Misfortune

Short intro of the Tribute:
Misfortune hails from the Clan of the Howling Mesa in the Abiding Boneyard. He is very clever, and good at manipulating other dragons. Back home his job is to tend to the Not-A-Sheep herd along with some other livestock. He is also a trained member of the Clan’s militia. He is determined to win by any means necessary, both because he refuses to let down his clan and because he really likes winning. He won’t admit it, but he is excited to be allowed to kill other dragons for this event.

Tribute personality:
Misfortune is a clever, smooth-talking, trickster. He’s very good at manipulation.
He’s very loyal to his Clan since they took him in when he was a young orphan, and will defend their honor to the death.

Tribute preferred fighting style:
Misfortune is not very physically strong, so he has to rely on succeeding in a stealthy surprise attack. He prefers to kill quickly, then get out before he can be caught.

Tribute preferred weapon:
In order of preference: His gold chain garrote, and his plague-based magic.

How did they join the Games? Did they volunteer?:
He was chosen by Anathema to join, and he readily agreed.





THE BLOOBATH

Alheli, Actaeon, and Misfortune bump into one another, but decide to save their energy for down the road. The three go their separate ways and vanish off into the Arena.

—————

The time was now. Dragons were running every-which-way in a frenzy to gather supplies or escape the ensuing bloodbath, and every second could be his last.

It was thrilling.

Misfortune decided to wait as most of the more physically powerful dragons fought amongst themselves at the Cornucopia. Once the concentration of enemies thinned out as dragons escaped or died, he darted towards one of the bags closest to him.

Unfortunately, two different Gaolers lunged for it as well.

A standoff. Both beasts could probably take Misfortune on right now, especially if they decided to work together. Unless, of course, Misfortune decided to use that little trick up his sleeve.

But it would be so much more fun to save it for later…
No, it would be better to leave now, without the bag but with his life.

Misfortune flashed one of his signature smiles, nodded his head, and took off into the air in the blink of an eye. Unable to follow, the Gaolers were left to face each other.





DAY ONE

Crimson stops for a moment to rest, the rush from earlier steadily subsiding. While he's taking his break, though, Misfortune sneaks up on him and attacks. Pointing over the spirals shoulder to shout something about a monster, Crimson is able to distract his assailant just long enough to make his escape. For now.

—————






NIGHT ONE (ARENA EVENT)

Out in the Arena, the ground shakes and roars, great cracks forming in the already parched earth. In the very center of it all a massive swell of rises, the earth bulging before massive towers of bone shaped like teeth shred through the rock. Choking clouds of miasma rush out of the newly risen formation, along with waves of foul-smelling sludge that hisses any time it hits the rocks. It's probably not a very good idea to touch it.

Swirling form easily navigating through the terrain, Misfortune picks along the new chasms and churning pools of erupting ooze, determined to find somewhere safe to hunker down until the event passes. But perhaps living up to his name, Misfortune finds no such place, and instead ends up trapped in a crack between two walls of earth, which is swiftly flooded with the pestilent fluid.

—————

With only a few seconds to spare, he takes off his top hat, leaps into it, and disappears.





EPILOGUE

While Misfortune was not the most physically powerful, he was well trained in the art of violence: both with his skill in Plague magic and in using his stealth, agility, and charisma to fill in the gaps. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough.

As the news of Misfortune’s “death” reached Anathema’s ears, she was not surprised. She just hadn’t expected it to be so early. It was rather disappointing.

He had been so determined to please her, and yet he had failed. No matter.

The leader of the Clan of the Howling Mesa had been camping with her partners Medea and Pestilence nearby the arena for a reason. The excellent view of the bloodshed was just an added bonus, of course.

She gave the order, and Medea cast a spell.
A black top hat appeared before them, so seemingly ordinary, and yet it was anything but.

Anathema picked it up and looked inside. Two pale red eyes blinked back at her.

Another order, and Pestilence picked up the hat in her jaws and took off running towards their home at the Howling Mesa.
Anathema wasn’t concerned about their safety in the slightest. Absolutely nothing in the Abiding Boneyard could stop Pestilence when she had a goal in mind.
Misfortune would get home safely.

Pleased with the knowledge that she hadn’t truly lost another subject, Anathema decided to sit back, relax, and watch the rest of the games.