Omens
Sept 2, 2019 5:39:03 GMT -8
Post by Persimmon on Sept 2, 2019 5:39:03 GMT -8
Omens
A flock of children weaved through the crowds in the open courtyard, their shrill, grating laughter joining the chorus of chatter that pervaded the festival grounds. A menagerie of Pokémon shaped balloons wildly bobbed up and down after the underage horde. Chanseys and Geodudes, Voltorbs and Oddishes, each bounced and swayed as their tethered masters gleefully slipped past burger stands and carnie traps.
The air stunk of cooking grease, sweat and chlorine, the sort of aroma that would stick to clothing long after the day was done.
Standing idle next to a water dispenser and overlooking the festivities was one Martini Ravensdale, her skin a sickly pale and her typically vibrant eyes hidden behind pitch black shades.
The organisers at the solstice tournament had been kind enough to grant access to an exclusive lounge for the combatants. It was tucked away on a fourth story floor, detached enough to hide the complimentary buffet on order, one that was admittedly, vastly superior to everything else on offer. Pappardelle with braised Gogoat ragù steamed heartily next to a platter of warm breads and fresh cheeses, the bounty made all the better with an accompanying stockpile of various tarts, quiches and grilled scallops fresh from the local fishery. A tower of champagne was on offer to those old enough to drink and several large bowls of neon punch sat waiting like citrusy cauldrons.
People had come and gone, executives, organisers, staff and performers. Anyone who held a stake in that day's events. For the combatants that were willing to trek the distance to the lounge, they'd find the establishment accommodating enough to catch a breath away from the bustle of leering onlookers.
Such was the reason why Martini scurried into the lounge's lavish embrace, soaking up its air conditioning and the readily available keg of water by her side. What she assumed to be a steady journey back to sobriety for the day had been misinformed at best. The battles had worn her down, chipping away at the heiress until she was little more than a shivering husk filled with fatigue.
Her fight against the child Titus, whom she'd only just discovered was some ponce's son up north, had evaporated whatever was left of her ego driven reserves. She'd made her show, she'd faced the gamut and she sacrificed her youth at the altar of the chanting choir.
Even the promise of expected victory left nothing more than a bitter taste in her mouth.
Alas, fate was a grand comedian and it's crude interventions flashed brightly on her holocaster.
"Darling, you impress me more everyday.
You have made us all so proud! Dinner is on me when we're back home.
But something has come up and Piper tells me you're sick.
Pls drop out on this winning streak, I will xplain soon. This is for your sake and safety.
Love dad
P.S. maybe lay off the drinks for today. <3
You have made us all so proud! Dinner is on me when we're back home.
But something has come up and Piper tells me you're sick.
Pls drop out on this winning streak, I will xplain soon. This is for your sake and safety.
Love dad
P.S. maybe lay off the drinks for today. <3
Cold eyes had stared unflinching at the request for the past five minutes, painted fingers tepidly dancing over scripted responses that ranged from confused indignation to genuine relief.
But behind all that, a clouded suspicion that chewed on the promise of an explanation. Her father wasn't the sort to mince words or toy with her and Martini was in little shape to argue back.
Some part of the young woman knew she'd been clawing at whatever excuse to divorce herself from the tournament. After all, she'd only joined as a joke.
Leaving on a victory would be a fitting punchline. She'd proved her worth to the masses, she spilled blood and represented her brand...as abstract and innocuous as it was. Whatever satisfied sadism lingered after her triumph over the penguin boy was little more than a meek whisper, pleading for the ego fuelled bloodlust to continue. What more was there to gain but added vindication?
Swallowing the itchy cocktail of pride and stubbornness, the heiress' fingers numbly responded.
Okay.
I'm not feeling too great. I'll let someone know.
<3
I'm not feeling too great. I'll let someone know.
<3
And so she did.
Gritting away the hubris that may have won on any other day, Martini Ravensdale, in the most delicate of voices, tugged at an organiser and pled her case. Alcohol poisoning, lack of sleep, the beginning of her period and mere exhaustion were all seamlessly laced together under a simpering mewl. She played her part and played it well, the quiver of painted lips a necessary embellishment for the stuttering man she marked as the bearer of bad news.
"Just...tell them I wish I could continue. Perhaps next year I'll come back and beat more people..." Martini pouted as pathetically as her features would allow, thick lashes fluttering over bloodshot eyes.
The organiser, as expected, could do little to debate the choice and after offering condolences he hurried away to make her half-truth a reality.
The game was over. Defeat would have to wait another day.
"Well...shit." She mumbled under breath, straightening her posture and swiping a nearby tart from the table.
The carbs would help distract her from the glaring question that still gnawed in the back of her rickety, vodka stained mind.
What was it that her father needed to explain?