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    ALL interest checks/recruiting threads must go in the Recruit Here section.

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Futuristic ๐‘ป๐‘ฏ๐‘ฌ ๐‘ฏ๐‘จ๐‘ต๐‘ฎ๐‘ฐ๐‘ต๐‘ฎ ๐‘ป๐‘น๐‘ฌ๐‘ฌ โ€” the tributes.

demonology

demonology

๐’…๐’†๐’”๐’•๐’Š๐’๐’š ๐’Š๐’” ๐’•๐’‰๐’† ๐’๐’๐’๐’š ๐’Ž๐’š๐’•๐’‰.
the hanging tree
the cast.
ยฉ REVERIEE


IMPORTANT INFORMATION


lore + roster | main | ooc

APPLICATIONS CLOSE JUNE 16TH



Hi there! Welcome the the character sheet thread for The Hanging Tree. Before submitting an app, please read through all of the following:

RULES


โ†’ Please note the activity requirements. Our story will function primarily on Discord, and we ask that every player be prepared to post ONE 1-3 paragraph post per week.

โ†’ For the sake of ease and gender diversity, there is no gender division of Tributes. This means that there is no male or female distinction, though each Games has had TWO Tributes.

โ†’ Diversity of characters is welcomed and encouraged.

โ†’ This roleplay is NOT first-come, first-serve. Applying for the same role as someone else is perfectly acceptable unless otherwise noted.

โ†’ You are welcomed and encouraged to be creative in how you interpret a role, but please run any major changes by a mod.

โ†’ You DO NOT have to read all of the lore, but if you are applying for a specific role, read the entirety of the role information provided.

โ†’ Heavily featured Tributes from the 75th Hunger Games are not canon unless decidedly so by certain players (ex. One role offers the option of their parents being Wiress and Beetee, etc.). In the event that a player wants to bring in a canon character, it is up to them what they change or donโ€™t change, though obviously some elements of the canon timeline should be altered (ex. If one wants their character to be the child of Wiress and Beetee, they will probably need to make Wiress and Beetee the winners of much later Games, leave them out of the Quarter Quell, etc.). If thereโ€™s a role that doesnโ€™t have any connection to a canon Tribute but youโ€™d like to make them related, go right ahead as long as the canon character isnโ€™t already attributed to another role. If youโ€™re unsure, just ask.

โ†’ Coding is not required though certainly appreciated.

โ†’ Realistic faceclaims or written descriptions only.

โ†’ Overall, don't hesitate to reach out vis DMs or in the OOC thread!


THE TRIBUTES


The following is a masterlist of each of the roles and their accompanied information:

ORIGINAL CHARACTERS โ€” 3/3 open.

THE AUTEUR โ€” taken by ravensunset ravensunset

THE REAPER โ€” open.

THE STAR โ€” taken by .V1LLAINISM._ .V1LLAINISM._

THE JESTER โ€” open.

THE HAMLET โ€” open.

THE BERSERKER โ€” open.

THE HAWK โ€” taken by demonology demonology

THE HERMIT โ€” open.





THE FORM


There are two ways you can apply. One is your typical character sheet. The other is more free-form and focuses more on giving you an opportunity to write. Either is acceptable and depends on what you are more comfortable with.

OPTION 1​

Name:
Age: (Please be aware of age requirements for certain roles)
Gender:

District:
Games Won: (if applicable)
Relation to Victor: (if applicable)

Appearance: (optional if you have a fc)
Faceclaim: (if applicable)

Personality: (any format is acceptable, including bullet points, paragraphs, etc.)
Background: (any format is acceptable, including bullet points, paragraphs, etc.)
Reputation: (if applicable)

Acknowledgement of Character Death: (please acknowledge that your character will be killed off if you ghost this rp. If you have any conditions for your character death, please note this here.)
Goals + Themes: (optional; please list or describe your character's goals and the themes you'd like to explore with them. This will impact how us mods write the story, so it is heavily encouraged)


OPTION 2​


Name:
Age: (Please be aware of age requirements for certain roles)
Gender:

District:
Games Won: (if applicable)
Relation to Victor: (if applicable)

Appearance: (optional if you have a fc)
Faceclaim: (if applicable)

Acknowledgement of Character Death: (please acknowledge that your character will be killed off if you ghost this rp. If you have any conditions for your character death, please note this here.)
Goals + Themes: (optional; please list or describe your character's goals and the themes you'd like to explore with them. This will impact how us mods write the story, so it is heavily encouraged)

Writing: this section encourages you to explore your character via writing. It is suggested you answer/consider the "Goals + Themes" portion first. Additionally, here are some prompts for what you could write about:
* Write a series of scenes or summaries from important moments in your characters life, particularly the choices that have made them who they are today
* Write a timeline of your character's life
* Write about your character's Games or their Victor's Games and how it felt to watch them
* Focus on one of the goals or themes you want to explore with your character and write about why they have those goals or how those themes are related to their life.
* Write a synopsis of your character
 
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CARMY MAE
















district 12.




the hawk.










โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก



































FRANCESA.




artist












CARMY.















I.

but we are not foreigners to each other,










name


Carmen Mercy Mae.







nickname


Carmy







age


Twenty.







Date of birth


March 15th







gender & pronouns


transmasc, he/him.







sexuality


bisexual.







district


District 12







Games Won


The 98th Hunger Games โ€” Won in tandem with THE BERSERKER. The details of this Games are to be determined after THE BERSERKER is chosen.













II.

we are the pressure on the inside of the skull








physicality


5โ€™9โ€™โ€™, 170 pounds of flesh with lanky, black hair and an unnervingly white smile (one plastered on by his stylist). There is something amusing, almost graceful in his every movement. His gentle brown eyes have a tendency to melt people down to their baser parts, which makes his charisma all the more enchanting. A doughy farm hand with a professional and haute couture twist on the James Dean type of handsome. Crooked, Roman nose and a brow that is naturally folded over the occipital bone, and calloused, dainty hands. Dark brown eyes that upturn into mini-smiles to match the big one on his lips, which hold slightly yellowed teeth that the Capitol stylists can never seem to oust fully. On his chest are faint scars from his top surgery, which he paid for when he was 17 and prior to his involvement in the Games, though efforts have been made to remove the scars fully. Overall, Carmyโ€™s physique is a constant debate between the finery that the Capitol has bathed him in and the D12 homeliness he finds most familiar.







reference


Noh Seunghwa







aesthetics


visuals.







style


DURING HIS GAMES, Carmy presented a very specific blend of Capitol tastes with homages to facets of his life in District 12. Consisting primarily of natural fabrics and elegant, masculine silhouettes, the people of the Capitol enjoyed the boyish charm his sense of style brought, especially once they learned he worked heavily with his stylist to create a collaboration between D12 sensibilities and Capitol beauty (or so the tagline goes). EXAMPLE I. EXAMPLE II.
AT HOME, he wears much more practical clothing. He has always been able to afford much more substantial clothing compared to his fellow citizens, and it shows especially now that he is a Victor. He wears and buys clothing more so out of fashion than out of necessity. EXAMPLE I. EXAMPLE II.
IN FRONT OF THE CAMERAS, deliberate efforts have been made to reshape Carmy for the cameras. His fashion resembles much more of the clothes popular in the Capitol and the upper Districts. EXAMPLE I. EXAMPLE II.







habits


chews tobacco but has to stop whenever heโ€™s invited to the Capitol (making it a hard habit to tarry away into addiction), whistling birdsongs and other tunes, obsessively cleans his hands and has a leatherman on him that has a tool specifically for cleaning under his nails, picks at his teeth or brushes them if a toothbrush is available







traits


witty, overly serious, charismatic, choice in his words but tends to speak as though he is drowning, holds himself like someone who once knew peace but now is fighting against an ever-shortening, ever-burning fuse, aloof, cool, a charlatan, outfitted with a smile that could perhaps revive every god of yore, furtive, unintentionally beguiling, terrible at being calculating but tries, wistful and daydreamy in a way that can catch someone off guard, walks, talks, and overall lives like a dog thatโ€™s been kicked, a dog thatโ€™s come back, and a dog that wants to forget what it felt like for his ribs to crack and for his stomach to be impaled on a steel-toed, Capitol-pink high heel.












III.

the struggle among the rocks for more room








themes


CHOICE + CULPABILITY โ€” As seen in the writing section, there are a multitude of choices made by Carmy that have led him here. Iโ€™m most interested in exploring which choices he finds himself the most responsible for vs. the ones he believes were necessary. How does he tackle the ever-present thought that he is responsible for each of these choices, that the consequences are directly related to these choices, and perhaps also the fact that he knew the consequences of not making these choices. Death has come by his hands in more than one manner, and there are some he has chosen to believe are less relevant than others. But they are all relevant, and I feel that is a major factor to understanding Carmy and his motivations in the present.

POWER + MORALITY โ€” Much of this theme has to do with Carmy and his involvement in the Rebellion vs. his involvement as a Victor vs. his involvement as a member of a crime family. He has always had some form of power, he has always abused that form of power, and it is only with the Rebellion that he stands to do something objectively good. However, he is also manufacturing a war, he is still in a position of power, etc. There is no moral high ground gained, especially as you could read a lot of his involvement with the Rebellion as an almost selfish desire to atone for all the bad things heโ€™s done, not necessarily out of this altruistism to help his country. To answer, What was it all for, if its going to be wasted now? While it is surely partially his patriotism and sense of justice, I do want to explore the nuances of power and power-acquisition as a member of the proletariat and how that contorts oneโ€™s moral decision making, especially if we factor in survival. After all, Carmy makes all of these choices from a place of survival.

AUTHENTICITY โ€” Inherent to Carmy is this desire to be a good person, and he often falls short of this. There is a natural conflict that arises when someone is placed upon a pedestal and expected to act according to a set of standards, but those standards and the beliefs spouted about the person on the pedestal often do not match the actual persona that lies beneath. Ultimately, Carmy is not a good person; he has been selfish, he has been cruel, and he is not the Victor that he projects himself to be. Ultimately, though, there is a portion of this message that comforts him, especially as he entangles himself further in the Rebellion. He wants to see himself as a hero, but he is not. Iโ€™m interested in exploring this dichotomy, especially as he isnโ€™t completely unaware of it (in fact, much the opposite).







acknowledgement of character death


I understand that if I ghost the roleplay by being inactive for two weeks w/o talking with the mods, Carmy will be killed off. I do have some preference for how this occurs, but I will be keeping this secret for now. As one of the mods, I hope Carmy wonโ€™t be killed off due to my inactivity.













IV.

the shove and giveaway,








writing




TRIGGER WARNINGS โ€” depictions of mental illness, illusions to gun violence, gambling

TLDR โ€” These vignettes can get a bit long, so Iโ€™ve provided a summary for each!

1. THE CALLOWAYS: Following the deaths of his parents, Carmy was taken in by his uncle, who is known around District 12 as Calloway. He runs the crime family of the same name, and at 14, Carmy became an official member and began to run the gambling stall the family owns at the Hob. The group is also known for its bootlegging, which happens at the Hob and at a different building. In this section, Carmy is asked to begin doing collections, which entails using force to get people to pay for their debts.

2. THE INTERVIEW: On the evening before the 98th Hunger Games, Carmy recounts on stage a memory he shared with THE BERSERKER. This bit is meant to show off his personality and how much he can play up the charm (with perhaps the added context of why heโ€™s so good at it provided by the first section). However, beyond that, I definitely wanted to explore the motives that Carmy has behind a lot of his โ€œgoodโ€ deeds. Like yes, he was planning to not live through the Arena, but he came to this conclusion rather rashly and in the face of another decision (i.e. killing people for his survival) that made him painfully aware of the decisions of the past (i.e. decisions of the sort he made in the first vignette). Overall, this section shows another important decision made by Carmy but also shows his decision making process, which can be less calculated and methodical than one might believe given he finagled another Games where two Victors were named and is like helping a Rebellion start, etc.

3. THE PROPOS: The clunkiest out of the sections. I will probably be rewriting portions of each vignette, but this one more than the others. Three months after the 98th Games, President Snow sets up a sting operation to catch the Calloway family, and hopefully Carmy, in the act of illicitly dealing alcohol. He does not know that these deals typically are with D13 citizens, not D12. This fact goes unsaid or unexplained to the President, who comes to Carmyโ€™s house following the sting. Because Carmy wasnโ€™t there due to an episode (which is terribly written but shh), Snow decides that if he cannot arrest him, he will try to use Carmen as a tool much like the other Victors. To get things under control, unlike he managed to do the first time around.







THE CALLOWAYS


A nail-sized hole in the bottom of his boot, which rested on the stallโ€™s ledge, showed that he was wearing green wool socks, which had been gifted to him by THE BERSERKERโ€™s parent several years ago, right before his own mother died. Carmy played with a bit of paper, folding its curves back and forth to create weathered indentations in the paper. With the bit of palm sweat that leaked onto his fingertips, the creased edge was damp and would be easy to rip apart. He didnโ€™t though, eyes off in some hairy distance that heโ€™d rather not share.

He was fourteen, manning the booth that his uncle held at the Hob. It was his first year in the job, and the whole ordeal was treated like some sort of gift from the heavens above. On his birthday, Cab brought his nephew down to the Hob, which Carmy had only been in under explicit permission and oversight from Cab, THE HERMIT, or one of his men. He showed the boy the worn, gray wood of the stall which had a red-painted plank across the top that read Calloways. From that forward, once heโ€™d had his first sip of moonshine and was given his first gasper to take a puff from, Carmen Mae was set in charge of running the dice games, the blackjack, the occasional poker tournament, and the daily rounds of euchre. He played dealer with THE HERMIT or another one of the Calloway men stationed across the Hob somewhere to oversee, to make sure the kid did all โ€˜ight and counted out the cash just so. To make sure he didnโ€™t give anyone a break when they didnโ€™t deserve one and to punish if necessary.

Very few grownups knew the name Calloway and messed with the boy anyways, especially as he was socially seen as a girl at the time. And still, when they did, Carmyโ€™s black eyes and broken ribs and bloodied cheeks were paid for with extra allowance and the knowledge that the adult wouldnโ€™t be coming by any more.

Two years had passed since then, Carmy had lost his long hair in exchange for a pageboy cut, and he had taken to saving those extra allowances to afford the surgery the Mayorโ€™s Doctor promised would be possible, with enough cash flow, ya see? At fifteen, Cab decided his nephew needed to carve his own way, leaving him to afford his own food, housing, etc. The bodyguard was also done away with, and by all accounts of those in the Calloway family, Carmy was just like the rest of them. Consequently, Carmyโ€™s savings were dwindling, and it was more likely heโ€™d have to take out tesserae than get his surgery, which was important for the same reasons that he was enrolled in the school of hard knocks.

Presently, Carmy was waiting for the old-timers, which he tended to call the Crocodiles for their leathery skin and the pattern the coal dust left on them after a dayโ€™s work, to arrive for the evening euchre game. He put down the paper and brushed his bangs out of his face.

A shot of black across his vision caused him to flinch and scramble into an upright position.

โ€œCarmen.โ€ An auspicious twist of Uncle Cabโ€™s lips brought forth a minor queasiness in Carmyโ€™s rumbling tummy.

โ€œYeah?โ€

THE HERMIT stood less than a foot behind Cab Calloway. โ€œHappy Belated Birthday,โ€ his uncle said robustly. He released a hemp bag from his grip, and the object contained inside clattered. It was made of metal, at least as far as Carmy could tell. โ€œHERMITโ€™s gonna teach you the next bit of the business.โ€

โ€œWhaddya mean, Calloway?โ€ Carmy lifted up the flap, seeing what he knew would be there.

โ€œYouโ€™re old โ€˜nough, kid.โ€ Cab shrugged. โ€œโ€˜Sides, Iโ€™ll pay you double for the job, and any other job from now on, and you can come home.โ€

Carmy was back to fiddling with the damp paper, which Cab gently took from his hand and ripped in half. โ€œHERMITโ€™ll show you what to do. Everyone loves you โ€˜ere, Carmy, so Iโ€™m sure youโ€™ll have a much easier time doinโ€™ the collecting than most of us old folks do.โ€

Callowayโ€™s palm tugged up Carmyโ€™s jaw, and their eyes met like four blackholes converging. โ€œThatโ€™s why we put you on the stand, โ€˜member? Everyone loves a pretty face. So whaddya say?โ€

Ghost, who was one of those Crocodile-types whoโ€™d quite drinking a long time ago but used euchre to keep himself capital-S sober, clambered into the seat at the counter that was set aside for him. Carmy saw Juniper, an older woman who had two grandchildren, massively matted grey hair, and had been playing euchre as a way to put the works on Ghost. She was sauntering up the aisle, and she gave a big wave to Carmy, who one could say she had also been putting the works on.

The grip on his jaw continued past a time period that could no longer be construed for a loving touch. Uncle Cab repeated, โ€œWhaddya say?โ€

Ghost gave a weird side-glare at Calloway. โ€œYa alright, Carmy?โ€

โ€œYeah, yeah.โ€ He smiled around the weight on the mandibular bone. โ€œIโ€™ll see you later, HERMIT.โ€







THE INTERVIEW


Earlier, Carmy didnโ€™t want to dwell on that far-off vision, which was really a memory. Itโ€™s the same memory that plays as he stands behind the LED-curtains, with his face lit as he listens with a lost-stare for his cue.

โ€œAre there any Tributes you have your eye on?โ€

Far away from the stage, before a time where he knew what silk felt like or the weight of a rudimentary pistol in his palm, there was the Meadow. It grew back in the years after the firebombings, but due to it being a graveyard and purportedly haunted, not many frequented it. It was, by a five year oldโ€™s assessment, the best place to hide from bullies and nagging mums. A baby boy wore a pastel pink jumper, which was impractically afforded by butchering and breeding sheep and pigs. In fact, this jumper was soiled within minutes of the two children playing, as they had a tendency to make mudpies and potions out of dirt, dandelions, and soot. They would sing songs together, with perhaps Carmy being the main instigator. He always had a fascination with bird songs, but he equally enjoyed imitating the grownups around him and especially the sweet voice of THE BERSERKER.

โ€œReally? So you two knew each other?โ€

The syllables of Caesar Flickermanโ€™s questions slashes away the daydream. There was a point in bringing this up, supposedly. Carmy had a knack for anecdotes as much as birdcalls, but he had no good reason to bring this saccharine day up other than it occurred to him, standing behind the curtain as twenty-three other Tributes walked across the stage to give their last death knell, that he had already killed before. He hid behind the prefaced threat of a gun and allowed THE HERMIT or others to get their hands dirty. He spoke to borrowers with conviction, promised a reversal of their fate with a few pennies on the dollar, and when it came to paying with flesh or with cash, he turned a blind eye to Juniperโ€™s black eye or Ghostโ€™s disappearance.

As he watched THE BERSERKER do their interview, he recognized the name (finally), and all he could think about was pink jumpers, Mockingjay calls, and mudpie potions. And he needed to wash himself clean, to find that uncorrupted boy again.

So he did exactly what heโ€™s always done: talked, talked, and talked and repeat generational mistakes.

โ€œYes, Caesar. We did. Well, I didnโ€™t realize โ€˜til just now, watching them walk โ€˜cross the stage. Youโ€™ll have to forgive me for beginning with that off-kilter anecdote. Iโ€™m a bit shocked.โ€

A round of laughter from the crowd and a knee-slap from Caesar, whose skin was slack around his face in a disconcerting way that the camera never seemed to capture. โ€œAw I see somehow has a hint of a blush. You remind me of another District 12 boy, the sort that once won his Games for the girl he loved.โ€

The audience cooed at the reminder of the fallen Tribute who once captured their hearts.

Caesar, appearing lost in thought for a few beats, as though he were listening to something intently, didnโ€™t continue with his parallel-drawing. Instead, an awkward beat settled, and Carmy took his opportunity for what it was.

โ€œYou might not be off, Caesar.โ€ Another round of ooing. Making a show of it, Carmy wiped at his brow and held his jaw on the same side his uncle tended to. โ€œIโ€™m a little star-struck by them.โ€

Grateful for the opportunity to rectify his faux pas, Caesar jumped back into the spirit of things. โ€œOh-ho-ho. You are a cheeky young man! Itโ€™s rare we get such verve from District 12. I must ask though, how do you pair know each other? It seems THE BERSERKER is from District 7, which is a tad far away.โ€

โ€œWell, you see, they were an orphan, mysteriously dropped off on their parentsโ€™ doorstep. No one in D12 โ€˜fessed up to it, and I mean weโ€™re such a small District, someone wouldโ€™ve heard someone giving birth. Itโ€™s not exactly a quiet activity, is it?โ€

The crowd laughed. โ€œAnd anyways, we were childhood friends. Best friends. Then, they were needed elsewhere.โ€ Heโ€™s choice with words, aware of who is watching. โ€œI think the lack of paperwork or perhaps the mystery around their arrival was what led to them being moved, especially as thereโ€™s certain processes for these sorts of things.โ€

โ€œYes, yes, Carmen.โ€

โ€œCarmy, Caesar. Thatโ€™s what all my friends call me.โ€

โ€œOh warming up to me already! Well then, Carmy, would you say youโ€™ve missed your friend?โ€

โ€œOf course.โ€ His voice came out soft and full of earnestness. โ€œIt actually breaks my heart that weโ€™re here.โ€

A look settled onto Caesarโ€™s face, showing a recognition that can only be garnered by wisdom. He placed a tender palm on Carmyโ€™s knee. โ€œYes, yes of course.โ€ The audience aws as Carmy places his face in his hands and takes a dramatic sigh.

He sensed that he has perhaps gone too far, aware that many unspoken rules have been broken in his interview. โ€œCaesar?โ€

โ€œYes, Carmy?โ€

โ€œIโ€™m sure my time is almost up, but do you have any advice for me?โ€

A light tap on his kneecap. โ€œThereโ€™s always the Games, my boy. Make them count.โ€ There was a coolness accompanied by the lack of Caesarโ€™s hand on his knee. โ€œPerhaps weโ€™ll see some allyship between District 7 and District 12 this Games?โ€

The Capitol crowd was joyous as Carmy exited the stage, his mind still in the graveyard Meadow.

Youโ€™ll see one Victor, he promises solemnly.

AUTHORโ€™S NOTE: This leaves out a lot of the nuances of how Carmy feels about THE BERSERKER, but Iโ€™m hoping to expand upon these post-auditions. The purpose of this scene is to illustrate Carmyโ€™s thinking pattern when faced with what he perceives as a morally worse option (i.e. deflect, evade, reinvent, and hold onto someone or something else in an effort to make him feel less inhuman).







THE PROPOS



On his walk back from Juniperโ€™s home, where her two grandchildren reside with their mother, Carmen sensed he was being followed. This was a feeling he had been having for the past two months, maybe even as long as heโ€™s been home. However, today, before he entered the Victorโ€™s Village, he saw a man in black dash to the corner of his hiding spot like a mouse to its nest in the stove.

There was no logic in the fact that Carmy ran home, locked the door, and hid in his closet. He unsettled the shoe boxes that his stylist had sent to his home three months ago with his motions back and forth. Three months ago, he won the 98th Hunger Games. Had it only been that long? Not long enough. Thus began, as he rocked back and forth, his list of the Tributes, then the names of each Victor from the past twenty-five years (which was already being required reading in preparation for the Victory Tour and their first year as Mentors).

In this process, he missed the alcohol trade between the D13 bootleggers and the Calloway family, which was in fact a sting operation. Cab Calloway was arrested, along with several of his best men.

โ€œIt seems your uncle was a part of some nasty business.โ€ President Snow ground his gold-tipped cane into the brown hardwood. There was no mention of treachery, at least of the sort that Carmy and Cab were guilty of.

โ€œShame youโ€™re related to him. Thankfully, for your sake, weโ€™ve not made his execution public.โ€ It was also apparent, by the look on Snowโ€™s face and the fact that Carmy had long ago learned there was a motive behind each Tribute picked for the Games, Snow knew exactly how involved Carmen was.

Still, tear-stained cheeked Carmy with wild eyes and a swiss-cheese brain from 12+ hours of sleep, looked at the immortal man with wonder. Still, he threw on a smile and asked, โ€œSir, could you allowed me to dress? Iโ€™m not sure Iโ€™m hearing you correctly.โ€

Quietly and with only the swish of his cape, President Snow dipped low. His blue eyes met Carmyโ€™s brown ones. โ€œYour uncle was a criminal. He was caught at that ridiculous meeting in the woods yesterday, and for your sake, I had him executed. His body hangs in the Square.โ€

โ€œOh.โ€ His heart murmured with a bunnyโ€™s erratic jittery, but he remained calm and wiped the sleep out of his eyes. โ€œApologies for the mess, President. I wasโ€“โ€

โ€œYou were spooked by your tail, werenโ€™t you?โ€

A nod and a gulp.

โ€œSmart boy. Thatโ€™s how youโ€™ve made it this long, isnโ€™t it?โ€

Another nod, minus the gulp.

โ€œEvery Victor seems to have that in common. The ones that live, anyways. The ones with families, that is.โ€ Snow began a walk around the trashed bedroom, which was not any better than the closet, outfitted with orange rinds and clothes that hadnโ€™t been washed in months.

With the end of his cane, Snow picked up the rumpled fabric of the suit Carmy wore on the ride home from his coronation. โ€œYou like being a showstopper, no?โ€

โ€œUhโ€“โ€

โ€œOr perhaps you like causing trouble. We suspect, but cannot prove, your uncle was dealing with unsavories. Rebels. Would you care to speak on that?โ€

โ€œRebels? No, no, my uncle could neverโ€“โ€

โ€œBut he did. And youโ€™re already in a trepidatious position, Carmen. It seems you are now without family, and it would be a shame for you or anyone else, such as your fellow Victor, to lose any more. See?โ€

Carmy nodded.

โ€œGood, so you do know how to be spooked by your own tail. Iโ€™m sure thatโ€™s how you ended up employed by your uncle. So, how about you work for me? We can benefit each other.โ€

Another list began, recounting the people he stood to lose, which was a slim list, but moved quickly to the ones THE BERSERKER would lose. Then, he thought of the District as a whole, which historically wasnโ€™t off limits, and THE HAMLET, who had THE STAR, and THE AUTEUR, who heโ€™d only spoken with briefly but who could very well be lost in this too. He sensed he held a match in his fingers, and refusing Snow would cause everything to explode.

At this point, Carmy didnโ€™t miss a beat. โ€œOf course, President.โ€













V.

the grudging love, the old hatreds.
































โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 
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Kellis Everend
Withdrawn
  • i
    ii
    iii
    iv
    full name
    Kellis M. Everend (nee. Honeywell)
    district
    11
    age
    Thirty
    date of birth
    January 3rd
    gender
    Cis Male
    sexuality
    Homosexual
    ethnicity
    Mixed-Native
coded by natasha.
 
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scroll








scroll





โ
Lived a life so endlessly, saw beyond what others see. I tried to heal your broken heart with all that I could.





so far away
















the hermit



aster.







full name

aster harlow






district

district 12






age

45






d.o.b.

november 28






ethnicity

white






sexuality

bicurious

































so far away


avenged sevenfold




















01.



visage

















height

6'0"






weight

174lbs






hair c.

dirty blonde






eye c.

blue






faceclaim

gilles souteyrand























02.



psyche










Aster always had a good head on his shoulders. As the eldest child, he was responsible and hardworking in an effort to keep his family safe. He learned to be practical and pragmatic. He showed compassion towards his sisters and close friends, but the years hardened him as they did to everyone. Pessimism and Aster went hand in hand, yet he never let his attitude overshadow the hope his sisters held on to. Whatever needed to be done, he would do it. Thatโ€™s just how his world worked.

Becoming a husband and a father softened Aster to some degree. Vulnerability did not come easy to him, but with his wife Aster allowed his deepest thoughts and emotions to surface. He grew even more fiercely protective than he already was and was known to hold grudges against anyone who dared to cause harm to his family.

After the loss of his wife, Aster changed. He grew distant and his rough edges soon returned. He remained kind and gentle to his daughter, but the fear of leaving her behind caused Aster to step into a dark place to keep her happy and himself alive. He became cold and domineering, reserving his compassion for only those he took under his wing. Aster was feared by some (addicts and gamblers) in District 12 for his lack of patience and respected by others for his unquestionable loyalty.

The death of his daughter caused Asterโ€™s life to crumble. He shut down and closed himself off to everyone. Grief consumed him, leaving a shell of a man in its wake. His warmth, his compassion, everything disappeared. Aster felt nothing and everything all at once. All he could do was drink to numb the pain and forget that his daughter was now buried six feet under the ground.

While he has found a reason to live again, if only for a little while, Aster has still lost his edge. He does not know how to be a person anymore. In order to repair them, his fractured relationships require a level of empathy, patience, and heart he struggles to provide. Guilt weighs heavily on his shoulders. Not only for not keeping his daughter alive, but failing to process his grief with dignity. Even now Aster knows he is disrespecting the memory of her. Yet he can not help the selfish part of him that intends to become a pawn and sacrifice, if only to return to her side.






goals

Ultimately, his goal is to become a sacrifice. Aster agreed to aid in The Hawk's rebellion out his love and admiration for them, as well as for the opportunity it presented. Truthfully, he does not believe wholeheartedly in the cause. The Capitol's power is overwhelming and their influence all encompassing. He wants to see them overthrown, to have justice for the horrors his daughter endured, but it feels like a fool's dream. He witnessed Katniss' execution, after all. Aster will play a part in the rebellion, but his goal is the death he knows will inevitably find him in the end. Aster yearns to join those he has lost, especially his daughter.






themes

Grief and loss is a key theme for Aster and is something to be explored in different ways. He has allowed himself to be consumed by his daughter's death and the idea of him coming into contact with others who have dealt with these emotions is intriguing. Aster does not know how to continue living and could learn from his companions. It will not be an easy process, but in time there is a chance Aster could learn to live in honor of his daughter.

Fatherhood is also an important theme for him, as Aster was not only a father for his own daughter but something akin to a guardian for others as well. This is something he has neglected these past two years. He knows he has a sense of love and protectiveness for The Hawk and Berserker, but Aster has lost sight of himself as a father. He needs to be reminded of that his family remains alive today, even if they are not blood related.

Finally, hope and rebellion. Aster currently does not believe wholeheartedly in the cause, but the intention is to spark some sense of hope in him. He has long since accepted that he will never be truly free living in District 12, but what if all of that changed? Aster hasn't asked himself that since he was a young boy.






fears

Aster fears his own shortcomings. His inability to resist succumbing to his grief and to protect those he loves haunts him. He made a promise to his daughter when she was born and he broke that promise the day she was chosen for the Games and then again the day she died.

Ironically, he also fears death in some regards. It's why he could never take his own life. He drank himself to sleep every night and hoped that he wouldn't wake in the morning. He does not have the courage to put himself out of his misery. Every attempt to do so has ended up with him sobbing on the cold floor.


















03.



history










Aster is the firstborn child of Alloy and Lionel Harlow, a seamstress and miner living in District 12. His twin baby sisters, Lyle and Lysa, were born three years after him. They were a humble family who, like many in the district, struggled to make a living. Aster grew up watching over his younger siblings while his parents worked and assumed the role of the responsible older brother as a result.

With some luck, Aster managed to avoid being chosen as a tribute despite the additional entries of his name in exchange for rations. His younger sister, Lysa, was not so lucky. She was fifteen the day her name was chosen. Aster was in a state of shock when it happened. Ringing in his ears, Aster shoved his way towards her but she was pulled onto the stage before he could stop the Peacekeepers from taking her.

Lysa, the gentle girl that she was, died in the initial slaughter for supplies. Lyle took her own life three days later.

The Harlow family was never the same. Aster did what he could for his parents, but they sunk into melancholy. He would have done the same had it not been for his future wife. Sandrine lived three houses down from Aster, but funnily enough the two had hardly interacted until his sisters died. Her and her mother stopped by to offer their condolences and Aster was the only one who had the heart to answer.

Their romance was slow and patient, just like Sandrine was. She saw the pain and loneliness in Asterโ€™s eyes and refused to leave him with his own thoughts. Sandrine had lost her father two years prior and understood his grief better than anyone. Their budding romance blossomed just over a year after their meeting, when Asterโ€™s heart had finally begun to heal. The pair were married two years later and moved into their new home.

Aster swore to never have children and Sandrine agreed that it was not worth the risk. Unfortunately for them both, Sandrine conceived a child four years after their marriage after a celebratory night of drinking. By the time the couple realized they were expecting, it was far too late for Sandrine to even consider other options. Aster was frustrated and angry at himself for making such a colossal mistake.

The day Anais was born, Aster wept. He held her in his arms and fell in love. Aster, Sandrine, and Anais lived a quiet life for the next eight years. Then, in a tragic mining accident, Sandrine lost her life. Aster was overwhelmed with grief once again but like her mother had done for him, Anais kept him grounded. It was two weeks after Sandrineโ€™s passing that Aster decided he could not allow his daughter to become an orphan someday. He abandoned his work in the mines and sought out a safer career, albeit one lessโ€ฆ legitimate.

The Hawkโ€™s uncle had been a long time friend and offered Aster the opportunity to work with his family. Bootlegging had never been something Aster imagined for himself, but he managed. Brewing and demanding payment from the locals were both two things Aster became quite good at. This garnered him quite the reputation, but he did not mind. As long as it kept him alive to care for Anais, he would do anything.

For seven years, Aster and Anais fell into a comfortable routine. Luck appeared to be on their side for the first three years Anais qualified for the Reaping. Then their luck ran out. At fifteen years old, Anaisโ€™ name was chosen for the 95th Hunger Games. Asterโ€™s heart stopped and he felt eighteen again, watching his sister step up onto that stage. He remembered shouting, arms wrapping around his shoulders to prevent him from chasing after Anais. The Hawkโ€™s uncle covered his mouth and prevented him from drawing further attention from the Peacekeepers as Anais was escorted to the stage.

Watching his daughter in the Games, he realized he had broken the promise he made to Anais the day she had been born. I will keep you safe, he told her. He was a fool and a failure. His heart broke as Anais fought for her life. The day she returned to him, Aster held her in his arms and made the same promise again.

Anais changed, as many of the victors did. She became distant and anti-social. She suffered from anxiety, nightmares, and more. Aster did everything he could to take care of her. She steadily improved over the next three years and Aster felt hope for her future. Then quite suddenly, and with little explanation, Anais fell ill. She died within 72 hours of becoming bedridden. Aster lost his world in three days.

The circumstances surrounding her death were bizarre, but the depression Aster slipped into would prevent him from questioning them until much later. The first few months after Anaisโ€™ untimely death were a blur to Aster. He hardly remembers the funeral, the condolences, or opening that first bottle. He was completely and utterly consumed by his grief. Aster drank to forget and to numb the pain. His daughter, his wife, his sisters. His life was tragic, pathetic. There was no reason to live anymore. Not even The Hawk or Berserker were enough to pull Aster from the depths of his depression, not for a long time.

The day Aster really opened his eyes again to the world came two years later, thanks to The Hawk. He agreed to aid in the rebellion. Aster looked at himself in the mirror and found a reflection he did not recognize. His beard was overgrown, his face gaunt, and his skin sickly from the alcohol. He took his razor and tried to make something of himself again. It worked, to some degree, but Aster is only a fraction of the man he once was.

  • Will include more about Hawk, Berserker, and Jester with plotting, assuming he ends up being accepted!


















04.



gallery


































05.



connections

















character name



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character name



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character name



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character name



Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Suspendisse finibus erat mi, vel consectetur neque ultrices a. Nulla facilisi. Fusce at quam ut sem pharetra posuere nec nec enim. Mauris rhoncus fermentum sapien, ac finibus mi tempus sed.





















06.



miscellaneous

















note

he is left-handed






note

he suffers from tremors






note

he is underweight due to lack of proper eating habits






note

he wears a locket with sandrine and anais' photos in it at all times






acknowledgment

I understand that if I ghost the roleplay by being inactive for two weeks w/o talking with the mods, Aster can and will be killed off. I do not have a preference for how his death occurs in this particular circumstance.




















โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 
Last edited:


  • THE HERMIT!
    Dianthus Daylily.


01.
02.
03.
04.
05.
code by birth of venus.
 
Last edited:






the Hamlet
















# district 7




# mahesh jadu










โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก





Name: Cassian Acharya.
Age: 30.
Gender: Male.
Sexuality: Bisexual biromantic.
District: Seven.
Game won: The 87th games.
Height: 6'0.
Weight: 181 lbs.
Build: Athletic.
Hair: Dark umber.
Eyes: Near black but warm like cocoa.
Faceclaim: Mahesh Jadu.

Personality: Rage has always lurked around the edges of Cassian's very presence, only amplified by the daily misgivings of the Capitol. It was pure anger at the injustices wrought upon the districts that led Cassian to his win. A cycle of revenge that never seems to stop, he had thought he was doing the right thing by essentially telling the Capitol to fuck off during his games, soon to find that no matter how hard he hit them, the Capitol would always hit harder. Anger at the word internalized into anger at himself, he had bitten the hand that fed him and paid the price. It was not their fault for starving him, but his own for not being a loyal dog. The wheel should have crushed him long ago, and now he must live under the constant weight of living another day. An aimless phantom roaming the halls of his former life, life has lost all meaning to Cassian...except for the misfortunate few who have found their way under his skin.

Background:
- Cassian was born the middle child into a poor family in District 7.
- reaped at 17
- Despite the odds against him, Cassian survived the 87th game by pitting the career against one another
- entire family was slaughtered for the way he defied the Capitol by winning
- To preserve his life he bent to the Capitol's will, starring in films with the Star
- fell in love with the Star while working with them
- mentored some people like the Hawk and the Berserker
Reputation: A cynic and an unknown, not much is known about Cassian but his tragedy. Some may say that he's more likely to be loyal to the Capitol because of the harsh punishment they gave him, while others argue that he's more likely to be a rebel because he has nothing left to lose. Many think he cares neither way, he can't be bothered by anyone enough to care.

Acknowledgement of Character Death: Acknowledged. Make it as sad as possible.
Goals: If you outright ask him, Cassian will say he has no goals. However, if that were true he would've ended his miserable life long ago. Cassian wants to repent for his sin, the blasphemy of being the sole survivor of his family after his actions got them slaughtered. He's not quite sure what it will take to feel his hands are clean enough to finally rest.
Themes: Choices and their implications, guilt, regret, the lone survivor, learning to live with trauma, misplaced anger, self-worth, bitterness, becoming an example of what not to do.
 
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thetis sevina
















the jester




district four










โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก

































๐€๐“๐Ž๐๐„.




artist












THETIS.















I.

Down she plunged to the bottom fast as a lead weight










name


Thetis Sevina.







a.k.a.


Tis, Tissy.







age


Twenty-seven.







Date of birth


September 25.







gender & pronouns


Cisfemale, She/Her.







sexuality


Demisexual, Biromantic.







district


District Four.







relation to victor


Granddaughter of Mags Flanagan (Allegedly).













II.

sheathed in a glinting lure of wild hullโ€™s horn,





F A C E C L A I M
Indira Varma.
H E I G H T
5'10"
A P P E A R A N C E
The miners mutter among themselves on their walk home, twiggy necks on a constant edgeโ€”scanning the darkness surrounding them. They fear the tall woman who lurks on the grounds of her post, a commanding presence with the way she stands; the military posture she had been trained to maintain, a habit she canโ€™t shake. โ€œDo not be fooled by the lack of meat on her bonesโ€โ€”they warn new blood, District Four careers are made to be lean, not bulky as typically seen in those of District One or Two. She is faster than the others, agile on her feet so they sayโ€”with paranoia seeping into every iteration of her tale, it was difficult to pry the truth away from their fright. What rang true was her daunting physicality. An angular face behind her visor, high cheekbones, and prominent bone structure. If they hadnโ€™t feared the position she holds, some might have called her beautiful. Remnants of the once regal aura of a champion lingered, albeit tarnished by the effects of scorn and regret. Her hair is long to the surprise of most, dark curls similar to the harsh waves of home tied together and held up for her shifts. Deep brown eyes pour into every orifice of any captivated onlooker. They see the cruelty she bares, unbeknownst if it is to them or herself.
A E S T H E T I C S
Visuals.
H A B I T S
At least one hand remains clenched, nails digging into the inside of her palm, she grinds her teeth in her sleepโ€”an unknown habit that leaves her jaw aching in the morning, rubs at the dead skin of her lips when sheโ€™s deep in thought, hums familial lullabies while she prepares for bed.









III.

bearing hooked death to the ravenous fish





A C K N O W L E D G E M E N T O F
C H A R A C T E R D E A T H
I acknowledge that if I become inactive, Thetis will kick the bucket. I'd imagine she'd go in a dignified mannerโ€”as dignified as someone can possibly go in the Hunger Games, rectifying her past mistakes and doing what she was too scared to do in her youth. However, I have no intention ghosting and hope she'll be able to do all that alive than dead >: ))
T H E M E S
MOURNING THE DEATH OF ONE WHO STILL STANDS ; As youโ€™ll see in my writings, Thetis suffers from survivorโ€™s guilt despite the calf she sent to slaughter being very much alive. It is a sorrow that follows her everywhere and cannot avoid. Especially with her reunion with THE STAR, it would be an interesting dynamic to look past the image of death behind their eyes and attempt to see them as beyond a victim by her hands. If sheโ€™ll ever be able to look past it that is.
ATONEMENT ; Much similar to the prior one, a big theme that revolves around her is the need to atone for what she has done. The idea of atonement is a core reason why she hasnโ€™t defected from the Capitol as a peacekeeper and has willingly remained chained to her fate despite her clear dislike for it. She believes the hell she puts herself through is all in punishment for her cowardice. A punishment for the fate she shoved onto her closest companion. Iโ€™d like to explore this especially with THE STAR as a good chunk of her motives and themes revolve around their intertwined tale !!
EXPLORING THE WHAT-IFS + PROVING ONESELF ; A lot of nightmares, a lot of daydreams, and a lot of nights withered away to think about what could have been. And now that she has been reaped, she is now living in the what-ifs that have plagued her. Thetis has spent a good chunk of her late childhood to teenage years preparing for the Hunger Games until she backed out and now sheโ€™s actually doing it, sheโ€™s gonna be going through a whiplash (D4 ocean-related pun intended) Her mind and body are not in-sync with her muscle memory of her training coming back to her as her mind continues to panic almost the same way she did all those years ago. Ultimately, giving what her District would have wanted out of her when it was her time to be their tribute but this time, sheโ€™s matured to be in a position to have things go *possibly* in a different direction than what she feared.
FOOLISHNESS OF YOUTH + FEAR WITHIN THE STRONG ; An exploration into the life of a career, from rise to fall. One of the most interesting facets of the Hunger Games is the career districts and the idea that these children are trained to fight and kill fellow children under the guise of honor to their home. In most displays of a career tribute in the franchise, their humanity is often overlooked. The narrative of Thetis as a career who decided to not volunteer, it creates an interesting element of revelation and subsequent fear most careers are too brainwashed to have that can deffo be explored. Linger teachings from the academy that she just can't shake, fear in her past that shouldnโ€™t have been felt by her. Just a lot of exploration into her past now that sheโ€™s older and how that trauma continues to affect her to this day.









IV.

how she lied, she beguiled me, she promised me





W R I T I N G
I. THE ABYSS
Smooth between sea and land
Is laid the yellow sand,
And here through summer days
The seed of Adam plays.​

Unceremoniously, she sank. Deep beneath the cold water, eyes closed, and seemingly without care nor thought for whatever adversities lingered outside the small bubble she stayed. Her haven was a tub made of copper, its surface festered in patches of sea green from the environmentโ€™s oxidation. There wasnโ€™t much space in the room after she laid claim to the copper tub, the sea glass which held her bath salts and the like found their place hoarded on the cold concrete floor. Thetis considered herself lucky as the eldest daughter to have her own room let alone another within it in what felt like a matchbox home stacked up on a tower of others.

The odds were cruel to the Sevinas. A surname acquired from her motherโ€™s side as her father ran from his own past. A family of fools was what other merchants at the boardwalks called them. Two young lovers merged from blind passion with a litter destined to be remains scattered on the ocean floor. Four young sons and a first-born daughter. Too many mouths to feed to afford a breath wasted on rest. Thetis considered herself lucky yet again that she was given but a sliver of an exception.

For she barely needed breath for her form of rest.

She was ten when she began her odd ritual of burying herself beneath the water till the back of her head met the bottom of the tub. It cooled the rope burn from the dockโ€™s nets and cleaned the scabs acquired from her most recent toss-up. Duty and sacrifice had been torn into the young girl since money fell short. Since mother lost her world and father lost his life.

The ocean had eaten her father as her youngest brother barely learned how to utter a word; waves swallowing up the sea fort where he once took shifts. From then on, the family of fools was forced to adapt to survive. Work their mother till her bones felt brittle. Sacrifice their young in the hopes they claw themselves out of the abyss they found themselves in.

She recounted the day that put her under the water this time. Knuckles sore and stained from another manโ€™s iron, jaw stung with the phantom feeling of the punch, and blood staining the water red from her nose. A selfless act out of selfish passion. THE STAR had always been a name Thetis fought in honor of. Violence followed the two, through the waterways, oceans, and seas. Once it had been a last resort, now as quick as a habit. Spawned by petty disputes that words couldnโ€™t fix. Her mother wouldnโ€™t be happy with her actions, that much she knew.

A selfless act out of selfish passion.

Judgment came poetically quick with a cry from her bedroom doorโ€™s rusted hinges and a strong knock. Pruned fingers intertwined, she opened her eyes. Strands of hair covered her vision of her paint-chipped ceiling.

โ€œThetis. A word.โ€โ€”​

Lungs burning and hair still damp, she robed herself before meeting her mother. She expected the usual round of scoldings sheโ€™d received when she got into trouble. The pinch of a lobe from her motherโ€™s long talons. Her meal for the night fed to a stray. Her fate had never been so different.
II. THE SONG OF FATE
Here the child comes to found
His unremaining mound,
And the grown lad to score
Two names upon the shore.​

โ€œYouโ€™re a fighter, Thetis. Iโ€™ve accepted that now.โ€โ€”​

Kaia Sevina combed through her daughterโ€™s hair as she spoke. An emphasis on each word as if her acceptance gradually built as she announced it. Something was coming. Thetis could feel it. A consequence or catch. Her mother hadnโ€™t been kind to her brutish displays prior, what could have changed her mind now?

โ€œYouโ€™re not like your brothers. Youโ€™re not like your father. Youโ€™re not like me. Youโ€™re a fighter.โ€โ€”​

Fighterโ€”a word once said with malice now like an idea to be entertained. Thetis had been the black sheep of the family long before her father passed. Headstrong. Tough. A fighter. Kaia didnโ€™t like that about her daughter. Or at least she didnโ€™t in the past. She saw value in complacency, feared the power of those who could squash her flat against their expensive shoes. Stuck in her own ghostly tales, she heard stories about rebellion and the fate of those who had been foolish enough to fall in love with the false taste of freedom. Thetis knew her mother saw the same passion in her. It terrified her.

โ€œItโ€™s about time we put it to good use. Iโ€™ve enrolled you into an Academy, you begin tomorrow.โ€โ€”​

If she had the gift of foresight, Thetis would have seen the decision for what it truly was: a title as a sacrifice. Her mother had sent her to death for the good of her sons and herself. A martyr with her life signed off; destined to be a tribute, a victor, or a soldier. A corpse, a victim, or a puppet.

A pity how Thetis turned to her mother with a bright grin, excitement in her eyes, and gratitude on her lips. Instead of the truth of doom, she saw the illusion of an opportunity. The hopeful little fighter saw a gift from fate.

โ€” โ€œI wonโ€™t disappoint.โ€

Sheโ€™d learn the hard way to eat her words.
III. THE FISHERMEN'S ATLAS
Here, on the level sand,
Between the sea and land,
What shall I build or write
Against the fall of night?​

Blood was a familiar taste, be it her own or anotherโ€™s. It had always been a trail; desperate and heated. Students at the Academy felt the same need, the same tooth-tearing and limb-breaking sense of urgency in their veins, identical longing for greatness. Only two could be chosen as a tribute. And in most circumstances, only one can emerge the victor. The fishing district had been crying for their next champion and in Thetisโ€™ class of twenty, she had been destined to be the one.

โ€œThetis!โ€ Cried her trainer, quickly followed by the thunder of applause from her classmates. To them, it was no surprise she had won. Even to the likes of Caspian Escalusโ€”the final obstacle who stood in her way; an Adonis as many around the village liked to call him. Despite his size, never having to skip a meal in his life, or his physical prowess, when it came down to the two of them the ending had already been written.

He was dull. Even when he played to his skills and forced Thetis into a wrestle, he made too many mistakes. Left too many opportunities to spit in his face and headbutt him cold.

She was the winner. One to volunteer. One to fight. One to win again.

All it took was for word to get around for her entire life to change. Things were different when she reigned on top. She got into less trouble as fewer people wanted to challenge Panemโ€™s next victor. The family of fools quickly became a forgotten phrase. The Sevinas were now respected.

If Caspian was once Adonis, Thetis was Atlas. She held the world on her shoulders, the next coming of District Fourโ€™s age of prosperity.

โ€œFortune favors the bold.โ€ were words once graced from a young career's lips. An utterance of her valor then, the confident mantra of a warrior with no idea of the battle sheโ€™s training for.
IV. THE BOOK OF REVELATIONS
Tell me of runes to grave
That hold the bursting wave,
Or bastions to design
For longer date than mine.​

โ€œI donโ€™t want to volunteer tomorrow.โ€

Whispered confessions to no soul but her own. Secrets breathed throughout the Sevinas cinderblock home, hushed by the current of the seasโ€™ waves close by. But none weighed more than those of Thetis Sevina, the highest rank career of the fishing district. Their next victor. For the first time in a long time, she looked frightened. As if she was back to infancy and she had awakened from a terrible nightmare. Like cold water to a pitiful drunk, it had finally dawned on the young woman that representing the district in the games didnโ€™t bring honor or prosperity, only death. And if death would come for either herself or others, she didnโ€™t wish to find out.

If Thetis didnโ€™t realize it was her own body shaking, she would have believed it to be a sudden earthquake. A part of herself wished it were a natural disasterโ€”something to postpone the games to at least give her time to think. She knew even then, the Capitol wouldnโ€™t be so lenient. She was scared. She was alone.

Suddenly she was no longer a fighter but a child. Lost and afraid. Instead of resting for her โ€œbig dayโ€ as her family told her to, she was wide awake. Thoughts crawled into every crevice of her skull.

"I can handle it." Self-assurance. She didn't know howโ€”or at least she had yet to settle on the impending plan.

But inevitably, she knew what had to be done.
V. THE RECKONING
Shall it be Troy or Rome
I fence against the foam,
Or my own name, to stay
When I depart for aye?​

You donโ€™t do anything. Mouth sewn shut, feet bolted onto the ground, and eyes glued to the stage. You feel eyes burning into the back of your skull, watching your every move.

Youโ€™re expected to speakโ€”to volunteer.

Nothing comes.

Consciousness comes back too late. It is only when THE STAR is stood in front next to the boastful escort do you realize the impact of your void.

Youโ€™ve sentenced THE STAR to death out of your own selfishness.

What can you do? You watch.

It is the last you see THE STAR in person. Murmurs flow like the wind. You receive heinous looks whenever you walk.

You donโ€™t watch the broadcasts THE STAR appears in. Survivor or not, to you, they are as good as dead.

Life in District Four is unkind to you till you left on your eighteenth birthday as promised.

Good riddance.
VI. THE EXILE
โ€œI volunteer!โ€

She was taken away.

Dolled up to be a sacrifice. A message of hopelessness.

She played their sick games, answered questions with a smiling face, and slaughtered opponents with no remorse. She was a career. A champion.

The victor.

Had it been everything she wanted?

Nothing: too near at hand,
Planing the figure sand,
Effacing clean and fast
Cities not built to last​


Thetis awoke on a bed that felt like stone.

THE HERMIT had been kind to give her a place to stay as she found her footing around the mining district. It was different from what she knew, but she decided it was exactly what she needed. A new start.

The sun rose over the horizon, it cast a soft golden glow upon the worn wooden houses that lined the streets. These humble abodes, weathered and tired, bore the marks of a community bound together by the shared burden of survival. Chimneys released tendrils of smoke that intertwined with the morning mist, signifying hearths that still fought against the chill of the night. Buildings that should have long collapsed still stood as a testament to the district's resilience. They were worn, their paint faded and chipped, but they remained sturdy and steadfast.

It reminded her of home in some ways.

โ€œFood is on the table. Donโ€™t let it go cold.โ€

A matriarch. Although Thetis would rather choke on her own teeth than give herself yet another title she fears losing sight of. Despite the ghost stories of her terror as a peacekeeper, she was kinder than most of her peers. Forgiving in the sense of punishment. Quick to turn a blind eye if no other was watching. Crimes were petty in the slums of District Twelve; done for survival rather than sin, and Thetis found pity in the desperation to live.

She saw bits of her brothers in the children who clutched their stomachs by her post. Saw a familiar face in THE HAWKโ€™s. She considered it atonement to remain and do what she could.

Regret followed her everywhere.
VII. THE TRAITOR'S RETURN
And charms devised in vain,
Pours the confounding main.​

Home tasted of sodium.

The salty sea air filled her nostrils, triggering a wave of nostalgia that threatened to engulf her. But the warmth of that familiarity quickly turned cold as she caught sight of the disapproving glances from onlookers. Whispers followed her as she made her way through the boardwalk, like venomous snakes hissing in her ears.

Home tasted of regret.

Thetis was a traitor. Cowardice-consumed and disgraceful. She didnโ€™t know what was coming but she felt an impending doom. Her return hadnโ€™t been a coincidence, it was deliberate. She was made to be a spectacle, paraded like a fool. As she walked to a familiar stage, she allowed it to happen.

Home tasted of justice.

AUTHORโ€™S NOTE: The verses italicized are A.E. Housmanโ€™s poem, โ€œSmooth Between Sand and Seaโ€!









V.

already she sees them looming up beside me โ€“ death
































โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 
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thorin malee
















son of cecelia




district 8










โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก














the chariot



thorin malee

name
thorin malee

nickname(s)
thor, rin, rinny

age
twenty-seven

district
eight

games won
n/a

relation to victor
his mother, cecelia. victor of an unknown games. re-chosen as tribute for the 75th games, died during bloodbath

gender
male

pronouns
he/him

sexuality
pansexual

d.o.b.
june 11th

acknowledgement

i hereby acknowledge that thorin will be killed off if i ever decide to ghost this rp, which won't happen. if i do somehow end up ghosting, please make sure he dies a very dramatic death by sewing needle or pencil.




Appearance

height
5'10"

build
mesomorph

eye color
medium brown

hair
dark brown. curls behind his ears and is parted in the middle to frame his face

distinguishing features
part of the iris and pupil in his left eye are covered by a milky/white film from an explosion at the factory he worked at. has left him blind in that eye

body modifications
pierced ears (did them himself with a sewing needle), hand-poked tattoos all over his right arm; 4 swallows on forearm, sun on bicep, fern on outer tricep, 'cecelia' in cursive on his wrist, a whale & planets on inner forearm

wardrobe style
lots of dark brown and black clothing. has three pairs of black denim jeans that he rotates through everyday. shirts are mostly brown with the occasional blue and red mixed in

face claim
"boom" raweewit jiraphongkanon



writing

heads up
this is really long so if you'd like an easier to read option, follow this link to view it as a google doc

chapter I


โ€œwhatโ€™s that, mama?โ€ asked the little boy.

โ€œthat? thatโ€™s what we call a swallow,โ€ replied the woman.

โ€œa swallow? what is it? whatโ€™s it do?โ€

โ€œa swallow is a type of bird. a bird is a type of animal with feathers. they fly across the sky, incredibly lightweight but powerful, small but mighty. they symbolize freedom.โ€

the boy watched as the swallow, the bird, took off in the sky. โ€œi want to be a wallow! i want to be free!โ€

the woman smiled at her sonโ€™s confusion of the word, but the smile quickly vanished at what followed. heโ€™d soon learn that theyโ€™d never truly be free. โ€œcโ€™mon,โ€ she bent down to pick him up, a fake smile plastered on her face, โ€œyour brothers are finished school by now. lets go get them.โ€

________________________​

โ€œwhere you go?โ€

โ€œto the capital,โ€

โ€œwhy?โ€

โ€œi need to be a mommy for another boy and girl,โ€ cecilia explained, unwilling to explain to a three year old what the hunger games were, how she won one, and was now forced to relive it forever as a mentor and watch her mentees be sent to slaughter. โ€œiโ€™ll be back before you know it, okay? your father and brothers will take good care of you.โ€

________________________​

1 year later.
there was something different in the air today. as young as he was, thorin could tell. for one, he knew it was the middle of the week yet his brothers didnโ€™t go to school and he didnโ€™t go to his daycare. his father kept crying and leaving the room while his mother kept all three boys closed tightly in her embrace.

the warmth left him abruptly and his feet hit the cold floor beneath him. โ€œcome.โ€ and the family walked out the door.

thorin didnโ€™t understand much of what happened next. all he knew was that a huge crowd was gathered, his motherโ€™s name was called, his father cried harder than ever and his brothers had broken free of their fatherโ€™s hand and sprinted towards the stage.

confused as to what was going on but not wanting to be left out, thorin ran after them. when he got to the stage, he saw they were clinging to ceceliaโ€™s legs so he too joined them. they were soon removed by peacekeepers, shoved off to the side of the stage as the three boys watched their mother and an elderly man being herded towards the justice building.

โ€œmama!โ€ screamed thorin. cecelia turned and had just raised her hand to wave to her son when the door snapped shut behind her.

chapter II


โ€œwhenโ€™s mama back?โ€

โ€œsoon.โ€

soon. soon. soon. the word was repeated like a mantra. every time he asked, that was the answer he got. soon. he hated it.

it had been a week without his mother. he had seen her on the mandatory television viewings, watching as she was briefly shown with the elderly man and then spoke for a few minutes during her interview the next day. he fell asleep before it ended.

________________________​

two days later, loud knocking echoed throughout the apartment. peacekeepers barged in. shouts were heard. clothes and belongings were packed. thorin was scooped up by zephyr, the oldest brother, and carried out. cameras were shoved in their faces, followed behind them as they were marched through the dirty streets, continued to follow as they were forced into a shoebox sized apartment.

that night, thorin fell asleep with his older brothers on either side of him.

________________________​

his motherโ€™s death had been hidden from him for the better part of two years. he was too young to have understood the games, too young to have watched them. for months thorin continued to ask when cecelia was returning. he stopped hearing the word โ€˜soonโ€™ and was met with silence. he stopped asking.

________________________​

at 7, he discovered his mother had been killed during the games, that she wasnโ€™t forced to remain in the capital. at 11, he truly understood the horror of the games. at 13, rewatched the 75th games. at 13, he was overcome with grief. at 13, he wanted to burn down the capital for making his mother go back to the games when victors were supposed to be pardoned. at 13, he was consumed by revenge. that consumption never truly left him.

at 14, he began working after school at whitlock factory two, the biggest of the whitlock silk factories. at 18, his father died suddenly while eating lunch during his shift at the factory. they claimed it was an allergic reaction. thorin didnโ€™t believe them.

chapter III


โ€œdo you not see whatโ€™s going on?โ€

โ€œwhatโ€™s there to see?โ€

โ€œtheyโ€™re targeting us!โ€

โ€œwho?โ€

โ€œthe capital! snow! heโ€™s targeting our family, punishing us for mom beingโ€”โ€

โ€œmom being what, thorin?โ€

the youngest brother bit his lip, debating on revealing it, but zephyr deserved to know. โ€œi found out that mom was part of a bigger plan in the arena, a plan to rebel against the capital. she and some of the other tributes formed an alliance and were planning to break out of the arena. they were the faces of the proposed rebellion. obviously it didnโ€™t happen, butโ€ฆโ€

โ€œwhere did you hear about this?โ€

โ€œaround.โ€ thorin was unwilling to say where he heard it. truth was that he wasnโ€™t supposed to hear it, just so happened to overhear in the dinner line during his shift at the factory. two older men who watched the games and heard the rumors through the grapevine were discussing it, wondering what would have happened had it succeeded.

โ€œand how do you know itโ€™s true?โ€

โ€œthey wouldnโ€™t be punishing us if it werenโ€™t.โ€

โ€œwhat do you mean โ€˜punishingโ€™?โ€

โ€œthink about it,โ€ thorin began, exasperated, โ€œdad wasnโ€™t allergic to anything, so thereโ€™s no way he โ€˜died of an allergic reactionโ€™ at lunch. they poisoned his food,โ€ he was sure about that, โ€œand dont forget they filmed and televised our forced removal from the victors apartments, shoved the cameras in our faces when you were carrying me out. if we werenโ€™t so young when mom died, they probably would have killed us on the spot for โ€˜expected involvementโ€™ in the rebellion plan. but because we were kids, they spared our lives, assuming we had no idea. now though? now weโ€™re fair game.โ€

โ€œiโ€”โ€

โ€œnovi has never drank alcohol in his life. that accusation was completely false and you know it. they framed him, condemned him to a life of being whitlockโ€™s personal servant. thatโ€™s his punishment from the capital.โ€ he hadnโ€™t seen his brother since. โ€œand you and i, zephyr? weโ€™re next.โ€

chapter IV


two weeks after that conversation, the factory got a brand new sewing machine. four hours after it arrived, thorin was using it to stitch together a silk dress shirt to be shipped to the capital. a minute before he was due to finish the shirt, the machine exploded. parts and pieces went everywhere. the razor sharp needle and needle bar embedded into his left eye. the needle was removed but his vision was lost forever.

โ€œiโ€™m guessing this was your punishment?โ€ zephyr laid himself down next to thorin in the bed.

โ€œhave you ever heard of a brand new sewing machine exploding within hours of being used?โ€ thorin waited for the head shake. โ€œno. it was tampered with. they knew i was going to be using it. just be sure to watch your steps now, zeph.โ€

________________________​

thorin was deemed unfit to continue working in the factories. apparently, the capital declared impaired vision a hazard, as if they werenโ€™t the ones who took it away in the first place. he was relocated to a design shop and told to start drawing shirts that fit in with the current capital trends.

he couldnโ€™t draw to save his life and was beaten for it.

________________________​

at 23, he was considered one of the best designers.

at 25, he was whipped publicly for passing cryptic notes instead of working, notes expected to have been part of plans for a rebellion.

________________________​

โ€œdonโ€™t do something youโ€™ll regret.โ€

โ€œlike what? blow up snowโ€™s mansion?โ€

โ€œiโ€™m serious, thorin! you have to be careful!โ€

โ€œfuck being careful. if i, if we dont do something, weโ€™ll be stuck like this forever.โ€

โ€œstuck like what?โ€

โ€œlike this! forced to work in these shitty, dangerous, run down factories, forced to watch our kids or our friends or our mother die every year. you watched mom die, zephyr! how can you not want to do something about it?โ€

the eldest remained silent.

โ€œmom wanted to do something about it. did do something, actually, and was killed for it. iโ€™m going to finish what she started and make sure she didnโ€™t die in vain.โ€

chapter V


they met by the cover of night. passed messages through gestures, through footsteps and marks left in the coal-covered streets. not a word was spoken between them for fear of being overheard and discovered.

it was unclear whether or not the capital knew about them.

________________________​

โ€œin penance for the districtsโ€™ avarice resulting in the destruction of capitol families,โ€ snow had paused to stare into the camera. thorin felt like he was staring right through him, โ€œthis yearโ€™s pool of tributes shall consist of past victors and their loved ones. these tributes represent a century of panemโ€™s victories and prosperity and serve to remind the districts of the fruits the capitol bears.โ€[/b][/i]

so they knew.

trepidation and excitement filled the polluted air of district 8 after the announcement of the quarter quell. district 8 didnโ€™t have a living victor. that meant the families of the past victors were to be reaped. both thorin and zephyr felt thousands of eyes on them whenever they walked through the streets, heading towards their shifts. grandchildren of the victor that went in with their mother, an elderly man named woof, who were a shoe-in to have their names in their bowl, approached the brothers for consolation.

zephyr tried to offer them guidance. thorin said nothing.

________________________​

he threw himself into the preparations for the quarter quell, despite knowing it was probably his name that was going to be pulled from the bowl. he was the one who came up with the idea of having the faces of the past tributes put on various shirts and jackets, claiming it was to honor them when really it was to remind everyone of the lives the capital had taken away.

on his motherโ€™s design, he included the words โ€˜will my death have been in vain?โ€™ and disguised them as a strand of hair. it went unnoticed by the capital, but not everyone.

chapter VI


cameras showed nothing but tired faces, hunched-over figures, bags under eyes. the people of district 8 were exhausted. they wanted nothing more than to crawl in bed and not leave for days, but here they were, shoved into the square like sardines, forced to watch their neighbors take the stage.

it was a lot more crowded on this stage than thorin expected. he was standing in between zephyr and novi, the man having been relieved of servitude duties for this, looking over at the children and grandchildren of woof, at descendants of victors from some of the very first games that not a living soul remembered.

his attention snapped back to the crowd.

the escort made his way to the stage. everyone was silent as the female tribute was selected. then it was the males. please let it be me, he thought to himself. but the bowl for the male tribute was significantly fuller than the female, so his chances were slim.

โ€œthorin malee.โ€ his name echoed across the silent square.

so maybe snow did know about his little message on the shirt.

and with a wicked smirk and wink at the cameras, thorin turned and headed into the justice building.




goals & themes

themes

โ€œyou have no idea of the pain that runs through my veins.โ€
the most prominent themes in thorinโ€™s life is by far love and loss. when rereading what i wrote for him, it seemed to me as if itโ€™s all heโ€™s ever known. he loved his mother wholeheartedly and lost her to the games, games she should have never been in. he loved his father and lost him at 18. he loves his brothers and though theyโ€™re both still living, lost the middle brother nawi to the man that owns half of the district. he loved his friends and peers and lost a handful of them to the games. it seems that every time he loves someone, he ends up losing them. by now, thorin has probably stopped loving altogether out of fear of loss. iโ€™d love for someone (or multiple) to try and convince him that itโ€™s worth it to love again.

โ€œi feel like itโ€™s my anger thatโ€™s helped keep me alive.โ€
vengeance & retribution are two other incredibly strong themes. in thorinโ€™s, and probably most peopleโ€™s, mind his motherโ€™s death should never have happened. none of the deathโ€™s in the hunger games shouldโ€™ve happened. he wants to punish snow, punish the capital for killing his mother, his father and his friends. since the age of 13, heโ€™s been taken by the need to make sure the players in his game pay for their wrongdoings.

"you've got enemies? good. that means you've stood up for something at some point."
honestly, this one is pretty self explanatory. thorin is loyal to his family, his friends and to the cause, the cause being a better tomorrow. once heโ€™s given his loyalty, he never strays. heโ€™s proven his loyalty to his family already and is currently working on proving his loyalty to the rebellion by spearheading district 8โ€™s spark on his own.

โ€œfor those i love, i will sacrifice.โ€
as for sacrifice, well, there is no victory without sacrifice. the games will still exist, the terrible living conditions throughout the districts and unnecessary deaths will still exist if no one is willing to make a sacrifice. and thorin is 100% willing to sacrifice himself if it means tomorrowโ€™s kids will have better lives.

"first it hurts, then it changes you."
resilience. thorin watched his mom die on national television, lost his father to an โ€œallergic reactionโ€, hasnโ€™t seen his middle brother in years, and has lost countless friends and district-fellows to the games. this is a type of trauma that most would cower from, would give up after experiencing it. he didnโ€™t. though it was hard, he was able to bounce back and better himself in order to create a better world.

"if you're going through hell, keep going."
sheer determination sticks out to me as one of the most prominent themes of thorinโ€™s life. determination is what gets him through the day. heโ€™s determined to avenge his motherโ€™s death and make sure it wasnโ€™t in vain, heโ€™s determined to get his revenge on snow, determined to make the districts a better place for everyone, determined to end the games, determined to start a rebellion, etc. youโ€™ve probably already gotten the picture.

goals

โ€ฃ to finish this damn shirt heโ€™s spent weeks designing
โ€ฃ no seriously he hasnโ€™t slept well because he keeps coming up with new ideas at 4am and has to scrap old designs
โ€ฃ to have ALL voices heard
โ€ฃ get revenge on snow
โ€ฃ bring a street cleaning machine/vehicle into district 8 and have that thing spends days vacuuming or sweeping the streets because theyโ€™re dirty as hell
โ€ฃ avenging his motherโ€™s death
โ€ฃ stopping the capital from bringing harm on anyone else





/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

ยฉ weldherwings.


 
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wip - aesthetic images whilst I fight to choose a fc







the hamlet.




the poison.



absintia hawthorne.

/\ from 'absinthe', a type of alcohol made with wormwood.

/\ from 'hawthorn' a genus of several hundred species of shrubs and trees in the family Rosaceae, there is a belief that bringing hawthorn blossom into a house leads to illness and death.




the basics.

name
Absintia Hawthorne
nickname
Abby, Hawthorne
date of birth
wip
age
wip
district
Seven
gender
Female (she/they)
pronouns
she/they
sexuality
bisexual
games won
.
role
The Hamlet




the visage.

height
185 cm (6'1โ€ณ)
weight
73 kg / 162 lbs
hair
Ruthless, black hair. He honestly can't wait to get his first hair cut as he's always struggled to keep the knots out of his hair. Is always seen with it tied up into a bun or plait.
eyes
Big, brown "doe" eyes with double eyelids and aegyo sal.
features
Dimples when he smiles. His lips form a heart shape, with a strong Cupid's bow and upturned corners of his smile.
body type
A mesomorph body type: slim body with prominent shoulders and long torso; a clear inverted triangle body form.
face claim
Choi Soobin








the victor.






the personality.

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the virtues.

Analytical

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Original

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Open-Minded

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Curious

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Objective

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the vices

Disconnected

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Insensitive

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Dissatified

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Impatient

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Perfectionist

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likes.

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dislikes.

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the messiah.

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Proin aliquam bibendum mauris, ac commodo velit viverra et. Aenean porta enim sed mauris vehicula tristique nec ac diam. Proin quis erat at leo maximus ultrices. Praesent sed scelerisque magna. Suspendisse potenti. Integer vitae quam eget tortor molestie maximus. Nunc vitae ligula sapien. In rhoncus tellus orci, quis sodales nisi commodo vitae. Ut sagittis tellus magna, quis viverra velit laoreet vel.


the words.

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Proin aliquam bibendum mauris, ac commodo velit viverra et. Aenean porta enim sed mauris vehicula tristique nec ac diam. Proin quis erat at leo maximus ultrices. Praesent sed scelerisque magna. Suspendisse potenti. Integer vitae quam eget tortor molestie maximus. Nunc vitae ligula sapien. In rhoncus tellus orci, quis sodales nisi commodo vitae. Ut sagittis tellus magna, quis viverra velit laoreet vel.


the jacobs.

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Nam condimentum diam urna, in efficitur velit viverra id. Maecenas aliquam, tellus at finibus volutpat, mi nisi malesuada ipsum, non vestibulum felis mi aliquet elit. Nullam fermentum neque metus, eu tristique quam viverra a. Nunc lobortis odio in neque finibus vehicula. Vivamus ac pharetra nulla.

Proin aliquam bibendum mauris, ac commodo velit viverra et. Aenean porta enim sed mauris vehicula tristique nec ac diam. Proin quis erat at leo maximus ultrices. Praesent sed scelerisque magna. Suspendisse potenti. Integer vitae quam eget tortor molestie maximus. Nunc vitae ligula sapien. In rhoncus tellus orci, quis sodales nisi commodo vitae. Ut sagittis tellus magna, quis viverra velit laoreet vel.






/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

ยฉ weldherwings.

 
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Zac Loway
















# the auteur




# district 3










โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก




Name: Zac Loway.
Age: Thirty-eight.
Gender: Female, she/they.

District: Three.
Relation to Victor: Sibling of the Victor of the 78th games.

Appearance: Zac is an insulator around circuits, emanating a stillness uncommon to the sparks of District Three. Five feet and ten inches of lanky physique, muscles hinted at but never developed, her posture always held straight, even when her back started to ache from never being allowed to release the tension. Sheโ€™s quick when she needs to be, long fingers moving lightning fast over glowing screens, mind barely keeping up with calculations of actions and consequences. Their eyes are dark and attentive, edging close to unsettling with the easy length of their stare, and inlaid in skin that has started to wrinkle with age and worry. Their hair is a deep blue, contrasting against gamemaker white yet fitting in back home, long and tied back. A quiet nature and precisely controlled movements let her often slip by, not unnoticed but not paid attention to, as if a shadow that has still not quite found their own footing.

Acknowledgement of Character Death: Acknowledged!


Writing:

Zac was not born into a prestigious family. This was something she learned quickly. The other children she played with would boast their familyโ€™s inventions, tell in great detail what good they brought their district. Jules, Zacโ€™s sister and often Zacโ€™s own voice, once asked their parents what good they did. It earned her only a slap on the cheek.

Zac didnโ€™t mind that her parents were low-level engineers, and that her home was small enough that Jules refused to let her have their friends over. She figured their parents had more time to spend with them this way, and although she didnโ€™t know it just yet, no one in her district had quite the ability to fear poverty.

When they were both young, they watched their oldest brother compete. Zac didnโ€™t know him like they knew their other siblings, both due to the age and the distance his enrollment at the Academy had caused, but they still cheered, and they and Jules made flashing displays of lights with his name to hold.

He placed last.

What Zac remembered was him being taken. She remembered the mourning of the spoils his win might have. She remembered his goodbye, him rustling Julesโ€™ hair, and him leaning down next to Zac last.

โ€œHey, itโ€™s alright. Iโ€™ll be alive this way.โ€ He spoke too quiet for anyone else to hear the sentiment, and he lifted them off the ground in a hug. And then he was sent off, a Peacekeeper and not a tribute, and Zacโ€™s life shifted around him to form back to normal.

โ€œDo you miss him?โ€ She asked Jules once, years after the fact. She was too scared, even then, to voice the question to anyone else.

โ€œI donโ€™t even remember him. Why would I? He was a failure.โ€ Zacโ€™s eyebrows lifted at the response. They werenโ€™t surprised, but hearing it still ran a shock through them. โ€œI wonโ€™t be.โ€ Jules asserted next, managing a rare feat of catching them off guard.

​

Your sister only tells you. Who else can she tell? Your parents would never allow it, not after what happened last. Your other siblings arenโ€™t you, arenโ€™t her.

What do you do next? Sheโ€™s smart, but not like you are. Sheโ€™s burning, sparking, and isnโ€™t it your job to keep her from short-circuiting?

You donโ€™t do your job. You donโ€™t tell her no.

She wouldnโ€™t have listened, anyways, but isnโ€™t that just something you say to make yourself feel better? It wasnโ€™t in your control, anyways, it wouldnโ€™t have gone differently, you donโ€™t make a difference.

You brawl with her on the streets, in her room. You get good at rolling with punches.

She gets in, and for the first time in your combined lives, she leaves you to speak for her.

​

When you watch her, on the unavoidable screens, you find yourself cheering as her teeth break through delicate throat skin.

​

Zac Loway is a Gamemaker. This is an unforgivable thing. And yet, she desperately justifies to a sister who has long stopped truly listening, it is the only thing. Someone would be in the role, someone who is not good. She is doing good.

โ€œYouโ€™re doing good.โ€ The President of the Rebellion looks them in the eye. Not many more of its members do. The 98th Games ended successfully, something Zac fought for with everything in them, though they doubt, sometimes, how much their actions really did. They repeat the words in their mind, over and over and over.

Zac only nods. They are correct, of course. It is a victory. For the first time, double the amount of children survive, and something is rising in every District. Thereโ€™s not much more to report, but when they turn to leave, they find a hand clasped over their arm.

โ€œBe careful.โ€

Itโ€™s not like they donโ€™t want to heed the warning. But when offered a promotion, they say yes, and would have even if it was more of a real choice. And when Jules is arrested, they donโ€™t take the blame onto themselves, even as the world begins to crash down around them.
 
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the reaper | cypher latier
















# district 3




# tessa thompson










โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก




Name: Cypher Latier
Age: 31
Gender: Female

District: Three
Games Won: N/A
Relation to Victor: Daughter of Wiress and Beetee, both Victors

Appearance: Regarded with much of her father's quirks and facial expressions, Cypher otherwise maintains herself and her impressions intimately. Her dark hair is cropped short at the shoulders, straighter than it is naturally, and usually tucked behind one ear or both. Her eyes, a sorrowful brown, are framed by dark lashes and narrow brows furrowed more often than not. Despite the empty suffering behind her gaze she keeps her posture straight and her lips pressed in a thin line at all times. A quirk of the lip may accompany it, but wavering in her indomitable disposition is not something that Cypher likes to delve into. Her clothes are figure hugging as much as they are ornate and drapey; at least for public appearances. They tend to complement her warm, tawny brown skin; an odd dash of bright colour rare to be seen, but a distinct decision without a doubt. With the type of a reputation that she has, holding her own and her composure is imperative to showing no weaknesses.
Faceclaim: Tessa Thompson

Acknowledgement of Character Death: I acknowledge that if I ghost, my character is liable to be killed off! I don't know if I have any specifics of death at the time, but I trust mods to be able to put on a good show even if I fuck right off (which, to clarify, I don't intend on doing!!)
Goals + Themes: Duty, Betrayal, Ends Justifying the Means, Playing God, Hubris, Sacrifice, Control

Brief Personality: Despite her far more humbler origins, that which has quickly cultivated into that of someone bound and determined by their own rapidly developing intelligence and prestige for greater and better things, the remnants of someone concerned with others has faded into the recesses. Cypher is not without empathy, so to say, but in the long years spent avoiding death and playing her own hand of it, she has come to regard others in the way that a butcher would meat. Every fault in someone else is a motive for her to become better and adapt, or find a way of replacing and improving said fault. As a plastic surgeon who pokes at the less fortunate, encouraging them to tighten and cut away, Cypher sees the workings of a personโ€” even her own selfโ€” and can only picture the synthetic, better future. To some degree she has, in her father's aging, been able to see the forest for the trees in her own life.

The greater picture of a life that would continue to move without her, picking the flesh off her bones until nothing remains, is something that both frightens her and angers her. To think that all her successes could easily be abandoned in favour of a more rigid, ulterior motive makes her blood boil. To be discarded without thought, a hypocrite in her own right, she strives to reassert said control into her own playing field. She is defensive at best about this, downright aggressive if further provoked, and can fully shut down into a stony, cold shoulder placated by 'hmm' and 'mmh' to prove that yesโ€” she's listening, she just doesn't care.

Witty and self-serving, she's keen to make the most of her lack of physical and combat related skills. Survival of the fittest need not always simply mean the strongest of the pack surviving; sometimes it is the most cunning that find themselves defying their odds and their predisposed inevitability. To rebel is to drive one's stake into the ground; as there are no half-way rebels or half-way loyalists. It's a commitment she's still unsure of, to some degree, but it is a message she's willing to send now that her own head is on the guillotine.

Writing: CW: parent death by cancer

Her first memory, one of flashes and blurred faces, was somewhere around eight months old. Whether it was a real memory or a fabrication of human fallibility, it didn't matter to her. Cypher remembered it.

She remembered the feeling of her mother's hands, soft thumb pads rubbing her cheeks gently; her mother's face, a wide and toothy smile, an the soft coo coming from her lips. She remembered, as well, her father standing in the corner of her vision; unsure of his role or what to do. Then his hand, at her mother's muffled coaching-- reaching out, gently splaying his fingers over her forehead. His touch was always rougher, despite how delicate he was with his technology. He'd never learned how to be soft; to be caring.

โœ โ”€ โ”€ โ›​

She built her first model at age eight, an impressive little contraption of bits and piece fused and locked together. A model engine with a winding arm, spinning the wheel that gave both friction and energy to a small battery device. It had started as just play, wondering what the pieces would do when stacked onto each other, but soon devolved into five hours of deep contemplation and 'what-ifs'. Her mother had been concerned at first, hearing silence from Cypher's room, but upon seeing what she was doing, she'd stayed the whole time. Dead silent; watching in wonder, mouth half open in shock and a smile. Cypher would always know her mother's support to be one of pure, genuine adoration.

Her father, on the other hand-- Beetee saw the potential of his child without a doubt. He was not unimpressed. But perhaps it was the potential, itself, that he saw and the need to hone in and mould it himself overtook the place a father should remain in encouraging their child. His praise was riddled with criticism.

What to do better. How to do it better.

When it came time that he was no longer considered, that Cypher had already thought of all there was to consider-- and more-- it was bitterness in him that rose instead.

His progeny had succeeded him by her teens.

โœ โ”€ โ”€ โ›​

Wiress had first showed signs of sickness when Cypher was twelve. Around that time was the yearly worry of being Reaped. There was no more of an honest truth than how much Cypher didn't want it. Not even being crowned Victor was appealing or worth it, if she were even able to survive-- not when her mother was fading away by the day. Her drive to learn was then fueled as much by her drive to stay alive, and while flourishing in education Cypher couldn't help but feel the ball in the pit of her stomach grow larger and larger. Each year, after the Reaping Day passed, she'd always sneak a little sweet treat to her mother; using one of her own 'false candles' she'd invented to light it in celebration. It was their little secret.

The first of many, as it would turn out.

A prodigy by all means, with a smile just as contagious as her mother's, Cypher fought tooth and nail to prove herself to the students, teachers and ranking bodies who looked down at her for her age. She had no need for the physical Games, for Cypher was playing a social version of it on the frontlines. Beetee greased whatever palms he could, having already accrued his own popular standing amongst the high society of the Capitol with his mechanical inventions and technological contributions. He didn't want to see his child fail, as hard as he was to stomach her successes, as much as he didn't want her being Reaped as well. Whatever it took; whatever it takes. That's what he would tell her.

We'll do whatever it takes.

โœ โ”€ โ”€ โ›​

A slow and bitter cancer took Wiress over the course of three years. Towards the end of it Cypher could barely look at her anymore. Couldn't stand to see the husk that had taken her mother and replaced her. Her gentle hands, always so gentle, were featherlight to the touch. Floating against Cypher's palm. Beetee was always there, despite it all. He took it hard, seeing the captivating mind and woman he'd loved and mentored decay day by day. He was always behind Cypher's shoulder, quiet and imposing.

Treatments hadn't done anything to slow the pain. Cypher wavered in her studies from the worry of it, her reputation otherwise being a top student and promising researcher, and her father did his best to keep her straight.

"Losing everything you've worked for is a terrible way of honouring her memory. Wh... When she goes... She's going to know that you've done more than the both of us, than anyone has, and she will go happy, Cypher. Don't lose yourself now."

They hadn't been the softest of words, and he'd never been soft: but it had been what she needed. In her stride she'd preserved, even when Wiress took her final breath in the company of her loved ones. Even President Snow had offered condolences out of obligation-- a pre-recorded, rehearsed message, something that even a young Cypher knew to be a farce. It proved then to be a determination to continue, more than what her father had preached to her before. Her mother could not be saved anymore; but there were others who could be.

โœ โ”€ โ”€ โ›​

She was sure that the prosthetic heart would have done her mother wonders, had she been any faster by a few years. This notion hardened her, the way that grief could hold one tightly with an unrelenting burden.

It became about speed to Cypher; efficiency without risk of human error. Tightening up her calculations, her decision-making. When she'd palmed the thing, slick with a gel secretion she'd had made specifically to maintain the vitality of the heart's exterior muscle, she'd felt the weight of the world in a way.

It was marveled as a scientific miracle when the dog they'd put it in had ran faster than he'd ever. Brought back from the brink of death, in a sense, all it had taken was a single heart to keep that dog going. She'd even adopted it after, though it had passed from kidney failure a few years later. Lucky.

It snowballed from there, and with her father's assistance in their lab she'd presented her notes to a team of researchers. Cypher was sure it was possible to build organs synthetically, and that they could be used on a mass scale to save many, many lives. Her mother's story was the anecdote that made her stand out from the others who pitched their farfetched and selfish ideas. The project was funded within three months, and within a few short weeks, work had already begun.

From there, Cypher would begin the rest of her life.

โœ โ”€ โ”€ โ›​

It was a blurred few years of conferences, prestigious events to garner funding for research to continue, and public events to talk about the progress they were making. Before Cypher knew it what she and her team were building became big, big news to very important people. President Snow was among them, and for the first time in her life Cypher had been able to get a good look at the man.

She'd seen him as human, not an almighty figure of renown. She could see the parts of him that were failing, that withered away into wrinkles and dark spots. There was power as much as there was fear, in that moment. Considering the future of her work, of what could be done-- the power of life could ultimately begin and end in Cypher's hands.

In fact, she'd become a surgeon to assist in this. She hated other people touching her things, her work especially, and while medicine and biology proved a passion of sorts, it was that insatiable need to have control that took precedent. Performing the surgeries went a whole lot easier when she was the one handling the parts from point A to point B. Limb reattachment, skin grafts, sewing up open wounds of tributes who'd been unfortunate enough to survive their games-- if it could be named, Cypher did it.

She became sought out for her proficiency with a scalpel as much as she was for her mind and its inventions.

"Tell us your secrets, Dr. Latier. How do you do it," they'd ask.

"You tell me yours, and I'll tell you mine."

โœ โ”€ โ”€ โ›​

Her father getting sicker and older was something that hadn't phased Cypher until he talked about his failing condition. With the greys that sprinkled his beard came the joint aches that kept him from walking up stairs; with the shake in his gnarled knuckles came the dissociation of daily activities. Little things would snowball into greater tragedies, little fires of the body's collapse threatening to fail entirely. He was aging, dying, and Cypher wasn't prepared to lose him. For as hard of a father as he was, never proud and always pushing, he was all that she had.

She'd never made the time to start a family; not that she'd cared to anyway. Fickle relationships that never lasted resulted in Cypher once again hardening up. Each failure was a promise to succeed, to get better. At some point better didn't exist anymore.

With her father's worsening condition as he aged, she took what she could to help him out. The very things she created to help someone like him had been reserved and funneled into the wealthiest of pockets. The idea that she could not even keep her father alive, or her own perhaps if the time came to it, was something that Cypher could not stomach.

She needed control. She needed to reaffirm her control.

It was too easy to deal in secrets, as information she'd gathered overtime hadn't felt like much at the time. Corruption ran amok among those that Cypher interacted with, the very same people she'd peddled to for funding all those years ago, and she held no softness in her heart for them. If the cost of procuring money and her own parts was a few selfish people skipping the line and getting their endured life sentence, so be it. There was no regret to leverage these secrets in favour of personal retribution and money.

With the money she privately ordered all the parts and equipment needed, giving her father the new organs he needed, crafting a private lab in the belly of her home. He was so out of it most of the time that he didn't know what was happening. He'd ask, she'd lie-- it was as simple as that. For his own safety.

โœ โ”€ โ”€ โ›​

The President's gasp at her Reaping had been a reminder, a trigger, sending Cypher back to her mother's passing. For as safe as she thought she'd been, Cypher knew that error had found her again. She'd failed, again.

But she wouldn't let them have the last laugh.

 
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PYRA HAYWOOD.
















the berserker.




district 7.










โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก




NAME: Pyra Haywood โ€” named by her adopted parents.
AGE: Twenty.
GENDER: Female (she/her).

DISTRICT: Originally from District Twelve, but has been forcibly moved to District Seven.
GAMES WON: The 98th Hunger Games, alongside the Hawk.

APPEARANCE: wip.
FACECLAIM: Amber Midthunder โ€” specifically from Prey (2022).

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: I acknowledge that if I ghost, Pyra has every right to be killed off. As of right now, Iโ€™d imagine she would go out trying to protect those around her and taking anyone who stands in her way with her until the bitter end. However, I donโ€™t have any intention of ghosting and look forward to participating or following along the sidelines!

PSYCHE: determined, tenacious, primal instinct when backed into a corner, hair-trigger anger when threatened, reserved, obsessively protective, perceptive, ready to rip at the seams or maybe she already is, oddly calm in the face of danger but will spiral at living the mundane life, will silently suffer, loyal, daring, hardworking, will hold a grudge, distant yet makes it apparently she cares in her own ways, honest or rather easy to read (well not in a fight), caring to those in need or people close to her, silently critical of her self, unstoppable when given an objective, the fear of being abandoned by those around them, genuine, thoughtful and surprisingly sentimental, a stray cat that has been wronged too many times but wants to love and be loved so badly, will be her own reckoning, fatalistic, glimmering hope that is threatening to be snuffed out.

HABITS: a bad habit of gritting her teeth and biting her gums when upset, pulling at the threads of her coat when nervous, a tendency to hold eye contact too much when someone is talking to her, screaming to no one but the trees, the tendency to lose her train of thought when staring at her hands, religiously sleeping with her axe by her side.

GOALS & THEMES:
> Escaping confinement + achieving true freedom
> Retrieving what was lost
> Acceptance of self
> Guilt + forgiveness for the blood on your hands
> Protecting those you love
> Sacrifice for a cause
> Rebellion
> Altering perceptions from others
> Brutality versus kindness
> Learning to love and trust
> Fighting impulse or instinct

WRITING:

I. The Haywoods โ€”

โ€œOh, Iโ€™ve got justโ€ฆโ€œ Poppy stood on her toes, tongue out in concentration, as she reached for the pouch of sweetly-scented flowers on the top shelf, โ€œโ€ฆthe thing for insomnia!โ€ The shelf was as old as their eldest, Raven โ€” but without all the attitude โ€” and was lovingly handcrafted by Dirk. In fact, the shelf was specifically designed for his wifeโ€™s herbs; pots and pouches crammed into the shelves and drawers that definitely were due for some organisation. Yet, for Poppy, everything had its place.

Dirk even found the time to engrave โ€˜Haywoodโ€™s Apothecaryโ€™ on a sign outside their quaint home when he finished up late one night in the mines.

โ€œAll you have to do is crush it up. Then just sprinkle it into something theyโ€™ll digest. Iโ€™d recommend a mortar and pestle but the end of some stick will do just the trick.โ€ Poppy carefully stepped off the stool, one hand cradling her stomach. Waddling over to the counter, Poppy leaned forward, voice merely a whisper to Marigold, โ€œI sometimes put it in Dirkโ€™s tea. He is out like a lightโ€”I swear it. I also think it helps with his snoring but valerian hasnโ€™t be proven to do such a thing.โ€ Poppyโ€™s freckled face glowed as she laughed. Dirk loved telling her: Pregnancy suits you well, Pops, you should do it more often.

Try pushing out two kids, Poppy reminded him. Three soon, she thought as she waved Marigold goodbye.

Except the third never came.

Six months later, a depressed Poppy was awoken by her three-year-old, โ€œMummy, mummyโ€”quick! Come quick!โ€ Daisy shouted, the โ€˜quicksโ€™ coming out her mouth like ick.

Poppy didnโ€™t bother waking Dirk, all that was left was the indent from his hulking frame on the mattress. It was always empty by the time she woke โ€” especially these days. He wouldnโ€™t be back until dinner.

โ€œYes, yesโ€”Iโ€™m coming. Give mummy a second, yeah?โ€ Rubbing her eyes, she swore she could hear crying. Poppy thought it sounded like a wounded animal.

โ€œThe stork finally came!โ€ Daisy gleamed, all but one of her teeth having grown through. Led by Daisyโ€™s small hand in hers, Poppy opened the door to find the source of the screaming.

A baby was swaddled on their doorstep, left in the brisk cold of an early morning.

II. The Mutt โ€”

โ€œI saidโ€”youโ€™re a mutt!โ€ Ivy jeered at a young Pyra outside of the school and earshot of any adults.

โ€œY-yeah! A mute mutt!โ€ One of Ivyโ€™s minions chuckled nervously behind the confines of their leader.

Mutt.

A term Pyra had grown familiar with. Ivy loved reminded her it was short for โ€˜muttationโ€™ and that Pyra shared more resemblance to the wolf mutts in the last Quarter Quell than she did to the Haywoods. To her credit, Ivy was right about the latter; where their hair was fair, Pyraโ€™s was a similiar colour to the streaks of coal that Poppy struggled to get out of Dirkโ€™s pants.

It was pitiful really, Pyra would stare at her reflection most nights until her eyes went sore. Why didnโ€™t she look like Raven or Daisy? Why did they not get the same treatment as her?

Pyra understood in that moment.

She wasnโ€™t a Haywood.
Everything clicked as Ivy opened her mouth to speak once more.

โ€œCome on, Mutt, why doโ€”โ€œ

Screams and cries alerted the teachers to find Pyra straddling Ivy, fingers clawing at her face like a wild animalโ€”

No.

A Mutt.

III. The Orphanage โ€”

The rumours of Pyraโ€™s legitimacy reached a crescendo with the assault of Ivy who coincidently was the Mayorโ€™s daughter of District 12. It didnโ€™t take long before the Peacemakers showed up on the Haywoodโ€™s doorstep.

โ€œSheโ€™s our daughter!โ€ Poppy howled as Dirk attempted to hold her back from the inevitable assault the Peacemakers would bring upon her.

Pyra had two white-clad men either side, struggling to keep the seven-year-old under control. Thrashing wildly, Pyra mirrored her adopted motherโ€™s screams. A primal connection between the two as she fought to stay with her family.

A brick-and-mortar building that looked close to crumbling onto itself was her destination in a busy street.

The Peacemakers had no qualms with shoving Pyra onto the pebbled path, cutting open her knees. Pyra didnโ€™t let them leave unscathed, one of them walking away with a limp while the took off his cracked helmet to reveal a bloody nose.

โ€œNice one, new kid. I think that is the most ass whoopinโ€™ someone has given to those assholes.โ€ Pyra peered past the mismatched sneakers of the young girl in front of her. Pyra pinned her as around five years old which made her wonder why she was calling her kid. Or why she was swearing like Dirk would when he was kept back late for overtime.

The girl held out a hand for Pyra, which she refused with an untrustworthy glare.

Where even am I now?

โ€œLet me formally welcome you!โ€ As though reading her mind the girl started imitating a drum on her holed jeans. Making a spectacle of it, as though rehearsed for the other poor souls before her. The girl spun around, her braided hair following suit, โ€œTo the greatest place in all of Panem!โ€ Her arms gestured to painted lettering that had faded over time.

District 7 Orphanage.

โ€œMy name is Silver and Iโ€™ll be your guide today!โ€ In true performer fashion, Pyra didnโ€™t pick up on the sarcasm until later on.

IV. The Sacrifice โ€”

Life at the Orphanage was surprisingly bearable. Most days were spent at the lumber mill where Pyra went from marking trees for felling to cutting the trees down herself in a matter of years.

While the work was gruelling, the end of the day signified it was time to go home to her siblings. Her new family. One that was close-knit and showed unparalleled care for one another. Maybe it was because they loved each other or maybe it was because they had nobody else? Regardless, Pyra became a protector of sorts within the family unit and would often get into trouble with the Peacemakers to ensure her siblingโ€™s safety.

The bounds of her protection were tested when Silver, with whom she had grown the closest to, was reaped for District 7. Silver didnโ€™t stand a chance in the games. She would excel in the interview, that much was true; Silver was easy to get along with but nothing more than a slight thing.

Silver protested as Pyra silently approached the stage, being held back by Slash. If it wasnโ€™t for her photographic memory, Pyra wouldnโ€™t of recognised the similarities to her leave from District 12. Yet, the difference was this was her choice. A choice she would make a million times over for any of her siblings.

โ€œYou better promise to win those fucking games, Pyra. I swear to the Heavens, I will kick your ass if you donโ€™t. We need you.โ€ Was the last thing Silver said to her; the closest thing she would say to I love you. All of her siblings huddled up and shared a final group hug.

Pyra carried their warmth with her to the games, eager and determined to keep her promise.

V. The Interview โ€”

Pyraโ€™s interview with Caesar Flickerman had gone horribly.

See, Pyra didnโ€™t utter a word โ€” she never had to be fair.

Poppy had thought she had developmental or learning difficulties; having hushed discussions with Dirk behind closed doors. If only they knew how thin the walls were.

Yet, for Pyra, she didnโ€™t feel the need to speak. Since she was young she found words were empty threats or promises; ones that lacked the tact and tangibility that actions had. More than that, she didnโ€™t feel the Capitolโ€™s prissy residents even deserved to hear her speak. So, she sat silently during the interview as Caesar nervously chuckled, asking her question after question to no avail.

It brought her some satisfaction seeing the usually cool and collected Caesar sweat.

Her District 7 counterpart was livid. You know we need sponsors to win this thing and you screwed that up for us. Hope youโ€™ve got a mean swing with that axe or your fucking dead.

Chip was his name. He spent most of the interview talking about his three girls who he needed to come home to. Pyra knew of Chip from in the forest, the two sometimes sharing a silent acknowledgement as they chopped into the trees ahead of them.

Pyra also knew that Chip had no kids. The same way Poppy and Dirk lied to her about her being their legitimate child. How could people lie through their teeth like that?

It didnโ€™t matter anyway, the interview was almost over.

All that remained was District 12.

Pyra dragged her eyes towards the screen, his face was instantly recognisable as THE HAWK entered the stage.

Her face dropped, leaning forwards, ignoring Chipโ€™s empty words.

Her memory afforded her to remember everything about THE HAWK; the woollen pink jumper, the laughter, the mud pies and the meadow swaying around them.

THE HAWK found her all alone, eyes drained from tears. No one at the school liked her โ€” namely due to the rumours and the fact she didnโ€™t speak.

Yet, THE HAWK was different. He didnโ€™t mind she didnโ€™t speak and gladly filled the silence with his own sweet voice. Eventually they were playing and for once in her life she felt like a child.

Once they were covered in mud, THE HAWK would sing and Pyra would hum, fumbling to keep the rhythm but eventually their voices found some form of harmony.

Pyra still hummed those same songs, having forgotten about their origin until now.

Pyra could now recall his small face in front of hers; mud smeared against his cheek as he plucked a flower from the meadow and fitted it behind her ear.

Each day after that, she would find herself in the same meadow, sometimes THE HAWK would beat her there and they would do it all over again.

Pyra continued to listen to his interview, realising he was spending most of it speaking about her. Not only that, the crowd seemed to aww and ahh at THE HAWKโ€™s retelling of their time together, along with filling in the blanks of Pyraโ€™s origins.

โ€Hmph, sounds like you got an admirer, kid.โ€œ Chip huffed, โ€œJust donโ€™t get mushy when you have to kill him. We can use that to our advantage.โ€

No. She wouldnโ€™t. A new goal arose, she would protect THE HAWK. The same way they protected her during a moment of vulnerability when she was young and alone. Anyone that threatened that โ€” Chip included โ€” would meet their end.

VII. The Final Tributes โ€”

Chipโ€™s cannon was one of the first to be fired, his own partner having a hand in his death. The arrow hitched and ready, Chip took aim at the unarmed tribute in the distance. Once she caught the site of the tributeโ€™s hair, Pyra pushed the brute of a man, the arrow flying past THE HAWKโ€™s face.

At first she couldnโ€™t see Chip, as though his body had evaporated by the impact. Yet, there he was, his body crumpled by an angular, bloody rock at the bottom of the hill they stood on.

The cannons continued to sound throughout the coming days but consequently so did the blood on Pyraโ€™s hands.

Thanks to THE HAWKโ€˜s interview, Pyra had been sponsored enough medical supplies to keep her going.

By the time she stumbled out of the woods and into the clearing, Pyra had killed thirteen tributes (if you were including Chip). Some with an axe, others with her bare hands and someโ€ฆwith her teeth. It wouldnโ€™t dawn on her until after the games the impact it would have on her.

In front of her stood THE HAWK, the final two tributes meeting face-to-face. In some twisted way, the clearing resembled the same meadow they once frequented. Or was it more beautiful? Fitting even.

Pyra knew she wasnโ€™t going to make it; her body was torn and ripped in different places from the warpath she had carved out of the tributes. Pieces of her were missing, pieces that didnโ€™t matter anymore. Her body had served its purpose, it was no longer needed.

Once the games begun her body was merely a vessel for what would follow.

An animal.

Yet, she still stood, dragging one foot after the other until she was in front of THE HAWK.

Then she collapsed, finally allowing herself to rest. You did good โ€” at least you kept one promise. Heโ€™s okay.

The details are hazy after that but she does remember the warmth of THE HAWKโ€™s hand in hers.

She was ready to go in that moment, letting the foolish thought of them both leaving this place float away. The thought of them in the meadow once more and hearing his sweet voice sing to her one more time.

Pyra spoke for the first time, her voice hoarse and burning in her throat:

โ€œThank you.โ€

Then she was gone.

VIII. The Experiment โ€”

She died. She knew that much.

Yet, Pyra awoke to THE REAPER, their hands all over her. Tubes, pipes and wires of all kinds were threaded into her โ€” thankfully she couldnโ€™t feel them.

In fact, Pyra couldnโ€™t move. Her body felt heavy.

She could see THE REAPERโ€˜s mouth moving but couldnโ€™t hear anything. But she could breathe again, her chest rising slowly. That was enough for now, she had taken it for granted in those final moments.

Glancing down she could see her arm had returned.

Was it all a dream?

A scar encompasses the circumference below her elbow, where her arm had been was now somethingโ€ฆforeign.

Noโ€”that wasnโ€™t her arm.

Her chest arose faster, THE REAPERโ€™s movements became more erratic, reaching for something, as the arm that wasnโ€™t Pyraโ€™s gripped THE REAPERโ€™s throat. She could feel their pulse under her capable grip.

What did you do to me? She wanted to scream it out but her mouth wouldnโ€™t move.

THE REAPER managed to get the needle into one of the tubes and soon enough she was gone again.

Her arm wasnโ€™t the only thing that had changed. Once she awoke with a healthy dose of morphine in her system, THE REAPER told her of the multiple prosthetics that were now fitted to her both internally and externally. From her chipped ear, her collapsed lung, punctured stomach, her right calf and foot as well as her arm.

THE REAPER had stitched her back together like some doll. Pyra wouldnโ€™t find out until later it was THE REAPERโ€™s first time using these new procedures on a human.

IX. The Forest โ€”

The Capitol had engineered a new version of Pyra, one that stood at the forefront of everyoneโ€™s mind.

A killer.

A weapon.

An animal.

Her true self, which was sometimes debated by Pyra these days, had become a ghost.

A ghost to everyone she knew. All they saw of her was what the Capitol broadcasted; her teeth sinking into a tributeโ€™s neck, her hands around oneโ€™s throat, or the other slamming their head into a rock. Pyra didnโ€™t need to see the broadcasts to remember these moments โ€” they were burnt into her memory. Yet, the broadcasts were embellished, labelling her as some hero to the Capitol.

The Capitol watched her, she knew that much. Even in the confines of the forest she was not safe. She hadnโ€™t seen her family since she returned, keeping a cool distance from them because she knew they werenโ€™t safe from those hawks. Or maybe they werenโ€™t safe from you.

Instead she spent most of her days in the depths of the woods, an axe in hand, chopping at the trees over and over until the blood on her hands was no longer there when she closed her eyes.

In her breast pocket was a metal pin that had rusted and eroded with time. Pyra had found it abandoned in the woods, most likely from some conspirator for the rebellion. For Pyra, the pin resembled something similar. It resembled hope but it also represented anger and an urge.

An urge that still lingered inside of her. One that begged to come out โ€” to unleash the same bloodshed and wrath she had brought upon the unwilling tributes of the games. Yet, this time, she wanted to rip apart the Capitolโ€™s residents; their hands that grabbed and prodded at her after the games akin toโ€ฆa fucking animal, who was meant to sit there as though they held her leash.

Taking a moment of much needed rest, Pyra wiped the sweat from her face, reaching into the pocket and retrieving the pin.

A Mockingjay.
 
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helena boswell

the grim


Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that red was never once beautiful. It was just red.

-- Kait Rokowski​

​

​


​


/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

ยฉ weldherwings.


CW: Gore, Violence

Name: Helena "Hel" Boswell
Age: 36 years old
Gender: Cis Female
Sexuality: Sapphic
District: Resides in District Eleven
Games Won: The 76th Hunger Games​

The Forgotten Game, The Victor That Should Have Never Been. They always look at her with a question, too proud to acknowledge their lapse in memory.

โ€œHelena,โ€ she says.

โ€œHelenaโ€ฆ Oh! Hel. Yes, darling.โ€ They always say it with a smile and chuckle when they think sheโ€™s out of earshot. They mock the dead tribute who gave her that nickname, โ€œHe- Hel. What a laugh that was.โ€

The 76th Hunger Games lacked artistic flair, the gamemakers too afraid to do their President wrong again, to find themselves in a locked room. A clean slate, fresh faces, they plunged her world into the dark to make their control more accessible, to make the games easy. The result was less than satisfactory. The game, a maze of corridors and black corners, long and too hard to see. A tributeโ€™s survivalbility, food and water aside, too high for the spectacle most Capitol citizens sought.

Never mind the burn, the blood, the face with no face. The Capitol always wanted more.

Acknowledgement: I acknowledge that my character may be killed due to inactivity. If this were to occur, Helena would have a self-fullfilling prophecy. She would become The Grim in its truest and most complete form. Interpretation is left to the writers. Have fun, dearies.

Looks Like: Ruth Negga

Goals + Themes: Primal Instincts | The Spectacle | Trauma and Recovery | Breaking Points | Despondency and Rebellion | Dissociation and Complacency

It is in the squelch wet shoes make and the way someone clears their throat after a cold. She feels it when her stomach aches and smells it in red meat. It is that far away look someone gets after sitting still for too long. It is the weight when she lays in bed, staring into the dark. She feels it when she lowers her eyes, unable to meet another's gaze. It is everywhere and in everything.

Current Circumstances: Here without a home, Helena resides alone in a small and ancient homestead within District Eleven. A farmhouse, past its prime and still the most lavish in miles. She cares for chickens, some goats, and an old horse she no longer rides. Her gran has moved back in, the rest of her family back out. Though they live close by, it's been almost a year since she last saw them, and it is all she can do to keep her gran here.

For the most part, she is withdrawn. A new game happens every year and she quietly goes through the motions, mentoring her next dead tributes. She won at twelve and in the twenty some years that have come since, she can seldom recall a thing. The Capitol regards her plainly, without excitement. They rush past her to see The Star and The Hamlet. When she speaks, she talks about what she is going to plant and what meal her and her gran shared the evening prior. Her voice is a whisper, her presence intangible. Small talk is all she has. They dress her in fine clothes and delicate lace, chin to toe, arms and legs covered, knowing without it, sheโ€™d be beside herself, too exposed.

The people of District Eleven regard her in much of the same manner, The Victor Who Never Mattered and The Girl Who Should Have Died. After all, what better way to quell a rebellion than watch a Capitol favorite snuff the tribute of a district gone awry? She had the hopes and dreams of Eleven in her hands, and she sat and did nothing.

She wonders if it has all bled away or it she still holds it gently, unknowingly in both hands.

Ailments CW: CPTSD, Mental Health (major depression and anxiety, mild suicidal ideation).

"The moment when a tribute becomes a victor..."
-- Caesar Flickerman​

That sappy, salty spray speckling her skin. Drip, drip, dripping like a near empty bottle of syrup. Just as sweet, she thinks, almost bitter. Garnet feels stiff all over, and Helena pushes the blade in deeper. Take it slow, make it beautiful, Garnetโ€™s words repeat.

"Heh- ell- Hel..." She tries to say Helena's name, but it catches every time she gasps for another breath. "What-"

Gritting her teeth, red with Garnet's own blood, something feral rips itself from her throat. Helena shoves and withdraws the knife as Garnet falls backwards. "What," Helena repeats, sneering, biting. She springs up on all fours and lurches, straddling Garnet, flinching as she yelps. She stoops low, gripping Garnet's head, growling as Garnet tries to grab her hands. "What," she snarls.

Keeping one hand on her head, using it to direct her knife, Helena forces it down. The animal rages and wails and chokes in the frenzy. Garnet gurgles at first, sputters, and goes quiet. There is a warmth all around her. It burns. Something soft and wet slides through her fingers. They blaze and hurt. The intensity makes her eyes water and makes her suck in air like a fish left out on the beach.

Her world goes bright, white, hard to see. "What!" she screams.


AAE49097-2EEA-499C-AE0C-C78232950DCC.jpeg
C4E494A0-A09F-427F-A0D6-85B8DEF46D35.jpeg











Helena "Hel" Boswell
















The Grim.




District 11.




Ruth Negga.










โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก



 
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Remora Odair
































# the star








# D4




















โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก




​
Name: Remora Odair
Nickname: โ€˜Mora, Mo
Age: 27 years old.
D.o.b: January 1st
Gender: Female.
Sexuality: Bisexual, biromantic
District: District 4, fishing
Games Won: The 90th Hunger games, regrettably, perhaps ruefully, by her LONESOME.

Physicality: Bestowed a canvas for a face, therein lies comfort in possibility. She is not beautiful, but she can be. She is not an idol, yet idol she has become. With fine brushstrokes what has appeared of Remora has changed with the seasons, has turned with the passage of time; drifting ceaselessly like lone wood in the waves of order, restraint. And, under the flashing lights of the capitol, she is born again and again until once and for all, no longer will she bear a face to call her own, an identity, or a name. Until she is completely erased. She is, after all, his desireโ€™s keeper.

Yet, gentle are the eyes which peer down from a lengths away, tall like the umbers is she, head cast in the clouds, like her father. A voice capable of ballads melodic to the ears, yet hushed, kept low, ashamed. Arid are the words that pass through plush lips, through a practiced smile, soft and inviting, lacking legitimacy or further candour. In fact, everything about Remora Odair, the legacy, the star, has been edited โ€” shrunken, constrained to fit into a digestible version of herself, into a box.

But she cannot deny who she is forever.

It is perhaps in her most striking feature, the one that lays beyond her control - of which she cannot contain, that the blood runs deep. Golden locks that twist and curl around her features, remain the remnants of a lineage no longer treading on the right side of history.

Style: DURING HER GAMES, Remora was made a proud โ€” though more so prepared tribute of her beloved district, styling silhouettes which boasted the curvature of her muscles, intensified the blonde in her hair & the uncertain stride in her step. Perhaps unorthodox were the masculine and armoured articles of clothing, a thought-to-be mundane yet striking appearance in comparison to the capitolโ€™s more lively, often effeminate tastes.

AT HOME โ€” and perhaps by way of pure irony, she fashions herself similarly to the attire spent as a cruel pawn serving the capitolโ€™s entertainment. Athletic, allowing for swift movement, with fabrics that are elastic and durable in light of steep waters, she dresses much like the ancestors before her who took to the sea, pragmatic yet with a gracefulness that is so innate to her, despite yearning to detach herself entirely from the suffocating mask of the starlet.

IN FRONT OF THE CAMERAS, an amalgamation of soft, flowy fabrics & colours, she is made the capitolโ€™s โ€œsweetheartโ€ as per Snowโ€™s orders. Although subject to change, her bashful yet charming disposition has often fashioned herself in romantic pieces, alluding to times where love and innocence was still a thing not of fiction, but prevalent amongst the masses.

Habits: Is often reprimanded for fidgeting with her jewelry โ€” bracelets, rings โ€” but most often, a pendant gifted to her by her father. A golden locket engraved with their surname, a reminder from where she comes.

Has also, ever since she was a child, walked to edge of the sea, watched the tides roll in and the sun lay above them, as if settling into a bed of wonders. She often frequents the port in times where sleep evades her, is unforgiving, merciless.

Traits: generous ; kind ; wise ; withdrawn ; level-headed ; imprisoned by a force greater than what she has reckoned with, having succumbed to the walls which shroud over her, a cell of her own making ; culpable ; complacent ; a legacy reduced to nothingness, a mere machine with the iron-grip of the capitolโ€™s hands around her throat ; dutiful ; tired ; thoughtful ; rueful.

Goals + Themes:

I. DUTY. Beyond her days spent at the heart of the quell, with the riches she has since gathered for herself, Remora feels an obligation to provide for and aid the increasingly less fortunate locals of district 4, repent for her own limelight, as if it is a sin, a fault of her own doing. And so, she finds herself not only elbows-deep in the barrels of fish, but elbows-deep and subservient to the capitol. A confusing concoction, though most seem to appreciate the untroubled bending of her will and her generosity.

II. POWER OR PRISONER? Wrapped around President Snowโ€™s finger, anyone would think that Panem is her oyster. Parties with no purpose, extravagant food & drink and glimmering chandeliers have become more or less, the reality for her. And yet, should she show even a glimmer of reluctance, a flicker of contempt, all that has meant anything to her โ€” anything at all, walks a thin line between death and decay. She may have everything yes, but everything comes at a cost.

III. LOVE, LOSS & REGRET. Fear. She has endured a lifetime of it. Where she stands now is heavily because of it, alone, with the love of thousands yet none to call her own. She knows that if she ever could he would find a way to hold them over her, dangle their precious life over the edge as he has done so before. So she remains cool, forever afraid to utter that three letter sentence, although she desperately yearns to. To hold them close, cup their face. To die for love.

But she, as the sacrificial lamb, has a duty to uphold. To protect that shining soul, to keep them as far away from his grasps, she remains indifferent, cool, detached. Bids them goodbye time and time again, with a heavy heart and the truth dying on the tip of her tongue, she asks herself this: what is fear, without regret?

Acknowledgement of Character Death: Although I do not intend to disappear without being dragged out by my ANKLES FIRST, I do acknowledge that should I no longer be active, that Remora shall be killed off. All I ask is that it is done in a way that fulfills her arch โ€” tragically, gaining the courage to stand up to their oppressors after having been their puppet for so long, running toward the flame, either literally or figuratively.

 
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THE GAMES.




artist












DELL .















I.

the tricky thing is...,










name


Dell Ambert.









age


Twenty.







Date of birth


April 13th.







gender/pronouns


Female, she/her.







sexuality


tbd -







district


From 12, resides in 7.







Games Won


Won the 98th Hunger Games alongside Carmen Mae. Details to be determined.













II.

yesterday we were jsut children,








physicality


TBD







reference


Banita Sandhu







aesthetics


TBD







style


TBD







habits


TBD







traits


anticipative | benevolent | caring | clever | smart | witty | confident | decisive | good-natured | difficult | perceptive | purposeful | guarded | determined | stoic | yes, most of these are contrdictory | it depends on what day you talk to her and whether she likes you or not | can and will cut you verbally | can and will remember your little details and make you ultra meaningful gifts | her glare is made of laser beams and it may just kill you | โ€˜iโ€™d like to crack a smile but apparently iโ€™m the only person i can trust so i wonโ€™t be doing thatโ€™












III.

playing soldiers just pretending,








themes




MIND OVER MATTER โ€” Dell is too smart for her own good; she detests how easily she can manipulate and intimidate. Sheโ€™s a gentle soul at her core, but for her own survival in the games, and now with the Capitol breathing down her back, sheโ€™s had to let her mind take over. Her heart has been locked away and stored in a dark, dark corner. I would love to see her finding some sort of peace with Carmy in that she can be herself around him, whether that be in a platonic or romantic way. She does have that with her bestie in district seven, but Dellโ€™s had to isolate emotionally from them since getting back from the Games.

SELFISHLY SELFLESS โ€” All she wants is to take care of her district seven family. She wants to watch the sunset every afternoon and bartar for sweets at the market - but with a rebellion dawning, and her and Carmy being the catalyst of it, that might not be a reality for her anymore. She hears the whispers of โ€˜girl on fireโ€ฆโ€™ and โ€˜maybe this timeโ€ฆโ€™ but sheโ€™s not sure she wants to commit. Iโ€™d like to potentially explore Dell being selfish, in that she doesnโ€™t want to get involved with/lead the rebellion after fully learning about it. She likes her life how it is; she likes that itโ€™s simple and she has it all figured out. Obviously, sheโ€™s gonna give in and be Katniss 2.0 tho.

THE HEART โ€” Dell believes that she is either her โ€˜nice selfโ€™ or her โ€˜smart selfโ€™, and thereโ€™s no in between. This is obviously a result of the trauma the Games have left her with; she never knew how cold and calculating she could be until she was put in the arena, so now in her mind using her brains equals running a literal, physical axe through someoneโ€™s literal, physical heart - and I want to explore her struggling with that, eventually finding a happy balance of both.








acknowledgement of character death


If I ghost this rp, the Game Makers can kill off Dell in any way they see fit (and the mods can have a say too, of course). Although part of me thinks she would just Kermitโ„ข...













IV.

dreaming dreams with happy endings,








writing











THE INTERVIEW - 98th Games



It was funny how life worked. One moment you were watching the sunset while eating perfectly ripe apples, the nextโ€ฆ

โ€œIโ€™m well, Caesar. How are you?โ€

The next moment you were being interviewed by Caesar Flickerman as a tribute in the ninety-eighth Hunger Games. The man Dell had seen for years on television and had hoped to never see in person. His perfectly coiffed purple hair was even more fake looking in real life - sheโ€™d always joke with the kids about it being a wig, but being up close and personal she quickly realized it was unfortunately real. She wondered what it looked like without any product in it.

โ€œAlready on a first name basis- I love it, I love it! Iโ€™m just fine, Dell. Now tell us, because we only have three minutes and Panem is simply biting to knowโ€ฆโ€ he had lowered his voice to a serious tone, leaning in as though it were just the two of them talking, โ€œwhat were you thinking, volunteering for your sister?โ€

She shouldโ€™ve known this would be the main talking point of her interview. Really, it shouldโ€™ve been something she prepped for with her mentor, but they may or may not have exclusively been arguing with each other the past few days. Which may or may not have been her fault, mostly. Not that sheโ€™d ever admit it.

Nonetheless, it took her aback. The air seemed to leave her body, akin to being punched in the gut; it mustโ€™ve caused a noticeable pause. She tried not to dwell on it. โ€œIโ€ฆI just wanted to protect her.โ€

The crowd cooed.

โ€œOh, we love a story of familial love here, donโ€™t we folks?โ€ Caesar called, to which the crowd replied with a generous amount of applause. Dell tried to wear a small, gracious smile.

Was she grabbing their attention? Did they like her? Was THE HAMLET getting offers from sponsors? Did she really care? Lilly and the kids seemed to think she stood a chance at making it homeโ€ฆmaybe it was worth trying to make a good impression.

โ€œWell, letโ€™s just say, Dell,โ€ Caesar started, eyebrows raised playfully, โ€œthat we hope your dress doesnโ€™t burst into flames.โ€

There was an immediate roar of laughter and gossiping among the crowd. Dell wondered if it had been in the cards for Caesar to make that comment, or if it had come naturally. She hadnโ€™t even made the connection herself, between her and the girl no one dared to name, even away from the safety of the Peacekeepersโ€ฆthe fishtail pigtails her stylist had put her in suddenly seemed to be burning her shoulders.

She had to get the attention of the auditorium back. It occurred to her in that moment all of the awful things she could say; all of the things she wanted to say and yet wouldnโ€™t dare. There was a living room full of four baby-faced kids in seven that had no idea what Caesar just implied, or how much her next choice of words would affect them.

But the answer to keeping things civil was simple, really. She forced a amicable laugh, โ€œIt doesnโ€™t, I promise. Do you want to see the whole dress, though?โ€

โ€œBe our guest!โ€ Caesar motioned for her to stand up; the audience had put their attention back on her with an approving cheer. She did a small spin, realizing in the midst of it that she had never once spun to show off an outfit before, much less worn high heels or make-up. As far as district sevenโ€™s outfits went her get-up wasnโ€™t atrocious. It was a simple mid-thigh length dress, somehow made completely of moss. Her hair was woven with leaves, and her shoes appeared to be made of bark. She hadnโ€™t recognized herself when she looked in the mirror.

Her stylist had said she looked beautiful; had rejoiced in how the prep team had finally gotten that โ€˜distrct scumโ€™ off of her. And maybe she did look pretty- maybe she had come to the Capitol with dirt embedded in her fingernails and scratches all over from chopping wood everyday, but she was still being sent to her death tomorrow. So she hated all of it. Every single bit. From the glitter spray in her hair to the paint on her toenails.

โ€œHow gorgeous!โ€ Caesar complimented as she sat back down. Dell smiled as the crowd applauded.

โ€œNow, Dell, we canโ€™t let you go without asking the most important question of the nightโ€ฆโ€ Caesar looked at her expectantly with a knowing smile, like she should be able to guess what he was going to say. โ€œWhat are you plans for tomorrow? Anything your competition should be looking out for?โ€

This was the part where she really won them over. Where she was supposed to sell herself to them even more than she already had. There was no point lying about her physical capability, which was nonexistent, or her mental capacity. Just because she could bartar the shopkeepers down to half price on their goat cheese didnโ€™t mean she stood a chance in the arena.

For the first time since she walked on stage she earnestly looked Caesar in the eyes, then out into the audience, hoping that Lilly and the kids would be okay without her. Knowing that this would be the last time they wouldnโ€™t see her suffering, and that maybe it would be the last time they saw her alive at all.

โ€œIโ€™m notโ€ฆโ€ she started, looking down at her lap for a brief moment before forcing herself to look back up. Showing emotion wasnโ€™t her forte, but now was the time to be vulnerable. Now was the time to say goodbye. โ€œIโ€™m not especially smart. Iโ€™m definitely not strong, or very intimidating...I donโ€™t plan on making it out of the arena.โ€

She paused to take a breath, swallowing the lump in her throat. The crowd seemed to be gripping onto her every word.

โ€œMe and my sister, the one I volunteered forโ€ฆweโ€™re orphans. We live in an orphanage with four other kids back in seven, and weโ€ฆwe take care of them. Like theyโ€™re our own kids. None of us our related by blood but we might as well be.โ€ she took a shaky breath, โ€œI volunteered for my sister because sheโ€™s always been better at watching out for themโ€ฆtheyโ€™re going to be just fine without me. I know it.โ€

A pause.

โ€œThe only thing I want to take the time to say right now, Caesar...is goodbye.โ€
It was silent for moment, then Caesar leaned forward, grabbing her hand, โ€œWe can only wish you the best of luck, Dell. And perhaps youโ€™ve caught the attention of some generous sponsors tonight, right folks?โ€

He had turned his efforts back towards the audience, who gave a overwhelmingly loud and supportive cheer, to which Caesar replied with, โ€œGive it up for district sevenโ€™s Dell Ambert!โ€















V.

now here you are, two steps ahead and staying on guard...
































โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 
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INGA MUร‘OZ
















district 8.




the tower.










โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก



































LILAC WINE.




artist












INGA.















I.

grief is tailored with the red string of fate










name


Inga Paola Muรฑoz.







nickname


Ingie







age


Forty-seven.







Date of birth


April 27th







gender & pronouns


transfemme; she/her







sexuality


bisexual.







district


District 8







Relation


Spouse of the Victor of The 71st Hunger Games













II.

without buttons or zippers.








physicality


6'2''. Gaunt and leatherbound. The corners of her eyes reveal the woman that galivants is itching for a rest. A slender form with hard lines and muscle as a thing viscous around jaunty bones. Her bones are weary, drooping with a slender curvature found within a painting. A bit of gray showing in her hair, which is perpetually cut at home. Tanned skin that darkens with more time in the sun, smattered with some sunburn-caused freckles. Various scars, self-inflicted and others accidental. A face to sculpt and rival Aphrodite, but she prefers to sculpt the busts, not sit for one.







reference


Elysia Crampton







aesthetics


visuals.







style


Practical, yet always with flare. Her days of espionage demand some sense of obscurity, yet on occasion (more than she should), she opts for something more dramatic. Simple basics, breezy and easy to conform to any climate, and convenient to run away from Peacekeepers in. More here.







habits


on autopilot, she counts the number of people in a room when she enters, taps the side of her leg with her finger or hand (optionally: taps her foot, shakes her left, etc.) to keep the time when she feels anxious, prefers fuzzy socks when she can steal them, chews on toothpicks to curb the craving for a cigarette







traits


haunted, mischievous, a recovering menace and hot-head, a governess of calamity, thorough, lonesome, ambitious, daredevil, selfish, guilt-ridden, discrete, determined, practiced, acetic, masochistic, hungry, quick to smile, pleasuring in the little things, a head formed around memories












III.

the struggle among the rocks for more room








summary


A dull set of fangs, grown over with age and lack of bloodshed. Her mind remains a sharpened point, though the arrow head is wisened. Inga holds her hands open, downward, and letting slip old drudgery. The spindles of a missed opportunity haunt. Rotund lenses, a personal T.J. Eckleburg, and the squeal of a baby. Their innocence is daunting, reminiscent of the last breaths of her own. It will all end in ruin, so she remains a side-character in her kin's life. A wanderer, a drifter, but an honorable one. She stands at attention, guarding and crafting the future from afar, and finds solace in merry pursuits. A Robin Hood fable plucked from a Howard Pyle spine. She cracks her own. Her fist snaps a neck back, fingers nimble and swift. A kingdom forged at the cost of a place on the throne. A Rebellion sewn at the price of a marriage and a childhood.

Inga knew nothing of her husband when he was Reaped. His Games passed her with mild intrigue, but she had other things on her mind. Her penchant for disguises and her childhood as a street rat made her an easy pick for District 13's sect of DIstrict citizens who double as spies and assassins. She lived an average life as a seamstress in Company-owned factory, calling in sick or being moved around enough so as not arouse suspicion when she went on a mission. Her husband first recognized her the second time she had been sent undercover to the Victory Tour celebration in the Capitol. They finally spoke when he met her a third time, having been paired on a mission together where she posed as his bodyguard.

They left the Rebellion's espionage sect when he proposed. They gave birth to a darling baby, and her husband left the whole of the Rebellion. Inga stayed, and in a few years, she went back to working missions. It revived itself with the occasional bit of information, a small assignment to steal the production orders and data of a local factory, etc. While she never went back to the full position, an ultimatum was still drawn. The pair were separated at the time of Inga's Reaping.

Unbeknownst to everyone outside of Inga and the Rebellion, she was Reaped specifically for her skillset as a former assassin and her life-long involvement in the Rebellion.














V.

the grudging love, the old hatreds.
































โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก
 
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____________________________ But she had shown her daughter no love, whether she felt it or not. __________________________________________


the cavern









Name: Aurelia Lockwince
Age: 54
Gender: Female
District: Two
Relation to Victor: Mother
Faceclaim: Rena Owen

Acknowledgement of Character Death: I acknowledge that my character will be killed off if I ghost this rp. I donโ€™t have any conditions for her death - I trust the mods to pick something appropriate for the situation if needed.

Goals + Themes:
Guardianship: Aurelia feels that she failed to be a guardian for her child, as she didnโ€™t protect them against the world, and allowed them to be entered into the games which had a significant negative effect on them, both in the trauma they endured and the violent system they became a willing part of. Her role within the rebels, especially towards younger members who have suffered in similar ways, echoes what she wished she had been. I think it would be interesting to see the different ways this affects dynamics within the group - it can be a valuable bond in an environment trying to force them against each other, but can also be clouded by her own projection and need to fill a certain role.
Silence & Complacency: As someone who's been quiet her whole life, who's often gone along with othersโ€™ decisions and opinions, Aurelia risks falling back into that pattern. Sheโ€™s only begun to start taking agency for herself in her interactions with the rebels, and even then has had to keep things fairly covert due to the nature of their work. Being thrown into a situation where she'll have to be making moves of her own, and wonโ€™t necessarily have the chance to gauge and evaluate the proper reaction, as well as being a focus of attention, will throw these issues into harsh relief, and Iโ€™m interested to examine them further.
Grief: This is perhaps Aureliaโ€™s core theme. Despite not physically losing her child, she has dealt with extensive grief surrounding them, from the pre-emptive acceptance of their death when the decision was made for them to be a Career Tribute, to mourning the child she raised when they return irreparably changed from the Games. This introduces a natural contrast with the Hermit - I can see a potential dynamic with wishing they had the other's fate, and whether this fuels bitterness or bonding between the two. This will also strongly affect her reaction to encountering literal death, especially if it involves someone she cares about.
Emotional Openness: Growing up, Aurelia often suppressed her emotions, and tried to prevent herself from feeling any negative emotions that would push her to uncomfortable questions or realizations. Sheโ€™s also wary of forming strong emotional bonds, after turning away from the husband and child she once centered her world around. Her time with the rebels has let her begin to start unlearning this, but being thrown into the games could make her fall back on old patterns - or it might make her emotions surge up even more strongly. Either way, being unable to control her emotional reactions will have a strong effect on her, and Iโ€™m excited to see what problems that might cause.

Writing:
Aurelia is encased by stone from the moment she is born. She wonders, sometimes, whether the District shapes its people around. Leaches into them, oil and metal and rock, until the people themselves become slick and sharp and cold. They are well-off here, her family tells her. Compared to some places, at least. Death is still close at hand, she knows, but nobody looks directly at it. There is something about this precious little platform above the lower districts, that makes any complaint, any too-frank acknowledgment of the horrors that take place here, seem unspeakable. And there is something about constantly moving, around their little circuit, never stable and yet never new, that makes the rhythm of the games run like a desperate heartbeat under her life.

She doesnโ€™t remember the first time she watches the games. Theyโ€™re just there, a marker of each yearโ€™s passing. In the early days, unused to the content shown so frankly on-screen, she looks away, tries to find something else to focus on, eyes darting to the edges of the images which fill the frame. In time, she finds herself drawn to the frame itself, to the structure that lies within the games themselves, and as she learns the mechanics and the narratives and all the subtle cheats, she finds more excuses not to think too hard about the violence, the fear, and the death.

-*-

When she meets a man, scarred and callous and newly returned, she sees in him that same burning thrill, of toeing the edge of the unspeakable without ever stepping over. He tells her stories of training for the games, of falling short, of all he found beyond that. She looks away. He smiles, and takes it as approval.

-*-

It's decided their child will be a Career before they're even born. Itโ€™s decided in that way that so many decisions seem to be made nowadays - he says it, as though itโ€™s obvious, and she can't bring herself to look him in the eyes long enough to argue. She feels the inevitability of it ticking around the edges of her vision, like a grief waiting to happen.

-*-

It is indeed grief that blooms within her when they first send their Terce away, though she dares not admit it even to herself. Grief that she sees echo in the eyes of other Career parents, sometimes, though they drift around the topic in conversation with practiced care. And it is grief, too, when she hears the news of Terceโ€™s success, of the place they will hold in the Games. An honor, she is told. An honor, she dutifully repeats to anyone listening. But within her, too deep to stare directly at, there is an emptiness she knows all too well. Deathโ€™s familiar hand, resting on her shoulder.

For the first time in her life, she doesn't watch the games. She tries, of course. Sitting there, taut as a bowstring next to her husband, hoping that the fiery energy radiating off him will trickle into her too. She has to leave the room, because even with her eyes locked on the edge of the screen, she can't bear to see. Instead, she watches the whole thing through the mirror's reflection of rumors, reports and betting pools, as the days pass, as children just like hers fall one by one. She almost wishes, in the still quiet hours of the night, to just get the news sheโ€™s been dreading. At least then sheโ€™d know. At least then she would feel the way sheโ€™s supposed to.

She doesn't need to be in the room to know the final result, hearing her husband's yell of triumph. He embraces her, drags her in to see, fire and delight in his eyes as though he was standing on the battlefield himself. She tries to make herself happy, to summon up the joy from within herself that she knows she should feel, but there is only the void, ever-present, and she looks away.

-*-

Terce will come back different. That is an inevitability, one that should be easily accepted considering the alternative. She had seen them in the glimpses of footage, feared the strange hollowness in their eyes. It was easier to tell herself that it was only the situation, and once they returned home, everything would be back to normal. But it is as she feared, though, and worse. Something of the games has leached into them, something fierce and fractured, and she cannot help but to turn away.

They are well-off now, she is told. Certainly, compared to the rest of the district. What is there to complain about? A comfortable house she had no choice but to live in, a husband who has regained the fire in his eyes even when it burns to stare at him directly, a child whose carefully-curated fame hides the shards of their former self lying just out of frame.

-*-

When Aurelia hears murmurs of rebellion, she grits her teeth, clenches her fists, and focuses her gaze. There is something refreshing about how open they are. Not the cold side-glance of the figures she used to know, or the polished fake-candor of the media. An acknowledgement of how horrific the situation is, and the drive to speak up and make their anger known.

Sheโ€™s never really let herself feel anger before.

Her rebellion is quiet, still, feeling the block in her throat when she tries to speak too openly, but for the first time she lets herself truly comprehend what she sees. For the first time, she is able to have a say in her fate.

-*-

There is a drop in her chest when the Quarter Quell is announced. She wonders if maybe this is it, the culmination of the grief she has never truly let go of, the inevitability only delayed. And then her name is called, not Terceโ€™s, and she wonders if her rebellion wasn't quite as quiet as she'd thought.


A woman who knew she must lose her child was a fool to love it or make it love her.






/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

ยฉ weldherwings.
 












Luca Henrik
































THE BERSERKER








D7




















โ™กcoded by uxieโ™ก



Name: Luca Henrik.
Age: 20.
Gender: Male.
Sexuality: Asexual.
District: 7.
Game won: The 98th games.
Height: 5'11.
Weight: 183 lbs.
Build: Athletic.
Hair: Light brown.
Eyes: Blue.
Faceclaim: Jarrod Scott.

Personality:
- Intense: Strongheaded in his belief that decisiveness is what keeps him alive.
- Ruthless: Every life he takes is one less for someone else.
- Selfless: A figurehead for rebellion: the Capitol must believe it dies with him so that no one else need die for the cause.

Background:
- Transplanted from D12 into D7 as a child.
- Childhood friend of THE HAWK
- Volunteered to spare pseudo-sister from the games

Reputation:
- Considered a Mutt for the unnatural circumstances of his birth
- Keen: Unlikely to forget even a small detail
- "Patriotic": Used as an icon of the Capitol's generosity, you've likely seen his face enough to be sick of it

Acknowledgement of Character Death: Make an unforgettable example out of him.
Goals:
- Resolve loose ends with THE HAWK, whether that means reconnecting or severing the remnants of what once seemed unbreakable
- Bear as many of the rebellion's necessary evils as possible
Themes: Anti-hero, loss of humanity
 
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