#a little tribute to her * holding this up like a sword *

[dailylagomorphs]

23/03/2023

[yourheartonfire]

The battle ended not with a bang but a whimper; no glorious triumph or mad retreat but a long, slow dying as exhausted soldiers fell until the few still on their feet all were on the same side.

Not the protagonist's side.

Desperately they tried to will themselves back up to their feet, tried to force numb fingers to close around the sword that lay in the mud beside them. But their body was done, helpless as the tired enemy soldiers picked their way closer and closer, methodically stripping bodies of any small valuables and finishing off any wounded still alive.

The protagonist prayed frantically to any god they thought might hear them. The god of war. The god of peace. The god from any temple and roadside shrine they could ever remember visiting. They wracked their brain. Dead. They'd have to pretend to be dead. They could do that. They were half there already, just slow their breathing and don't catch anyone's...

They turned their head and saw the god of war looking straight at them.

Like everyone else on the battlefield the god was spattered with blood, from her cropped hair to her armored boots. She could have been any soldier from any nation - except for the terrible red joy in her eyes as she beheld the devastation wrought.

"Hello, little sacrifice," she said without moving her lips. She pointed, and as if puppeted, one of the enemy soldiers started to turn their head -

A clean boot crunched down next to the protagonist's head. Then another, stepping carefully over them to place themselves between the god and the protagonist. The protagonist looked up at a figure straight out of their childhood.

The god of war stopped.

"Are you serious?" she sneered.

The god of the protagonist's childhood village shrine shrugged, strumming his fingers thoughtfully over the lute in his hands. Unlike the murals, the statues, he was not dressed in fine court robes but in simple traveler clothes, his hair pulled back into a plain knot. But just as the protagonist remembered, he seemed impossibly tall. Impossibly beautiful.

"Spare this one," the god asked, stilling those long clever hands on the strings. "Please. This one is mine."

The god of war laughed. "You think you can challenge me, godling? Me? Here? At the height of my strength? Flee back to whatever muddy temple you escaped from and maybe I'll let you survive, you jumped up deity of bad chords and tasteless lyrics."

"Oh, I'm no god of anything so prevalent," the protagonist's god murmured humbly. "And I'm not here to challenge you, great one. Say rather, we're here to bargain. After all, this one has something that can benefit you."

The god shot the protagonist a look. The protagonist knew this line from the stories of their childhood.

"A song!" they blurted. "A - an epic about what happened here, about you, to make all who hear it shout and weep and... and honor your name."

The god of war... paused. Tilted their head.

"A fitting tribute to your potency," their god chimed in, the melody from their lute drifting into a martial fanfare. "From a god-touched bard. Surely that makes them worth more alive than dead."

A shout went up from the other side of the field. Someone was up and swords were swinging. The god of war waved an impatient hand, already disappearing towards the fight. "Fine. But I expect my song. I'll hold you responsible, godling. I don't forget!"

She was gone and the god of the protagonist's childhood turned to look down at them. "Well," he said, reaching out a hand to pull the protagonist up. "I hope you can actually write music."

"Seems like a priority to learn," the protagonist said fervently, and their god of trickery and bargains laughed and hauled them away.

[darksaiyangoku]

RWBY Winter Tales

Ghostly Winds

For @chaoslordjoe

Jaune and Yang smiled as they watched Tristan and Lionel shape their snowmen. While most children would make simple snowpeople with sticks for arms, stones for eyes and a carrot nose, Tristan and Lionel decided to go all out and make snow sculptures. Tristan's was a knight wielding a sword in both hands, while Lionel's was a puppy with a bone in its mouth. Jaune chuckled as he picked up the younger of the two.

Jaune: Seems like we have ourselves two artisans in the making.

Lionel: *chuckles* You know it! I already have a name for this dog right here.

Jaune: Oh? What is it?

Lionel: Gelert! Just like in the story of the Loyal Dog.

Jaune: Awwww, that's really sweet! I'm sure Gelert would appreciate the tribute.

Yang: What about you, little man? Who's this handsome fellow supposed to be?

Tristan: That's me. Some day, I wanna be a great knight! Just like the ones in Vale!

Yang: *nods head* Very nice! Saving kingdoms, swinging swords and riding off in stylish armour.

Tristan: You know it! But if that doesn't work, I can always be like you and Jaune. A Witcher for hire.

Yang: ...you want to be a Witcher?

Tristan: Eh, maybe. But only if I can't be a knight.

Yang: I see... oh... *frowns*

Tristan: Hm? Are you okay?

Yang: ...you know, I think it's about time you went off to bed! *smiles nervously*

Lionel: Aw what?

Tristan: But it's not even dark yet.

Jaune: Boys, listen to your mother. Night falls faster in winter. Come on now, scoot.

Jaune and Yang hurried back inside and tucked in their children to bed. In the living room, Yang cast Igni on the candles and warmed her hands. She had a saddened look on her face.

Jaune: *places blanket over her* Is everything alright? You seem tense.

Yang: *sighs* Of course I'm tense. Tristan wants to be a Witcher.

Jaune: *raises eyebrow* That's what got you worried? Come on, he's a kid. They're always saying silly things like that.

Yang: But what if he's serious about this? Ever since we took him in after his father died, he's always looked up to us. He sees as heroes, even after some of the terrible things we've done.

Jaune: Isn't that a good thing? He doesn't see us as monsters.

Yang: I know, but our life as Witchers isn't what I want for him. It's filled with pain, blood, hatred. *carresses his cheek* We're a family now and I don't want him to face the kind of dangers we did.

Jaune: *holds Yang* He won't, don't worry. Look, I know you love him, Lionel too, but I think you're letting this get to your head a little. Kids change their mind all the time. Remember when Lionel was adamant about hating turnips. One bite of your roast changed that and now he begs for more every day.

Yang: *chuckles* Yeah, you're probably right. I guess I just didn't realise how hard being a mom would be. *turns to Jaune and kisses him* Thank you, sweetheart.

Jaune: Always. Now can I get some of that blanket? It's freezing.

Yang: *laughs and opens the blanket* Get in here.

Jaune sat on Yang's lap as she draped the blanket over both of them. Outside, the snow started fall heavier and the wind picked up. The sound of hooves thundered the ground as a group of knights in jet black armour raced across the landscape. They screeched and howled, their eyes glowing red as hot flames. Any who came into contact with them would never see their old life, their souls now belonging to the riders. Many nations and kingdoms across Remnant feared them, for they were wraiths that brought the omen of war. They were the Wild Hunt... and they were sending a message.

[aza-writes]

Revenge or Revolution

Chapter 1

• District 2 • Six Years Before the Revolution •

My calloused, tough fingers work fast as I braid the feathers around the fishing hook. I tell myself to make the wire tighter in my head before my mom says out loud a minute later.

"Tighter, Ivory! Or, do you not care about winning?" my breath gets caught in my throat. I hate when she uses that tone, it means she's disappointed. I hate disappointing her.

"Yes, mom. I'm sorry." I know better than to reply with anything else. I pull tighter before one wire slips from my finger, unraveling the whole thing.

"It's fine." Her tone shifts as she lets out a sigh. She's still disappointed,  but more subtle in showing it while accepting the fact that I still have areas to improve in. I feel worse now. "Just take a break. Go work on your flashcards."

"Yes, mom." I go into my room away from our "future Victor workstation." My mother came up with the idea when I was very little and I gave it to me as a birthday present for my fifth birthday. That was ten years ago. Ever since I've been training.

My mother has been very controlling with all my training and preparation aspects. She wasn't abusive in any way, she wasn't even mean. I felt love from both my mom and dad. They told me they loved me, but only when it was deserved or earned. It makes sense for love to be conditional, you wouldn't want to love an idiot loser who can't even give you something in return. There are many ways to earn love in my family, but most of them come with being the best at something like getting the best grade in the class or winning one of the many stupid contests they hold at school, and there are a lot. It's one of the many ways competitiveness and drive are instilled in kids in District 2. Not that I mind the competitions, they're mostly fun. They're also a way for me to win another medal or trophy for the case in our dining room. I fill with pride when my mom smiles and announces to our family, basically the whole neighborhood since she insisted the windows had to be open to "let in the fresh air," that she was the mom of a winner. 

And it wasn't that my mom was mad if we didn't win or if we came short in one of the many events or training exercises in a career district, she just added another thing on the list of things my sister, Clove, and I need to improve on. She doesn't do it because of reputation or anything, she was just concerned for my sister's and my future. Mostly mine since I'm older. And her efforts aren't in vain. Even at fifteen, I hold the title for the female with the highest ranking in the district, in all aspects. 

Bow and Arrow: Perfect Spear: Perfect Swords: Perfect Axe: Perfect Knife Handling: Beyond Perfection

Most people specialize in one or two things, but my mom insists I'm a "well-rounded tribute" because you never know what the arena will be like or what weapons will be available. It's also why she has us practice specialties of other districts. Climbing trees like Seven, fishing like Four, simple engineering like Three, and stuff like that. It's what allowed me to beat out all of the older students. If there was one thing they weren't good at, I could capitalize on it. 

It's also why my mom pushed on survival skills just as much as combat. "The poor districts may not be able to fight as well, but they are scrappy as hell. They know how to survive on nothing because they have nothing. So you have to outsmart them." Followed by this speech was an extensive lecture about every victor ever, how they won, and why they won. I've sat through that lecture so many times I'm able to pick up on the patterns of each district. One and Two are similar in how they are the strongest in combat, but Two is better with a variety of weapons instead of just one or two. Three was brains, Four always had something to do with water, and Seven was best with close combat. The rest are a scramble of dumb luck since there weren't many victors from those districts. A lot of them only have one or two victors of each gender that are still alive. 

Even now as I study my flashcards I'm learning about the other districts. My flashcards include plants from every district and every region of Panem where the games could potentially happen. I look at the many plants, roots, and barks and name what it is, their identifying features, and how they can be utilized. Eat, poison, medicine. And if it's poison or medicine I have to then state how it would help or hurt someone. I got these flashcards on my fifth birthday along with the "victor station."

I don't know why my mom makes me go through these flashcards, it's been months since I got one wrong. And I only got it wrong because it was one of the new ones added. 

I toss the deck to the side of the bed as I look at the clock on my desk. 4:45. Clove should be finishing up her training soon. If my training is enough to get me in the games, then Clove won't have to go through all of this. Mom will have her victor, she might let Clove stay good enough to earn respect amongst the District, but not high enough to have her be chosen to volunteer. As much as it is an honor to be chosen to volunteer and win the games, in the end, you're still killing people. 

I go through some of my other decks of flashcards for another fifteen-ish minutes. Identifying soil, matching the bite to the bug then the treatment, and other simple survival trivia that I can't learn firsthand in District Two.

Tap... Tap Tap... Tap Tap Tap... Tap Tap... Tap

Right on time. 

Clove's signature knock echoes from my door, indicating mom gave her approval for her to be done with training for the day. She knocks this way to politely ask if I'm in training or not. Instead of walking into my room and risking interrupting me. I don't know why she started it or even when, but it's been our tradition as long as I can remember. A smile grows on my face, excited I finally get to spend more than a few minutes with her. 

"Come in, Clove." My door opens, Clove peaks in with a small smile on her face. 

"Has Mom dismissed you yet?" Her voice is in almost a whisper, worried she's interrupting me. Even though she did her knock and I gave her verbal confirmation to come in, she still asks. 

I nod my head, even though Mom hasn't come into my room and officially declared it yet, but it's the time she usually would come in. "Yes ma'am, I'm all done." In a millisecond she comes in and hops on my bed next to me. 

Fragments of her uniform are still on, just not as prestige as it was at the beginning of the day. Her shoes, tie, and jacket are off, and her school dress pants have been replaced with softer trousers. The only thing that remains the same from the morning is her hair up and her collared frilly tank top that the younger grades wear, reminding me of her short time between the end of the school day and training. Since I'm older and it's a more formal part of my day, I have designated time to train, but for her, she goes directly from school to a private trainer. Most kids don't start practicing until they turn ten, sometimes they wait until they're twelve. Like me, Clove started her training when she turned five and started weapon and then combat training two years ago when she turned eight. Our training has been almost identical, starting with practice weapons and survival skills starting at five, then combat training beginning when we turned eight. Although we were trained in all weapons, there was an emphasis on knife handling. It was a long and short-distance weapon that provided an extra level of protection. 

Clove sits right next to me on my bed, our shoulders touching. "How was your day?" Her voice is soft. Well, as soft as hers can be. She isn't annoyingly loud, but she isn't weak by any standards. She is confident in herself and her abilities. She's the smallest girl in her grade but she scores higher than them in every aspect. I hope this doesn't mean anything though, that my training is enough for me to gain the win for our family and she can slow down her training. Maybe she can even enjoy her childhood without thinking of how every second she isn't training, she is failing our parents. 

"My day was good. School is school. Training is training." She leans her head on my shoulder and I rest my head on hers. I'm not a fan of any kind of physical touch, but I like Clove's. Her's was comforting. "How was yours?"

Her hands reach for mine. "It was good. I got the highest grade on my history test." 

"Atta girl." 

She smiles softly, relishing in the praise. "Thanks." She sits up and looks at me. I can't make out her expression. It's worrying but also very matter-of-fact. "Mom was mumbling to herself at the victors station. What happened?"

I meet her gaze, a small smirk appears on my face. "I can't make a fishhook." I giggle a bit, trying to make her not nervous. Anytime I'm not doing something perfect, Clove worries. I get it. I have high expectations this year. Not just my family, but the whole district. If I won these games I would get the title of "Youngest Female Victor" ever, giving another "only," "ever," or "first" victor to add to their collection. It's still hard for my district to talk about the 65th Games. Saying it's not fair that the youngest victor is from District 4. They might be able to tolerate District 1, but 4 is unacceptable. Me winning might start a chain reaction of children training at the age of five, producing younger and younger victors. 

Clove's eyes search mine, trying to see if I'm worried or not and if she should be worried too. "But you'll get it, right?" She sounds like mom. So much like mom. 

"I'll get it. Besides, it's not something I 'need' to know."

"Don't say that. You need to know everything so you get in. So you win." Her voice is earnest, stressed. As many people come home to District 2, there are even more that don't.

"Trust me, I'll be okay. And if I need to fish I'll use a spear or something." I snuggle into her, trying to calm her nerves but she is as stiff as a board. Even my reassuring words aren't fixing her anxiety, but I know what will. "Clove?" a mischievous smile grows on my face, " Do you want to grab the nail polish?" 

Her eyes immediately light up and she runs into her room. I hate the feeling of nail polish, but Clove is still at the age where she likes to do girly things. Mom might also like it, an added bit of "flair" for the cameras when I get reaped. Making my stylist appreciate me more thinking "she'll be so easy to work with." 

My life has been planned around these stylist, stylists I don't even know. My mom crafted my appearance around them. She had me grow my hair out so if they want to cut it they can. I keep my skin as clean as possible so it will be easier for them to do makeup. My whole life revolves around the games. 

Clove comes back holding a large, dark red box. "Can I do yours first?" Her smile is wide, we finally have sister time that doesn't revolve around training. Time to relax. 

••••••

Series Masterlist

[drbased]

godddd I want to talk about how the kinksters absolutely use the threat of 'degeneracy' as a sword of damocles against feminists who talk about things like systematised rape but I've written so much recently and sometimes I just can't get my brain to write certain things. like they will accuse us of having secret 'breeding kinks', weaponising the percieved societal degeneracy of having such a fetish. it's clear that for all the posturing about kinks being normal and healthy they absolutely do not care if kinks make you seem 'degenerate' if it derails feminist discussion. their whole deal is 'well I don't care if I'm seen as disgusting, so if you just admit your little ~~obsession~~ with rape is just a kink like mine then you can drop this whole feminist charade and I definitely won't hold it against you :) I promise :)'

I also have a post I've been wanting to write for literally years about the film 'secretary' which I watched and got kinda obsessed with after I stopped engaging with kink - it's posited as a better depiction of bdsm than 50 shades and I was fascinated with how anyone thought the narrative presented in this film is somehow supportive of bdsm. like it's literally just propaganda, and you bought straight into it by viewing it on the most pathetically surface level imaginable. the film tells you it has a happy ending, and you believe it. but this is literally all the stereotypes surrounding why people criticise bdsm:

a self-harming young woman, fresh out of a mental hospital, gets sexually harassed by her new, older male boss in the isolated envrionment of his home. part of this involves him harming her in a way that we're told is somehow different to her harming herself, because in this context she goes to masturbate in the bathroom about it - and he doesn't like her harming herself, which is how we're told he's actually a nice, caring guy. meanwhile this is all juxtaposed against the stereotype of her vanilla boyfriend as dumb and boring in bed (like, the literal propaganda of bdsm as its sold to women is that the dom is classy and well-dressed, that if you submit to him and consent to his sexual abuse of you, only in that context will he make sex erotic and sensual and ritualised and inviting and exciting and non-penis-focussed, and he will only care about your orgasm when he can control when it happens) and eventually the dom is all like boo hoo I don't know why I'm like this I'm so fucked up I'm going to leave you, and the climax of the film involves her sitting in one spot for so long as a tribute to her willing to submit to him. like she willingly pisses herself and everything. her refusal to move gets her on the news and a feminist comes to her and tells her what she's doing is degrading. Like it was at this point I had a realisation that modern 'feminism' is literally just the antithesis of what feminists have said and believed for decades and yet it still wants to claim the name and prestige of 'feminism'. like here's a bdsm film literally saying that feminists don't understand the nuance, the feminist is literally an antagonist, it's literally being an anti-feminist film, yet modern-day pro-bdsm 'feminists' want to somehow say that bdsm is actually real feminism. the word 'feminism' doesn't exist in the ether, y'know - you can just pick a different word if you hate so many of its principles or how it's used; black women already did that with womanism. but no, you gotta have your cake and eat it too, and we never really have to worry about the moral character of the older male boss who sexually harassed his young, vulnerable, self-harming female typist because she put herself through a huge indignity to prove to him that she wants it. the message is that mentally unwell people deserve their fucked up love, too, and that's the heartwarming story of it all, that's the takeaway from it all. I hate this fucking propaganda with a fucking passion.

[moreespressoformydepresso]

So there’s an AU idea that I’ve had for a while…

TBOSAS fix it, of course, because when I’m not being horribly angsty I am a sap who wants their happy ending. One of the things that jumped out at me about the arena in the movie is the way the ceiling has been completely, utterly demolished. Specifically: the debris hanging down looks pretty climbable to me. So hear me out here, what if one of the tributes noticed the ceiling had been blown wide open and mentioned it to the other tributes later? Or what if, when everyone’s ran into the tunnels like in the books, they spread the word of possible escape and hide out of the camera’s sight while they plot.

While the idea of them escaping the arena seems completely implausible, the kids really need some hope to keep going. So, Teslee and Circ mention they’d be able to hack the doors to the arena since they’re mechanical. Treech and Lamina are both good climbers because district 7, so they volunteer to climb up first with something that the others can climb (like, say, a long flag? Maybe?) of course there’s the issue of peacekeepers, but someone mentions that if they can crash the cameras, the Capitol likely won’t think it’s their doing for a little while. Long enough for the tributes to get out, at least. So Circ and Teslee hack the doors first while Lamina climbs onto the poles and Reaper rips down the flag and pretends to negotiate a trade of food for protection from the sun with her to keep the Capitol’s attention (and have the escape rope ready).

Right before the cameras short out, Treech pretends to run at Reaper with something like a sword one of the other tributes had grabbed and taken into the tunnels. They don’t wanna waste time when the cameras are down because who knows how long they have? Also, Treech attacking Reaper will hopefully cover up the fact that they’re all in on a plan. Once they get the sign that the cameras are down he halts and he and Lamina both take one end of the flag. It’s too big and possibly heavy for one person to climb up with alone. Once they’re at the top they make sure to stay out of sight of any peacekeepers that may accidentally wander past below them. They throw down the flag and tie it around some debris, one holding onto the flag to be sure it won’t drop while the other acts as lookout.

Once they’re all up there, they hide behind the debris while Treech scales the building to find the safest way away from the arena. They pick him because he blends into the building more. Lamina’s hair and clothing (I cannot not see the movie versions of these characters) is far too bright red. Treech is a lot less likely to get spotted. Once he finds a good path that’s covert enough for the more noticeable tributes to take with as little risk as possible, he climbs back up and leads them down the side of the building. They rip up the flag into thin long strips so the other tributes can get past the harder areas, Lamina takes up the rear because she doesn’t need the help to climb down.

Once they’re on the ground, they book it as fast as possible. They either go underground or split up into smaller groups. If they pick the latter they steal some fancy Capitol tech and have Circ and Teslee hack it so they can easily communicate with each other without being traced. By this point their scheme has been uncovered and the borders to the city are closed off, so they basically start a small gang of organized crime. Some “shopping trips” later and they look nothing like their recorded images anymore. I have my ideas on how this shakes out (with an abolishing the games ending because I cannot stand the idea of these poor kids never being able to live normally with their families again) but I’ll leave it here.

[mossy-thing]

I'm sorry, "Hunger games lay of leithian abomanation" WHAT? I absolutely have to know, please.

OH I AM THRILLED YOU ASKED!!

Basically, it's what it says on the tin. This is an AU focussing on Beren, Lúthien and Finrod, but they are tributes in the Hunger Games. I'm still working out what is happening in each chapter, but the first two are more or less finished. It is exclusively from Finrod's pov, who is 15. (Beren and Lúthien are 10 and 11 [yes I changed the minimum age because I'm evil])

I want to make sure to be able to actually put everything out though, so there won't be anything but this sneak peak until I have planned everything and written a good sizeable chunk.

"I'm Beren," the boy said. "Fingon, right?"

Finrod shook his head, and, since that was better than thinking of the giant mutated wolf these children were mindlessly leaning against and who still had the blood of its last victim smeared all over his face, he replied, "No, that's the one with the bow, from district 5. I'm Finrod."

"The one who told the jokes," Lúthien added, without looking up. Finrod nearly laughed himself, half of embarrassment and half because that was apparently the most important thing about him for her, the thing that had stuck most. They had really been terrible jokes, and Finrod was not actually sure whether the audience had laughed because they liked him, or because they pitied him. Oh, look at the sweet little boy. I bet he can't even hold a sword right. It will be so tragic to watch him die, I can't wait for it – He shook the thought off.

Though they had certainly liked the way he looked. He tried not to remember that too often. The way their eyes had wandered…

"Yes, the one who told the jokes," he murmured, staring down at the berries in his palm. He shook himself. "So, the uh. The wolf."

"Werewolf," Beren corrected him. "They're a new mutation."

Finrod blinked. "Right. Why hasn't it… I mean, how are you still –" He swallowed, pressed his lips together. "How did you meet it?"

[aquanova99]

✿𝒢𝓁𝒾𝓂𝓂𝑒𝓇✿

➽───────────────❥

Today I want to talk about the golden girl from District 1. I’ll be damned if she didn’t have at least an inkling of what happened to the victors. She may overestimated how far her body would take her but it’s sad to think how little they seem to prepare her talent wise vs someone like Clove or the other careers.

Immediately everything we know about Glimmer is that her only her looks. Glimmer is shown to be a sex symbol, the stylists going so far as to dress her in a see through dress. But as far as the career tributes go she seemingly lacks any actual skills that would kill in the arena. Without knowing Katniss’ skills her only weapon she has any sort of skill in is the bow and arrow, and even then we can tell from katniss she is not very good at it. She had no skills to contribute to really warrant her an alliance with the careers. It’s clear that what district you come from holds little weight, seeing as the boy from District 4 was killed immediately and Thresh, who was from District 11 was invited.

The movies make her seem more ruthless but if she was qualified in any other weapon the cornucopia offered she would have taken that instead of the rather useless arrows. So what does Glimmer offer? Same thing she offers the capitol, her body.

The books tell us Katniss almost had no access to her mockingjay pin as a token because of Glimmer. Her ring releasing a poison spike or dart like thing every time you twisted the diamond. That does nothing distance wise like Katniss has with her arrows and it’s not the first thing you’d take in a fight like Catos sword or Marvels spear. When the ring would come in handy would be if she was close enough to an unassuming victim. In the movies it leads viewers to think Cato and Glimmer had their own relationship. While I’m sure it was not the star crossed lovers act Peeta and Katniss pulled, it’s likely that Glimmer would have done this regardless.

The best strategy someone with little to no survival skills has is to have an alliance with the people who do, Peeta does the same. Had Glimmer been allowed her ring, I think she would have convinced or tried to convince someone she was no threat and when she was either keeping watch or sleeping next to them used her ring to quietly finish off any threats. Not sure what she planned for Clove, unless she ended up gaining Catos favor more than she had.

The problem was Glimmer was overconfident. She has overestimated how far her looks will get her. No one comes back for her no matter how much she screams. No one from what we know cares that she’s gone. There’s a theory that she doesn’t run away from the tracker jackers because she knows what fate awaits her, and I could see this because if she was positioned to be keeping watch she should have been able to get up the quickest, in theory.

Regardless I think it’s sad that at most this 18 year old girl thinks her only chance of being or accomplishing anything solely rests on how much she can sell her body, to the capitol, to the careers, maybe even back home.

[newsiesjathrine]

This is for hunger games original characters ask as many questions as needed

Hello all Lily Green Baird here proud district 12 and covey member they are my only family after losing my dad to the mines and mother to starvation shortly before I miss ya dearly mama ill write you a song one day rose Jade my mama lucy gray, Muade Ivory, Barb Azure Baird and CC are my only family I hope I make it though the reaping wearing your dress today mama like always makes you feel like your with me

Edit: this is my fourth year so I'm 15 still worried but I can't let it show like lucy had 60 years ago I had the covey and now I'm on the train with luke my fellow tribute our escort effie and our mentors haymitch victor of the 2od quarter quell and my darling auntie my second mama lucy Gray miss the covey but I'll be back I promise you that

Edit: we've arrived haymitch I'd drinking himself into a stupor understandbly meanwhile I met my stylist emma she's sweet her grandpa gave me the sweetest sandwich having recognized lucy gray from her games the 10th hunger games years ago before all the pomp and circumstance came about meanwhile little old me got and 9 training score and my interview went well and now I'm dealing with rainbow snake mutts thankfully the old therebefore works just as well there's 2 tributes left both careers wish me luck this is for you maysille and I won the cleaned me up lucy gray gave me the biggest smile even though I know her nightmares haunted her whele I was in there luke died in the bloodbath snow placed the crown on my head and now me still wrapped up in lucy grays arms as my nightmares have started and haymitch gave me a hug as soon as the train left as did lucy gray and she hasn't much let me go sense I can't wait to see my family agian my games were similar to lucy grays but in a forest and with more game maker interventions aside from the snake mutts

lily green Baird district 12s tribute was holding her ally district 8s lea as she died knowing the careers are mostly gone due to lily's accuracy with a bow and arrow and lel

as throwing knives the district 2 female is the only one left Lily herself nursing a bad sword wound from thier ambush but she looks in her pocket at her secret weapon a snake mutt she knew what she had to do the tribute found her shortly after lea died figuring Lily was quite weak lily was week however she used her strength to place the snake on her sleeping foot and watches as her little friend she hasd subdued due to the old therebefore as lucy had done bite Jade instantly waking her up and lily was nowhere to be found up a tree her bow drawn and she let's her arrow go peirceing the girls heart killing her instantly and the hovercraft pulled her up after she climbed down the tree and she was stitched up and bandaged as she was handed off to her stylist emma as the games are over after her wounds were tended to haymitch the victor of the 50th games the second quarter quell smiled and lucy gray her other mentor and aunt the victor of the 10th hunger looking not a day over 23 due to the effects of the arena gave her a hug mindful of her wounds

lily green Baird woke up due to a nightmare from her games the career tributes chasing her trying to kill her and her ally lea from district 8s sacrifice in her room in her new home that she chose hours ago her family knowing thier soundly asleep in thier rooms Muade Ivory Baird, Barb Azure Baird Tam amber and Clark clementine are in thier own rooms sleeping she sleeply adjusts her white dress wipes the tears from her brown eyes and ties hee dark curls back puts on her beige slippers wraps the orange shawl her aunt lucy gray gave her lucy gray having gone though the games winning the 10th hunger games she looks not a day over 23 due to the effects of what she went though in the arena around herself and shuffles to her hidden wing where lucy gray sleeps and falls asleep in her aunts arms after sharing stories of thier games and lucy gray comments that she still has a foot in the arena let me tell ya darling I still do even after all these years and in the morning lucy gray and her wake up to the rest of the covey making breakfast humming the song lily debuted last night Muade Ivory handed her plate and Barb Azure hands her a drink and Tam amber comments on her bandages lucy gray grimaced at the wound from the sword that nearly got her and the wounds from the knife on her arm lily sadly smiles and says the ones you see arnt the worst of it sadly wernt you all wondering why I didn't spin much last night during the show and she winces as she moves to show the freshly changed bandage on the side of her body lifting up her shirt with help as lucy gray changes her bandage on her side reveals a wound from the sword that she nursed in the final battle 💚

[aura-acolyte]

On-Screen Event: The Ball

This is an On-Screen Event. That means that anybody who wants to claim to have been at the ball can do so. However, do not reply to this post with roleplay (feel free to reblog it, though).

Mare sat in a chair in front of a ballroom full of people. She couldn’t help but feel a little nervous. For one, she didn’t like being in front of this many people. For another, she couldn’t shake the feeling something bad was gonna happen. That second thing was probably just paranoia, though. Her therapist told her that because she’d gone through so much she expected something to undermine any bit of happiness she got.

Queen Ilene approached Mare holding a sword. Mare was pretty sure she wasn’t an actual queen, she doubted she had any more claim to Kanto than the Normansons had to Hoenn. But hey, Mare was about to receive an equally empty title so who was she to judge.

This is the sword of the guardian that once belonged to the great Sir Aaron.” Queen Ilene declared. “According to our tradition, the winner of the Pokémon Tournament is named the Aura Guardian for the year, and is presented with this sword. On behalf of my kingdom, Marie-”

“Mare.” Mare snapped. Nobody used her real name.

“Right, Mare.” Queen Ilene corrected herself. “On behalf of my kingdom, its yours.”

She handed the sword to Mare who took it gratefully. The crowd cheered. Once they quieted down the Queen turned to the crowd.

“Now, we'll begin the grand ball, honoring Sir Aaron, and our new guardian.” She announced. “Please enjoy yourselves, everyone.”

----

Several hours later, Mare was bored. So far it seemed the title of Aura Guardian was not all it was cracked up to be. While she knew the title was really just honorary, she hadn’t expected that she’d be forced to sit in an uncomfortable chair through the entire ball. While she wasn’t exactly great at dancing she had been hoping to get at least a short dance in with Zinnia.

“Sit up straight.” Jenny, the Queen’s attendant, chastised her.

Mare sighed and did as she was told. She tapped her foot impatiently. Guardian she couldn't wait until this was over. Ah well, at least she’d be getting a cash prize. And she got to hold Sir Aaron’s actual sword.

She looked over the blade for probably the third or fourth time that night, admiring its craftsmanship. She had seen it before, but that was a spectral copy while this was the real deal. 

It was forged with Damascus Steel, though Mare wouldn’t know that. She just thought the pattern was cool. At the end of the hilt was a blue gem that almost seemed to glow. Oddly, Mare could sense an Aura within. While it made sense that a sword that once belonged to an Aura Guardian would contain a bit of Aura Power this seemed… very bright. When she closed her eyes the gem lit up bright the same way a Lucario did.

“Why did you betray me?” A voice said from within.

Before Mare could contemplate this any further Queen Ilene raised her hand, signaling to everyone in the ballroom that it was time to stop dancing.

“We will now pay one last tribute to Sir Aaron.” She announced. “Our new guardian will give the signal to start the fireworks.” She looked at Mare.  “Assume the pose of a guardian.”

Mare wasn’t entirely sure what that meant but she figured she’d give it the old college try, even though she never actually made it past middle school. She assumed her most guardian-y pose, raising her sword in the air, unknowingly mimicking the portrait of Sir Aaron behind her. This seemed to be the right move as fireworks began to go off, astonishing the crowd. It was a pretty impressive fireworks show.

“I believed in you.” It was that voice again. “Trusted you.”

The sword began to shake. Glowing blue Aura, visible to everybody, began to emulate from the gem at the base of the hilt. It worked its way up the sword until it coalesced at the tip of the blade and shot out in a beam, not unlike a Pokeball. The beam piled onto the floor, so to speak, and took the form of… a Lucario?

[slate-skylar]

pink tourmaline

time: after the parade

ft. @cress-meadowforge

“I wish we could live somewhere else. You and me. We deserve to live somewhere else. That’s what I want. I don’t want to die, I want to live, but not… like this.”

tw: suicide attempt

-

The cheers of the crowd echoed in his ears even now, in his room. No one had kicked him out or forced him to take the tribute room, so here he still was, staying where he’d always stayed. The night before, after arriving at the Tower and a chaotic first day, he’d fallen asleep easily in Cress’s arms. He’d slept like the dead. Today had been different, though. Waking up as a tribute and going to bed as one made it all feel more final. This wasn’t a nightmare that had begun in today’s waking hours; it was a nightmare that had been sealed by his sleep and asked to be sealed again. Tomorrow he’d begin training, or a continuation of it. He’d see the other tributes with knives and swords – Ezra, who’d promised him a quick death, would be there; Bramble and Nettle, who had not trained for this, hadn’t known they would have to; Mercuria, who had promised him her life; Callisto, Cress’s blood, her sister (was there anything more cruel?).

Slate threw the costume to the ground, kicked it with some reserve of anger he hadn’t known he had, and tossed himself onto the bed. In the moment of the parade, standing on the chariot, he had found some sort of peace or calm that he could only hope he’d be able to muster again in the Arena. But that calm had no room for thoughts or feelings, and here in the room with Cress, those were everywhere. Swirling all around and him, unable to catch any of them to hold them for more than a moment at a time.

Cress lingered at the threshold, observing, trying to understand her place — in this Tower, on this floor, within this room. Tribute spaces didn’t have locks (a measured precaution, she was sure), but the others did, so as she stepped inside, closing the door, she locked it too. It wouldn’t protect them from Peacekeepers, but very little could. The illusion was comfort enough. She kicked off her shoes, tugged the zipper down her side. Cress wished he would stop her, murmur let me from behind, but the dress pooled at her feet unceremoniously. This was not their apartment. This was not their life. From a drawer, she dug out a shirt, his, only in the sense that it had been bought for him. He’d never worn it himself. He probably never would. Everything truly theirs had burned.

The edge of the bed dipped beneath her weight. The mattress shifting as she crawled beside him, settling, reaching, propping her head on a pillow as her fingers traced his ribs. Tomorrow she was due back at her station, back in this world, with the lines drawn clearly: Trainer Cress, with a fresh batch of tributes; Victor Cress, with a familial legacy on the line; Cress Meadowforge, with a reputation to repair or ruin; and Cressida – with him. Only him. She could be that, only that, for tonight. “Where are you?” she asked, searching in the haze, wishing for his thoughts. His eyes were unfocused. Cress could feel him sinking deeper beneath, getting lost in his headspace. “Slate,” fingertips along his skin, “don’t go where I can’t reach.” 

Slate turned his head toward her, focusing his gaze on her after a moment of effort. Was it exhaustion that made it difficult to really look at anyone, anything? “How do I stay within reach?” he asked, a genuine question. But Cress wasn’t sure, did not truly know. Perhaps this was enough – that he was aware of her presence, that they were conversing coherently. He touched the bracelet on his wrist. They’d let him wear it on the chariot – or they hadn’t forced him to take it off, anyway. Maybe they just hadn’t cared. Hestia had been a tribute; Cress had been; and he’d hardly talked with either of them about their time in the Games, or just before it. He knew they’d experienced it but he hadn’t wanted to force them to dig into the memories. Now, though, he found himself entirely unprepared. “I feel like I must be in shock, or something.”

“Must be,” Cress agreed. They’d studied shock in the Academy, in a class called Psychology of a Tribute. She’d been fascinated by it: the chemicals that were released in the brain during the Reaping, the different ways the mind and body reacted in the days leading up to Launch, how these could be predictors for failure or success in an arena. “It will pass,” gentle assurance, as honest as she could give. “Being out of the environment will help; it just takes time to come down.”

Slate nodded, as if he believed that were true. He wanted to ask her what environment she referred to – he felt like his current state of mind had been created by the entirety of his life and his country. What environment could he possibly have left?

Cress wiped soot from beneath his eye as her own drifted, to where he was fidgeting against his wrist. Familiar as she was with his body, this piece was new. Well, not quite. The bracelet was worn, frayed lightly. Certainly not part of his costume. Cress dipped to touch it, “What’s this?”

“Hestia’s,” Slate said. “Her token. Now mine.” It seemed full sentences wouldn’t come when it came to this. The braided leather. “Never thought I’d have one. A token. What do I even do with it? What if it gets fucked up?” It could get wet, or it could fall off, or it could be cut off. Someone could take it. He suddenly felt fearful, responsible for this important thing. 

Cress adjusted, pushing herself up to sit on the bed, feeling the material, assessing its current condition. “You wear it. You let it remind you of home, what you’re fighting for, surviving to get back to.” They hadn’t spoken much of her experience. He’d watched her Games when they first started training, but Cress had never pressed, never offered more than needed. She didn’t want Slate to see her like that, the amalgamation of everything he had once accused her of. “I wore a necklace,” she said, rolling the frayed ends of the leather between her fingers. “My parents made it, selected and set the stones.” Cress hadn’t worn it much since her victory, but she’d started again, after the fire. It had gotten her through one impossible period of her life, perhaps it could propel her through another. 

She dipped beneath her shirt’s collar, pulled the pendant forth, held it between them for him to observe. Her fingers moved blindly over the four stones. The knowledge was rote, a list she’d recited each night: a reminder in the arena that she was still alive. “Black diamond, a shield,” bringing invincibility and beauty to its bearer. “Aquamarine, for clarity and conviction. Pink Tourmaline, to soothe. And Aventurine Green, for luck and wealth.” The gems were set in gold, though Cress had never polished or cleaned it. She needed to, but something held her back, like wiping the dirt, and blood, and tarnish from it would drain its power. Erase her past. 

Slate looked, then reached out his finger to touch it. She tilted her head up so he could better reach. The necklace was small, delicate, but with the stones inlaid, it carried immense power. Power even Slate could feel. He remembered Cress holding the stones from Marble, how they’d brought her comfort in the Hob during the reading. He could feel now, beneath his fingers, that these stones had brought her comfort many times. He could see, too, how it had been well-worn by her own fingers.

“I could have yours looked at,” Cress offered, dropping the pendant, which fell against the hollow of her throat. She took his hand again, focused on his wrist, tracing her thumb across the material. “Leather is extremely porous, so it’s impossible to make it entirely waterproof. But a treatment will largely protect it from moisture. If you want to leave the fraying, we can–” It was likely of sentimental value, if it had been worn by Hestia. “But it needs to be oiled, broadly, so it doesn’t crack, and sealed here at the edges, so it doesn’t unravel further.” It would help, keep it in good condition so that it would see Slate through. The intentional destruction of tokens wasn’t commonplace, though. It was a particular cruelty, an unspoken boundary rarely crossed. And besides, if another tribute was close enough to take it, or if an event was strong enough to ruin it, then you were probably dead as it was. “Would you be open to that? Just a bit of care?” An offering of support, an ounce of love.

Slate bit his lip. Perhaps that would be nice, but this wasn’t his bracelet. It was Hestia’s, and she might not like it being messed with, even if the intent was to better preserve it. That way, when it arrived home on his body, she could remove it and keep it. It would comfort her. “We need to ask Hestia,” he said, “it’s not mine.” Those words – it’s not mine – so common for him to speak. He had so few things, and though Hestia had given him this, he still felt like it didn’t belong to him really. It wasn’t his. He was borrowing it.

Cress hummed softly in disagreement. “It is,” she said, knowing Slate, knowing he would deny it. “We’ll ask Hestia, though I’m confident she’ll defer to you.” He made a slight face, an expression of uncertainty, suggesting that he didn’t agree with her, but he knew she was probably right. Hestia wouldn’t make any demands of her own right now, and if this would make Slate feel better, he was sure she’d give her blessing.

Cress’s fingers trailed up his arm, along the slope of his shoulder and down, to brush the hair from his neck. There, still there, that pink line. Not a figment of her imagination, or a trick of the light. Cress traced the scarring, the skin lightly textured, her fingertips following along the discoloration of his throat until he met her eyes. “Will you talk with me about it?” What you did to yourself. What was done to you. “If you’re willing, I’d like to.”

The skin there was sensitive, still healing, and Slate fought the urge to close his eyes, to refuse to speak about it, as he’d done before. She wanted to know. She had wanted to ask earlier, hadn’t. And he wasn’t willing to talk about it, didn’t want to discuss any of his time in prison, but he knew that he owed her an explanation that would, at the very least, calm any concerns she had. He didn’t want her to think that he’d done this after finding out about the pregnancy. He knew she might think it, with her concern over his willingness and interest to have a child. He knew what this could look like, in the long nights that would follow his death.

“It was after they stopped trying to get information out of me,” he said, “before you came.” His voice was dry, as if he were discussing the events of ancient history. The act of removing his clothes, tying them together with knots as tight as he could, knots she had taught him to make as part of their training. Of jumping up, hanging the noose around the top bar of the gate. Doing all of this in the short moments between the guards passing by. The eye of the panopticon always on him, though, never away. Watching him and his naked body as he scaled the bars and slipped his head through the noose.

She tried to recall how he had appeared during her visit, but the memory was unclear. The details that she could conjure were focused elsewhere: his face, his words, the pallor of his skin. But whether it had been concealed, or she’d had not seen, the fact remained that Slate had navigated that encounter while nursing this, harboring this secret against his skin. Cress shifted, hoping his body would follow without resistance. She wanted his head in her lap, and he complied, closing his eyes and allowing her to touch him, to give him comfort. Her hands over him, fingertips trailing his ribs and his back, or else toying idly with his hair, raking gently against his scalp. In this, Slate would not have to look at her. In this, Cress could continue her questioning. He allowed it, eyes closed, the world quiet except for her words, her impossible questions.

“Why?” But that was a poor question. Overbroad and unfair. He was being tortured, and when they were through, he would be put to death. Why wouldn’t he wish for relief? She rephrased. “What did you think about, when it was happening?” And then, brow furrowed, “were you stopped?” Found? Caught?

He didn’t speak for a moment after she stopped, allowing her last words to hang in the air. And when he did answer the questions, he went backwards. From the end to the beginning. “The knots didn’t hold,” he said. “They did for a bit. But not long enough. Fell on the ground.” Gasping and trying to figure out if this was what death felt like and if so, why it hurt so badly. Cress’ acknowledgement came only through her touch – constant, careful not to startle him away from vulnerability. “Thought about… how I didn’t want them to televise my death.” It was an ironic thing now, but it was true. He hadn’t wanted everyone to see. Cress and Hestia and his siblings and all of his friends. He didn’t want them to watch it happen.

She thought that nothing should touch him harshly, his body a sacred thing harboring an imperfect soul. Then she thought of honor, of the notion of a fitting death, of her world, which was filled with so much duty and its consequence: shame. “Do you wish for death?” Cress asked, searching for common language, for something she could understand. “Enough to exact it at your own hand?”

His eyes opened at that, he adjusted so that he could look at her. “I didn’t,” he replied, honest, working his way through the murky feelings surrounding this. In the prison everything had been harsh, confusing. Here, it was different. There was comfort and warmth and Cress. He didn’t wish for death, not in this moment, not at all. “I don’t want to die, no.” It was honest. He laid his head back again, breaking the eye contact. It was enough to say that; it was true, and better to leave it at that. He didn’t want to die, but he didn’t want to be a tribute. He didn’t want to be a victor, either. He wasn’t sure he’d been left with any choice after all.

“I believe you,” Cress murmured, and though he settled again, his eyes turning away, her gaze remained fixed upon him. “But I would understand if you did.” She brushed across his forehead, fingers skimming down the bridge of his nose. It sent a contented feeling down his spine, despite the subject matter. “I’ve felt that way.” A secret for her lover, who had given one to her first. “The inexorable desire to die, to be dead.”

He moved his hand, tracing slow circles on her thigh, a response or some type of comfort, the touch she had provided him being returned. Cress welcomed it, this tactile reply. He wasn’t surprised. He didn’t see how you could go through something like this and not feel it. The desire to die. To have died. And Cress had been through so much, in the Arena and after. Victorhood, life, neither had been kind to her. “I wish we could live somewhere else,” he said quietly, a response, an offer of a comforting thought, because there was nothing else appropriate. I’m sorry. That wasn’t right. “You and me. We deserve to live somewhere else. That’s what I want. I don’t want to die, I want to live, but not… like this.”

“Mmm,” she smiled, but it wasn’t a joyous, elated grin. Rather something tired, the expression of relief in being permitted to give in. He would not judge her for it, for her past and present exhaustion. Cress trusted Slate unconditionally. “That’s what I want too,” her fingers slipped down his nose again, the dozenth time down this well-worn path, but they did not slide up again. Instead, she continued, over the slope and tip of his nose, finding his mouth: ghosting over it, tracing his Cupid’s bow, smoothing out along the soft plane of his lower lip. She loved his mouth. Loved the words that came from it. Loved their presence over her pulse, her flesh, dipping down to meet her, to consume her, to set her free. And here they were, spinning a beautiful mirage, a place to rest upon the long journey. “I’d like to live somewhere else with you.”

Another time, maybe. A different place. A separate life from this one, where they would be permitted their soft landing, their happy family. They both envisioned it, silent, allowing it to blossom in their separate minds, the details perhaps differing but both of them containing the same core, essential peace.

“This will pass,” Cress murmured, fingers splaying over his cheek. “That’s what I told myself.” Even when it felt impossible to believe, it kept her breathing. “I couldn’t stop it from happening, and we can’t stop this, but you can survive it. You can come back to me.” It would change him. He would always carry this weight. But it had changed Cress too — her arena, what came after — and Slate still found her, still loved her despite the anger, and the sadness, and the panic. They had learned to live with it, to navigate it in their dynamic. To hold space for the shrapnel that remained.

Slate allowed himself to be swept away by her words, the idea that he could come back to her, her faith in him and her hope. Training would begin tomorrow and time would continue to wash over him. He couldn’t stop it or slow it. But he could be here now, with her hope and her love, and allow himself to be still. “I love you,” he said quietly, a request to end this conversation, to speak no more about death for now if they could help it, to just be here, still, happy – for now, for as long as they could.

[incaensio]

𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑰𝑫𝑬 𝑻𝑨𝑺𝑲 𝑶𝑵𝑬: 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙿𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙳𝙰𝚈.

both katniss and peeta sleep horribly that night — the comfort of his arms have become such a solace to katniss that, most nights, she barely wakes up, so she is oblivious of his own struggles, but that night it's plain that neither of them have it easy. neither of them wants to talk either, though, so they settle to hold one another, a little tighter now and then, only for them to part when it's still dark outside because peeta has promised to help his family get ready for the reaping and katniss wants to tell him not to go, to stay in their desperate embrace, but the words are ash in her mouth and he leaves with the promise to come back before they have to leave for the reaping. it would be cruelly selfish of her to ask him to hold her when he may as well be spending last precious moments with his own family (whatever bad blood there is between them seems to be unimportant when the sword hangs above all of their necks — the four of them, who had cowered when peeta had to go to his calvary, now stand in the same place, and he can do nothing for them).

her prep team has a field day as they haven't in weeks, since the wedding. though they do her make up — trying their darnest to hide the dark under her eyes — they let lilian do her hair; mother also does prim's, and the girls do lilian's, before lilian gets into one of cinna's finest dresses and the morbid ritual carries on. reaping clothes. her mother's graceful frame barely conceals the dread as she has to slip these clothes on for the first time in over two decades—the last she had, had been the dress katniss wore last year, the shroud that had been discarded still at the train. this one is nothing like that, not old and beloved, but new and too rich to feel personal, yet it is a mourning cloth all the same. katniss almost vomits nothingness right then, but holding tight onto prim's hands, she does not puke her empty stomach out, nor she runs away.

it's all lights, camera, action, from then on. peeta is in his place, and katniss is in hers; hands intertwined, bodies close, smile bright towards the camera as they are announced, the victors of the 74th hunger games, the mentors for district twelve. her own smile sets into a grimace as the treaty of treason is read, and katniss is certain she is trembling by the time effie says she will pick at the girl's names first, as usual. katniss finds her mother's fair face amongst the forty somethings, and as a name is read out, she notices the faint relief that comes across lilian everdeen's features, before worry makes the creases in her face become more prominent. but she's not walking towards the stage, instead she's leaving the bull pen with the other women of her age bracket, towards prim.

instead, walking towards the stage, is hazelle hawthorne. "what are you— what is she doing?" like in slow motion, hazelle comes towards her, but she has no answers, and neither does peeta, only a soft beckoning of ‘katniss’ leaving his lips. hazelle hawthorne! had called out effie trinket's voice, and katniss had been so grateful it had not been lilian everdeen that she had not noticed who else was her closest female relative within the age range for reaping. her aunt, hazelle, gale's mother. the air is knocked out of katniss' lungs as she rasps out a "no!" and she flails, almost pushing hazelle away — only she does not get to touch the tribute before peeta is wrapping his arms around her frame, keeping katniss grounded. "no," she mumbles, again and again, but peeta holds her, and as she clings to his shirt, she is almost thankful he keeps her from crumbling because she can no longer feel her legs, her body, her face; she can only taste the tears that flood out of her eyes and hear effie's voice repeat hazelle hawthorne over and over again.

there’s no volunteers this year. not one of them can give out their lives so that a mother of four can go back home — katniss can not register anger at the grief-striken faces in front of her; she can not sense much other than her own despair, the stomach - churning guilt that ressurfaces with a furious might. she can feel peeta's body stiffen though, and that is what makes katniss comes to the realization the reaping is not yet done. and he has three in this ring — his father, and two older brothers. so she pulls her face away from his chest, eyes still blurry as she focuses on effie's face, so she can see and hear as she calls out the male tribute.

it's not gale (she remembers to breathe).

it's not a mellark, either (some of peeta's tension dissolves, and his hand stops crushing her own).

it's chandler something, a pale man that becomes even paler as he climbs up the stairs.

no volunteers for him either (she is a one-time thing, a fluke, she is reminded of words she's heard at the capitol; the first and only to be so foolishly masochistic she accepted death so a loved one would live).

katniss tunes out from then, refusing to even look at chandler’s face as he approaches to take his spot and shake hazelle's hand. she can not look at him, she knows right then, as her eyes finally find gale's across the square, and she makes a promise without any words.

katniss has to bring hazelle home. alive. whatever the cost (and for once, gale will not hold it against her).

[thornfield13713]

adrawatcher

Okay valid valid hmmmm how about if the da2 group were superheroes what would you name their super identities?

Okay! So, here goes:

Marian Hawke - I mean, she’s Champion of Kirkwall already, but I feel like that’s more along the lines of Batman’s ‘World’s Greatest Detective’ title rather than a superhero thing. For my own particular Marian, though, she’d probably go by something like the Fox. The Black Fox is already taken, sure, but there’s a lot of variants on fox-related names, and given my Marian is one long tribute to Robin Hood, I want to get a nod to the Disney version in there. Or, hell, maybe the Hooded Man, to get a nod in to Robin of Sherwood and the fact that, dressing in layers and with a hood over her face, Marian is tall and broad-shouldered enough to cause confusion.

Bethany Hawke - For her, I would want the bird pun, just because her armour already has one, and because I like to position her as one of three mages from this particular family line - Margarethe Amell, Bethany Hawke, and my as-yet-unnamed new mage Trevelyan. So, what sort of bird would suit Bethany? I lean towards the Merlin, for reasons of a) a falcon traditionally associated with ladies, echoing Bethany’s dreams of the life of a Hightown lady, and b) she’s a mage, and I am not above a corny pun or two.

Carver Hawke - Goshawk. Carver wants to be out of his sibling’s shadow, but he doesn’t want to ditch the family name. And goshawks just...remind me of him. The yeoman’s bird, fitting for Carver as the one of the family who has least invested in moving up to Hightown, and stubborn little persistence hunters that are really hard to train, but once you’ve got them trained up, they make the best hunters of all. I think it suits him.

Anders - I think he might just go with Justice, on the grounds that...well, he’s now a fused Anders-Justice mix, which is...they are both in there, but it’s hard to tell who is who. Having his daytime identity go by one name and his nighttime one by the other sounds like a nice way to reinforce that.

Fenris - Literally already has a superhero name, he’s the Blue Wraith!

Merrill - The Green Griffon. Because she wears a lot of green and likes griffons, and it’s the sort of name I could picture her choosing for herself and then going all out on the costume for, resulting in a surprisingly lifelike griffon mask and feathered cape.

Isabela - The Siren. Nice nod to the name of her ship, nautical in nature, and she could make so very many jokes about it, most of them dirty.

Aveline - Can’t really picture her as anything but the poor man’s Jim Gordon - and frankly, that’s unfair on Gordon - but if she was...hm. The Guardswoman. Very basic, I know, but neither Aveline nor I is long on naming imagination, and I feel like she would want to underline that she is an official, state-sponsored superhero unlike the rest of this crowd. (Marian holds that this sort of misses the point of being a superhero).

Sebastian - Hm...I got nothing. Probably something Chantry-related, Sebastian being who he is. It might be entertaining for him to use ‘Champion of the Just’, and thus forever have to deal with getting mixed up with either Marian or Anders.

Varric - The Storyteller. Very, very on the nose, but after Hard in Hightown, Tale of the Champion and Swords and Shields, can we really say Varric is good at coming up with names? (Pay no attention to the crap-at-naming-things writer behind the curtain).

[maytheoddshq]

Cornelia Terra (she/her). District Two Tribute. Twenty-one. Josie Totah.

(cw: mentions of transphobia)

– What was their childhood like?

Growing up, the world had always been just a little bit off kilter. Given the name Cornelius after being born to a Peacekeeper father and a District government official mother, life had always had a specific direction, a norm that society had already dictated while the child had still been in the womb. An Academy education, and then it was either volunteering for the Games or rerouting to become a Peacekeeper. 

But even while the young boy stayed on his predetermined path, everything was always off. Inexplicable at first, before it began to become clearer when he hit puberty. And knowing that he would’ve much rather walked around the hallways in a skirt or a dress, or strut down the street in a pair of heels that his mother would’ve called much too high, and entirely inappropriate for a boy. After all, that was who she had raised. Cornelius was sure neither of his parents would approve, and that made him too afraid to speak up. It left him in a seemingly permanent state of restlessness. He was living in rooms where the pictures hung crooked and he could never stand up to right them. No matter what, they’d slip to the left, or to the right. He was walking on a permanent rising slope, and it was exhausting to keep up the same pace. One foot in front of the other while wearing the wrong pair of shoes for the trek. 

It took him years before he couldn’t take it any longer. Cornelius felt like he could hardly breathe while he sat down with his mother and told her first. Halfway through the lengthy conversation, his father returned from work and joined in. For hours, he’d sat there with tension and anxiety, talking and talking like his life depended on it. And it did. Once the last word had tumbled over his lips, the pictures soundlessly righted themselves. The slope became an even road to walk on. As if by a miracle, his parents understood without much talk against it. 

From one moment to the next, Cornelia was free. 

– How do they feel about the Games?

Cornelia had always excelled at handling weapons. Especially with a sword, she spent hours upon hours training. Now that there was nothing else missing from her very being, everything else came to her much easier as well. She was kinder to herself, clearer with her goals, more confident in her step and her actions. Though, that did not mean that everyone was kind to her as well. 

Many of her friends had been quick and ready to accept that the boy they’d befriended had finally grown into herself, because really nothing had changed except for the fact that she could freely be herself now. But not everyone could see it that way. Even if Cornelia, at her very core, was still the same person, in the eyes of some she had suddenly become weaker. Less capable at handling a sword and fighting to win in the Arena. Unfit to volunteer and survive. Cornelia knew what she was capable of better than anyone else in the world, and the myriad of assumptions bullied her out of rational thought. It angered her into over-confidence instead. 

She’d show them that she’d always been the same person, only now she could project it to the outside as well. Prove that there was hardly anyone more capable than Cornelia Terra to compete for the victory spot. 

Defying any and all wishes from the Academy officials for who was to volunteer, Cornelia raised her hand during the reaping for the 132nd Hunger Games. 

– What is their personality like?

Cornelia is confident and self-assured, but hardly ever to an arrogant degree. After years of discomfort, she’d learned that there was nothing better she could do for herself than to know what she wanted and boldly reach for it. She encourages almost out of habit; herself as well as others. Even when situations are hopeless, she reassures. At times, stubbornness peeks through the positivity, anger as well as an unshakable desperation to hold onto things and not let them go. 

– What is their district token?

A gold necklace given to her by her mother. 

– Three strengths and three weaknesses?

( + ) confident, bold, caring

( – ) stubborn, hot-tempered, mischievous

PENNED BY: LEO

[mando-of-esverr]

Space travel had come a long way, but it was far from instantaneous. Mathafew had eventually left the cockpit and made his way back to the crew quarters. He stopped first at the room he shared with their father, then closed the door again and ventured further to a room that he supposed had been kept open for guests. From the looks of it though, someone had made use of the room recently.

Well it was his, now.

The boy had laid down with his booted feet hanging over the side, and tugged the blanket up so it covered his blindfolded eyes. It smelled like Darius. So this must have been where the man was staying when he wasn't at the apartment. Mathafew wrapped the blanket further around himself and turned over so he was facing away from the dim lights around the door.

A heavy weight sat in his chest. It drug him downward, it devoured him from the inside out. They starved, he and it.

He had carved a swathe through the universe itself all leading to this moment - and still they starved. "You knew about this." His words were stated matter-of-fact. Toneless. He had no way to shed even a single tear, but the burns that covered his entire body burned with all the salt he couldn't shed.

For nothing. It was for nothing.

The weight in his chest twisted and writhed and it demanded the blood of the one that stood before him. 'Keeper!' It howled, it urged him to do something.

How was this moment dragging on? He saw the massive blade as it was directed toward him. Toward the thing that weighed him down from the inside, that was devouring him every moment. The murcurial light danced along the length, he could see the scratches from the whet stone, he saw the way it twisted in preparation of penetrating him.

'Keeper!' The thing was howling.

"You knew about this."

The thing didn't have anything to say, it couldn't deny, it didn't confirm. It only howled.

"Alright." He said out loud even as his chest tightened, knowing the blow was coming and simply...allowing it. "I submit."

Mathafew screamed.

@sundanceofapache

Darius sat on his bed, drenched in sweat as he processed the latest retelling of his death. It wasn't totally accurate, but he knew the song and dance. He knew what he'd ask the worm if it still lived. But more than that, he remembered what really happened the day he learned he could die.

The Ascendant plane writhed around them, its fearsome, beautiful surfaces threatening to engulf all who entered its maw. But Darius had done this song and dance before. He'd leapt and danced, striking at Xivu Arath.

"You aren't war!" he'd shouted, leaping from stone to stone to lash at her with his blade. "You're dead! You and your whole race! Mouth's without stomachs! A species of skeletons taking drinks without the courtesy of bringing a bucket for that empty ribcage of yours!"

"And you are a ghost!" the hive goddess fired back, swiping at him with her own massive blade. "A dead child toying with the gods his brother brought to their home!"

Darius was caught off guard. "What?" was his only question when he felt the hive goddess's sword catch his chest plate and plunge into his chest. He yelped and grabbed hold of it, desperate to keep it from pushing through him. He could almost feel her chuckling at him.

"So, you didn't know"," Xivu Arath murmured, pushing her blade deeper into his chest. "That the one for which you came to avenge against me, your dear little brother, was the instrument of your own downfall."

"Liar," Darius rasped, blood burbling up his throat.

"He let me in," she pressed, the blade inching deeper into his chest, "He opened the way just as Caiatl's general opened the way for me on Torbotl."

"No--" The sword went deeper, eliciting a cry from his worm.

'Keeper! Hold fast! Strike back before she kills us both!'

"Oh foolish one," purred the hive deity of war. "Used by your own brother, betrayed, to end the life of your dragon and open the way for me to claim his dominion as my own. All your sacrifice was for nothing, a rich tribute to the pact of war you took. Used, betrayed, pointless."

Used. Betrayed. Pointless.

The blade slipped past Darius' fingers, cutting him as it plunged deep, skewering him and his worm alike. Black blood poured from his wounds as he gazed dumbly down at the sword before he was cast off like water off a dog. He tumbled as he landed, rolling to a halt on his front. Blood pooled about him as shock overtook him

Mathafew... betrayed them. His boy brother... let the hive in... killed him and their father... Everything he thought and believed was a lie. Everything he'd done, everything he'd fought for, was based on a lie. Xivu Arath may have been the force that killed his father and brother, but his brother was the one who let her in... brought her in...

Grief overtook him, and there was no ember or spark of anger or vengeance that could burn it away.

"You... weren't the one," he said thickly through his blood. "He was... I..." He coughed and faintly heard his own worm's death rattle as they deflated from blood loss. He took a rattling breath. "I... was wrong… I... I submit..."

Submission. Surrender. Death. Whether he lived or died, it didn't matter. If he lived, he would become one of Xivu's mindless wrathborn or maybe kept here to be tortured for his arrogance. If he died, well, no more pain. If neither happened, then the Ascendant plane would have no problem parsing his existence and adding him to the chorus of nameless cries of pain that accented its existence.

Pain, light, and sight faded from his mind as his final words echoed in his mind.

'I submit.'

Darius shuddered and pulled his knee close. He hated those words. He never wanted to hear those words come out of his mouth again. 'I submit... I will never submit to her. Not her nor anyone else!'

However as he worked to recover himself, Darius heard a cry and lifted his head. 'Mathafew?' The young man stood up and crossed to the door. He hadn't slept in his room this time, his heart too homesick for the father and brother he'd lost. But that didn't stop him from hearing the other Mathafew cry out as if from a nightmare.

"Mathafew?" he called vocally, "Are you alright?"

[theoddshq]

FREYA AURELIA (jmadelaine petsch fc) the odds are in your favor! Please report to your nearest Capitol Agent to be prepped for the 74th Annual Hunger Games!  

ooc

Alias/Age/Pronouns/Timezone: andie / 32 / she/her / estTriggers: [REDACTED]If you had to describe your muse as a canon Hunger Games character, or mix, who would you compare them to and why? Perhaps a mix of johanna and glimmer tbh, anger and beauty and ambition and disillusionment all wrapped into one person. Someone who believed in the games with everything she had, believed in the capitol and the glamour and glory of it all, until she lost something precious and now she is hovering between who she knew she was and who she is becoming. Anything else? nada!

basics

[MADELAINE PETSCH, CIS WOMAN, SHE/HER] The 74th Annual Hunger Games are upon us and here comes FREYA AURELIA, a DISTRICT TWO TRIBUTE. Word around The Capitol is that they’re FIERCE & CONFIDENT but can also be CONFLICTED & RUTHLESS. According to sources, they’re 22 and were once described as a wildfire burning out of control, the glint of sunlight on steel, the blinding flash of a camera bulb, comfort found in all the wrong places. What a character! As we always say, may the odds be ever in their favor!

biography

Freya was the seventh child born into her family, it was an absurdly large family and only remotely possible in a district like one or two. Freya’s birth however came when her mother was older and sometimes things go wrong. Without her mother around freya was raised by committee, her older siblings didn’t have time to waste, not really, so freya was instilled with a practicality she rarely actually displayed. People liked to talk, they used to say she was spoiled, had wanted for nothing and it wasn’t quite true. Freya hadn’t wanted for much but that was because she had the hand me downs of six siblings, nothing was new, nothing was hers and hers alone. Why buy anything new when anything she’d ever needed had already been purchased and used before? Freya was envious of other well to do families around her, those with one or two children perhaps, whose dresses and shoes were immaculate and whose toys did not come scuffed or broken or missing pieces. It was silly to be so envious when she had what she needed but freya was born to covet the things her siblings had reveled in that were not hers to experience but she always refused to name that thing mother.

Mr. rost, her father, was the best smithy in the district and he tried to teach freya that hard work, patience and determination was the way to achieve and succeed. Freya was full of that potential when she was little, when she loved to watch her father in the sweltering forge, pounding steel into submission. She’d watch the sparks this process created, she could see the ripple of heat in the light and she always admired the finished product. She was always surprised that her hulk of a father with his enormous, ugly hands could produce weapons of such beauty and finesse. It took her a really long time to realize she fit into that category too. 

It would have been easy to take up the artistry, to fall into the family business as it was. But even though she appreciated what her father did, for a lot of reasons, she was not built to be covered in grease and soot and ash, to have her hands be torn up and calloused and rough. She didn’t find any joy in the process she knew by heart to make a sword but she loved holding one, feeling the balance, burying the blade into the trunk of a tree. She liked the feeling of power in her hands, the vibration in her frame from impact, how strong it made her body. Of course she wasn’t allowed to play with the products but there was always an abundance of ones rejected by clients, ones just the right size and weight for her because he made them for the training center in the center of the district, the one where the careers for the hunger games trained. 

She was eight when she asked her dad to put her in the training school, but all he could see was his baby daughter with her pretty red hair and her soft skin and her small hands. He didn’t see her for what she was or what she could be, he only saw a baby and she couldn’t accept that. She went as far as trying to show him that she could hold and swing a sword but he only got angry that she’d played with the swords in the first place. He wanted to keep her pretty and pristine and on a pedestal she had no interest in perching on, she was not a doll and she’d prove it to him. She packed a bag one night, walked in the dark to one of her sisters homes, and entered the training academy that morning. Her father never seemed able to forgive her for it, but she was the one with the grounds to hold a grudge. 

Freya was popular at the training center, she was an excellent liar and she got prettier as she got older too. It wasn’t easy to excel in the academy, it was full of a few dozen kids, varying ages and backgrounds, who all wanted the same thing for different reasons. There were no friends to be made in that kind of environment but sometimes there were allies and freya found a few but more than that she found someone to rely on, someone to love. She knew better, the teachers had always warned them that every attachment they had was a tether, an anchor, a weakness. But who could keep them self from falling in love? 

Eventually freya was the right age to volunteer but the promise of more time with the boy she loved was too intoxicating and she faltered, she didn’t volunteer and her classmates started to think she was a coward, lost her nerve and to get back the respect she had already earned once demanded too much. She made enemies but she didn’t leave the academy, she continued to train, to gain strength, to rise in the ranks if only because her biggest competition kept actually volunteering, except the boy she loved. The other students began to grow resentful but their hostility only served to sharpen her senses and skills, she began to feel untouchable. Freya flew too close to the sun and just like icarus her wings burned when

Freya should have known that the resentments building against her were going to have consequences, but her unending arrogance got the better of her and the bubble of love she was in clouded her judgement to the point of ruin. The reaping arrived and still freya knew in her heart that she’d make it through, she and the boy she loved. But then the worst possible thing happened, her name was called, she’d been reaped. But even though herh eart hammered in her chest she waited for the familiar sound of “i volunteer as tribute.” from the crowd. But in a sea of kids who always volunteered there was nothing but silence, a condemnation of freya ringing out in the square. On legs buckling with every step she walked toward the stage, a walk she’d dreamed of for years and then dreaded and then ignored. She stood, eyes drifting to the boy who had her heart, to her large family, to the greedy and vindictive eyes of her peers from the training center believing justice had been served. 

Another name was called, the other tribute and freya couldn’t comprehend anything anymore, the world was deafeningly silent and yet there was a buzzing in her ears that was bordering on painful. She was taken to a room where a few of her siblings came to say goodbye, hug after hug from nieces and nephews, pats on the back when they all knew she’d been condemned. But they all thought she wanted this, that she’d threatened her classmates into remaining quiet if she was reaped, that she had chosen this and they weren’t wrong entirely. And then she had to wonder if she still wanted this now that it was happening anyway. 

The boy she loved rushed into the room, wrapped her up in his arms and the world melted away again. She tried to memorize everything she could about him, his scent, the curl of his hair, the dimple in his left cheek when he smiled at her. Their embrace was pained, he tried to apologize for not volunteering in time but she told him no, that this was better, that he should live. Selfishly she asked him to wait because even now she assumed she could win, she could come back to him and they could live happily ever after. They said goodbye and she felt lighter as she boarded the train. Standing at the door she and the other tribute were waving goodbye to the district but something in the back of the crowd caught her attention, it was her lover, her classmates approaching him from behind, one of them sinking a knife into his ribs. And then she heard deafening screaming, not realizing it was her own voice screeching into the crowd as peacekeepers forced her into the train and the doors closed as the train sped off toward the capitol. 

Everything since has been a blur but maybe she owes her classmates a thank you. In the hours since the reaping she has gone through a whirlwind of emotions and finally has arrived at anger that provides inspiration. She WILL win, if only to return to two and get her revenge, rub it in the faces of her enemies.

writing sample

[REDACTED]

stats

Deceive - 1

Fight - 3

Lore (knowledge) - 2

Notice - 1

Physique - 2

Provoke - 3

Rapport - 1

Resourcefulness - 2

Stealth - 2

Will -3 

extras

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