63rd Reaping [D7]

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Lulu
Retired Staff

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63rd Reaping [D7] Jan 19, 2013 0:15:48 GMT -5

Post by Lulu on Jan 19, 2013 0:15:48 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, "Sampson Farron!"

[/color] He then reached into the other ball. "Owen Rook!"

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 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.. 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}

Sampson
Merchant

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pardon me, just getting used to v5...

63rd Reaping [D7] Jan 19, 2013 19:21:30 GMT -5

Post by Sampson on Jan 19, 2013 19:21:30 GMT -5

here's the day you hoped would never come
¦ sampson farron ¦

i’ve watched you slowly winding down for years
you can’t keep on like this

Standing among all the other 17-year-old children in her district was simply routine. It was no different than any other day for Sampson, save that she would lose one of the faceless beings that was supposed to be her peers. Did she truly know any of them? No. In the sea of children that were her own age, the redhead was alone. She had never gone out of her way to know them. One who dedicated everything to their craft didn't linger with those that weren't customers. There wasn't time to be wasted on anything but parents, paying parents, who intended to purchase something that had been created by her hands. Others her own age hardly ever had the money, or the taste, to contribute to Sampson's little business. They were still children. Children. How long had it been since Sampson had departed from the world of children and been thrown into the realm of adulthood? Alone, she thrived without guidance or limitations. Perhaps this was what made her feel so different from the crowd that surrounded her. Sampson had outgrown them long ago.

Still, as they brushed against her arms in unintended contact and muttered to one another about who might be picked and how many times their names had been entered, Sampson felt a sense of belonging. These were those people she was supposed to know. Instead of standing there in silence, Sampson should have been whispering with them, shaking away the anxiety of the day with small jokes and reassuring nudges. But, once again, the redhead didn't feel the common fear of being reaped that day. It was like her name didn't even dwell in the glass bowl that rested on the stage. Or, so buried beneath the names of others, the possibility of hers being drawn was impossible. She had lived through five Reapings already, coming out unscathed each time. What would be different in her last two opportunities to be selected? When the odds had given her every reason to believe she would be safe yet again, the anxiety that most felt about the day had died in her chest. It had sprouted from her first day at the age of 12, but after that, slowly faded like embers of a dying fire. The reaping's terror had no reign on the girl who believed she was already too old for it.

Green eyes shifting mindlessly around the district's gathering grounds, she searched. They were instinctively drawn to an old man, whose entire history seemed to be written in his wrinkled features. This was a face she knew, one she had spoken to only yesterday. His presence, even if he so clearly displayed the same anxiety everyone else did, calmed Sampson. It reminded her of what lay in store after the reaping. She had an order, ready for delivery, resting in her pocket. A chess piece, one that the old man had requested replace a newly fractured token to his game. He had said that the piece was important, crucially so, towards the goal of winning. A pawn. One of his 16 had broken, leaving the old game board incomplete. Sampson had offered to craft one, completely new, for a small fee. His finished product lay tucked away in the small pocket of her pale green dress. If she was lucky, she might just catch him before he departed from the district gathering. The thought caused her to smile, right hand pulling out the small, wooden pawn from its resting place. Fingers brushing over the grainy pattern that decorated the piece, Sampson smiled slightly. She wondered if the old man would be as happy to see it. Lifting her head upwards, taking in his solemn face once again, something told her he wouldn't be. Why was he so full of useless stress? His name wasn't at risk; his life rested in the arms of their lethal district for whatever spout of time remained of it. Following his gaze, her eyes fell on the back of a younger child's head. Grandchildren? Better hold them a lot closer than that, old man. Don't let them out of your sight. Sampson let out a steadying breath, one that kept tears from swelling in her eyes. Every little girl reminded her too much of her departed sister, stoking a burning sorrow in her gut every time she encountered the small children.

don’t feed me violence, just run with me
through rows of speeding cars

"It is time," the escort began with his bubbly voice, "To once again send two of our own children to the Capitol to compete in the Hunger Games. Let us begin the Reaping!" His voice snapped Sampson away from her sorrows, dragging her back to the reality of the reaping. Her heart began to beat faster, propelled by instinct and not true fear. An endless number of others could be drawn. Rely on other people's bad luck. Every year, the odds never failed to find an unluckier soul to go forth into the arena. Every year, they were slaughtered and Sampson lived on. "Ladies first,” the speaker's boom around her caused the teen's head to throb suddenly. It seemed so much louder this year than the others before her. Even so, the escort's expected decision to draw the girl first brought the redhead relief. The quicker the better, really. Like ripping off a band-aid, it was better to just—
"Sampson Farron!” the voice announced.
— get it done quickly. The escort's voice had severed Sampson's train of thought, causing her heart to drop down into her stomach. Everyone turned—all those that were supposed to know her and didn't—to look at her. It brought a smile to her features. So they did recognize the name! Perhaps the girl who believed she had outgrown them was closer than she realized. Even if it was a relationship that came nowhere near friendship, those around her did know who she was. They knew her face when given a name, and that was more than Sampson could say for most of them. Why it brought her such a sudden burst of joy, the redhead couldn't explain. Her name had just been called, that's why they stared. She had just been summoned to die on national T.V. Right when Sampson had discovered she was still one of them, she was called away.

Body suddenly beginning to move as the others parted to allow her a path to the stage, Sampson felt more like them than ever before. They were children, but so was she. No longer did she feel more mature than any of them. Suddenly, she felt so much smaller. Unshed tears made her face hot as her long legs carried her up the steps, gaze not daring to look upward. If she looked upwards, maybe that same spear that had plunged so deep into Alaska's eye in the previous Games would find her as well. Afterall, her Games had already begun, even if they weren't in the arena just yet.
"Owen Rook!” even the calling of the boy tribute's name didn't rouse Sampson's interest. Her green eyes stayed locked on her feet, as if something interesting rested in the dull leather of the reaping day shoes. Nothing came to mind as she heard his name, no connections bubbling up. He was just another child, just like her. Sampson was no older than him and no younger. On this day, when her luck had run out, her age had finally found her again.

sleeping pills, no sleeping dogs lie never
far enough away

( OOC || Sampson accepts her position as District 7 tribute ))

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Last Edit: Jan 21, 2013 19:42:25 GMT -5 by Sampson

gm bourgeois decadence [aya]
Administrator

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"GUNNERRRRR~"

63rd Reaping [D7] Jan 21, 2013 20:13:55 GMT -5

Post by gm bourgeois decadence [aya] on Jan 21, 2013 20:13:55 GMT -5

Sympathy's better
than having to tell you the truth
that you are the patron saint
of lost causes

Owen Rook —

[/i][/color]

What a sad ritual the Reaping had become for the Hood clan. Though none of Owen's siblings shared their late guardian's surname, he'd felt it fitting to honor Alex and Alexander Hood and name the children they'd died trying to raise. The family was dwindling, of course — it seemed that the oldest were only allowed to get so old before they were unceremoniously ripped from the world of the living. Until Owen had turned seventeen, thereby outliving both Alex and Alexander, the upper-bound on their ages had been sixteen.

There were only four of them now, three younger children for Owen to ferry off to the square. In the nearly four years since Owen had inherited Alexander's responsibilities and marched the quartet of them off to the community home, the shrinking, splintered family unit had drifted apart somewhat; each member had become involved in their own different world. Owen bounced between work, school, and occasional outings; his siblings had found social niches among people their own age. He'd heard rumors that Jason had been sneaking off into the woods from time to time, but the eldest of the Hood clan had never taken the time to investigate the antics of his second-in-command.

For reaping day, however, Owen made sure that his youngest siblings at least walked to the district square together. He'd thrown on the nicest shirt he owned — the only one with a collar — and a ratty jacket on over that. Before sliding them on his feet, Owen tipped over his good pair of boots, dumping his four treasures onto the threadbare blanket that covered his bed. Ever since they'd come into his possession by way of Mace Emberstatt, the tokens of his sister's allies had lived in the only pair of boots he'd ever bought new — the pair that he'd promptly outgrown — for safekeeping. There was a small brass coin that had grown dull from not being handled — Owen disliked touching the small metal disc, knowing that it had been swallowed by Aesop Bloom and then retrieved when the boy was eviscerated — and a bit of the frayed twine that had belonged to Denver Hacked-to-Death. He ran three fingers over the small wooden disc that had comprised his older sister's makeshift token — the circlet of pine that she'd pulled from her shoe and hung on her bootlace to wear into the arena.

He slid the trio of losing tokens into his left pocket and stuck his wide feet into the too-narrow boots that had been serving as their hiding place. In his hand, he gripped his favorite treasure of the bunch, the bone carving of a bull's skull that had accompanied Mace Emberstatt — and, therefore, Alexander Hood the second — though icy hell and back. Initially, Owen had told himself that he'd sell the set of tokens — after all, shouldn't an entire alliance represented in symbols (and the victor's alliance, no less) fetch a prettier penny than the one that had spent several minutes in that Bloom boy's stomach? But, being a relatively poor area for Panem, and one that did not care much for the victor who'd ended the life of their (official) female tribute on Day 2, District Seven did not seem to be home to anyone willing to purchase the set of tokens off of Owen for what he figured they were worth. So he'd kept them.

Three and a half years later, Owen was decidedly more attached to his set of small treasures than he had been on the day that he'd been handed them. Although the reaping still stung — "Alexander Hood!" echoed clearly in his mind each year in the place of the "Dominic Rosenfeld!"s or the "Amadeus Cumberland"s or, most recently, the disgustingly proud announcement of "Curtis Grant! — four years later, his sister's death was finally a closed wound. The supercut of that quick sequence of events — Alexander trusting that wretch from Three after she took out his ally with a quick jab ("Nice shot, ace.") — the same bastard taking advantage of their hospitality and launching an assault on her — the false cannon blast of the ice shattering beneath her feet, the handful of knives that stuck out of her body everywhere — Mace dragging her from the river, only for her to remove her name from the lineup — her cannon, this time the real one. Most sickeningly, Mace helping that District Three scum with his wounds not long after. At this point, Owen could replay the whole sequence in his mind without flinching, without wincing once. It was a violent death, his sister's, but in reality it had been much quicker, much cleaner than the illness that had taken Alex Hood the First two years earlier. That was death, he supposed. It could be violent and it could seem slow, but there were few occasions where it wasn't cruel.

This year, half of the Hood children were safe from being reaped. As they approached the square, Owen left eleven-year-old Ellie in charge of the youngest, and, as Alexander had always done, instructed the pair of them to meet up two streets away after the reaping was finished. Truth be told, Ellie was in charge of the other boys when Owen wasn't around, even though Jason was three years older than her. She was a levelheaded, sensible, responsible girl, much like her older sister had been. When they parted ways, Owen steered his fourteen-year-old brother toward his age group, much as Alexander had done for him the year of the 59th Games, and took his place among the seventeens.

As usual, Owen struggled to focus on the mayor's mandatory speech, and as usual, by the time they were leading a girl to the stage — a girl, his age — Owen's thoughts wound backwards, recalling with vivid detail the fateful day in this very square where he had essentially become a single father. It felt as if there was much less to worry about this time around — not that they'd ever worried much about reapings. Surely lightning wouldn't strike the same tree twice; Alexander, the eternal martyr, had already given herself up as the family's tribute; there was no way that the Capitol would demand another from them. Belonging to the community home now, Jason hadn't needed to take nearly as much tessera as Owen and Alexander had up until the 59th, so he would be safe. No, it was much more likely that they would call —

"Alexander Hood!"

The name fell like cannon fire over his ears as his brain played tricks on him once again. His heart raced and sank, as though it was trying to blast its way down to his toes using strictly dynamite. It wasn't Alexander Hood though, so who was the tribute? He glanced across the sixteens and fifteens, making enough eye contact with his hellraiser little brother to read the note of panic. But the younger Hoodling wasn't moving. Did that mean... was the tribute really Owen?

ooc — accepts

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Verbal, Lord of The Dreadfort
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Knowledge of trees is treason.

63rd Reaping [D7] Feb 18, 2013 23:32:06 GMT -5

Post by Verbal, Lord of The Dreadfort on Feb 18, 2013 23:32:06 GMT -5

Garth Earnhardt

I had taken my place in the square. Wearing the finest clothes I had was a little fun, as I never dared or had occasion to wear them outside of Reaping Day.

Huh. Guess that was really the only reason to be excited for Reaping Day...

I shot a look at the adults, lined up around the periphery of the square. For some reason (no, I don't know why) I searched for a familiar face. But mom was dead, and I could barely even remember what her face looked like. I had never seen it in person, just in old photographs. And dad was gone too. I shrugged apathetically.

At least the beatings had stopped.

But what hurt the most was that uncle Jon wasn't there. His face was still fresh in mind, and that's what made it's absence hurt. It had only been a few months, but I still missed him.

In direct contrast with what most people do on Reaping Day, I actually started to focus on it in order to put something entirely different out of my mind. Most folks did it the other way around.

"It is time," a audible voice spoke over the crowds.

Yeah, time to get a drink...

"To once again send two of our own children to the Capitol to compete in the Hunger Games. Let us begin the Reaping!" The voice shouted gleefully.

This never got old, I swear. The idiocy...

"Ladies first,"

Smart. After all, politeness was key here...

"Sampson Farron"

I looked toward the red headed girl now making her way up to the stage, keeping her face down, trying not to let the tears show. I had seen the girl around, but never spoken to her. It was a shame really. She wasn't a bad looking girl, and I'd seen her working, enthralled, that way she got when working on those wood carvings she seemed to spend all her time on. Hardworking, pretty, aloof, that girl had a bright future ahead of her, I could tell.

"Owen Rook!" I was jarred from my thoughts.

I'd seen the boy around too. Small world, but like the girl, I'd never spoken to him. They looked about the same age, and that was certainly older than me. He was looking at his brother now, all wide eyed and panicky, from what I could tell.

His other siblings were too young to be reaped. He had left them somewhere else in the crowd. Who was watching them, I wondered...

I had heard people talk about this boy, his sister had been a tribute in the fifty-ninth games, I think. From what I could gather, it seemed like he was the man of the house now.

But not anymore.

I looked back at his younger brother, he was standing with the fourteen year olds.

He was standing with me. He was standing not too far from me.

And then the boy was gone, going up to near certain doom, and all his family could do was watch. I wanted to muscle my way through the crowd, I wanted to put a hand on his brother's shoulder and tell him it'd be O.K.

But I didn't know him. He didn't know me. We were just standing together. That was all.

The two tributes of District Seven were shaking hands now, and I blocked everything out of my mind.

How long had it been since District Seven had had a victor?

Last Edit: Feb 19, 2013 0:31:15 GMT -5 by Verbal, Lord of The Dreadfort

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