63rd Reaping [D11]

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Lulu
Retired Staff

[M:2982250]

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

63rd Reaping [D11] Jan 19, 2013 0:23:08 GMT -5

Post by Lulu on Jan 19, 2013 0:23:08 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, "Belle Calloway!"

[/color] He then reached into the other ball. "Benat Izar!"

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}

Deleted

0 POSTS
last seen Apr 26, 2024 5:17:44 GMT -5

63rd Reaping [D11] Jan 19, 2013 15:21:57 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Jan 19, 2013 15:21:57 GMT -5

Benat Izar

[/size]

•••

And I will try, but I will stumble
And I will fly, he told me so
Proud and high or low and humble
Many miles before I go

•••

He sings to them, the two young boys lying in their beds and snuggled up with sleep still in their eyes. This is the morning of the reaping, a time when all the district marches to the town center, faces lined with sadness, awaiting the heavy hand of fate to pull out two more lives. He remembers the faces of years past—a boy, now eighteen, at the precipice of becoming a man and at his last reaping—the mixture of terror, of frailty, of all the families aching not to be torn apart. His voice is soft as he whispers to the both of them, wake up[/color], shaking Sampson first, the younger of his brothers, It’s a special day.[/color] He moves to Deval next, sitting down hard on the edge of his bed and bouncing up and down. A groan emerges from under the covers as the springs of the bed moan. Benat bounces up and down, laughing as he does so, finally forcing Deval to laugh with him as he pulls back the sheet. He stands, moving toward the doorway, giving them one last goofy face—his tongue out of his mouth and eyes crossed—before heading into the hall.

The house is already humming, and Benat recognizes the foreign smells from the kitchen. His mother has been up for hours preparing a feast for the morning, the one-time of the year they have bacon, sweetbreads, eggs, and pancakes—a delicacy in this district—for breakfast. It is her gift to her children, a silent prayer that with this meal they will be protected from whatever comes. Benat skitters to a stop behind his mother, who turns a ladle over and over, busied with the consistency of the oatmeal. He wraps a pair of arms around her shoulders and rests his head upon her. For a moment he closes his eyes, squeezing her tight to let her know that he is thankful for all that’s been provided. It’s a quiet kind of love between the two of them; a boy set to become a man in the next year and begin working on his own plot of land. Much like his cousins he’ll get a square acre for feed corn, and a little help building a shack just up the way. It’s not what he wants—a life tied down to tilling fields—but he is luckier than some without a large extended family to guide him to the future.

His shower is short—a scrub behind the ears, combed hair, and a freshly starched shirt and pair of trousers. He pauses to stare into the mirror, and thinks about all the year’s he has stood in the town square. There was little he could do to stop himself from thinking of those that had gone before. They faded in and out of memory, from Hayden and Zuka, the pair from his first reaping, to the unflappable Kiara—a terrifying killer that had nearly won the games—to those that had been taken last year, Guy and Heather. He’d steeled himself over the years for the reaping, thinking only of his duty to his family—that he was, out of all of them, a positive and good natured soul, wanting only to see his family smile. More often than not, this meant foolishness—pranks, silliness, and distractions. Because it wasn’t that Benat Izar was afraid of being reaped, rather, he never even entertained the thought. He clouded the air with jokes, he lied to himself about the seriousness of death, he pretended that all things were based on the notion of fate—in short, if he never thought about the notion, then it never existed.

At the breakfast table, Sampson was solemn as ever—the serious young boy of twelve unhungry and unmoving from his stare down at the floor. While his father talked of the crops this season and played with the pipe between his lips, and his mother nodded along, fussing with the eggs on her plate, Benat could only focus on his younger brother. He cleared his throat, getting Sampson to look up, their brown eyes catching one another. He pushed his bottom lip out atop his upper one, and began to wiggle his eyebrows. Swaying his head back and forth, Benat at last made a whistling noise that sounded like air escaping a balloon, making his younger brother at last crack a smile. It’ll be okay,[/color] Benat thought to himself, Because none of this is going to happen to them. [/color] This would be just one day out of the year they had to go to a silly ceremony, a blip in their otherwise happy memories of home.

He held Sampson’s hand as he walked along—Deval too old and too ornery for such childish things—though the two said nothing to one another. They chomped along the gravel path, their boots making the only sound as they walked the path to the district square. Benat couldn’t explain the importance of bravery to his youngest brother because he didn’t know what bravery was—he didn’t know what it meant not to be afraid, or to face his fear because he had never done so himself[/color] . Instead he could only offer a strong silence, one that seemed to reverberate along the wooden fences of farms they passed. He squeezed his brother’s hand tight, offering the only thing he could to assuage the young boy’s fear.

They were separated at the square, Benat being moved to the lines where the oldest boys were kept. He nodded at his friends, and began an impression of the capitolites that they sent every year. His voice was high as he called out Happy Hunger Games,[/color] fanning his face and imitating the ridiculousness of it all, sending the other boys into hysterics. Until they met eyes with the nearby peacekeepers, at which they all fell dead silent. Benat shrugged his shoulders and kicked the ground below his feet. He tried not to think of all the tesserae he’d taken out this year—some for his brother, some for himself, some for not very good reasons at all. Still, he was lucky—he was very lucky, he remembered as he snatched the rabbit paw from his back pocket. The white haired trinket turned over and over again in his hand as he caressed the fur. He gripped it tightly as the flamboyant man bounded across the stage. “Ladies first,” he heard the microphone crackle then, and the clatter of a hand in the bowl. “Belle Calloway.”

This is what fear is,[/color] Benat imagined, his eyes closed, then a boy of twelve, his hands shaking. He was alone—no mother, no father, no Sampson, no Deval—just the emptiness of his mind. The lurking figure of the truth, of what he wanted to deny—all that was pushed down with his smiles, his wisecracks, and distractions—hulked over him. He took a deep breath as the bowl clanked again, and the paper rustled through the microphone. His ears pounded. “Benat Izar!” The sound echoed, and he could hear the crunch of boots turn as undoubtedly the others moved to get a better look at the boy that would be their tribute.

He opened one eye at first, and glanced around for his brothers. They were to his left, Deval with his mouth open, Sampson with his lip shaking. But the two of them were looking to him to see what to do—a show of fear would have sent them into hysterics, or worse. And so Benat did the only thing he could do, which was make a joke out of it all. “Well guys,” Benat began, his voice calling out, “A-thank you, A-thank you! Looks like it’s time for me to go party in the capitol,” He waved to those nearby, and bounded up to the stage. It was outright absurd—he thought of how Guy had gotten stabbed in the bloodbath, dying within minutes of the start of the last games—just as he made his way up the steps. But he turned to face the crowd with nothing but a beaming smile. It was how he wanted to be remembered, after all—the jokester, the happy-go-lucky fool—who had faced death with a laugh, and not with eyes full of tears. Because false courage was better than none at all.

[Benat Izar accepts his spot as the d11m tribute]

[/blockquote][/size][/justify][/color]

fireraven23
Hunter

55 POSTS
last seen Jan 25, 2014 15:46:50 GMT -5

63rd Reaping [D11] Jan 19, 2013 23:46:56 GMT -5

Post by fireraven23 on Jan 19, 2013 23:46:56 GMT -5

Raymond woke up early. His habit of waking up early lasted quite annually, forcing him up long before it was needed on a day without school. It wasn't a good day off though. The reaping was happening today. It was always a bittersweet time for Raymond. On one hand, he felt very fearful. Having watched the games each year, he had seen the terrible things that had happened to others, the many ways they died, or have gone crazy. On the reaping day, the worst parts of the games played through his mind, like a morbid slideshow. On the other hand, it was tesserae time. They'd get slightly more food than usual. The thought of that slight amounts of extra grain reminded Raymond of just how hungry and poor his family was. It was even sadder to think that the grain could have even come from the very farm his family owned.

He lay up slowly and quietly. The house they lived in was very small, and they all slept in the same room. Small cots on the floor, though thick warm blankets. His family was pretty cheap. They couldn't keep the house heated before the tesserae, and almost every night, they expected to find a dead body in one of the cots. Raymond felt the chilly air pierce his skin as he uncovered himself. He thought he might as well prepare early. There was little to no preparation for him really. He had no special clothes to wear, and they had no warm running water in the house. Raymond had never showered before in his life, and it wasn't something he ever even thought about. He kept in the same clothes he wore for the week, though added his fathers heavy jacket to stay warmer.

He could have snuck some food if he wanted. It wasn't exactly hidden anywhere. But with their small amounts of food, he would get in big trouble for stealing some. He didn't want to see his mother getting angry before the reaping. Or after the reaping for that matter. He snuck around to get to the old wooden door, barely hanging on its hinges, so he could sneak out early, maybe find a warm place to stay until the reaping. He reached the handle, before he was tapped on his shoulder. He turned around to see his younger sister, tears in her eyes, and before he could say anything, she hugged him forcefully, sobbing silently. "Please don't leave us..." She whispered. "Not today..."

Raymond smiled, made a small giggle, and ruffled her hair. "Don't worry. I don't have my named entered THAT much. Someone else will be reaped, like every year." Raymond squatted down to her eye level, and wiped a tear from her eye. Though he was quite small for his age, his little sister was even smaller. "I promise, I will be home today." "Okay... Goodbye..." Raymond patted her head one last time, before he parted from his house and headed for the town center.

His thoughts on his walk to the town were plagued with worries. What if he was reaped? Could he look his sister in the eye one last time and apologize for breaking their promise? He shook it out of his head. He began thinking of his sister then. She was 10. In two years, she would be at the reaping too. He had to make sure he was there, at least for that. Any time doubts of coming home came to him, he would bluntly interrupt the thought by saying he would NOT be reaped. Other children and teenagers living near him joined him on his walk to the town center. They all seemed somber. He thought he could help change that. He walked to one closest to him, and began his normal cheery talking with him. Even if it didn't help him, it at least helped Raymond.

He eventually arrived at the town center. He arrived on time, luckily. He saw the escort of district eleven step up to the front of the stage. The people from the capitol always managed to make him giggle. They looked odd in some way. Some had weird coloured skin, or fancy hair. This man was no different. He could hardly take the introduction seriously. When they began announcing the names though, Raymond tensed up. It was the girl first, as always. It only built up more tension to know that he wouldn't know if he would be reaped or not. "Belle Calloway!" It wasn't someone Raymond had heard of. Raymond knew for sure if he had heard of her; his omnipotent memory would let him know. The escort then walked to the boys ball. Raymond's nails were nearly stabbing into his palms from his tenseness.

"Benat Izar!" Raymond relaxed as soon as he heard the first syllable. He then remembered he would be getting more food later, and coal to warm them up. He was happy that life would be slightly easier soon, even if only for a little while. He gave no thought to who the tribute was. He just couldn't wait to get home and excite his little sister, and give a slight 'I told you so'. As he walked away, there was a nice spring in his step. He was almost skipping. He arrived home, most of his family welcoming him happily. His father, like normally though, remained unenthusiastic and depressing, continuing doing nothing, since they couldn't farm in the snow. He wouldn't let that bother him though. He avoided a fate worse than death, and nothing could bring him down.

ines izar d11a 🖤 cait
Veteran Member

1,399 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Apr 19, 2024 8:33:05 GMT -5

if looks could kill

63rd Reaping [D11] Jan 20, 2013 18:54:18 GMT -5

Post by ines izar d11a 🖤 cait on Jan 20, 2013 18:54:18 GMT -5

‘Belle Calloway.’

A voice rings out, loud and clear against the silence that stood only seconds earlier. A voice that cannot possibly belong to me, and yet I find my lips moving silently in time, my heart beating steadily to the name that has rolled off the tongue of our mayor. All around me are people, gazing expectantly to the stage ahead, slight murmurs starting to break out here and there. Where was she? Who was she? Was she even a real person? Surely it was a joke, a misunderstanding. For the name Belle Calloway was so foreign in their minds, the people only knew her as another crazy girl trying to make it through alive. They’d seen her attacks out in the fields, but had they ever bothered to take notice of who she was? Am I just a shadow? Was that all I was to be?

The thought scared me more than my impending death.

~~~~

The sound of a distant mockingjay awakens my peaceful slumber, a personalised alarm clock that my ear has been trained to listen out for, every morning. As I slowly open my eyes, grainy with sleep and fatigue, the minimal light filtering through the old window in my bedroom indicates the early hours of the morning are upon Panem. The sandpaper texture of my bedsheets is oddly comforting, and I snuggle down further into the sheets, a sense of security looming overhead. But how long could it last? How long could these sheets protect me from the icy grasp of reality? The time for living in fairytales had long passed, for me at least. Bedtime tales told to an unsettled Stella were acceptable, for now. We all need something to believe in, a happy ever after to hope for.

Lying there, I struggle to grasp for the remnants of my dream, foggy in my mind but still clear enough to leave me shaking slightly, the tremor passing through me tingly and nervous. A dream was a dream, after all. Nothing more, nothing less. The thought of the Reaping did not faze me. I knew today wasn’t going to be my day. What had left me trembling was that the only mark I had left on the world was a result of the frenzied attacks that succumb me, day in and day out. Is that all I am to them? Another crazy soul, lost to the world? The thought saddened me, and although I lay there, wishing for something more to do, something I could do to leave my mark, I know it’s too late. The Reaping was today, and if I survived that, maybe there could be a second chance.

A small cough comes from the door, and there is my precious, standing in her tattered night gown, the desperation and fear on her face leaving my heart bleeding for her. Sitting up in bed, I open my arms to her, and she rushes right in, a sobbing mess the moment my warmth connects with her cold, frail body. Sometimes actions speak louder than words, and so we sit in silence, the faint sniffles the only sound to accompany the singing mockingjay outside my window. The hours pass, and after what seems like only five small, precious minutes, the rest of the District is awakening to the new day. The sun shines through, and I look down at Stella, wiping her tears from her face. ‘You’ll be okay, Stella. We’ll be okay.’

I help her dress, and before I know it she’s waiting anxiously at the front door, waiting for me to walk her over. I glance to the dress laid out on my bed, shudder at the sight, and put it on reluctantly. A small comb parts my hair, and I acknowledge that even I can look presentable if I set my mind to it. I feel the sleeves of my dress, breathing deeply as I do so. And without another thought, I’m walking out the door, clutching Stella’s hand, leading her to her fate, desperately wishing that my promise to Stella would be true. That we’d be okay.

Time passes as the remaining children find their spots in the crowd, and I’m forced to finally let go of Stella’s hand as she gets swept away in the crowd, carried far away from me, just as the ocean carries away all forgotten dreams, all the lost memories. In my uncomfortable dress I fidget in anticipation, awaiting the name of the next to die. My head is pounding, as it always seems to do, a single thought drumming out in my mind. Not Stella. Not Stella. It couldn’t be her.

‘Belle Calloway.’

It wasn’t her.

The throbbing disappears in a flash of blinding light, but whether it is out of relief or anxiety, I can’t be sure. Stella was safe. Stella is safe. Stella is going to live. Another year my beautiful Stella is alive to see go by. Only this time, I won’t be by her side. Years of holding her hand, watching her grow up, teaching her of the wonders of District 11. Endless bedtime stories, fairy tales, days spent in the fields, running around without a care, for she was too young to start working in the fields quite yet. They’re all gone now. And all I can hope for is that I’ve left her with enough fond memories to remember me by.

~~~~

‘Heather Elliot.’

It was her. I was her. I was back at the 62nd Reaping, and I was in the crowd, and she was on the stage, meeting her death. The only true friend I’d ever had. I watched her through her time in the arena, watched her fight, watched her finally take her last breath. In the flashback, I have time to wonder if there will be anyone to watch me throughout the Games, anyone to watch me fight for my own survival.

But I already know the answer.

~~~~

‘Belle Calloway.’

The nightmare had become a reality. All around me, murmurs fill the crowds of children, some craning their necks to find the mysterious girl they call Belle. I’m practically invisible. Nobody knows me, and as I cautiously make my way to the stage, the curious, interested faces around me suddenly dawn with realisation, and I can see it in their eyes that they know this year is just going to be another disappointment for District 11. I know it, too.

Just like I’d known Heather Elliot would never return, I knew that my fate was sealed, in that very moment, just as hers had been.

The male tribute is called, but I’m too worried to take notice. The throbbing returns again, and I know that an attack is inevitable. As both myself and the male tribute are ushered off the stage against our will, I feel my head screaming, as if it’s about to split in half. When I get to the room, where I’ll say my final goodbyes to Stella, I lock the door and drop to the floor.

Only then do I scream. Only then, do the demons take control. Through the panic, through the frenzy, one thought seems to ring out, louder than the others. It’s time to make my mark on this world. And through the pain, I begin to feel calm, and the attack subsides, much more rapidly than usual.

Let the world finally understand the unspoken story of Belle Calloway.

{OOC - Belle Calloway accepts the position of District 11 Female.}

Last Edit: Jul 27, 2014 6:08:02 GMT -5 by ines izar d11a 🖤 cait

i always used to be into writing sort of modern abstract
lyricism stuff (that were like) slight vague indications of a feeling.

∂αмєη
Capitol Resident

1,550 POSTS
last seen Feb 25, 2016 23:49:47 GMT -5

63rd Reaping [D11] Jan 22, 2013 21:01:53 GMT -5

Post by ∂αмєη on Jan 22, 2013 21:01:53 GMT -5

[actions] [words] [others]

"You've got all of this under control, Demeter. You know that." Normal. This confirmation from my self was quite normal when it came to situations such as this one. Speaking in front of the whole District was no issue for me. I could address large crowds with little to no effort at all. Connecting with the people was my main priority no matter what. I would follow what the Capitol wanted but the reason District Eleven worked well enough was that I tried to maintain a good relationship with the populace that filled my District. That was how I stayed elected as mayor for yet another year. Nobody really had complaints that I was aware of. But that wasn't why I was nervous. One thing always caused my previous cache of confidence to become nearly inaccessible.

The Games were something that higher classed members of the Districts usually didn't mind. At least in the wealthier Districts. When it came to me, I found it just as sickening and terrible as all of the other citizens of District Eleven. I had gone through the fear at one point. I knew exactly what it was like to not know whether or not you would live for another year. A fear greater than any other known in our world. That's why I always disliked the Reaping days. Cameras would be on me so I would have to keep up the public appearance of being so sure of things. Wasn't I known for that after all? Being unsure of things and seeming uncomfortable would cause the same discomfort for the people of District Eleven. And they had enough to worry about.

"Just breathe when you're out there. Maybe you'll get a winner this year." The hardest part was knowing that the kids who were called on stage were most likely going to wind up dead. Hardest part by far. Knowing that there is nothing I could do for the youth of our District just made me feel like a useless and terrible person. Even as a mayor, I couldn't save lives. Fear still consumed me despite having no need to fear the Games. Maybe it would have been better to not care about the lives of my people. I did though. It was too late now to act like they didn't mean something to me. And so I would have to keep all of that bottled up inside so that the cameras didn't notice. All about the cameras. Always about the Capitol. We were their slaves, no matter what our standing in the District was. Sure, District Eleven was my job to run properly but I still served a master. We all did.

After dressing in a dark grey suit and making sure everything was proper, I headed directly towards the stage that had been set up in front of my building. It still feels weird calling it my building. Crowds had already gathered at this point and looked up at the sight of me. Casually waving was all I could do to hopefully help with their anxiety. Yours is even worse, Demeter. Don't even try to deny it. After taking a seat, I distracted myself with speaking to those sitting with me. All I needed was a constant distraction in order to be fine through all of this. But soon enough, everybody was present and the escort was prepared to give her speech and to pick the tributes for this year. And so I put on a confident look by pushing my shoulders back and lifting my chin up just a slight bit.

Surprisingly, it went by fairly fast as he did the usual introduction. And then he was pulling a slip out, just like that. Her name rung out through the square before settling on my ears. Belle Calloway? Trying to place the name was pointless as she soon came into view. Certainly one of the most beautiful girls that had ever come from here, without meaning to sound creepy. It was just undeniable by anybody, probably. And then the male was called. He looked competent to me. They always did. Hoping could only go so far, though. Hoping never ensured the survival of our tributes. But maybe our mentor would treat them well and get them all ready for the worst few weeks of their life. Maybe we would have a winner. At least then it would be one less person that we lose. Better than two.

Anything was better than another disappointing year.