61st Reaping [D2]

Lulu
Retired Staff

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61st Reaping [D2] May 18, 2012 23:03:35 GMT -5

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Post by Lulu on May 18, 2012 23:03:35 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, "Felicia Vaine!"

[/color] He then reached into the other ball. "Dante Ramadar!"

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, May 22nd, 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]

Last Edit: May 18, 2012 23:37:35 GMT -5 by garnet beauford d8 [earthling]

{lulu's cast}

rueju Merchant [M:-20] 102 POSTS last seen Nov 24, 2013 14:42:54 GMT -5	61st Reaping [D2] May 19, 2012 1:13:35 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by rueju on May 19, 2012 1:13:35 GMT -5 I volunteer if anyone does not accept. My district two girl's name is McKenzie Pachonie, check me out

Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy] Retired Staff 6,346 POSTS Pronouns: He/Him last seen Nov 17, 2023 15:15:56 GMT -5 cozy, queer af	61st Reaping [D2] May 19, 2012 1:16:11 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy] on May 19, 2012 1:16:11 GMT -5 1) No OOC posts in the IC boards 2) Volunteering is open whenever the admins open it. Nothing can be done before that point. [/size][/blockquote]
	warehouse

Snakebird
Merchant

[M:-316]

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last seen Aug 7, 2016 1:03:23 GMT -5

I am Quetzalcoatl

61st Reaping [D2] May 19, 2012 10:43:02 GMT -5

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Post by Snakebird on May 19, 2012 10:43:02 GMT -5

Dante Ramadar, District 2

This was the morning I had been preparing for my entire life. Years of hard work, sweat, and blood coming down to this one crucial moment. A day when I would get the chance to be immortalized and this is that day. If this doesn’t work, I will die trying to win. I get up in the morning, and rub the crust out of my eyes. I don’t really need to rub it out of the one, but the fact that it’s blind doesn’t change my habits. I chant victory mantras in my head as I eat breakfast and go upstairs to brush my teeth. I love stairs; they’re so fun to jump down. I get too excited while brushing my teeth, and accidently spit toothpaste all over the mirror. I don’t even bother to wipe it off for two reasons. One, my mom needs to get off her lazy ass and clean something for a change. Two, I’m not going to be coming back to this place, so why does it matter. I’m going off to the Capitol, where I will kill the weak pansies who get in my way.

I walk happily down the street, passing by a group of scared looking kids. “Hello children,” I whisper, trying to keep my voice low, “I hope none of you get reaped, because if you do, your intestines will be on the ground.” That scares them off, and I skip happily towards the District Square, a strange sight to behold. I don’t normally skip, but if anyone makes fun of me for it, I just turn around and knock them out. Then I might kill their dog or something. It’s a pleasant experience for one of the people involved. That person is me.

I make it to the square, and file in with all the other losers my age. I could take almost all of them. Put a sword in my hand and I could kill them all without breaking a sweat. That’s how they should decide the tributes, have us kill each other and reap from the survivors. That would be so much fun.

I’m standing in the middle of the square and contemplating how much fun I will have in the coming days, when I hear my name called. This is what I’ve been waiting for. I stride confidently to the stage, shoving an annoying twerp out of my way as I approach. I grab the microphone from the annoying lady who reads the names. “Back off, this is mine now!” I face the audience, and shout towards them. “I’m your next victor District 2, so you better learn my name.” I then take a step forward and fall off the stage. “Dammit” I mutter.

Last Edit: May 19, 2012 10:44:46 GMT -5 by Snakebird

Alexandra:"Matta, how many girls your age do you know that like to read about big british guys licking owls"

Cameron: hahahhaha let's all go to the holy masturbatorial

Stare
Retired Staff

3,105 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Feb 15, 2024 23:43:11 GMT -5

and i will hold you tight / like the moon in the arms of the sky

61st Reaping [D2] May 19, 2012 13:54:51 GMT -5

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Post by Stare on May 19, 2012 13:54:51 GMT -5

Your stitches are all out
But your scars are healing wrong
And the helium balloon inside your room has come undone
And it's pushing up at the ceiling
And the flickering lights it cannot get beyond

To no one's surprise, I am late for the reaping.

I wake up in the morning with a start to find that the world around me is already alive, dark and solemn. Even the birdcalls of the late morning are long and low, sorrowful but a nice escape from the endless silence that would fill the air otherwise. One arm still wrapped protectively around Amber, I groggily reach for the watch by my bed and squint at it, eyes snapping open wide when I see the time. I swear quietly and shove the tangled blankets off of me, pulling on a sweatshirt and some shorts and racing to breakfast. Most have already finished, piling their dishes up to the side, and they look unsurprised when I fly in with my hair a tangled cornsilk mess and wrinkled clothing. Someone was kind enough to set out some scrambled eggs and banana slices for me, obviously anticipating my normal tardiness, and I shove the food into my mouth without even tasting it. Still, by the time I have finished, everyone has already left.

As I flee back to my tent, I can't help but wonder about Breyer. He will, no doubt, beat me there. I bite my lip and long for his support on this day. He's always been the comic relief for me in tense situations, but I fear that the Reaping will kill even his bright, bubbly spirit. Still, he's always been there for me and today should be no exception. He'll keep me safe, just like he always has. Disguised as practical jokes and foolish risk taking, our friendship is my battle armor - as long as I have it, nothing can hurt me.

I choose a random dress, a darker shade of pink with a skirt that comes to my knees, and vaguely recall wearing it a few nights ago during a performance. For some reason, the memory of the cheering crowds and Breyer at my side calms me slightly, and my hands tremble a little less when I get dressed and fasten a silver chain around my neck. All of my shoes are either worn sneakers or breakneck heels, so I steal some ballet flats from another performer and then glance at myself in the mirror. To my horror, I realize that my hair is still snarled almost beyond help, and I glance at my watch quickly. Fifteen minutes. I dig into my bag for the brush, but instead my fingers find a piece of worn paper. I freeze, slowly drawing it out and staring at it quietly for a moment.

The girl in it is perfect. Or at least, she was supposed to be. The photo girl has a family and a life of locked doors, and a dead nanny and missing dog. The photo girl is smiling but she is in no way happy - her nice clothes and silky hair convey that she is rather wealthy, but one could still recognize the quiet despair in her eyes. I run my thumb over the girl's shoulder before shoving the picture back into my bag and yanking out my comb. That life is over, and lingering over it will only cause me more pain. I rip through my messy blonde locks and try to tell myself that I don't care anymore, even though I do.

Somewhere a gong rings, announcing the beginning of the reaping. I abandon all hope of taming my wild mane and flee to the District Square, just a little ways away but feeling like a million miles. The Keepers glare at me when I arrive but make no move to stop me as I slip into the crowd, joining the other girls my age. I can feel them trembling in anticipation, desperately hoping that the name called will be theirs. At the circus, the Reaping is a thing to fear. Many of us joined in order to escape harsh Career training. But here, in the crowd, I recognize the hope spread out on people's faces. They want to go in, to draw blood and listen to the screams of their victims, to constantly fear for their life in a mysterious Arena.

And they call us the freaks.

The district escort has already said all of the official things, repeated every year, so my lateness isn't so bad. Only half listening to him, my eyes sweep over the crowd, trying to find Breyer. I easily spot him with his height, and smile in relief. Breyer will protect me, just like he always has. Everything's going to be fine.

"Felicia Vaine!"

And then, suddenly, it's not.

When all heads turn toward me, eyes wide with envy or shock or both, my reaction is automatic. Smile for the crowd, Felicia. My lips tug upward into a wide grin the way they do before I step into the dark boxes, and one arm lifts upward to wave slightly in acknowledgement. Don't let them see your fear. No one can know, Felicia. Just keep smiling. That a girl. Murmurs ripple through the crowd, obviously recognizing the girl who can escape any trap no matter how complex. My steps toward the stage are long and confident, chin held high and eyes bright with a false excitement. It's just a show, Felicia. Just another performance to please the crowd. Keep smiling. I step up and nod at the congratulations of the escort and mayor, laughing a little when they say how lucky I am. Turning, I give a slight curtsy to the crowd, the way I always do before I enter the traps where the panic and tears await me. And that's all this is, right? It's just another trap, Felicia. You can handle it.

But no. This is one trap I won't be escaping from.

Oh everyone takes turns
Now it's yours to play the part
And they're sitting all around you
Holding copies of your chart
And the misery in their eyes
Is synchronized and reflected into yours

(OOC: Felicia steps down from her position as District Two female tribute)

You thought by now they'd see
That you have come so far
And the pride inside their eyes
Would synchronize into a love you've never known
So much more than you've been shown

They tell you to live, love, and move on, but it's a hard thing to do when I'm wearing her necklace.

Beautiful silver chain twisted and warped into a rose at the end, it is my favorite of the jewelry she left behind when she died. I finger the icy flower absentmindedly for a moment, remembering her wearing it to all the finest occasions, including her wedding. After he left her, she wore it even more often. I think that, despite how horrible he was, she still loved him, and the necklace was a good reminder of the happiness she felt when she was around him. I have a small box of some of her things that I take out and look through when I'm feeling especially lonely, and this necklace is always inside a tiny case with a picture of their wedding glued to the inside of the lid. My mother was beautiful. With long, curling brown locks and her silky white dress, she could have been a princess or a fairy or an angel. And, though I hate to admit it, my father was quite handsome. He was her prince charming, even if he did leave her the moment he found out she was pregnant. In that photo, they look happy, holding each other's hands while flower petals fall from the tree behind them.

I fasten the cold metal behind my neck and drift over to the dusty chest where I keep my nice clothes. The chest has a lock, but it's such a rare occasion for me to be home to wear the dresses that I hardly ever use it. I throw the cover back and quietly gaze at the muted fabrics, slipping my hand into the smooth texture and sigh at the idea of being clean and girly for one day of my life. My eyes fill with sorrow as I dig deeper into the clothing. Some of these gowns belonged to my mother. But I ignore them and instead pull out a pale pink dress with short sleeves and buttons up the front of the bodice. It isn't flowy or silky like some of the others, but it has a simple elegance to it that I've always admired. I hug it close to my chest for a moment, breathing in deeply to calm myself. I always get scared on the day of the reaping, but it is the price to pay for my freedom. If I want to fly without limits beyond the fence, I have to do it without them suspecting me. That means attend the reaping and the Victory Tour, and go to school at least once a month.

Once I have changed, I brush some brown colored blush onto my cheekbones and color my lips a dark shade of pink, putting on a silver flower headband and a thin bracelet as a finishing touch. At the ancient vanity, a photo of my mother stands. She's laughing in front of a summer scene, with a tumbling silver sky overhead and flowers waving in the background. I reach forward and run my hand down the side of the chestnut frame, allowing myself a small smile. "Love you," I whisper, trying to hold back my tears. Because I can almost hear her crystal clear voice in response, drifting on the spring breeze as I step through the doorway. You'll be okay, love. I promise.

The same words she said before she died.

The walk along the dirt path to the district square is indeed a beautiful one. The flowers are blooming early this year, a dozen shades of roseate and gold, swaying and dancing to the tune of the wind, whispering secrets to those wise enough to listen. The green branches of the trees swoop into an awning above my head so the golden sunlight only falls in puddles onto the ground, gold against brown and the occasional patch of grass that grows on the unkept trail. I'm running early, so I allow my footsteps to slow and my head to tilt back, tawny tangles twisting down my back. I kick off my shoes and let my toes dig into the warm dirt. Nature is my sanctuary - here, I am safe and protected.

But I cannot stay within this kind of safety forever. This security isn't real, and it won't last. It is a part of me, yet it is the very thing that puts me in danger each and every day. I sigh against the warm breeze, tasting the sunbeam I stand under for just a moment longer before continuing on my way without bothering to replace my shoes. People never walk along this way anymore - all the other houses in the area, hidden among the trees, are either abandoned or owned by people far too rich to travel along such a... quaint trail. It truly is lovely, they tell me, but they can't walk on it or they'll get brown dust all over their brand new heels. I always nod and pretend to understand, just as my mother taught me. People in District Two don't appreciate it like we do, Destiny, she'd say, and that would make me wonder even more why she loved it so much here.

When I finally do reach the square, a large group of people have already gathered. Of course - the Reaping is always highly anticipated here. I can feel the excitement laced thick into the air, and people smile widely, certain that this will be their lucky year. I stand on my tiptoes to see the mayor when he begins speaking, and almost lose my balance when a petite girl with blonde hair shoves past me, obviously in a hurry. I blow some strands of hair off my forehead in annoyance and resume my position, arms outstretched to keep steady as I desperately try to see past the head of the girl who is probably a whole head taller in front of me. Someone elbows me in annoyance and I drop back down onto my heels. Hearing the names will just have to be good enough.

"Felicia Vaine!"

I sigh in relief, smiling despite myself. Once again, I have escaped the Games. The girls around me frown in disappointment, and the one in front of me turns away in annoyance. I catch a glimpse of the tribute - the same girl who just shoved into me. I can't help but feel like she seems vaguely familiar. Perhaps I've seen her on the streets before? She's smiling and waving as if this is all some big show, and I frown. The District Two tributes are always arrogant, but usually not like this. Then I hear someone behind me whisper, "Circus freak." My eyes widen as I remember - she's the escape artist. I went to one of their shows, and though she didn't stand out to me all that much, I recognize her going through the same movements that she would in front of the audience in one of her shows. And that's when it hits me. It's all just an act.

She doesn't want to be there.

But no one will know. Everyone will think that she's gladly accepting her position, when in reality she's terrified. For a moment, a split second, I consider volunteering to take her place. And I guess that split second is all it takes, because then I am remembering something my mother said a very long time ago. The best kind of heroism is sacrifice. She told me that when we were reading a story about a prince who agreed to be a prisoner if his true love could be released. My mother believed that a person who was willing to sacrifice everything was worthy of all the riches in the world. Besides, what do I have to lose? It's stupid and ridiculous and I can't believe I'm doing this, but one bare foot steps in front of the other and I call out as loudly as I can before I change my mind, "I volunteer!"

Some of the girls around me snicker and sneer - don't I know that the girl up there will never let me take her spot? But Felicia Vaine draws back, away from the microphone, as if she has been slapped back into reality. Her eyes are wide and she's shaking, and no protest escapes her lips as I push through the crowd and up to the stage. My legs tremble weakly as I climb up the stares, but I lift my chin high and offer the circus freak a small nod before turning toward the escort. He doesn't look very surprised. "And what would your name be, then?"

"Destiny Lenstil," I say into the microphone held out for me. My voice is mixed with static and sounds loud as it echoes through the square. "My name is Destiny Lenstil, and I volunteer to represent my district in the 61st Hunger Games."

The best kind of heroism is sacrifice.

I must be insane.

Hold on!
One more time with feeling
Try it again, breathing's just a rhythm
Say it in your mind until you know that the words are right
This is why we fight

(OOC: Destiny Lenstil volunteers as District Two female tribute)