Abbie Blackmore {D2/FIN}

You are Abbie Blackmore, the girl with the long, dark hair and blue eyes. The girl with the cuts and nicks and scratches lining your arms from top to bottom. They do not define you, only show the strength and precision you have acquired from years and years of practice looking down the sharp point of a knife. You are the only decider of how you will be defined, and if that is by the pink dresses and bows stained with blood, then so be it. You are not tall or short, but you still tower above the others in an assertion of dignity that is far beyond that of those below you. The look of a warrior-- no, a killer, radiates from you, threatening anyone who dares to question you with a glare of stone.

You will hide your heart behind a smile that is so enchanting it’s evil. If that doesn’t get your way, a temper tantrum is your next step, and last resort, out come the knives. Most of the people that encounter you on a daily basis know you well enough to agree by the second step, as quite of few of them have a scar or two of their own that you only would call a “learning process.” It is not your fault that they won’t comply, and some are easier to teach than others. You will have the ones you hold close on a golden leash, and they will be no more than that, no more than a friendly character to do just a little more of your endless bidding. Of course, your greatest trait is also your greatest downfall, and the higher you build your pride up, the harder you will fall. That day will come in due time, and you will most likely die by getting your way.

Being of a big family has been no great experience for you, but luckily, they are just as vicious and ruthless as you, so at least there is something in common. If there are discussions to be held, it is on where to bury a body or a boast of how a bruise was acquired. Being selected as a tribute is an honor, and if you died, there would be no mourning, only delight at the honor received. Abbie Blackmore will not die without honor in her heart and blood on her knife. You loved your family (if it could be called love), but really it was only your love of the things they would give you. They had learned to bid you your way, and for that you were thankful. They had treated you well and taken care-- spoiled you, and because of them you were the way you were. At least they had done one thing right.