Writing in the grave; Kizzy and Iona

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They'll either want to kill you, kiss you, or be you.

Writing in the grave; Kizzy and Iona Jun 9, 2016 20:37:42 GMT -5

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Post by * on Jun 9, 2016 20:37:42 GMT -5

K I Z Z Y

The training center is full of bafoons. Why these kids stand around, flaunting their attitudes, as if it'll make them live longer is beyond my reasoning. Why do they even care? If I were in their shoes, and I am, I would worry less about impressing those around me and worry about trying to figure out how to survive. Those thoughts run through my mind as I sit at the table, furthest away from the lot of them. I find a moment of peace by myself before the crowd gathers amongst the spread of delectibles that the avoxes and the capitol has prepared for us all. It looks nice with the garnishes and pretty little flecks of shaved gold decorating some of the morsels. It's just a distraction though from the task at hand. My hand.

"Fairwell feasts more like it." The words slip through my lips without reserve . I could care less for anyone around to hear; let them. I allow a small glimpse to wander over at the avox standing just a few feet away from me, as still as a statue and her eyes glazed over, with a sort of hatred for her own position. "What district were you in?"

The question comes to her as a surprise because I saw a tiny flicker of something forming in her eyes, on top of that, she took a deeper breath straightaway. Was it fear? Curiosity?

Questioning her again, she didn't let the same mistake happen again. She conformed to her duties and ignored me completely the second time around. My shoulders lift upwards in a jerking motion just once. "Shame. I would have liked to know what district you were from so I could let someone know how you were. If I won, I'd send them your reguards. Guess not." The conversation is very one-sided, for obvious reasons. A glint of humor spreads like wildfire on my lips as they curve upward. Obligated, I turn my attention elsewhere to observe the others in the training center where a blonde, the district seven female, stands waiting on someone. Intently, I survey the look on her face and the lost feeling that seems to have come over her. I show my disapproval by tearing my eyes away from her to retrieve a prized possesion of mine. My notes. I quickly jot down some key information.

District Seven: She's a tree of some kind.
A little lost.
Reserved.
Aloof.
Superficial.

A tiny girl, from a district made of nothing more than just plants and trees, stands this little vain girl. Her name is equivilent to the limbs that produce each stick and leaf. 'Cedar' or 'Birch' is the name she goes by. A mere twig in the redwood forest. The longer she waits, letting her dreams and hopes flitter on a cloud, the sooner her glow will wilt like a rose in the heat of the day. Only then, will she be forever forced into the roles of the ones standing at each post and corner and she ,too, will be dressed to match one another. An avox, she so desires with all her passion, is what she longs to become so she will not have to deal with the tragedy of a reaping or her so called district life. The essence of her youth says, "Someone take me away from this awful place... in a hurry."

The words are just notes, something to summerize at a later date and perfect but for now. I've memorized her face and stature for long enough. Ever so carefully, I rip that peice of paper out, folding it into a perfect triangle before moving on to some bloak that I remembered had some kind of canine formation in his name. Pen to paper, I start forming words about the canine.

Wolfman: A naughty knitter of the wee morning hours....
I crack a smile, hoffing at the words the pen is forming on this delicate peice of evidence.

Made by Frankel

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Writing in the grave; Kizzy and Iona Jun 10, 2016 22:00:30 GMT -5

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Post by Cameo {RIP Charlie} on Jun 10, 2016 22:00:30 GMT -5

District 11 Female Tribute

73rd Hunger Games

Iona Holbrook

my silence is my self defense,
and also my greatest weapon.

A notebook, with a mere couple of words, continues to sway among the female Eleven’s grip. The drafted sentences did not even convey the Story she wished to print within these pages, but instead messages to her District Partner as she failed to speak even still. And sudden author abilities were as nonexistent as her voice. Chaos enhanced the volume around her at every moment now, yet she remains as quiet as her Homeland’s nights.

Such as currently, as the Training room Cafeteria clashes with Capitol plates, obnoxious chewing, and stuffed mouths of enjoyment impolitely rambling. All the while Iona roots in an isolated corner, gazing and staring at everything in awe. A plethora of food piles the outline of the vast space. Every genre and craving decorates each buffet table. Just when she believed the Capitol already had everything, she’s proven corrected. The desperate eras of starvation ache her insides. Countless of Tributes shovel in the generosity they soon will not be granted. Temptation and hunger rumbles to Iona, while her stomach threatens to bring back anything she swallows.

Death’s hum still sings for her from the near future. Reality is subtly creeping beneath her skin. Fates encouraging her to enjoy the hours she has. The Victors are insisting that chances are still leveling out. But Iona is trapped in an overlapping stare at all that is occurring. Most of the Tributes occupying this year’s crop could snap Iona’s bones with only their hands. She should make the most of her time, but that would mean coming to terms with her destiny.

Her gaze is swift among the eating Tributes; frightened that one will be displeased with catching her glimpse. Where must Weaver be? Surprisingly it’s another that manages to slow her viewing path though. Not Bailey, the female from Ten, but her Partner. Kale was it? When it came to names, Iona was thankful for her lack of words. If Bailey’s kind, perhaps he is as well? Finding anyone to sit by would be better then Iona being a lonely, weak target. But it’s not her safety that draws her closer to him.

Written words sketch papers beside him, and the one his pen is pressed against. Something to read has been Iona’s single desire. Books scattered numerous walls on her living level, though none she’s been tempted to read. What beautiful fables or information could possibly be derived from the Capitol? But knowledge from another District…the potential is endless in Iona’s eyes.

Cautiously she takes a seat a foot or two away from Kizzy, and her subtle vision begins scanning his work. Vivid details on Tributes mark the top lines. He’s observant. Though what takes Iona’s attention is the brief description below each, displaying captivating short novels. He’s an author. Short grins cross her face from his humorous sentences. Silent giggles even breath through her sealed lips. Hopefully she can go unnoticed, & stay here long after the countdown. Raw material is what she’s been desperate for.

‘Iona? More like I-won’t-talk.’ Collection on her meets her focus. ‘Is she an Avox?’ Instantly her eyebrows are creasing with confusion. Is she? She had never heard of such a thing before. Was there a diagnosis to her curse? Her eyes study the face behind these words.

He had to say goodbye to someone valuable, Iona could tell from her years of quietly studying her loved ones. That sarcastic expression covered much more. Certainly all twenty-four left heartbreak in their absence. But he must have played a sufficient position for another. The rest sought Victory. He fears for others conclusions if he doesn’t return, just as Weaver does. It’s these stories Iona can identify and understand, and plead will overpower the rest.

The cover flips from her notebook, and she begins jotting; ‘What’s an Avox?’ She brings it to his attention, with a beg for another friend among this swarm of death.

So Many Different Personalities

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Writing in the grave; Kizzy and Iona Jun 11, 2016 18:38:34 GMT -5

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Post by * on Jun 11, 2016 18:38:34 GMT -5

K I Z Z Y

...Maybe, in the pit of darkness, his nightvision eyes will be peirced and bleed out -ultimately rendering him to the hopelessness that he so deserves. With his death, will come glory for yet another. As he lays there, succumbing to the fashion of death, his mind will wander off back to his district to kiss his familly goodbye and brush his ghost like fingers across the arm of the one he holds so dear.

These tributes all will have their own story by the time I get done with each one of them. Only when I'm gone will they find the stories that I've written and I dare not fear anyone getting a hold of them for no one can since this book never leaves my possession. These words are private.

The next person I see starts to walk in my direction but there's something I see about her that makes me put the pen to the paper yet again. I remember, from the countless times that I watched the recap reaping, that she hasn't spoken since. Her mouth has yet to utter a squeak and it makes me feel as though she is mute. I shake my head and discover her gait in the corner of my eye.

District eleven: Iona. More like, I-won't-talk.
Mysterious.
Haunting.
Quiet.
Avoxed?
Timid.

Her tiny form mustn't let you be confused. Under all that exterior, she plans to kill and savagly murder even the most intimidating of tributes. Mason Hammerfell would fall weak against her daunting eyes and her catlike grace. It's been seen through the eyes of every capitolite as they observed her strut to the stage. It's the quiet ones that one must fear for the moment that a person looks away, she'll ...

Something draws me out of my writing so suddenly as a peice of paper is slipped near to me. I glance it it first and read the words immediatley knowing that whoever's fingers slipped that paper to me, was the one that just read something in my book. Instincts take over and the books is slammed shut and pushed in the opposite direction. I reach for the loose peices of papers as well, stuffing them in the book and glancing to the person beside me.

I give her a thoughtful look and open the book up again, turning to a blank page. The pen begins to create small, black words.

An avox is a magnificent creature who longed to learn the song of silence. Thus then they began their journey into mischief and chaos - causing mass destruction among others in their district. So, for punishment, the gatekeeper sacrificed their tongues so that they may listen more and let their inability to whisper create any more hardships."

With a compelling look, I stare at her, waiting for her to speak... or react. Perhaps, she'll show me if she is infact an avox. "Cat got your tongue?"

Made by Frankel

Last Edit: Jun 11, 2016 18:48:58 GMT -5 by *

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Writing in the grave; Kizzy and Iona Jun 12, 2016 0:24:45 GMT -5

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Post by Cameo {RIP Charlie} on Jun 12, 2016 0:24:45 GMT -5

District 11 Female Tribute

73rd Hunger Games

Iona Holbrook

my silence is my self defense,
and also my greatest weapon.

‘She plans to kill and savagely murder even the most intimidating of tributes,’ these words catch Iona’s gaze before Kizzy’s book is locked shut from undesired wander. The page of her question draws his attention. What had she missed while scribbling down her curiosity? More mute chuckles exhale from her smothered lips in response. Did he truly believe her scrawny limbs underplayed the power she actually possessed? He must have exchanged to exploring another Tribute.

Those possessive, deep eyes scan Iona’s baffled words, steady onto her features, and then return to his own notebook. Concern plagues her eyes with assumption that he simply does not maintain the time of day of her. Until his writing gestures acceptance of her vision, as his posture does not shelter his sentences away. Her eyes follow every letter printed, amazed by the breathtaking art he’s creating.

Instantly Iona’s left palm blankets her lips as Kizzy depicts that Avoxs’ had their tongues removed. That had not been the cause to her silence. Her eyes gaze to the mute servants decorating the walls every so yard. Her lack of volume suddenly felt selfish. They were unable to speak, as she was simply afraid to. But the way Kizzy illustrated the answer was beautiful despite. Her sorrowful focus meets his’, with further blankness in how to reply.

He can somehow imagine Iona with greater potential then what she performs. This alone captivates her interests. But even more so, his stories feed her last craving. ‘I have a tongue,’ she marks on her paper before presenting it to his view. And she also never held the bravery to rebel in the slightest. Upsetting any other has always been beyond Iona’s capabilities, along with so many other qualities.

‘You have beautiful writing,’ is penciled next upon the canvas. ‘What about your own story?’ She inquires for next through her cursive.

So Many Different Personalities