60th Reaping [D8]

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Lulu
Retired Staff

[M:2982250]

3,114 POSTS
last seen Nov 24, 2023 13:45:22 GMT -5

60th Reaping [D8] Jan 14, 2012 0:11:00 GMT -5

Post by Lulu on Jan 14, 2012 0:11:00 GMT -5

The escort of the district stepped out onto the stage, a smile plastered across his face as he stared into the cameras that surrounded it. It was time once again to choose two children to compete in the Hunger Games, and it was his job to do so.

"It is time," he said as he stood over the impatient people of the District, "To once again send two of our own children to the Capitol to compete in the Hunger Games. Let us begin the Reaping!"

He did not look to see the reaction of his district before reaching into the glass ball that held the names of the female children. "Ladies first," he announced, pulling out a slip of paper. He unfolded it and read out to the crowd, "Yaron Raidan!"

[/color] He then reached into the other ball. "Shrol Raidan!"

OOC- RPing is allowed. If you wish to volunteer, let the tribute post first either accepting or stepping down from their place for volunteers, and then post. If the tribute doesn't reply by Tuesday, January 17th, a staff member will post saying that volunteering is open. Please do not post until you see this staff message. FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE.

Tributes, please do not make your acceptance or denial of your spot in character; instead, please leave an ooc note at the end of your post stating whether they accept or are stepping down for volunteers.

Also, and this is really important: If you have been selected as a tribute and plan on going into the arena, we HIGHLY SUGGEST you take some RP Tutoring lessons ASAP. It doesn't matter what level RPer you are; everyone can use a little help. RPing a tribute is a PRIVILEGE; if you're not going to put the time and effort into making your posts the best they can be then you can count yourself among the dead...-evil laugh- It's not a requirement, but please please please just consider the lessons. They'll help even the most advanced RPer. [/blockquote][/size][/justify]

{lulu's cast}

WT
Retired Staff

2,134 POSTS
Pronouns: they
last seen Sept 10, 2021 1:50:54 GMT -5

time, gender, furbies, and other things that don't exist

60th Reaping [D8] Jan 14, 2012 1:44:47 GMT -5

Post by WT on Jan 14, 2012 1:44:47 GMT -5

I don't want to start any blasphemous rumours
But I think that God's got a sick sense of humour

On Reaping days, Yaron remembered that she was part of a family.

It was the only time of year they really acted like it—excepting perhaps Christmas, but that was always tainted by Yaron's own frustration with the incessant prayers and candles. Everyone pitched in to help Dor with breakfast, a task he normally endured alone. Hugs were passed around; Feleci herself participated, tightly squishing both of her tesserae-holding brothers and then the twins and then her parents. Even Naam put on a damn good show of being human, wishing her family good luck and offering to help with the small house chores that needed doing no matter what day it was.

The feeling persisted afterward, clinging to their skin and hair as they trekked out of the house and down the street. As always, they tried to arrive early so that they could stay together as much as possible. As always, one person or another had a delay, and by the time they got there the crowd was already big enough to envelope them anyway. Yaron, Shrol, and Tabil had to be separated into their age groups eventually no matter what, but it felt wrong to be pulled away abruptly, without so much as a final goodbye or good luck, or even one of those unbearable God bless yous that somehow became tolerable today, and only today. Still, the warmth followed her—a poor substitute for fthe support of a family, but a comfort that she nevertheless clutched close to her heart as a shield against the Reaping ritual.

By now, she knew the entire schedule by heart, so she allowed her eyes to wander the crowd as the mayor and Capitol officials babbled on and on. She found her non-Reaping family; the six had managed to meet up again and were huddled together not too far away. None of them noticed or returned her wave, so she sighed and started searching the boys' section for her remaining brothers. It was difficult, since they were so short, but she had ample time and the recognition of a sibling. Minutes before the final speech ended, she found the younger brother, and then the elder.

Tabil's lips were moving rapidly. Although his eyes were fixed on the escort instead of closed gently, she recognized the fervor of his speaking as a desperate prayer. Here, as with everything else, that didn't annoy her quite as much as it usually did. She allowed herself an affectionate smile, grateful to know that she had a little brother who loved her.

Whether he sensed her gaze or simply wanted to see his siblings one more time before the names were called, she didn't know. She did know that they locked eyes as he turned, and that he saw her smile and managed to return it, and that she almost saw his heart break before she heard her own name.

Oh.

---------------

As the escort drew the first slip of paper, Tabil yanked his frantic prayer to an abrupt halt. God had heard all he had to say, and would judge it as He chose; in the meantime, he had a sister to connect with and a name to hear and honor.

"Yaron Raidan!"

Tabil's smile didn't so much fall as implode. He couldn't feel it, but he knew because he could see Yaron, and the same thing happened to her. One moment her face was calm and self-assured, same as always, and then next her mouth had dropped open and she was taking the first of a series of steps.

What was going on here? Watching her climb those steps was wrong. Not only because she wasn't supposed to be there—don't punish her this way, God, don't punish her at all, she doesn't mean what she says, she doesn't know—but because he had never seen that shell-shocked expression on her face. Never in her life, he was sure, had Yaron Raidan looked dull. Whether tossing her head or sneering or laughing or rolling her eyes, she never just took things like this. She fought back, or she made herself such a passive-aggressive pain in the rear that you wished she would fight back.

He craned his neck around, looking for the rest of their family. Surely they knew that this was a joke, surely they were smiling in relief and starting to tense up for the next call, surely they could fix this...

Shrol was standing so that Tabil couldn't see his face, but he was safe, or at least he seemed to be. Maybe he wasn't—the rules of the universe seemed broken somehow, as though the people in the crowd were the ones about to die and Yaron had merely been elevated to a higher plane—but for now, Tabil had to believe his brother would be okay.

But the others. Their parents, the two oldest, and the twins stood together at the edges of the Reaping-eligible throng. The entire group looked like a family in a way that made his heart break all over again: his parents holding hands, Naam doing that unreadable lip-biting thing of hers, Dor putting his hand on her shoulder, the twins clinging close and drawn up near their mother. With their hands together and Mother's head against Father's shoulder, the two looked like a married couple for the first time in Tabil's memory—and it was that, more than anything else, that drove the truth home.

This was real, and it was bad, and there was nothing any of them could do to protect each other.

Why are You doing this? I don't understand. Please.

Shaken, Tabil turned around. As Yaron took the final step into her place, the escort opened his mouth again, and the already-broken sky crashed down.

"Shrol Raidan!"

---------------

"No!"

Yaron's eyes, which had been fixated on the back of the mayor's head, shot toward the crowd. She found Tabil instantly, drawn to his cry—a sound almost as heartbreaking as the names, because it seemed more real somehow. The names had been cold, empty of meaning; the despair in her brother's voice was excruciatingly familiar.

But he wasn't the one she needed. She needed the boy who was working his way through the crowd, a lonely and agonized path opening before him as he moved. She needed the brother she never spoke to, the one she got angry at for trying to cheer her up, the one she had hugged tight this morning for the first time in months. She needed Shrol.

She never told her family, for fear that they would take it the wrong way, but sometimes Yaron still prayed. She no longer meant the words, of course, but there was still something soothing about them, like an old habit or a food that she used to love as a child. Now was one of those times; she desperately needed comfort, and the old words sprung unbidden to her mind. She closed her eyes as her little brother drew near the stage and let the words carry her as a thousand other thoughts swept through beneath them, each harder to deal with than the last. How was their family going to handle losing both of them? Never mind that the money would stretch further now, or that pretty much everyone thought that Yaron and Shrol were each a pain in the ass on their own, let alone together. They were dysfunctional and ridiculous and bitter, but they needed each other. And how was she going to deal with the Games, especially with him? Sure, she loved Shrol, but she didn't like him much. At least, not usually. And what about her brother himself, for that matter? If she was expecting this to be torture for her, it was going to be absolute hell for the poor kid.

Why us?

The prayer ended, and Yaron opened her eyes to find herself staring straight at her little brother's dark hair. She jumped, then huffed an impatient sigh at herself and shook her head a fraction of an inch to either side. Ludicrous and horrible as this was, it was the way things were—and if this was how her life was going to be, then she wasn't going to lie down and let the Capitol run her over.

Yaron squared her shoulders and dragged herself to her full height. Part of her wanted to reach out for Shrol's hand, but she didn't know how he would take that. She spent so much of the year avoiding him—avoiding all of them—that such a gesture seemed trite. Instead, she settled for a terse smile, which shifted into a feral baring of teeth as she nodded to the cameras and looked to the officials around her.

"Well, then. The odds have shown us the middle finger, so I guess it's time to get this party started, huh?"

And when I die, I expect to find him laughing

((Editing? HAH. NO. 12:43 IN THE MORNING AND ADRENALINE. RAW MATERIAL ONLY.

Yaron Raidan has accepted her position as tribute.))

Last Edit: Jan 14, 2012 2:38:43 GMT -5 by WT

'the way we lived' in stylized text, with 'character directory' as a subtitle underneath

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meg.
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60th Reaping [D8] Jan 15, 2012 2:59:08 GMT -5

Post by meg. on Jan 15, 2012 2:59:08 GMT -5

The previous night’s prayers had been different. There was a sense of urgency to the usual ‘thank you for blessing us with all we have, and help all those who aren’t as lucky as us.’ You wouldn’t have seen it, had you not witnessed the same thing on reaping night for thirteen years. But for Shrol, it was in the fact that there was no want to hum under his breath. It was in the way that Naam and Yaron, who held sat on either side of Shrol, held his hands tightly. It was in the perfect circle that the family made around the table, as if they could hold in every member of the completely dysfunctional family. The words of prayer were not heard by anyone. Instead, the only sounds they could hear were not at all audible. “Please God,” they screamed so loudly, it deafened the household. “Continue our blessings. Please don’t take anyone away.”

The morning was shaky smiles and hugs that consisted of blended hearts and hands reaching out of them. There was help with the dishes and tolerance that he had never before witnessed in his family. Even when he hummed whilst eating his breakfast, no one yelled at him. Perhaps it was a particularly appropriate song. It was funny, but with each year that passed without a reaping, Reaping morning became a more and more pleasant time in the Raidan’s Hovel. Next year, the twins would become eligiable, and therefore there would be more unspoken terror in the household, as five of them would have a shot at being the Capitol’s plaything.

There was a rule in the household, one that had never surfaced in words but instead became so apparent at this time of year. The Games was not to be mentioned. Perhaps they thought it was a curse word to their Lord, and not uttering it was what in the past had kept them safe. Perhaps it was the fear that a part of their heart had a semi-decent chance of being thrown into the arena along with 23 other children, even if they themselves were not reaped. Perhaps it was just that silence could help them better believe that their family would be just fine. Except for Shrol, the rest of the family seemed to take advantage of silence to kid themselves about a lot of things.

The cracked pavement under his feet spoke to him. He knew that if he could just choose the right paving stone, the one that no previous tribute had chosen, he would be fine. He had the Lord on his side, and he put his complete faith in God that the hand he was dealt would not contain any cards that Shrol did not, somewhere in deep in his mind, know how to play. Even for young Shrol, the reaping program was tattooed onto his mind, he knew how each word from the stage would play. After all, he had watched the same ceremony thirteen times before.

As the moment of the drawing grew nearer and nearer, the silence annoyed him more and more. He knew what silence did. It hid secrets, hid the truth. It buzzed in his ears like a mosquito, nipped at his skin. And although he knew that little bites, as annoying as they may be, wouldn’t hurt him, he also couldn’t be assured that that silence-bite wouldn’t put the bad-luck bacteria into his bloodstream. Under his breath, he sprayed the silence with a song. It was what he did when he was nervous- and indeed, any other time. The song was one that some school teacher had taught him, when he was a tiny kid. The words were non-exsistent in places and incoherent in others, but the tune was one that was comforting, that warded off anything too bad. Although the words didn’t make sense, their message was one that, in his mind, was quite clear. It was a message to God- a message of ‘Help me.’

The words on tiny pieces of paper bucked and bristled in the ballot, fighting with each other, tussling to get as far as possible away from the Mayor’s hand, which selected just one piece of paper. As he saw the words form on the man’s lips, his song and it’s message became louder and louder, until they were fairly audible to the other thirteen year olds packed around him.

“Yaron Raidan.”

The breath the tumbled out of his lungs weighed a thousand kilos. He had no idea how he would ever pick it back up again.

His sister.

His sister. The one who he bugged so bad with his prayer-songs and, as she phrased it, verbal diahhrea.

His sister. The one who, on more that one occasion, had stated that she couldn’t stand him.

His sister. The one who he loved.

He hadn’t even had a chance to get to know her. Now he knew he would spend the rest of his life wondering whether she preferred chicken or beef, or what made her disagree with God so much. He would never know what she felt about him really. He’d never sing songs with her kids.

As much as he loved her, he’d never have an opportunity to love her.

He thought about getting down on his knees in prayer in that moment, but what would that do? All their prayer had done nothing. Out of their whole family, Shrol knew that she would be the least equipped to deal with the games, because she did not have her faith in the right hands. The rest of them at least knew that when they died they had tried there hardest to go to the right place next. Yaron didn’t believe she was even going anywhere. What did she believe? It was another question that Shrol now knew that he’d never answer.

“Shrol Raidan!”

He didn’t give a damn. The poor bugger was going to cark it, after all. He had to, if his sister had any chance of going to anywhere better after the games. The only way that Yaron was going to be in anywhere that was worth her time was if she was the victor- the first one that 10 would gain in many years. He was looking forward to when the districts male tribute died, because it would mean 22 left for his sister to answer his questions.

The silence kept nipping at him, harder and harder, but he sung in his mind to mask it. It wasn’t until he saw Yaron’s face that he realised something was wrong. “Poor family,” someone close by whispered, their words marking their relief of not being picked.

“Family.” The word rung in his ears, worse that the silence.

“Tabil?” The enquiry was out loud. Oh lord, please no. Not his brother, too. One was enough, surely. One life, for all their sins.

No. He found his brother’s face, and he immediately knew that he was looking into a mirror. Tabil’s face portrayed the pain of loosing one’s brother, as well as one’s sister.

And Tabil loosing his brother to the reaping could only mean one thing. Shrol looked at the cobble he was standing on, and saw the faces of 60 children, who had stood in this very place, with the very same look on their face. It was them. All the praying had done nothing. He was to be slaughtered for sport, as each second that he lived would mean that his sister was getting closer to her death. And he knew that it would be he who would have to die, as he had done everything possible for himself to go to heaven, where as his sister? Who knew where she might end up.

As he made his way to the stage, he did the only thing he knew how in that moment. He smiled. A great grin was stuck on his face, one that everyone watching this moment could see through. And as he drifted to take his place next to his sister, stupid clown smile on his face, he stuck his hand into hers. He needed reassurance, someone telling him that it was ok. He knew that he could turn to God, the only father he had ever known. But was kind of father raises his kids only to send them off like pigs to slaughter. He grabbed his sister’s hand and held it so firmly, because he never, ever wanted to let go.

In the arena, he would need many things. He’d need food and water. He’d need to know when to fight and when to run. He’d need shelter, and comfort.

But right now, he just needed her.

[OOC: Shrol Raidan has accepted his place as tribute]

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