61st Reaping [D1]

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Lulu
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61st Reaping [D1] May 18, 2012 23:01:30 GMT -5

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Post by Lulu on May 18, 2012 23:01:30 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, "Stark Harper!"

[/color] He then reached into the other ball. "Jae Moreno!"

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 23:37:21 GMT -5 by garnet beauford d8 [earthling]

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Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]
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61st Reaping [D1] May 20, 2012 18:20:57 GMT -5

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Post by Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy] on May 20, 2012 18:20:57 GMT -5

We're the lifers here till the bitter end
Condemned from the start

[/i][/font][/right]
Hell, it seems, has arrived early.

Red fire tickles my eyelids as I close them, and I think of death and horror and sadness. I let the tears come as whispers and jeers take wing through the crowd. They'll recognize the name, and they'll know my face. Already, the eighteen-year-old boys raise their eyes to look at me in relief. It's not me, it's not me.. the non-Careers will repeat. And somebody says it: "Not this year." It's he who will bleed, HE who will lose his gentle heartbeat.

The fire burns as the tears spill onto my cheeks.

Calm, calm, calm. Forget yourself.

Somebody touches my shoulder, only gently, pressing me forward. Nobody cries for me, nor do they jump forward to volunteer. He is capable. He is strong, gigantic even. He can handle this himself.

But my tears will make them uncomfortable. Is he weak? Can he survive? Their vision of Reyes, valiant coward that he is, fills their minds. I look nothing like him, tall and lean with my shoulders drooped low and my eyes tearful and averted towards the ground. He won't be our victor. He is not a threat to anyone.

Another person touches my shoulder, more forceful this time - a peacekeeper, dressed in angelic white to lead me to my death. And he knows I'm going to hell. He knows. I stare at him as my feet move; his image blurs through the fire and tears. My guiding angel ignores me. The planes of his face are strong, with high cheekbones and a dramatic chin and a firm stance. He keeps his chin held high as if it is he who will walk up onto the stage to accept a spot as tribute, as if he must show an image of strength to Panem to stay alive. My angel doesn't dare look at me, though I see a corner of his eye twitch.

I whisper to him, "Am I going to die?" as we make our way through the crowd. His whole face contorts and finally, finally he meets my water-filled fire eyes.

Nobody else can hear the word but me.

"Yes."

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Good.

The corner of my lip wants to twitch up and stay that way, but I crush my whole being as I rise to the stage, catching my toe on the edge of the stairs. I picture myself falling, landing in a soft ball on the stage, sobbing my heart out until the life drips out of me. It happens in a millisecond, and the crowd detests me for falling. This is our male tribute? This? My angel wraps a hand around my arm and plucks me up, shoving me towards the podium. I am not Jae Moreno, though I am. I am the crowd and the Capitol and the boy in the candy shop, and I absorb it all like a sponge.

I close my eyes and sob quietly on the stage as the country watches.

[He accepts]

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Last Edit: May 20, 2012 20:00:20 GMT -5 by Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]

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gm bourgeois decadence [aya]
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61st Reaping [D1] May 20, 2012 21:22:07 GMT -5

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Post by gm bourgeois decadence [aya] on May 20, 2012 21:22:07 GMT -5

I could buy myself a reason.
I could sell myself a job.
I could hang myself on treason.
All the folks I know are gone.

Stark Harper —

[/i][/color]

Judgment Day.

In Starkland, that was the official name for every eighteen-year-old's reaping — the last time they were eligible to be thrown into the Hunger Games. Ever. Most of the lower district sheep saw this as a good thing, as a graduation from annual fear of a horrific, traumatic death — as they should. They weren't equipped to deal with the Hunger Games the way the more civilized districts were. The way Stark was, more than anyone else. This was what set the careers apart from those sheep tributes on Judgment Day: the sheep feared that they'd miss their chance at life by being selected for the Hunger Games; Stark's crowd feared that they'd miss their chance at life by not having their name drawn.

Though Stark would never admit to sharing feelings of any kind with her fellow potential tributes — not even those who'd had a background of training, for their experiences still paled in comparison to her preparations — her stomach still clenched from nervousness, if only slightly. She told herself it was hunger. She'd be reaped, of course, or at the worst it would be someone outrageous — someone utterly unprepared, someone too young to represent the mighty District One — so she could assume her rightful place as tribute. Maybe she wasn't exactly popular among her fellows, but by Ripred she'd kill every one of them if she had to, if that meant she'd get to represent the few that remained. The 61st Hunger Games were hers.

It wasn't even that she craved victory so much at this point; no, her dreams of glory had long since faded. Winning the Hunger Games was simply the next step in her ascent to power. Stark didn't kid herself that she'd ever have supreme reign over Panem, of course; instead, she coveted the position of Head Gamemaker. By her estimation, she could have full responsibility of the nation's most celebrated television program as early as the 69th Games. What little artistic talent she had was allocated to sketching arena maps in the early hours of the morning, worn from her day of training (after all, every day was a day of training for Stark Harper.) Hidden throughout her room were journals filled with notes on the previous Games: what earned high ratings, what didn't; what styles of Arenas kept the Tributes in constant contact and therefore constantly entertaining the Capitol; what sorts of tributes were fan favorites and which needed to be killed. For someone who dislikes practically everyone so immensely, Stark was more than eager to please her future viewership, though this could be chalked up to her great desire to be successful.

Standing in the middle of her upstairs bedroom, Stark hastily dressed herself in her usual black exploring outfit: pants with more pockets than were really necessary; combat boots laced tight, the usual machete left out (because apparently owning weaponry in the districts is frowned upon?); a black hoodie replaced by a black coat, worn over a black tank top. She lifted the switchblade — her switchblade — off of her nightstand, examining it, considering if it was worth taking with her if she were to be reaped. No, when she would be reaped. It wouldn't be allowed to accompany her to the Capitol, after all, but at the same time, it was her most prized possession. Her only prized possession, really, besides perhaps the victory medal that she beat a kid up for. She felt naked without its familiar weight in her pocket, without being able to run a thumb over its release trigger and smirk at the fact that nobody around her knew that she had a knife, and therefore the upper hand in a fight.

She shrugged, sliding it into her jacket pocket, feeling immediately more confident knowing that it was on her person. For good measure, she brought the medal with her, too, thinking that maybe she could trick herself into believing that its weight was her switchblade, just so that she wasn't plagued by a perpetual worry about the absence of the knife. It would be useless, she knew — nobody tricked Stark Harper. She extracted the medal from the top drawer of her nightstand, rubbed some of the dirt off of its design, and hesitated before putting it around her neck. It couldn't go in her pocket, not yet, but at the same time, Stark detested wearing anything that could be used against her — and the rainbow ribbon that the medallion was attached to was certainly strong enough to strangle. In fact, that's how Stark bested the kid who'd won it in the first place.

Several years ago, a few of her classmates had found the medal and decided to have a mock Hunger Games to decide who got to keep it. Though even when she was little, very few people liked her, Stark managed to participate, though she came in third. Instead of being a good sport about losing like the other kids for the most part were, Stark waited until the end of the mock Games and followed the boy who'd won home. He was obviously bigger than her — after all, he'd been the one to "kill" her — but this time, she had the jump on him, quite literally. She snuck up on the boy and jumped onto his back, causing him to buckle under the unexpected weight, and grabbed the medal that he proudly wore around his neck. Instead of ripping it off and fleeing, however, Stark pulled it straight back, causing him to choke and splutter. When he was barely conscious, she removed her spoils and scampered home with a trophy of her victory.

Stark considered leaving through the front door like a normal person might; she could say good morning to her father and her little brother, grab breakfast, walk to the district square with her splintered family, hug them goodbye as she filed into the line of eighteen-year-old girls. The trouble was, Stark Harper didn't hug. She didn't do family, unless the girl gang she used to hang out with counted for that. She could go without breakfast; there'd be plenty for her to eat in the Capitol, not that she'd gorge herself. So instead, Stark slipped out of her window — that was the pale blonde girl's front door — suddenly reminded of her grand entrance into the MBand, her girl gang. Climbing out of a fifth-story window down to the level below probably didn't appeal to most people, but the element of danger made it all the more thrilling to Stark. Not that she was in any actual trouble; she knew that she was invincible.

The climb into and out of her bedroom window was, of course, much less daunting, and Stark used this entrance and exit so often there was a patch of dead grass where she always jumped down off of her roof. On the morning of Judgment Day, she landed there with a thud, cat-like, brushing the non-existent dirt off of her hands as she righted herself. Elegantly, she walked away from the house she'd grown up in without bothering to look back. If everything went according to plan, she wouldn't be living there for very much longer. Instead, her official residence would be with the handful of other District One victors, though she'd spend whatever time she could in the Capitol — after all, she couldn't very well be a Gamemaker if she was still living in the district.

Head held high, she shuffled into line behind the girls her age. At six feet even, her height was nearly unparalleled by the other girls, turning her shock of light blonde hair into a beacon. She liked being tall; it gave her the edge in most fights, let her see across crowds, helped her intimidate people. She seldom had to look up to make eye contact with anyone, though much to her distain, her little brother had grown to be an exception. As the remaining officials filed onto the stage, a rare twinge of sibling camaraderie passed over Stark, causing her to scan the crowd for Viridian. She couldn't find him, though this wasn't all that surprising, considering the large proportion of Career boys that breached six feet, obscuring the others. After a few seconds, she gave up, turning her attention to the people on the stage, where Mayor Morgan assumed the microphone.

It was always the same script every year, so the career girl allowed herself to zone out for a bit. Instead of listening to the dry reminders of the rebellion and the start of the bloody competition, Stark, who was growing downright antsy, began to daydream about the Games themselves. What sort of arena would the tributes be thrown into this year? Probably nothing cold, probably no deserts, since the past few arenas had utilized these geographical features. Perhaps they'd revisit some sort of forest theme, as the Gamemakers had devised for the 56th Games. Stark had been a mere thirteen then, that year that District One had last seen a victory. Her eyes fell on Topaz Ross, who didn't seem to be paying much more attention to the speech than the blonde girl was. Stark didn't particularly care for her — she didn't think the other girl had deserved to win — but she figured that she shouldn't make her distaste too blatant; after all, as soon as the blonde girl won, they'd be neighbors.

If she was reaped, at least. After all, there were so many girls, many of whom would turn down anyone offering to take their place. This was her last year, her last chance, and, in all likelihood, it just wasn't going to happen. Her whole life, her whole plan wasn't going to happen. She wouldn't be reaped, so she couldn't win and use her elevated status to launch her career as Head Gamemaker. What would she even do? What could she even do if the name on that slip of paper wasn't —

"Stark Harper!"

Well, that worked.

A clutch of giddy butterflies took hold in her stomach. With a deep breath, she made her way towards the stage, the sea of blondes parting in front of her. At a long last, she stood before the crowd, countenance somewhere between her usual scowl and a smirk of triumph. Stark Harper, District One Female had a nice ring to it. Stark Harper, Victor of the 61st Annual Hunger Games. Stark Harper, Head Gamemaker. Stark Harper, Supreme Overlord. Stark Harper. Stark Harper. Stark Harper.

As the male tribute tripped his way up onto the stage — a Moreno, of course, to try to filch her fame — Stark repeated her name over and over in her head, utterly pleased with herself. Stark Harper of District One. It was Judgment Day and she was worthy. Of course she was worthy, she was Stark fucking Harper. The Stark Harper. The infamous Stark Harper of District One. The Career, the killer, the cold-hearted. In due time, it would be Stark Harper, Champion. Stark Harper, Champion, as opposed to Stark Harper, Corpse.
[/color]
ooc- Stark accepts her position as tribute.
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Last Edit: May 20, 2012 21:27:01 GMT -5 by gm bourgeois decadence [aya]

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61st Reaping [D1] May 23, 2012 1:28:26 GMT -5

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Post by ✨ on May 23, 2012 1:28:26 GMT -5

jayde moreno
`TURN TO STONE
district one
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Maybe it’s just as much about what comes our way as it is how we react
As much about the things that we’ve still got as it is about the things we lack
I know, we won’t always keep around all we feel we need
Some are fading in frames, some were born to leave

[/size]

Off we go, marching down to the parade of figures. Marching down to possible death.

[/i] But I’m not afraid of some daftly-dressed Capitolite pulling slips from a bowl. They’re all standing there, watching, waiting, listening. Who’s off to the death parade? Who will bring pride to glorious One?[/i] I am beautiful, in my brand new dress – something in my old life I would have only thought I could wear in my wildest imagination. Yet why I would think of wearing such a ~~daft, silly, unnecessary~~[/i] pretty, beautiful, thank-you-very-much garment, I will never know. Street-rags and grazes and a harsh expression were all I ever thought a girl could wear, let alone a girl like me. Would I have laughed, seeing myself in a swirl of soft silk and rich colours and expensive fabric? A Moreno must look their best, after all.[/i] It’s still a little hard to process, the fact that I am no longer Raggedy, or Jayde, but Jayde Moreno. Like trying to squeeze your feet into brand-new shoes which pinch sore toes that long for the open air[/i]. Something you keep on forgetting, and then it springs back to you the moment it slips away in a burst of realisation. I am Jayde Moreno.[/i] Moreno. Mo-re-no.[/i]

The word still tastes like copper on my tongue.[/i]

There is only a slight murmur of chatter amongst the crowds - but even that dies down as we all slink down the paths, swivelling heads turning to greet us with wide eyes. We march, the good little soldiers that we are. Proud [/i] to be here. Wanting [/i] to be here. I snarl at them, feeling my lip twitch into a curl that combines with my creased eyes to form an impulsive defence system. Back off.[/i] And they do, the scared little faces. Slip back into their own little worlds. Some so afraid, so goddamn scared. Others, arrogant, confident, so desperate to please. And yet they’re all the same, by their words and tongues and movement of lips when we pass. Moreno's, they'd whisper. You know, Reyes.[/i]

I never knew him. I was a fresh import in the middle of the 60th. An extra, I was supposed to be. New meat, fresh off the orphan train. Not a replacement. He was supposed to come home – proud, volunteering Reyes, back to parents who would shower him in praise and the Capitol who would shower him in money, fame, glory. There was a slight hesitancy in him, though – in the way he danced like he did not give a damn[/i] and his eyes on screens that I squinted up to watch. And I know eyes all too well.[/i] I could tell that he did not want to fight anymore. He had had enough. Reyes Moreno, the brother I never really had – suddenly made me question why I was doing what I was doing, living ~~fighting~~[/i] in a madhouse. We're all mad, here.[/i] Perhaps Reyes was slightly less insane than us all. But maybe he was worse than us combined – for I watched with unresponsive eyes as he took his own life. Nothing I had not seen before – but he must have been mad, to do such a thing. To shame the Moreno name. To shame us all. To shame our parents, moreover.

And the moment I watched him stab that knife through his heart, heard the outrage of screams from my new 'parents', I was unsure if we would have ever gotten along, in the end. He gave up. He had his chance to fight fight fight[/i] (the drumming starts up again and the single-syllable word begins its beating into my skull) and he gave up. He threw it away. Quit. And that’s the thing about Reyes Moreno that sets that definite line between us two, draws us apart. I spit on quitters.

Perhaps Jae will bring us the glory that Reyes chose to opt out on. I hear his name only in the echoes through the air, the microphone, and the tremors of voices that float around my head. A small trace of a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth – but only just. So subtle, so barely traceable with dents of determination etched into my skin with a furrowed brow that no-one would ever notice it on cold, stone-faced Jayde Moreno. Bye Jae. ~~See you soon?~~

Maybe it will be me up there next year, taking the bows and the fame and the glory and the crown and the gleaming fake smiles I see right through[/i]. Because I am certain I’ll survive another year in this household. I am not a weakling under the ground or Reyes in the trash and my name the forbidden people to speak of list. I am Jayde – fighter extraordinaire. Taking another one for the Moreno team. Two victors – Ripred. That would certainly dampen the blow of disappointing, miserable Reyes. How proud[/i] they’d be, my parents. A good investment, I was, that raggedy girl from the street. Nothing but a disposable cash pawn in their effed-up games.

Maybe Reyes had it all thought out after all.

[/blockquote][/blockquote][/blockquote]

I think about it all so much that the fear stays close to the ghosts I’ve touched.
Makes me question: was it love or just lust?
Caked in blood or old rust? I don’t know.
I want to know if a curtain drops.

[/i][/justify]

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describing ;; thinking ;; talking ;;

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Last Edit: May 23, 2012 1:29:46 GMT -5 by ✨

“and men said that the blood of the stars flowed in her veins.”