A small child should not have so much pain in her heart that it consumes her into an absolute rage. A small child should not feel pain or understand what Death is. To see it before her eyes as lives escape from souls and everything is filled up with the echo of the silence after the storm. It should've been enough to deprive her of her innocence. But the years she spent being looked out by Spain were also happy ones. The other colonies became a fundamental part of her life. All to which she considered family. Brothers. Sisters. Cousins. She would've not survived the pain without them. They were, again, the closest she had to a family.
That too was taken away from her. Three hundred years as a colony. That is more than three lifetimes. More than anyone's lifetime. People who were born in a place that was not its own, ruled by a country that wasn't theirs. It was to belong to a place that didn't exist. Citizens of nowhere really. They weren't Spanish, and if they weren't Spanish, what were they? It was an identity loss. Three hundred years as a colony shapes you. Nueva España had grown up. She was no longer the little child that Aztec protected. She was a woman, but a woman who didn't know what was out there, further from her borders. At times she would stand by the border and watch the land that was not Spain's and wonder what was about it that was so forbidden? She wasn't allowed to leave. She wasn't even allowed to stare and yet she did.
Ana María had never understood what it meant to be able to make her own decisions. For the course of her entire life all her decisions were always made for her. That was the way it was, the way it had always been. She didn't know free will existed. Until she saw it before her eyes... She knew the stories of her northern neighbor through Spain, who rarely, if ever, allowed them to have play dates as kids. He didn't like the white man with bushy eyebrows that spoke in such a strange language. And when his little kid that was always stayed with him, had become independent, or so Spain claimed, she became preoccupied with the idea.
What did independent mean? How did it feel like? Was it even possible for a person to become its own? Why would someone want to become detached from everything that was familiar and safe? But why wouldn't they? If after three hundred years there was no love, no real happiness in one's life, why not look for it elsewhere? The idea was too wild, too liberal to think about. How could she become independent. She liked España. He was like an hermano mayor to her. She didn't want to be alone. But she didn't want to suffer anymore. She didn't want to feel like she was owned, deprived from her ability to make her own choices. Be tormented because she was no more than a subordinate. She was Spain's property. Property. That had to change.
September 16th, 1810- August 24th, 1821. It took her almost eleven years to acquire her independence. Eleven years of bloodshed, of tears, of brutal killings. Eleven years of endless scars just so that one day she could claim to be her own country. Just so that she could claim to be free. Independent from any and every country. Just her and her people. But that was a battle worth fighting for. Her definite battle. That felt like glory. It felt right.
Not like this.
It is easier to make people hate you. You just have to give them a reason to. Sometimes, you're not even aware of the reason. They just do. It is easy to hate the thing you can't understand. The thing that is different and terrifying. Everything nasty and dangerous. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. As Mexico stood in front of Serbia and Monaco. Both white. Both European. Both so beautiful. Like Spain had once been. Her mind screamed at them in endless anthems.
Por favor, hate me. War is easier with hate. To inflict pain on others is easier if you enjoy it. Please enjoy it. We will be defeated otherwise. The creatures will tear us apart, into pieces. Our remains will become the essence of what we once were. This feels like my fault. What would be the noble thing to do? What would the bigger person do? Stand on their knees, graciously welcoming Death? I cherish Death. I respect it. I'm not afraid of it. I celebrate it. But how can I explain that I don't want to die here…
But hate me, because if you do, you would not think twice on the attack. You won't feel the guilt after the deed is gone. It is too much pain for one person to handle. It is too much pain to kill someone, please mask it with hatred. Do it for me… If you kill me, mean to kill me. There is nothing more pathetic, more gruesome than doing something and then regretting it.
No regrets. No tears. No pain.
It should've been that easy.
Mexico was quite aware of how mean her words sounded. How incredibly sadistic it sounded, as though she was enjoying this. Why would she enjoy it? She wasn't a monster. After everything she had done, she still refused to believe she was a monster. This battle felt wrong. It felt unnecessary. It was a war that wasn't supposed to happen. A war that shouldn't happen. Mexico didn't go to war with other countries. She didn't tempt them into doing so. Why would she start now? She'd never go to a war she wasn't prepared for. She wouldn't do that to her people. They deserved much better. She was supposed to be peaceful, embrace global cooperation and international treaties. She was supposed to be a country that always held her composure, even when the weight of her people was too much on her shoulders. Mexico was supposed to set the example. Be a country others established bonds of friendship.
Like toy soldiers.
How could she show weakness? How could she show the scars that are masked by a happy-go-lucky, positive, optimistic attitude? What difference would it make if she stood in front of the other two nations, drop her weapon, remove the piece of clothing that covered her skin, and then show them what her history marked? What difference would it make if instead of making them hate, she showed them the truth that she kept within? And then, as the scars of body and soul are dealt, ask them to kill her. If she established herself as vulnerable, would they still have the intention of killing her, or would they spare her out of pity?
To live out of pity is just as discouraging as not living at all. It is the same as being killed for something she did not do. She wouldn't have it. She is a nation, she represents her people. This is a battle that was caused by her and her only. She would've never dragged them to this on her account. It was a mistake and a fatal one at that. She was sorry for doing so. It wasn't her intention. Why would she want to destroy something she took so long to build? Why would she want to destroy someone else? Why would she ever want to destroy? It wasn't her intention for someone to end up dead. It was no one's intentions.
She didn't want to lose anymore. If Ana María lost it would break the last pieces of glass that held her together. She couldn't lose her country. She couldn't lose her entity as a nation. Not again. Not for the third time. She was tired of being depraved from everything that was her own. She was tired of being stolen from. She didn't want anyone to take what belonged to her. She just didn't. That was the reason she would kill the others. Because if she killed them, she could win, and if she won she would not lose what she treasured the most.
This was her reason.
Mexico had her weapon. Her right hand on the handle. Her left touching the blade. What would make this picture more sadistic was to lick it with her tongue. But she wouldn't do that. She still had respect and dignity for her opponents. She watched them both, waiting. She figured that it would be a fast attack. No one in their right mind would simply walk to the Mexican with no course of action that would seem to give them an advantage. She knew that she remained a mystery to her opponents. Would she strike? Go for the obvious kill? Or would she make this longer, have an entertaining fight?
Only one way to find out.
The one who dared to approach her was Serbia. The girl that set the Western world on fire when she decided to kill Austria's heir to the throne. The cause of the World War I which inevitably lead to the World War II. She could only imagine what that must feel like, knowing that something happened because of your actions. She would't touch the subject. Why inflict more pain? Why make this more horrible than it already was. It was in her curiosity, however, to know how did she feel when she changed the course of history forever and threw the countries against each other in a conflict far greater than anyone's control.
It probably stung like hell.
Then Serbia did what Mexico expected her to do. She ran towards her with just the glimpse in her eyes as warning of what she was about to do. Mexico had two options. She could run towards her opponent, find their weak spot and then simply stab them with her machete, leave her to die or bleed out or whatever it was that happened after that. It was simple, it was easy, and it was quick. After that, she would sprint to her other opponent, seemingly unaware that she would be her intended target when it was clear that it would take her time to battle off the Serbian before she became even the slightest bit preoccupied with her. Except, it was likely not going to happen that way. She would need a fierce amount of luck for that possibility to even remotely happen. And luck was not her fortitude.
Her other option was something that Mexico had already anticipated. It was the subtle, wiser manner. Serbia would instinctively want to get rid of her weapon. Anything to get away from that knife. Her weapon alone was what gave Mexico an advantage. She didn't like that. She wanted to be at an advantage despite the weapon. A weapon is meant to be used as an aid. So knowing the weapon was her target, Mexico didn't plan on using it, not yet at least. As she saw Serbia running at her, her movements ever so graceful, she knew she was in for a fight. The other girl had a racquet as her weapon. Ana María took this fact very seriously. She didn't judge a weapon and its ability to inflict harm by how sharp it was. Only a fool would do that. A weapon was deadly when the person holding it knows how to use it.
That racquet could cause severe harm if used wisely.
Then Serbia did something Mexico had not expected. She leaped into the air. True, Mexico was surprised, but her expression remained the same. Unnaturally blank. She just had to change her course of action. Either way she was going to get attacked. Ana María's brown eyes were locked on Serbia's red ones. For a moment she thought she was going to swing at her. Hit her in the face with that freaking racquet, make her lose her balance, take the knife away from her, and then use it on her. Dead. That would be simple and easy. But no. Instead, the Serbian landed on the ground, several feet away from her. Serbia came at her from her side, and swung her racquet at her face. Expected. Mexico did not move. She wanted to take the hit, but the hit never came. This raised suspicion in the Mexican. So it was time for her move. She knew the Serbian had something else planned. Why avoid such an easy yet precise hit if not to be replaced by something better?
The circular motion that the Serbian made gave her enough time to have a wide range of space of her next move. She would have to be quick. In a moment of determination, Mexico grabbed her machete and bended down, her whole body almost touching the ground. With her right wrist, it's all about the wrist, made a strong and fast movement aiming the machete to fly backwards and spin in the air once. Using her position to her advantage, Mexico used all the strength within her legs to do an acrobatic 360º flip somersault backwards. It was intended to give her some distance between the European and herself. She wanted to analyze her moves. As her feet landed on the ground again, it wasn't a high flip, just barely off the ground considering her starting position; she caught the flying machete and put it away on her side. This she learned while dancing the Danza de los Machetes.
Mexico's facial expression almost changed as realized Serbia's second hit would've been to her throat. That would have ended badly for her had the impact of the racquet been strong enough to cause her the inability to breathe. She gulped as her eyes focused on the Serbian. She wouldn't pretend that her opponent's tactic had left her untouched. ¡Hija de su pinche madre! Her dark side seemed to emerge as more fuel was added to her rage. Mexico couldn't afford to let her emotions overpower her logic, for they would make her blunt and careless, and inevitably get her killed. But she was madder than before because it all seemed so real now. A battle for the death. War isn't declared until the first blow is taken.
In a moment of safety, if she could ever call it that, Ana María turned her eyes to the other European. The shyer, quieter, saner of the three. The one who wasn't reacting. Why wasn't she reacting? Why wasn't Monaco using this golden opportunity to aim her gun at one of them and shoot? What was she missing? Guts? Adrenaline? A little push? Was she the kind of person that needed to be pushed in the right bottoms to make her work? Her lack of reactions was also angering Mexico. The anger remained unknown.
Why was she getting angry all the time? Why over such frivolous things? Insignificant. Why? Why? Why? It was so much anger that she wanted to cry. Just for a moment. But not here and not now. It would only be foolish. Once she got away from here. Away from this room of pain and death. Even if it meant still being in the Manor. She would cry. Let it all out. Crying is not a sign of weakness. Since the moment we are born it is a sign that we are alive. And Mexico was fighting to stay alive. Being alive. Staying alive. Feeling alive. How little importance do we give that little fact. We take it for granted. We think we are always going to live. It is not until we are at the border of Death, so much so that we can feel it on our lips that we yearn for that feeling again. We would do anything just to stay alive.
Enough with games and twisted little riddles. Enough with pain and hurt and everything that was wrong. Enough. Mexico was in a sprinting position. Defensive. Perhaps that was what the white Serbian wanted. Raise her guard. Well, her guard was raised. But as much as she was defensive she was also offensive. Serbia would most likely be tired and this was her sole opportunity to exhaust her. Mexico didn't know Aikido or Karate or whatever the hell they were called. She didn't know them, she didn't understood what they were for, and she didn't care. She was no expert in martial arts but she knew hand on hand combat. After all where did Lucha Libre come from?
Yes, Mexico much preferred skin against skin than simply drive a blade through someone's heart. Skin against skin granted the possibility for actual combat, fairness in battle. She was still aiming for even the slightest nobility in her fight, even if others would perceive it as a joke. Blank expression in hand, only her eyes showed madness, she ran towards Serbia. Her weapon was put away, she had made that clear. She wasn't going to attack with it. All she wanted was to throw a punch. Hit. The. Girl. And so she did. Mexico launched herself against Serbia, making sure to get all her body into it. Her fist, clenched so tightly that it was resembling white porcelain, aimed for her face, while her left foot aimed for her stomach. All she had to do was threw her off balance. Once on the ground she would take Serbia's arms and wrestle.
She knew how to wrestle. It wasn't just a man's sport. She knew how to and she was very good at it. Almost too good at it. The strength of a nation gave her an advantage against the mere human males. How strong was Serbia in comparison? She wasn't sure, but she knew the European girl was more of a fair match than anyone. If Mexico had control of her arms and then of her head she could do whatever she wanted with her body. But for now, make sure she got those two hits first. She didn't hit with all her strength, but they were powerful punches, or so she wanted them to be.
It wasn't much she wouldn't do to stay alive. Kill in order to save a life. And it all comes back to the human instinct of survival.
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*Lyrics from Nickelback's song: If Everyone Cared.
Translation: ¡Hija de su pinche madre!: Son of bitch. But in this context it works more like "stupid bitch".
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Post by Deleted on Feb 5, 2013 17:58:33 GMT -6
'Whoever is born a Serb, of Serbian blood, Whoever shares this proud heritage with me, And whoever does not come and fight at Kosovo, May they, man or woman, Never have the progeny, never the honor, Their heart's desires, neither son nor daughter; Beneath their trembling hands, Let nothing of any value bloom- Neither plump, purple grapes nor hearty and wholesome wheat; Let them all flow away, and rot throughout time, For they will be damned in this world!'* Kosovo, the bastion of Serbian pride and heritage. Blackbird's Field, the battle to end all battles. The folklore, the historic significance of being able to hold her own against a much more significantly sized Ottoman Empire. To delay the raging giant, and to break through the impressive Ottoman steel was an impressive feat that history had tried to forget, and suppress. However, this did not come without a terrible cost. The savage Ottoman's ripped through the shield of the dragon, and crushed the Serbian defenses just as well as the Serbs had repelled the Ottomans. The simple stalemate which redefined the history of two nations, and changed the fate of the once mightiest empire in eastern Europe. The Ottoman's were allowed a long respite, before advancing into Serbian land once more. Despite the losses being beyond a amendable level, Serbia would not go down without a fight. 'Vremya vyshlo, Ona idët! Smotri! Eto Smertʹ!'**
Kosovo, the suffering, lost peoples. Snezana had done everything in her power to save him, but she exhausted her reserve resources in doing so. It would not be possible for her to repel another assault of that magnitude again. With Serbia cast away, the era of the Ottoman Empire finally began to accelerate. The radiant remnants of Snezana's childhood still shining brightly in a darkening era, the pain withering like the flowers planted in the gardens of Kosovo. The seasons of the past to never return, it was in this somber silence that Snezana had finally realized her time as an empire was over forever. But she would never forget. For she had already made up her mind since long ago. As far as Snezana was concerned, the whole of Serbian history is divided into 2 periods: Serbia before the Conflict in Kosovo, and Serbia after the Conflict in Kosovo. And whereas the other battles in which she fought are each significant, Vidovdan alone stands throughout history as the pride of the unwavering faith of all of Serbdom. Vidovdan, the grand and significant national holiday, enduring throughout the centuries, throughout the passing of cruelness and deculturization that had become all too common throughout time. Over 600 years later, and Serbia still finds pride in her promise, to protect her brother. Geographically speaking, Astrit had been under Serbia's protection long before the year 1389, long before Vidovdan. Their bond was not marked with borders, nor with gold. Their bond was marked with love and a sense of nationality, not simply something that could be inked into history, or told by the campfire. It was something the people were simply born with, it had become their birthright, their grand instinct. The capitals of Serbian kings and the thrones of Serbian archbishops and patriarchs were in the heart of the fertile lands of Kosovo. These facts had contributed to a profoundly Serbian land, even before the battle. Loyalty and protection in it's purest sense had became a synonym with a specific meaning: The Serbdom. This pact was written in the blood of Serbian warriors, peasants, nobles, Kings, beggars. This link, this bond could never be broken, even if Astrit had wanted to. Snezana had gone from mighty, to lonely. She had been separated from Kosovo, from her promise, from her pride. This scarred her more than defeat. In defeat, she had done everything she could have. She had done what she had set out to do, and Ottoman Turkey wouldn't soon forget her might, her willpower. That was the Serbian Empire, however. A crumbling empire reduced to little. She had lost much of her lands, but this was not the core of it. She had lost the light of hope. The only guide through the ever-darkening era she was forced to endure. Being so lonely, fortunately a temporary arrangement. She was soon absorbed into the Ottoman Empire, as well as Kosovo. The world had its backed turned on her, starting from the very end creases of the last century. She was alone in this new age, with an increasing number of nations welcoming Astrit, and denying her of her brother, of her heart. They wanted to tear her apart, they always tried to do that to the weak. A formula of target, demoralize, and repeat. It'd suppressed anyone in the past who could possibly make any change, who could be different. She, however, wouldn't be tossed aside in history. No, not at this time in history. Not with so many counting on her. She had gotten the feeling more than once that the others in the manor would sooner sell her out than face any danger. It wasn't unreasonable, she was not easily understood, she didn't often give them an explanation. They didn't deserve it. They couldn't possibly understand how she felt, they all had the smiling faces of those around them to give them that vital shred of happiness. The happiness that seemed better off without her. But she knew at the core of things, Kosovo knew the truth in his heart. There was so much to say, so much to tell to her foes. Things to discuss, and to pass on to those that would ask why this happened. To ask about those left behind. It wasn't, however, the best situation for idle chit-chat and to be getting familiar with the others. Perhaps it was for the best that she could not find it in herself to say what was on her mind, but she always had this trouble. Instead, they were trapped, a parading attraction for all of the monstrous on-goers below, demanding blood and carnage. It was easy, to refrain from speaking, and to allow instinct to take over. A barbarous promenade. Mexico had evaded the bulk her precise blow, no doubt. She had a great deal of athletic ability in herself. It was foolish to take her headstrong mentality to heart. This wasn't the little girl who listened to others' orders, this was an independent woman who knew all to well how to respond to people trying to attack head-on. Even when she was losing her mind, Ana María was a formidable foe. It would take more than a dash to break through her wall of fortitude. Her own motions were elegant, and she'd managed to do the oddest of somersault motions. It was expected, she was from an odd corner of the world, after all. Her abilities would be in many areas in which Snezana couldn't predict. 'She's fighting on two fronts. She's fighting herself, as well as me. Her key weakness is that she's eventually going to break, that she'll defeat herself. Can she endure this for much longer?'Both nations reached a moment of respite, gazing over to Monaco, once more. She was the silent threat. She had no physically visible weapon, but that didn't mean she was unarmed. This would be a foolish assumption to make. She could very well have had a concealed weapon, knives, guns, even a grenade or two. To lull them into a sense of conflict and profit from the sidelines, preparing for them to slip, for her to make her move. How very French of her, if this were the case. Serbia made a very important note to not find herself under the chandelier. That was as likely a trigger for her to strike as any, and she wouldn't have her fight interrupted by cheap tricks. There was so much more on the line than that. The tension was inflating in the room like a balloon, it could pop at any moment. Mexico broke into a sprint of her own. Running right towards her. A more rough, determined running than what she had presented. The thought was on the result, not on the technique. This would likely be an advantage, if the fight lasted for all too long. This seemed to be an honorable gesture, on her part, to not try and stab her. Her weapon was away, and she didn't hold herself in a well-positioned pose to try and slit her throat, to stab her, or to even touch it. Snezana tried to give an affirming gesture to Monaco, as to remind her that interfering would cause them both to turn on her. That's when Mexico made her move, she was looking to go for hits in rapid succession, by the look of her formation. Too many landed blows could cause her to be knocked out at this point, but she was still just warming up. Mexico would have to do better than trying to punch her in the face. Quickly, Snezana tossed her racquet to her side, and fell to her knees, taking a strategic stance as to repel her assailant. To attack the branch of a tree was easily enough accomplished, however, the true strength of the tree lied within the thick body. Held together by the trunk, roots, and the frame. The human body was no different. Her blows would be of little effectiveness and wouldn't cause much harm at all- Suddenly, Mexico's left foot shot forward, while Snezana was still transitioning into her defensive pose. She'd miscalculated in her strategy, as the foot made contact, full force, with her wrist. A loud crack echoed out, as time seemed to freeze for a moment. A few moments in a solemn silence, before Serbia let out an agonizing scream. There was an awkward unnatural bend on her wrist, and it was very well likely broken. An inopportune change of events at the worst possible time. An annoying, throbbing memento from the Latina nation. This was unfortunate, but it wasn't enough to stop Snezana. Reaching out her other arm, to grab one of Mexico's, she would attempt to flip her, which was reasonable enough, considering she still had the right technique in all of this. However, not before she would attempt, with all of her strength, a devastating headbutt. Now was not the time to lament the loss of her arm's usability, nor was it the time to slow down. She was going to make damned sure this girl would get a taste of her own medicine. The entire body was a weapon, not just the most flexible limbs. The flip was Snezana's signature move, generally followed by a disarming joint-lock. However, this was usually done with both arms. And this wasn't a luxury Snezana had. Give and take.[/center]
* From a memorial in Pristina that commemorates the Battle of Kosovo. Translated, of course. ** It’s time, look! theres the reaper! It’s time, look! there’s the reaper! Ow. I'm sorry if this is a mess, I'm running ill.
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Post by monaco on Feb 22, 2013 15:12:09 GMT -6
She only smiled innocently when both Serbia and Mexico paused in mid-battle, taking their eyes off of their current adversary and sparing the tiniest glance at her. It was all too amusing to Ciel that they both happened to look at her at the same time, as if suddenly deciding a spontaneous, ephemeral truce. Of course, she wouldn’t offer them what they seemed to want most – some sort of reaction, or at least a change in expression. But unfortunately for the pair, she had mastered her poker face a long, long time ago. Although she couldn’t blame them for being paranoid; she certainly would be too, if she was in either of their positions. But Ciel did doubt they had the luxury of distracting themselves from each other for too long.
Neither of the other Nations had any intimation about what weapon she had concealed in her coat, and Ciel was perfectly content with leaving it to their imagination. She still possessed the element of surprise, which was always an added bonus. Her revolver had six shots; she would make them count when the right time came.
However, that time was not now.
Instead, several ways of creatively utilizing her gun began to form in her mind; who, when and how she would use it. Who depended on the victor of the battle between Mexico and Serbia; when depended on how much longer she wished to be entertained and on whether or not Mexico killed Serbia or vice versa; but how… How was the most imaginative of the trio. Ciel could easily aim for the chandelier hanging tautly above their heads, if she could somehow lure one of her opponents underneath it or close to it. Shooting either of her fellow Nations sounded quite unappealing at the moment; Ciel wanted to toy with her prey. It seemed that even in her last few minutes, seconds, whatever time she had left, she was still discovering hidden traits of her personality. It appeared she had some sadistic tendencies; deep down, Ciel could feel that she wanted to enjoy this. It would be a onetime event, after all.
I hope so.
She didn’t want to dirty her hands by soaking them in blood of her enemies directly. She wanted to dip only the surface of the pools, enabling herself to feel the sensation of the thick, red liquid, but not being gluttonous. Too little was better than too much, in her opinion.
Or none at all.
Ciel wished for the voice inside her head to silence itself; it was still clinging onto its morals and what little humanity she had formerly had. Irritating and unnecessary, was what it was.
When the unfamiliar sound of bones cracking and an ear shattering scream echoed only a moment later throughout the small room, she returned from her musings to reality (Reality? No. This isn’t reality. It can’t be reality) to find the source of the deafening noise. Ciel squinted her eyes just the slightest in order to see Serbia’s left wrist bent in a way that it should’ve never been bent in by Mexico’s foot. It was most likely broken – no, it had to be. There was no possibility that a wrist could be anything but broken in that angle, and especially after hearing the repulsive but strangely alluring sound of breaking bones.
How sickening.
And as if to even further serve a purpose of gratification for Ciel, Serbia head butted Mexico, and then proceeded to disrupt the Latina’s balance and flip her over with her uninjured arm. She waited for the satisfying noise of a body colliding with the makeshift floor – and perhaps some whimpers of pain from the monsters below – with a patient smile.
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Survivor
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Why would I want to destroy something I helped build?
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Post by Mexico on Feb 28, 2013 21:29:38 GMT -6
One day she will collapse. The weight of her world would come crashing down, demanding recognition. Inside she felt like everything was spinning. Her head was aching with what felt like a million needles pressing along the edges of her skull. She fell on the floor, her eyes shut in the moment her opponents head hit hers. It was an agonizing instant headache that blinded her. In those few seconds, Mexico could feel the adrenaline within her body raise. Her heart started to beat harder and faster as her whole body filled with fear. In that moment of panic, Ana Maria heard one of the most undesirable screams. When she had aimed to kick Serbia, she had all the intention of breaking her hands. Her immediate advantage would be to get those hands out of the way. Make them useless.
It seemed her intentions had become true with that scream. She hadn't felt anything when she kicked the girl. And if she had, it was all a blur with the headbutt she had received. Mexico had to open her eyes and stand up, but her body demanded to fall into unconsciousness. That was out of the question. She had to go on, no matter the strain she was putting into her body. This was a battle to win, not to lose. This was a skin on skin combat. The use of weapons would seem dishonorable. Ana María opened her eyes and slowly stood up as she felt some blood falling from her nose. She whipped it away with her left hand and the sight of it poured all over made her feel sick. She was dizzy and exhausted and felt like throwing up.
It took her a moment to compose herself, taking a few feet backwards. She reviewed what was going on around her. Serbia was in pain and her racquet was on the floor, no longer seeming like an immediate threat but still of concern. Monaco was hiding in the shadows. Her lack of reaction was getting inside her head. Why couldn't she just do something? Anything at all. Ana María wanted her go get into the fight. To be someone's show and entertainment was irritating and made her angry. She wanted to yell at her that they weren't playing a game. It was serious, and for the sake of her survival she should take it as such.
Then she looked at the ceiling. The chandelier was a few steps in front of her. Ana María wrapped her bloody hand across her necklace. The small golden cross that was so dear for her. She prayed to a God for it to stop it. She pleaded that this should be over. Not just the battle, but their entire existence within the manor. "I am sorry for what I've done. I am sorry for what I've become. I would stop if I knew only that I wasn't losing my mind. I can't hold it back now." Truth was, Ana María needed this. She wanted a thrill. She was getting addicted to the adrenaline and the fear and insomnia that survival in this place brought her.
It was as though she wanted to have to survive.
Something very dark on her behalf.
As she stood her hands landed on her weapon, put away for safe keeping. She was right when she had said that it would be dishonorable to use them when they were not due to be used. But since when was she an honorable and honest being? She lied and she cheated. Sometimes for the sake of her people but the intentions remained the same. Whatever the cause, in the end she was a liar. It was who she was. Her right hand wrapped itself around the handle of her blade. Before pulling it out she studied her opponent.
Hurt but definitely facing her. That's when it hit her. The idea of how to defeat her opponent. The one thing she was completely honest about was that Mexico did not wish to cause Serbia more pain. But she would, because there was no other way around it. No other way that would guarantee she became the victor in this war.
It was now or never.
Mexico did not pull her hand away from the handle as she sprinted towards Serbia as fast as her legs could carry her. She still had the lump in her throat, the acid building up, but she ignored it. She swallowed it even. This was the moment everything was leading up to. As Ana María reached Serbia, she grabbed her injured wrist and twisted in ways that could only be described as torture. She waited for the scream, knew it was there, buried deep within. It was a sound she expected, a sound she needed to hear, but she didn't wait for it. Time was ticking, it was a luxury. No more time wasted shedding tears in the Manor.
As she forced the girl's wrist to obey her tactics, Mexico draw her blade and prepared herself for her objective. She would've marked the place she wished to attack with a bloody cross, but she wasn't that savage. As far as her vision could go, she analyzed the places in her body where she could stab her and when she was finally content with one she did. With all the force that she could manage Ana María forced her blade right through the girl's skin. She stabbed her just above where she figure Serbia's belly button was. Mexico wasn't completely sure how much damage this would cause. She wasn't sure what she had hit as she felt the resistance of the European girl's skin. She wanted to look away but she forced herself to stare.
She forced herself to stare. She wanted to do this.
No more lies or urges to apologize.
They all wanted this.
Ana María didn't draw her blade out for fear of what might happen if she did. Was it too soon? Too quick? Had she actually done it right? It had taken all of her strength to stab Serbia the way she did. She had to force it and that left insecurity in her eyes. As time seemed to pass so slowly, Mexico eventually pulled her blade out. Her machete, her beautiful sacred machete was covered in blood that wasn't her own. The sick developing in her stomach was coming at her again. She swallowed hard. Ana María took a few steps back, trying to get away for the chandelier that rested above her head.
Her eyes were fixed on Serbia, and that was perhaps her greatest mistake, for she forgot for a moment that they were not alone. But it didn't seem to matter. Mexico wanted a reaction. She wanted to see what had happened to the European. She wanted to see how much it hurt. She needed it.
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Post by Deleted on Mar 10, 2013 22:00:21 GMT -6
This whole charade was quickly fading. In the back of her mind, Snezana would continue to picture the flag of Serbia waving, with those she once looked to for advice and support, awaiting her. It was a blurry, fuzzy image that felt as though it was gradually coming clear into focus. What did this mean, and why now? She had not the means, or the proper state of mind to even attempt to dissect these lucid visions. Simply, she focused her efforts on the matter at hand. As this would be her grand crescendo; the end of all ends. Her time was drawing short, and she knew it. The idea of killing was revolting enough in itself. Life was supposed to be precious, something valued and shared. There was a time where things seemed like they were finally going to get better, but they never did. Those around her never truly realized who she was, or what she really had to offer. They all kept their thoughts to themselves, and when they did share it was never anything good. The people of her past were mostly dead, an odd mixture of newer and old countries. he never wanted things to change; she was content when she was able to protect everyone she loved, and when she had the Empire to back it up. Empire... The term that had become a staple of many egotistical nations. The word that simply meant in some cases that a reasonably sized territory had an affluence of stubbornness, and an immeasurable number of coffers filled completely with pride. The value of the word that caused men to kill one another, without remorse or even a care in the long term consequences. Indeed, the Austrian, Ottoman, Mughal, as well as the Roman and Greek empires were mighty and commanded much force. However, Serbia always wanted more than power or conquest, even if her own ego was swelling. The issue with her legacy, and most aspects of her life, was that those around her never seemed to become placated. Everyone did wrong, and everyone held their childish grudges. The whole world had been detestable since Serbia had taken into power. It felt unfair. Atrocious actions from everyone around her, the people she loved and cared for that had come to hate her so. They tried to kill her, convert her, steal from her, and punish her for the little, insignificant things that she had done, her minute mistakes. She did not understand those around her, they were all selfish and cruel. Even now, being forced into another situation that she didn't want to get involved with, it was all a horrible scenario playing out. Perhaps, it was simply the nature of man, woman, and nations alike. Throughout it all, Snezana had no intention to kill in this fight. Without any sense of motivation, and nothing to look forward to, conflict at all was the very definition of fruitless. Her true intentions always seemed to be elusive, and almost devious. She was not very good with conveying her words, and she would more often than not hide her inner strength. Her incredible ability, all masked away for reasons unknown, as the cunning Serbia held her sacred values with an utmost sense of secrecy. It had been that way, ever since that fateful day, so long ago.
December 20th, 1355. Prizren, the capital of the Serbian Empire. Palman, Snezana Bodnia, and various other nobles of the Serbian court, all gathered together to talk about the rising Ottoman Empire, and their plans to counter their advance, with Serbia being one of the first obstacles to their path to European conquest. The people were split on what they wanted to do, and some even were questioning the decisions of Stephen Dušan, the mighty ruler of the Serbian Empire. With him ill, Serbia took it upon herself to speak in his stead. "Yes. We must defeat the Ottoman Empire. Our plans are already being put into place, and we shall counter them soon.""That's insane! Their army far outmatches the strength our own. Fighting the Ottomans in a full campaign would ruin the stability of our lands. You call yourself Serbian Orthodox but you bark like a dog to humor the Catholic Pope!""Hold your tongue, if you have any sense at all. This woman is much more significant to this Empire than you could ever understand. She speaks behalf of our ruler.""And just who the hell are you? You look like you're dead, and you speak with a German accent, but you dare to enter this council and defend this rubbish?!""My name is Palman. I was born with a lip and palate disorder, but that speaks nothing of my character, mind you. I am a long-time server of Serbia, and of her people. I may be Germanic but I have done more for Serbia than you ever have. I fear the future of these lands, with people like you around to call yourselves noble. And then there's me, a mere mercenary, trusted more than your lot. This is a detestable state of affairs, ja. Show some respect.""Why fight a war we can't afford, and we can't win! There is nothing to gain in attacking the Ottoman Empire! We should use diplomatic means to keep them away instead! Yeah, that's the solution! We don't have to lose anyone at all! Haha!""...The Serbian people will defeat the Ottoman Empire because they bring conflict to the land. If we don't get involved now, the wars will be brought to us. They aren't simply going to leave us be. We are not of their faith, and that is enough reason to invade us. To keep the people of Serbia in safety, we will uproot the source of this conflict. There is no diplomacy in this... There's not anything we can do but... ...You ...You are... You're an... Idiot. WE FIGHT FOR THE BETTERING AND SAFETY OF OUR PEOPLE! WHAT OTHER REASON DO WE NEED?!"Overcome by her emotions, Serbia looked down, and covered her face with her hands. There was no right answer. The Ottomans had unbelievable numbers, and she was heavily outnumbered, even with her allies. There was little option but to try and take the fight to them, as an attempt to save lives. They had to rely on the brillance of Dušan, his strategies were the last hope in saving her people from suffering and oppression under the rule of such savage foreigners. Her emotions were swelling, and the last thing she wanted was for the discontent to spread, she wanted to give the people a reliable answer, to prove her worth. "...I'm sorry... I just... I..."So suddenly as she had begun her apology, a man burst into the rooms of the chamber. His expression was weary, he had been running for some time. Wearing the imperial insignia on his armor, it was no doubt that this man was a messenger. And his fatigued expression did not seem to bode well. Shaking in his armor, he took a moment to rejuvenate his lost energy, not bothered by the awkwardness of the situation he was in, not in the very least. "I... I bring terrible news... ...My... My lady... The great... The Mighty Ruler... Our Lord Stephan Dušan has died...""...wha...what...""Poisoned... By unknown men... An investigation is in progress, but we may never know who has done this..."A horrid silence overtook the room. Slowly, Snezana moved her arms from covering her eyes. She looked on in a state of disbelief. This was the worst possible situation. Everyone was staring at her, as if she knew what to do. As if she ever knew what to do. War was bad enough, but to lose one's grand leader was too much a burden. The sorrow swelled within Serbia. With her vision blurring, she stood from her chamber's seat. The round table around her, all of the nobles were watching on, confused. Her steps were lagged, and her vision was fading more and more. She walked slowly over to a corner, as if to hide in shame. It took every fiber of her being, simply to hold back her tears. She was quickly unwinding. "...Stephen... Stephen is... is... No... He's.. ...dead... no... Not yet... ...no... Not yet, Stephen... No... I... Ugh... Ugh... NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"She was broken, and she was furious. She unsheathed her precious basket-hilted sword, and she collapsed to her knees. Screaming bloodcurdling swears and heartrending language unknown to any foreign to such pains, she hysterically stabbed her sword into the walls, over and over again. She had lost her sense of control, and everyone was watching her break down. She didn't care. It wasn't a concern what they thought, they didn't fully understand the consequences of this premature change in plans. She was going to lose the majority of her forces, of herself. Just as the holes in the wall were broadening with each stab, just as her screams echoed into the streets, was the long turmoil of the next generation coming into fruition. All that she had fought so hard to protect, was lost in the blink of an eye. Palman, Dušan's most trusted of officers, as well as the other nobles, attempted to restrain the deranged Serb. But she turned the sword against them, and told them to stay away, as tears fell down her face. She had to get out these horrible feelings, before they cost people their lives. This was the moment in which she decided that she would keep her feelings to herself in the days to come. Overcome by her sorrow, she had just enough sanity to make this promise to herself. That she would never again feel this way. She pledged that this would be the last time that she ever lost her cool like this again. June 15, 1389. The fields of Kosovo. Once filled with laughter and romance, now engulfed in a sea of conflict and flames. They were all dead. Everyone she had promised to protect had died, all of her close followers and loyal retainers. Just a week ago, they all were drinking merrily and promising of a safe return. And now the rich lands and fertile fields resembled the current state of the empire. It was charred, and desolate. She was indeed losing her influence, and her power was dwindling. Her promise, to return to these fields after the battle and celebrate with her friends and countrymen, was but a mere illusion. Throughout the conflict, many people on both ends met their end, including the Sultan, Murad I. He was a noble foe, much unlike the rumors and lies spread by those in which he'd defeated. It took the last of her resources to deny him her lands. She stood over her fallen foe, and covered his body with the Ottoman Flag, borrowed from a fallen flagbearer. "Murad... Your prowess, your legendary might, and your loyalty until the very end... This all will go down in history, and you will be revered as a hero... But I hated you with every fiber of my being... You took Lazar Hrebeljanović, the Order of the Dragon, and all of my noblemen... You were an excellent commander... But it's over... Dušan, Lazar... I've done all I can..."The battle at Kosovo ended in a stalemate. Later historians would pin this battle as the end of Serbian resistance to Ottoman conquest. They fought against an army much larger than their own, and they held their own. Almost every figure of note in the battle had perished, including both the leaders of Serbia, as well as the Sultan of Ottoman Turkey. This battle would later be known as the most significant day in all of Serbian history.
Suddenly, she began to feel Mexico mutilating her already injured wrist in unspeakable ways. It was funny, Serbia wondered where she was, for a moment. She was losing her ability to tell reality from memory, and her sense of time also felt to be distorted. How long were they here? She thought that she was free, but was only seeing visions of the past. And that's all they were. Was this what it was like? To die? To have to endure the painful events all over again? Tears fell from her eyes at the torture she was being put through, mentally and physically. The pain was unbearable, but she held in the urge to scream, to show her weakness again. She would not violate another promise with such a short time left. She would die with dignity. Biting her lips so hard that blood was dripping, she felt the cool steel of Mexico's rusty machete pierce into her flesh. Looking down at her wound, she felt sick to her stomach. The pain hadn't even set in before she turned her head to the side, and vomited all over her tennis racquet. There was a hint of blood mixed into it, but she wasn't going to die, at least not instantly. She looked into the eyes of her foe, and noted the change. She was different, than she was before. Her fierceness seemed to know no bounds, and her force was unparalleled. Despite it being brutal, and inhumane, there was a charm to her. Coughing and gasping, a suffering Serbia attempted to place together her final words. "Ha... You're actually quite a warrior... Meksiko... Even this horrible situation couldn't break... Your resolve...
Haha... It just made you all the more willing to fight for what you believe in... Without causing everyone to hate you for it... Like they did with me... I wish I could have ever been... so charismatic...
I wanted nothing more than to see the world I dreamt of with my family... To escape from here... With Kosovo... And Monaco... And... You... everyone together...
I didn't want to... I didn't want to let down Kosovo... Like this... To die here... It will only bring him more pain... I promised I wouldn't betray him... That I wouldn't prove insufficient... I wouldn't be the Serbia who only ever thought of herself... And I won't... I won't fail my dear promise...
I'm still... I'm protecting him... From what I would become... If I killed someone like... Like you... Someone so kind and sweet... Even though... It doesn't exactly look like it now...
I just wish... I wish had more time.... More time to say what I've kept inside for so long... To say the things he never heard... I don't remember the last time that I told him I loved him... I don't remember if I ever have before...
All of the things that will just become relics of a forgotten history... Nobody wants me around anymore... So in a way... Everyone wins...
Mexico... Please... I ask you hear me out here... I don't have anyone else that... That I can trust with this...
My final... My last wish that... That you'll... Please take care of Kosovo... In your own way. He isn't ready to be on his own... Not yet... You know as well as I do he isn't...
He isn't ready to see that this world is able to turn his smiles into tears again... That his so-called friends would just... Just turn on him for the gains of the short-term... As soon as he does something that doesn't suit them...
Mexico... I'm trusting you... With this all... Because nobody else... Nobody else ever cared to listen... They only turned against me, one by one... Everyone I loved and raised... They're all... Well you know...
Hah... I thought that... That you were crazy when I first met you... That you were going to fall apart and collapse under the weight of the burdens. you have... That you wouldn't make it through... But... But when I saw how happy you made those around you, I understood deep down inside of myself... And to see your face here... I understood that this was the necessary end to this fight, even before it began...
Hah... If I know you at all.. You're even a little excited by this prospect... To lead Kosovo in my place. But... My time here is over. I have to fulfill another promise... The promise... To meet them all again in celebration...
Mother... Did I... Did I make you proud?
My King... My ruler... Stephen Dušan... I lost you so soon... But... Selfishly, I ask anyway... Was this the Great Serbia you expected of me..?
Hah... Lazar Hrebeljanović... That promise to meet again... With... My fallen comrades back from... From that battle in Kosovo... I can finally do this... And... I can finally tell them all I'm sorry...
And... Astrit Zupan... Kosovo... My brother... I'll have to teach you how to make Gibanica another day... "She stood there, smiling, of all things. She was ready. She was unable to speak another word, but she had finally opened up, after hundreds of years of shutting herself in. This Mexico, she would strive to greatness, for sure. While there was no time for lamenting, Serbia regretted being unable to see the future that she would create with her dearest brother. She regretted not tucking him in every night, and she regretted losing him. She regretted a lot, but she had little time for such things. Her ideals had caused her to lose her own life, and she couldn't help but wonder if that was a good thing. Were her ideals outdated, and was this all just a big waste of her talents? It was unknown. Her body felt colder by the second, and her vision once more shifted into a blur. With the last of her strength, she brushed a hand across Mexico's cheek, and gave a smile with a nod. She could see it, the distant phantoms of her friends. They were calling out to her, and she wanted to run towards them. Her body was shaking slightly, but she refused to fall. If this was her final moment, she would in the very least die with a proper dignity. As she pictured herself walking into the sunset with her friends, tears fell from her eyes, as she died firmly standing tall. This was her final defiance. She would not give the inhabitants the joy, the satisfaction of seeing her physically collapse to the ground. She would go on her own terms. Thus, the death match between Serbia and Mexico concluded on a high note, as Snezana had remembered one last thing she had said so long ago in the precious moments before her death. 'My inner-most strength and wisdom, I devote this all to those in which I love.'
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Survivor
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Why would I want to destroy something I helped build?
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Post by Mexico on Mar 20, 2013 20:49:55 GMT -6
What did you do?
Tears of blood fell down the tip of her weapon. It had penetrated another nation's skin. It had penetrated another human being. She could feel the droplets hitting the floor. One after the other like endless anthems singing the dead man song. Each one was beautiful piercing, like a small glass breaking. One crack and then the other, until it just smashed. Mexico's fingers slowly began to open the spaces between the handle until they let go. The enormous blade fell down to the ground, the metal hitting first. It vibrated like the sound of thunder and then nothing.
Murderer.
Ana María watched the beautiful yet delicate Snezana. Tears were falling from the shades of crimson that made her eyes. Mexico had injured her. She came at her with all of her strength, knowing fully well of the damage she was capable of inflicting. She had hurt her both inside and out. How do you want to die? From the outside in or from the inside out? Ana María watched, as she took several steps back to give Serbia some space. She watched as her fellow nation became sick at her feet. The same feeling erupted inside the Latin American but she held it in. She swallowed hard but her eyes never left the other's.
She watched the final testimony of someone who would not live to escape this place. How cruel was Mexico for allowing that? She had taken upon herself to sign off someone's fate. She had decided to end someone's life. She had deliberately denied her any signs of freedom. Everything that Mexico had ever fought for became meaningless. Her principles and values disintegrated into the consequences of her actions. Mexico had become what she hated. She had become what she was fighting against. She took someone's life and made them prisoners for life.
What have you done?
What was it like to die? Mexico wondered how it felt. She knew pain and hurt, but not enough to completely destroyed her. It was then that she realized that she wasn't wiser than mere humans. For they knew something that she didn't. They understood and accepted the fact that we all perish. Some had left with dignity, others to crime, but in the end it is the same path. And Ana María didn't know it.
I wanted nothing more than to see the world I dreamt of with my family... To escape from here... With Kosovo... And Monaco... And... You... everyone together...
Every word that emitted out of Serbia's mouth was a painful shriek in Mexico's mind. She wanted her to stop it. To keep quiet. She couldn't deal in with her words. Not any more. Not any longer. Everything around her was moving at a speed that she couldn't control. She wanted Serbia to be angry at her. Angry because Mexico had and was killing her. But no. Serbia did not let on any anger or contempt against the Latina. Instead it seemed she admired her for some reason or another. Truth was Mexico did not feel so good about herself at the moment. Especially because her actions did not seem to bring her any closer to escaping. Which was, after all, the reason behind everything.
Mexico... Please... I ask you hear me out here... I don't have anyone else that... That I can trust with this...
My final... My last wish that... That you'll... Please take care of Kosovo... In your own way. He isn't ready to be on his own... Not yet... You know as well as I do he isn't...
Mexico... I'm trusting you... With this all... Because nobody else... Nobody else ever cared to listen... They only turned against me, one by one... Everyone I loved and raised... They're all... Well you know...
No. No. No. No... Oh Serbia no. Mexico looked down at the puddles of blood spilled. Her own blood and the blood of an enemy. Why must she ask of her something that she wasn't sure she would be able to comply with? Mexico wasn't sure she'd be of much help to anyone at the moment. How could she protect someone when she hardly could protect herself? Why must she be assigned a task that overpasses her abilities. But she couldn't refuse. This was the last thing that Serbia asked of her, and who would she be to deny it? How could she ever deny it?
Before Mexico could speak, could even nod in response to Serbia, let her know that she was accepting her humble request the other died. Serbia died before her, in a place that was out of everyone's imagination. Her own tear fell down her eye. One tear because this was not over. Mexico moved towards the one that stayed, the one that didn't say much or anything at all. Her weapon was left behind. She would not mix the blood, mix the deaths. Mexico walked towards Monaco, alone in the dark.
Mexico acted quick, eager to put an end to it, once and for all. She knew that Monaco had conceal a weapon somewhere between her so she looked for it and when she found it she took several steps back. She had invaded someone's privacy, disarm them and was now pointing a gun towards her last opponent. She was either really mad or really smart to do this. But none would get her any where. Ana María had used guns before. Guns older than this one. And she hated them. She hated guns because the feeling of power that came when you're holding one is indescribable. You feel a need to shoot at something, anything, because that's what guns do. That's what they're supposed to do.
Ana María stepped into the light. Her own blood was covering the gun, her clothes. She would not come unscratched from this match. She was afraid of what might happen outside this walls. How long before her sanity completely vanished into the memories of this event? Both her hands held the weapon but not too firmly. Just enough to be easy to switch positions. Ana María loaded it, fixed her target and pulled the trigger. For all she knew, the gun might as well have no bullets, but she shot still. Once and then twice. Not three times, because three times crosses over the line between cautious and cruel. When she heard another body fall, she dropped the weapon.
This is who she was. This is what she had become. A murderer of nations, of the people that resided in those nations. Tears started falling but she did not cry. She wasn't allowed to cry. Ana María walked over to the center of the room, just below the chandelier. The light reflected over her face and the skeleton mask she wore. Makeup after all. Ana María wiped the side of her face with her sleeve. Some of the makeup came right off, but not all. She was taking off the mask. She was coming to terms with what she had done. The girl fell to her knees. Ashamed.
"¿Qué he hecho?"[/color] What have I done? "Todo en lo que he luchado, todo se ha derretido a mis pies."[/color] Everything I've fought for, everything has perished. "Lo siento."[/color] Forgive me. "Quería matarlas, pero no las quería muertas."[/color] I wanted to kill you, but I didn't want you dead.
There are a few words that could ever describe how she felt. She felt broken and empty inside. Taking someone's life doesn't make yours any better. Sometimes it just makes it worst. Ana María stared at the dead bodies. She forced her eyes to see. And it hurt. It hurt so much. Because nothing she could do would ever bring them back. There was nothing. She had done enough. This is what she wanted no? This was after all, what she had wanted. She couldn't regret something she had wanted and gotten with every ounce of desire. But still, it hurt.
Her eyes rested on Monaco.
"I didn't know you too well. I didn't know you and yet I shoot you. I killed you. I am sorry. Maybe you'll find it in your heart to- to forgive me."[/color]
Then, her eyes rested on Serbia.
"And you, you were out of this world. I've never met someone like you before. I am truly sorry for what I did. I am sorry for the pain I caused you even before you died. I can't take it back, but I wish I could. I will do what you asked me. I will take care of your brother. I will protect his life like it was a part of me. Because you protected mine. Now I understand, that what you did, you did it because you wanted to save me. Thank you. And I promise."[/color]
Ana María understood that the only reason that she was alive was because Serbia had wanted it that way. She had sacrificed herself for another and that was a trait that not everybody had. She wanted to tell the world that the Serbia they knew was not the one that lived inside such body. There was much more to her than met the eye. Much more than what history told them. Mexico had seen it. She had seen what that Balkan was capable of. She was eternally grateful. Not many would risk their lives for others. Ana María stood at her knees and she prayed. She prayed to a God that she had never doubted existed. A God that was kind and just and would, in the end, judge the consequence of her actions.
The girl closed her eyes. She ignored the pain that was not setting in, especially in her right palm. She ignored the blood and the creatures below her that savored it. She ignored the glistering light of the chandelier. She ignored everything. She was looking for peace, but she couldn't find it. When she opened her eyes again, she waited. Ana María didn't know what was to happen next. Her match was done. She was the victor. The victor... Such a word seemed foreign to her. She had won, but it was meaningless. No one wins on a death match. The one who survives stays back to pick up the pieces. And there were so many pieces to pick up. Pieces and pieces. So Ana María waited. The Inhabitants would make their undisputed appearance and would toss her back in this sick game of survival. It was just a matter of time before she came to be in front of something as hazardous as this. But for now she would breathe again. She would breathe again.
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