66th Reaping [D1]

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Lulu
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66th Reaping [D1] Feb 1, 2014 0:00:26 GMT -5

Post by Lulu on Feb 1, 2014 0:00:26 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, "Francesca Levroux!" He then reached into the other ball. "Mustang Galvez!"

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, February 4th, 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.

{lulu's cast}

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66th Reaping [D1] Feb 1, 2014 2:50:51 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Feb 1, 2014 2:50:51 GMT -5

Francesca Levroux

[presto]

It’s that time again, time to send one of us to the Games and to make our District proud! Francesca thought as she scrambled to get ready the excited nerves fluttering in her stomach as she ran between her room and bathroom. Her hair was still tangled and knotted into a bird’s nest as she dives for her make-up case that’s under her bed. No matter how hard she tried was never able to quite get everything in the right spot; something that never seemed to bother her. Ignatius on the other hand was very troubled at her untidiness. Even though he wished he could go around running after her; he knew that he couldn’t as he was only a projection of Francesca herself. He sat on the bed, quietly chuckling to himself as he watched Francesca run across her room like the mad women that she was.

She finally had everything that she needed to beautify herself in her adjoining bathroom as she hopped into the shower, scrubbing herself with the new lavender-vanilla sugar scrub her mother gave her. She didn’t wet her hair too much, only enough to get the proper moisture to brush out the knots and tangles. She curled her hair into soft, long curls, some appearing almost wave-like, showing off her features better. She finally finished her look, wanting to appear more natural than anything.
She didn’t really care about her outfit this time around, that nervous energy that usually came with the Games are absent this year. She randomly grabbed an outfit from her closet not even bothering to look at what it was and Ignatius was sitting on the bed as he shook his head and chuckled to himself. “What are you laughing at?” she demanded as she threw on her clothes, staring him down with falcon eyes.

“Well you just seem, well I don’t know, crazy than usual and it’s actually kind of funny” he said as he got up and walked out the door, she followed yelling at thin air.

They approached the square and checked in, her blood oozing from her finger as she licked the ruby liquid; her elixir of pure joy and happiness as she felt that one drop dissolve across her tongue. It always made her happy whenever she didn’t have to intentionally harm herself in order to get that rush, to get that slow warmth drudge down her throat as she craved the life force that sustains the living bodies next to her. It invigorated her every time she was privileged to taste that sweet, sweet substance. She lined up with the other girls her age and waited patiently for the day to be over with so she could go enjoy more.

She wasn’t even fully paying attention as she still starting at the pricked finger when they called her named as it blasted through the sound system that was set up especially for the Reaping day. Ignatius had to whisper in her ear for her to get her attention in the appropriate area. She looked up at the screen and she saw herself, a little dazed yet still what a girl from District 1 should be. She looked proud, strong beautiful, and not staring at her finger looking like she about to devour it when she got home. She walked up towards the stage, and put both her hands behind her back to remove the temptation that lingered at her side. And when she arrived at the top she stood as any career should with Ignatius at her side.

And when he stuck his hand out she reciprocated, clenching her fist around his ethereal hand, ready to face anything that came their way.

[/presto]

(OOC-Francesca Levroux accepts her position as District 1 Tribute)

Last Edit: Feb 1, 2014 2:51:51 GMT -5 by Deleted

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66th Reaping [D1] Feb 1, 2014 13:46:37 GMT -5

Post by admin kay on Feb 1, 2014 13:46:37 GMT -5

MUSTANG GALVEZ

There’s something about the march from home, about the grand procession, that makes the Reaping real for Tang Galvez. He falls into line, dark eyes darting until he recognizes one of his training mates. He smiles, waves. The other boy turns aside. They march on, in unison and alone. Tang smooths his bedazzled leather jacket, swipes over the top of his gelled mane. The dark curls are cast to the right, hiding one newly shaved skull. It was supposed to be avant garde, dangerous, but everyone else is wearing their hair exactly the same.

So, he checks himself, hides his attempt to be fashionable in a district known for its fashions. He keeps pace, shoves his hands into his back pockets. They are empty, twitchy. Without a weapon, what’s he supposed to hold onto?

In the pens, he chats to the boy next to him, a boy he doesn’t know. At first, the boy seems friendly, nodding and smiling. As the minutes count down, he averts his chin, avoids looking right at Tang. That’s okay. He’s still a captive audience. He talks about the weather, about the square’s transformation, about his stupid math teacher. Anything but the reaping. Anything but to admit that he is a Career. A Career who spent the morning locked in his bathroom with a razor, trying to decide where to put blade to flesh.

He scratches at his cranium, picking at the new scabs. Fresh blood comes away under his fingertips as he looks up at the stage. His parents are somewhere back in the crowd, but in the sea of victors he spots his Aunt. She does not smile, even when he reaches up and waves wildly. He pulls bloody fingernails to his chest, holding himself together there, for want of a spear or knife or sword. He rocks gently back and forth, centering. There’s no reason to be scared, he reminds himself. The volunteering machine in District One is alive and well, and there’s no reason for a Galvez to take the stage.

He rocked, scratched, rocked through the announcement of the girl. Maybe he’d seen her at school or the training center but he couldn’t place her. That was good. Not one of his friends. He rocked.

“Mustang Galvez!”

He stopped, heart in his throat. That wasn’t right. “But –” he started, forced his heart back into his chest cavity where it belonged. “I’m not supposed to be the tribute!” His voice is a clear whine above the roar of the crowd. Before everyone marched together. Now they push forward, jostling him towards the stage. It is a tide he cannot fight. Tang twists, his jacket caught in the hands of other Careers. He’s almost at the steps, close enough to Peridot to see the color of his eyes, to spot the faint freckles on Opal’s face. But it’s Topaz he looks to, Topaz who brought them glory after so long, Topaz who has children of her own. Please, he mouths.

But it isn’t any of the victors who save him. It’s Argonite Shore.

ooc: mustang galvez declines his position as tribute.

Last Edit: Feb 1, 2014 13:52:14 GMT -5 by admin kay

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admin kay
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66th Reaping [D1] Feb 1, 2014 13:48:49 GMT -5

Post by admin kay on Feb 1, 2014 13:48:49 GMT -5

ARGONITE SHORE

No one’s got it better than us!

In the haze of a honey hangover, Argonite couldn’t remember who had started the chant at the Shore household. It was lost somewhere in between the late night feast and midnight shenanigans. He hadn’t meant to drink so much ~~but when did anyone ever mean to have a hangover?~~. He didn’t regret it, not one moment of the sunset to sunrise celebration that rolled through the Shore household. It was Reaping Day.

When the sun finally lifted from pinks to yellows, he found a spot at the edge of a mirror. He no longer needed help, brushing foundation over his acne scars, dashing a little liner around his eyes. He plucked a few stray hairs and then ducked into his closet, the only private place in the Shore house. He hated it. If not for his collection of hats, he would never leave the loud living room, the crowded bedroom. He selected his fedora first – one of his favorites, beige with a dark ribbon – and then matched his shirt and pants to it. Tie in hand, he wove through the bedroom, flicking the end at one of his brothers. “Not fast enough!” He yelled, his throat sore, as he scampered back to the safety of his sisters.

He smiled into the mirrors, but he was always smiling. This smile, this Reaping Day grin, stretched wider, flashed brighter. He laughed willingly, obnoxiously, feeding off of the nervous energy. Would another Shore take the stage today? Would they have a chance to join Opal in glory? Mostly he thought about waving goodbye to her as she boarded the train with her two new tributes, and how much lonelier it would be in One for the next few weeks without her.

No one’s got it better than us!

The chant echoes, even in the throng of teenagers marching towards the Square. Argonite pushes on the shoulders of his siblings, lifting himself up to wave and blow kisses. The thrill is building, turning his stomach to ash and his heart to fire. They are herded into pens and only then does he catch the bronze hair, the cocky smile. Argo winks at Kellan Fray, and for a second the world is quiet.

It’s not for him. It’s for the Capitol escort, ready to announce the names. Argo flicks his hat up, straining to get a better view. Topaz, Peridot, and finally, there she is. He lifts both eyebrows, twice, hoping to catch his sister’s gaze. But all eyes are on the escort, reading off names. Francesca. Not a Shore, but yes, he knows her. The Career who always speaks her mind. He claps politely, hands sticking together when a foreign name is called. Galvez. A respectable family, but not a Dempsey, or a Moreno, or a Rex.

Or a Shore.

He’s at the edge of his pen, stepping over the lines. Opal, Opal, Opal, he chants internally. Look my way. But she’s too far away to tell if she’s looking at him or one of the other thousand gathered. It’s a clear shot now between him and the stage. He can see it all unfolding, the crowd giving way to madness. Mustang is hoisted up and tossed forward His eyes are as wild as his hair. For a moment, Argonite remembers. The years of being tossed and punched, used and abused. For a moment, the switch flickers.

“I volunteer.” There, in the middle of the pens. There, walking towards the stage. There, bounding and leaping, seizing the moment. Because if it wasn’t going to be a Dempsey, or a Moreno, or a Rex, then it damned well better be a Shore. “Who’s got it better than us!” He yells, but it is lost in the roar of the crowd, of hopes dashed and lives saved.

He takes the steps three at a time, heart beat pounding in his ears. He grins at the other victors, stopping in his jubilation only to bow before Opal. He takes her hand, puts his forehead to it. And then he’s at the microphone, one hand at his heart, the other at the tip of his fedora.

“I’m Argonite Shore. And I volunteer as tribute.”

The fedora is off, flying over the crowd with all his tangled hopes attached.

ooc: argonite shore volunteers as tribute for the 66th Games.

Last Edit: Feb 1, 2014 13:52:50 GMT -5 by admin kay

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66th Reaping [D1] Feb 1, 2014 23:09:38 GMT -5

Post by gamemaker 🍒 maryn hale on Feb 1, 2014 23:09:38 GMT -5

AVENTURINE . SHORE

_______________________________________________________

_____________________________________________________

Fluttering dresses and ironed suits, scampering down hallways in our lovely institute.

It is a common occasion for the children of the Shore household to sit around the dinner table with silver spoons placed between our teeth and glasses of the finest wine trapped under our fingers. Even so, when the Reaping comes knocking, so does a rush of anticipation that shakes my sisters and brothers to their cores. My family dances the dance of hope until the dusky canvas that is the sky is splashed with hues of pinks and oranges, saying silent prayers of hope as flavored liquid burns its way down their throats.

My brothers had pounded their chests and roared, feeling more than just bulletproof, whilst my sisters had sat in clusters and gossiped of who should be and should not be the representatives of our District. Nine times out of ten, those should be's were always a Shore.

("I feel that Lapis could really go far. She'd have half the tributes tattooed in their own blood before the timer stopped."

"Personally, I feel that I would be the most suitable for the role."

"Oh, come now, Phena. Sure, you'd do good, but let's be honest with ourselves. Pyrite would dominate, would she not?"

"Honestly, I could care less. As long as it's not someone pathetic like Niobium or Aventurine or Etta, I'd be happy with any of us.")

My family is perhaps the very soul of dysfunction, attacking each other with silver tongues and always trying to earn a spot at the top of the pack. Perhaps I would join in on their vicious game, if only I wasn't busy enough with destroying myself.

I sit in front of my vanity mirror, hollow eyes staring at a reflection that only laughs at me. They say I'm too fragile to be worthy. If the stretched, hideous girl that I see in front of me is what fragility equates to, however, I'd possibly cry if someone called me what I truly am.

Fat. Bulbous. Wretched. Horrendous. Disgusting.

No matter how many meals I skip, or innocence I purge from my body, I'm always rewarded with the same reflection. They say I'm too fragile to be normal, and that's all I hear when I wake up and when I close my eyes. Too fragile. If I could be nothing but bones in a splintered coffin, I would smile. My shaking fingers clutch a tube of lipstick as I laugh one of those insane laughs that only I understand, applying the red substance to my chapped, thin lips.

"I'm too fucking fragile to be fragile," I state distantly, more a mumble than a comment. I lay the tube down, running my fingers through my waving mass of coppery curls. The dress I wear feels loose on my form, but the seams are stretched in my reflection. I inhale, closing my eyes as I hear heels clicking in the distance. When I open my eyes, I see my supposed mother walking into my room, taking my hair in her hands and picking up my silver comb.

"Are you nervous, Aventurine?" she asks, starting to comb my hair as my shoulders tense. She looks me in the eye through the reflection, and my tense form feels a shudder run through it. I'm nothing but a pig to slaughter in her eyes, I feel. A pig. "You could look so pretty if you ate once in a while," she continues, placing a few of her fingers on what she would call a shallow, skinny face. "I thought you had such potential, truly. You were this bright-eyed fighter, and I assured my husband that you'd go on to do great things. What happened to that girl, Aventurine?" She tugs against my scalp, and I cringe. "Craziness can only get a girl so far in the Games, you'd do well to remember that."

I sit there for a few minutes after, lip puckered out as she walks away, My stomach churns with the urge to puke at the mention of eating food; it churns at her sick mock towards my chubby figure. I close my eyes again, inhaling as I hold my hands behind my back and braid my hair around my head in a sloppy manner. I'm too fragile to remember how brave I was.

("Avery! What are you doing?!"

"I'm escaping, Etta! I can't spend my life in this orphanage. I've got dreams, a family to get back to! I've got to get free!"

-

"You're the newest sister, right? Mother and father are getting awful with choosing kids."

"I could care less about what you think of me. Go away before I bloody your nose."

-

"Where are you going, little girl? I'm not done with you, you filthy pig. I want to hear you scream."

(Pig. Pig. Pig.)

-

"Where have you been Ave? You look like a freaking hog that's been rolling in the mud.")

I blink as the slew of foggy memories that entered my mind fade back into reality, leaving me only with the last one; leaving me only with the one I know most. When my innocence was stripped from me during the night, called a dirty pig as I was pushed down into the dirt, I truly lost it all. Truly. I can't remember anything before that attack, and due to the sledgehammer of fate that pounded against my psyche, I can hardly look at myself without wanting to spread my arms and fling myself off my household's roof.

Today is not the day for death, however.

Today, as the hopefuls of One gather in the Town Square, we shall only be left with the thought of death. The constant wondering of how long that person will survive. A feeling I feel towards myself quite normally.

As I finish readying myself, I dash from my room and down the halls. I fly past Pyrite and her burning words, past Beryl and his teases that once made me feel normal, past my brothers and sisters who tell me to slow down or else my skinny legs will break, and past the mirrors on the wall that beacon me to shatter not them, but myself.

I dash away from it all.

I find myself in the pen for seventeen-year-old females later on, squeezing my eyes shut and inhaling. What else can I do? I hear other girls giggling, asking if I'm alright, but no answer comes from my lips. "She's just scared," heckles one girl, causing my lips to form into a small smile. There are far more dangerous games than this, my friend.

The escort speaks, my eyes stay closed.

The female's name is called, my eyes stay closed.

The male's name is called, my eyes stay closed.

Argonite volunteers, and yet my eyes stay closed.

I hear words flutter around me, cheering and jealous grunts. Another Shore has signed a contract with death, and I should be smiling or crying or feeling something.

But, in the end, no emotion claws against my heart.

I blink, and I realize that I am no Shore. Backing up on feeble legs, I turn. I dash out of the pen, away from the calling Peacekeepers who could probably care less, it's not like I'm the girl getting sent off to her death.

I run, and I run, and I run.

I reach the border of One, electricity surging into my eardrums, but I feel nothing. No fear. I grit my teeth, running towards my death or my freedom.

Today, Argonite Shore has glorified the Shores.

Today, I find my past.

_____________________________________________________
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66th Reaping [D1] Feb 2, 2014 0:41:39 GMT -5

Post by cass on Feb 2, 2014 0:41:39 GMT -5

O P A L S H O R E

She’d been invited to the Shore house last night. But she’d remained home, she knew the ins and outs of what happened on reaping night. The house would be in made chaos, it seemed that there was not a single speck of fear within the minds of her siblings. Had there been fear in hers as the reaping approached? And in all honesty she could say there had not been. The far had built in her chest as she had stepped off the plate, as her fingers had first ripped around the hilt of her Dao. Not before and not after, because in those moments she had bound herself to death and bloodshed. After stepping off the plate she had promised herself and everyone else in that place that she’d kill.

(Dead, dead, dead. Drace, Yaa, Locust, Akasha… Xanthus. All my fault, all my fault. I could have saved them all.)

The reaping had become a source of misery, after everything that had occurred in her life. No longer did she sit in the house, a corner filled with darkness her only protection as she watched her siblings drink, dance and sing, joyful and lusting the opportunity to give up their lives. She’d never wanted to tie up her life for anyone else. Selfish, oh so very selfish, but when the time had come no one had offered ti take her place, it seemed they were all being chained to their seats just as she had been dragged forwards.

The open area before her spoke volumes, Opal Shore had stood there last year, tense as a tree, eyes gazing everywhere, but at the crowd before her, it had been the first year where she had been bestowed the honour of mentoring two children. Both of whom had died, both of whom who were buried six feet under in a graveyard she had not visited. But then one could hardly expect such a thing of her, she had hated Emery, and that Darren kid, both of whom had been idiots. And although she would not wish death upon a single person she had not felt much guilt as they had fallen. (Was that how Topaz had felt as Emerald had died? Had their been a bond, care and kindness? Was I just being cruel? Or brutally honest? Not a single living soul would ever find out she had not grieved after their deaths. Remarkably she did not even feel responsible.

The games have destroyed me. I’m not human.

Yet as the square began to fill with bustling, hustling children from the ripe young age of twelve to the oldest at eighteen her heart pounded in her chest — was it fear? It couldn’t possibly be that blackness biting into her frozen heart, she’d been through this and survived. No. No it was because two more children, two more lives, two more deaths. How had Topaz survived, how had Peridot managed. Opal was eighteen. Adulthood had embraced the young victor only for one short week and yet she was baring the scars and marks of someone who had lived a thousand years. The world was cruel, it was harsh and mean and it wanted her to suffer.

(Run, little girl, run away. You ran from Locust, she died. You ran from Drace, he died. You tried to run from Xanthus, oh how you tried. He died. So run, little girl, let them die.

They will all die in the end.

Even you did, you’re just to stupid to see it. That’s why you are oh so very cold.

It’s why you can’t feel, it’s why you’re doomed.)

Fists tightened at her sides, it was so hard not to look at them all, it would have been so easy to step back down and simply walk away. Who wanted two more names to be called, to more young faces to appear that would die. No one wanted that, each name was burned into her skin, each death a mark upon her soul: another failure. An entire life built upon failure and it seemed the only walls holding it up were those that should be torn down.

Caramel’s hand reaches into the glass ball. She watches, the man that had helped her the past years was the same man that declared death. She did not despise him even so.

She closed her eyes, Francesca Levroux.

She squeezed them, baboom, baboom, baboom. The beat of her frantic heart.

Mustang Galvez.

Did she want to look? The pained cries of a teenager that didn’t want to die echoed in the air. She could hear them, stabbing at her heart. She breathed. She opened her eyes.

Baboom, baboom, baboom.

“I volunteer.”

It seems that the world is yet capable of destroying her life further.

It seems that the pain already suffered was not the greatest extent of everything she could feel. How did she know that? Because she felt it now. One quick, sharp jab her chest was on fire. The same agony that had enveloped her as she had stared down at Locust’s cold, dead body. The same misery and despair that had engulfed her as she had driven her sword into Xanthus’ flesh. But this time she did not fall. Instead she remained standing, the battle of pain raging through her into body, but hidden behind cold eyes.

(Should have ran when I told you to. Death follows you wherever you go. Naughty, naughty girl, poor brother is going to die, and it is going to be all your fault. Your fault.)

A flurry of movement, and one of the three siblings Opal felt something for stepped onto the stage. Three, soon to be two, one day one. And she wanted to scream, she wanted to hit him, and as he bowed before her, grabbing her cold, cold, dead hand. But she couldn’t, she couldn’t bring herself to do more then stand there, entire body rooted to the spot, shock running through her like poison and filling her until she was sure she would keel over. But she didm;t, instead she was forced to listen as her own brother threw away his life.

“I’m Argonite Shore. And I volunteer as tribute.”

But he could win. No. No he can’t. He can’t because I’m here. Everything I touch dies. Everything I love falls. He’s just another scar, another iron rod to my heart.

”Oh, Argo. What have you done.”

I can’t save you.

I’m so sorry.

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