seren warfield; district four; fin

a p p e a r a n c e » i could say it but you won't believe me

You are tall, you are tan from the coastline sun, you are strong from the physical combat- we'll talk about that more later.

Your hair is dark, and it curls when exposed to the sun and the wind. You straighten it, though, because you can't stand having it anything less than perfect. It is a show of weakness- though you wouldn't put it that way, because that would show that you had thought about it or cared for even a second. And that isn't how you do things.

You wear black, mostly, and whatever tight clothing you can find. Capris show your defined calves, t-shirts your arms, and even though you're slender you hope your strength shows. You want to look intimidating, you want to be scary, you want to be strong and beautiful. Your ears are pierced, from you shoving a needle through one day. You make sure to take them out before every fight, though.
You're not as scary as you want to be, but you're pretty, you hope, you think. You won't mention it to anyone, because- again. Weakness.

You're hot. You have that much going for you, at least.

Your eyes are dark, but people have told you they shine amber when the light reflecting off the sea hits them just right. It's something irrelevant, but it makes you happy, because at the time, you thought they meant it, and you smiled so wide.

You don't know how tall you are, but you're a couple inches taller than your brother, or so you think.
You don't know which one of you is older-not that your parents bothered to keep track. If Sea was a twin, they would know.
[You'll think about it later.]

p e r s o n a l i t y » you say you do but you don't deceive me

You aren't nice.
You used to be [later, later. No time for that now.]
You are bitter, you are mean, you are snarky and irritating and you are in general the most unpleasant person to ever exist. Ever.
Exaggeration, maybe. Just by a bit. Not much, though.
Sometimes, you let your guard down, though. You let the act go away- because that's what it is, an act. You're probably perfectly nice. But there's no fun in that, really, and you wouldn't be able to respect yourself and if you can't respect yourself how can anyone else be supposed to?

See, in your family, it goes like this. Sea is the perfect one, Christian is the dreamer and you are the fuckup.
Maybe that's a little strong. Not really.
You are the one who doesn't care, though. Or maybe just- cares too much. You care about not caring. You want to be the kind of person who doesn't care. You wish you didn't panic over every move, every step.

So basically, you're an asshole.
You treat your friends like crap. You treat our enemies worse. It's not a good thing, basically. Should probably break the cycle. Later, maybe.

You talk about dying, sometimes. About sending yourself off to the Capitol for the games, dying there- even something as simple as throwing yourself off the cliff faces or just staying underwater longer than you know you can take. But you know you never will because in a way, you're too weak to go throw with it. You might be able to take down someone almost double your weight but you're too scared to deal with yourself. You would wax poetic about it, but words have never been your strong suit. You hate trying to verbalize things, and you'd probably just end up screaming into your pillow. Which you do. Surprisingly often.

You talk a big game. You're full of shit, really.

You're a teenage boy. That's what all the adults tell you-that all teenagers are like this- and they roll their eyes at you, and you assume they're right, because there's nothing saying otherwise other than your own words. Maybe it's all in your head. Maybe you're doing this for attention- you don't think you are. Could it be subconscious? Are you doing this all to yourself? Maybe you are, maybe you aren't.


Mother says you push people away.
That's what you do. You're callous. You use people. Every lasting relationship you have ends in disaster. You had what you thought at the time was a casual enemy and he ended up killing himself. You had a girl, a little bit, sort of-kind of even if you barely exchanged more than a few words now and then. (You knew where it was heading, and so did she. Probably why she vanished.) You haven't seen her in years now. She's probably found better things to do with her life.

You're poison, Seren, poison deep down in your blood. The rot set in long ago, and it's in the marrow already, and it's contagious. That's why you drift like this, really - maybe people are smart enough to recognize it, and that's why they leave. Maybe you're terrified of hurting them, and that's why you leave. It doesn't matter who does the leaving. It only matters someone does.

I've been running so long
These shadows start to feel like home
Oh I know it's backwards
Been scared so long
Can't recall what I started running from
What am I becoming?

h i s t o r y » dead hearts are everywhere

You used to be happy, you were a little ray of fucking sunshine; you realized it was a cold cruel world out there and you weren't.
No, really. That's what happened.

You are the second child in a relatively normal District Four family. Or- third. Maybe? You're not sure. Could go either way.
Your parents? Don't mind them much. They ignore you and Chris, for the most part. It's not the worst thing. They're not neglectful or anything like that, they just don't love you as much as they love Sea, and everyone knows that. You're fine with it. It's one of the few things in the world you honestly, truly don't care about.

Your brothers are- different. From each other and from you.
Sea is the golden boy. "Too good," people say. Sometimes "That boy is going places." Or "Great kid, that Sea Warfield. Shame his brothers aren't the same way."
You don't like Sea.
Really, you don't. And you don't understand why everyone cares about him so much. He doesn't deserve it. Ew.

Christian, though.
You've never been the kind of twins who are attached at the hip- literally or figuratively. But you're not polar opposites, either, just somewhere in the middle. Some hazy shade of grey.
He dreams and he doesn't care what people think of him or what they expect at all, and wants to leave and adventure and follow his personal rainbow, and this is where you couldn't be more different, because you don't dream and you care too much. In a way you suppose you both could benefit from a little bit of the other.
You don't see him much, though. You haven't seen him in months. Where he is, you don't know - and in some (probably awful) way, you don't really care. He's not much of anything to you. He never has been. You are no less alone now than you ever were.

You're a loner. You don't talk to people, don't make friends. You spend your free time either in your room or in the water.
Storms are your greatest love. Storms are what you live for. You sit by the coast, listen to the crash, the boom. You always hate the end.

codeword:


comments/other: first rp in a long time. i'm sorry. that is all i can say.
lyrics; "Last Night I Dreamt"- The Wombats; "The Trick to Life"- The Hoosiers; "What Am I Becoming?"- POP ETC
fc; dan howell

narrating [9BB9BD]
thinking [27AAC4]
talking [194494]
others talking [B88544]