Spark Morris | D2 {FINISH} | Hunger Games: The RPG

Spark Morris | D2 {FINISH} Jul 29, 2016 13:10:37 GMT -5

Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jul 29, 2016 13:10:37 GMT -5

Name
Spark Morris

Age
16

Gender
Female

District
District 2

Appearance

That was a question she silently laughs at. Why? Well, her intentions are clear: nothing less than 4 inches. Her red, glossy lips always crook into a grin when people question her about it. She is a gorgeous girl, based on the comments by others. But, sometimes, she wonders to herself if it was true. She didn't believe it was true. She stands at 5'8, taller than most girls her age. For this, she had always envied petite and short girls. Her height was nothing but a headache for her. Even though she was slender, her face was not even close to it. She attempted to use concealers and other make-ups to cover it but it was still visible- her bony cheeks and jawline. Her jawline could slice a person's finger if people actually stroked it, which they don't.

Numerous things make it crystal-clear that she inherited from a rich family. She always made a list of those things, thinking of them as prizes and natural gifts given to her. First, it was her long, black brown hair. Perhaps no one had noticed that she had clipped some artificial bangs to it. It would be difficult to spot as she had got aid from a skilled hair-designer. The reason was because of her hair products: an extreme amount of them made her hair fall off. But, she still applies them anyway. That was her secret method of keeping it shiny and reflective under a light source.

Second, her freckle-free skin. The result of skin products. Spark was a girl who cares deeply about her body, even being narcissistic about it. Her skin shone luminous and acts like a mirror against light. But, everything had their consequences. The oil of the products transformed her once rough skin into a greasy one. Putting on sunglasses had always been a problem for her as it keeps sliding down from her smooth nose. She could have been a model for a documentary: 'the consequences of skin products.' although she did not hate it. It had always been neutral, she neither hates it nor likes it.

Third, her clothes. She is an extremely fashionable person but in her life, dresses and suits seem to be the only items of clothing. She is frequently seen dressed in modernized clothes ranging from long, slim dresses to short, wavy skirts paired with dazzling high heels. It had always been a talent of her to walk in heels with little to no difficulty. Once, she had wore them during a career practice. She liked her she was learning how to adapt to evading attacks and striding forward with her heels on. It was troublesome but she was trying to get used to the shoes, how to move with them and furthermore, how to crush a bone with the tipped point of it.

Career training had also altered her appearance in some ways she always noticed in her reflection. The weight she had when she was merely a child had vanished, almost entirely, and the woman in the mirror had long, slender limbs. She was once a victim to extreme fatigue but now, she was able to sprint freely with only a slight trouble. A girl raised within the stadium, with weapons and dresses. Her movements were flooded with grace. She always hated how her nerves sing before she walks into a battle, before the release of violence. But, it was something she hid within the various layers of her complex mind. Her arms had gained muscles from handling weapons, she could feel her palms every time her fingers wrap around the handle of a sword. Now, she liked the feeling of them, the sensation of the cold, iron and heavy metal. 

Personality

It's a common thing that people who watches her career training sessions and her mentors say. She has thought it was a lie and still does, even though it was the truth. During fights, she had many sides. The primal ones were: a side that longed to ruthless destroy her enemy and a side that just loves to destroy her enemy for her own, wicked amusement. She frequently noticed the expressions on people's face when she talks, they were simply attempting to see if her words were serious or are just mere jokes. But, she is also not the one that controls her moods flawlessly. She is volatile and prone to mood swings. This does not combine well with her fiery temper. She could not forget the many temper tantrums she frequently throws.

Spark is anything but dull. She lives on excitement, trying to find amusement and joy in everything she could. She loved how her name was somewhat a metaphor for this part of her. Spark. She creates sarcastic remarks directed at any people she likes, no matter how respectful they may be to her but this excludes her mother. She has a rather strong, unconditionally love for family and shapes herself to be a mature person around them. This involved adapting and functioning well under stress and pressure. Her retorts and sarcastic comments had always been something to amuse her and something to keep a grip on her young, wild self. And being flirtatious was also something identical to it.

But, she is also famously known in being vain and narcissistic. She frequently uses her looks to achieve her goals, wielding them in everyday life. Insecurity still remains inside her, of course, but she sinks it back every single time it tries to crawl back to the surface. Doing this usually involves talking to herself in the mirror and coating her face with makeup. The reason she learnt even the few minor details of her appearance was because of this. There was another thing she was known for and it was her clothing style. She was someone with a great sense of style and is very fashion conscious. Spark can look stunning in dull colored clothes if she wished to be- which is always.

Despite her narcissistic attitude, she cares for people, who are mostly her family and her friends. She can be a fiercely loyal friend if she respects someone but not as much as loyal she is to her own blood, to her mother, father and her brothers- two older ones. Spark has mostly been the strange one in her family, growing up with two strong, career brothers but still being girlish. But, what amazed herself most is how mature is she, compared to the other two. On the other hand, she is also a very free-spirited girl that enjoys partying, flirting, and clothes.

History

There had been only one friend that asked her the bizarre question and she had been her best friend. And, her answer shocked her. It was noticeable as her eyes turned to surprised Os and her mouth hang open. Yes, in the past, when I was fourteen. Not so long ago. The tone of her answer was cool, normal as if having your hands bloodstained was not so big of a deal.

"She is going to be a girl born in the battlefield." She heard her mother say one time, her long, slender index finger poking her little nose. She did not recognize the place but she remembered the soft material under her, she had been laying down on a bed, possibly in her bed.

"When are you planning to take her to the training center?" Said another voice and a boy appeared in her sight. His black hair was identical to her mother's and both of them has the same spark of confidence in their blue eyes.

"I am thinking 7. Just a year earlier than you because she is a girl." Her mother replied. Her eyes were still on her and her lips were crooked into a vicious grin, one that hosted pride and power.

"Whatever you say, mother." The boy besides her answered and disappeared from her vision, leaving her alone with her mother who proceeded to tickle her delicate nose.

Fast, hot breaths were expelled from her mouth rapidly. She was sweating from every single pore in her body and her knees felt weak. But, her grip on the cool, bone-chilling handle of her sword still remained steady and tight. The suffocating armor in the front of her chest did nothing to slow her breathing. Her chest still continued to fall and rise. Her eyes were a blur, blocked by beads of sweat on her eyelashes.

She remembered running and her mother's gaze on her, stern and icy. A battle roar echoed throughout the stadium and she charged in the direction of her mentor, sword being dragged in her hands. The tip of it made a disturbance on the sand beneath her and then it swung, horizontally, at her mentor. He, her mentor, was also a person full of experience and skill. He countered her attack, his blade outstretched in his hand when she took a step back. It only took a second for her to attack again, a fury of attacks. She could not forget the way she moved the blade that time. It was only a blur. Spark parried and strike, only at unexpected times.

The sound of metal against metal went aloud. Their swords clashed at every single attack, their feet attempting to push each other off-balance. It was very similar to a dance, just that swords were included and she was wanting to harm him. Not in a lethal way, just a scratch on the shoulder or something similar with that. She was also grunting. The heavy sword had slowed her down but she could not let the weight stop her. She had no choice. If she let her blade fall for a second, she knew her mentor's sword would harm her. It was in his rules after all, the rules of the test she was taking. She remembered the words written on the paper he gave her.

Goal 3, damage your opponent.

And, she did even though she was sure that she was going to have to stare in the face of her mother, enraged for her failure. That thought drove a sudden anger into her and she just swung her blade. The sharp edge of it ran along the one of the few open areas of her mentor's skin, causing a deep cut. It was not petite. It ran from the area slightly below his collarbones to his left shoulder blades till it met the hard, iron surface of his armor. Crimson blood flooded and sprayed out, few drops slashing her face. She remembered the way the mentor fell, he let out a loud yell and staggered backwards, hitting the sandy ground of the ground. Some drops of scarlet liquid had fallen and mixed with the sand.

She remembered gasping and kneeling down besides him, applying pressure to his wound till the medics arrived. Now, every time he sees her, he makes a grin full of pride. But, she still could not keep her eyes off his chest, where a fade scar rests. It had been a mentor's duty and he did it well, even harming himself for a stupid, silly test. Well, she thought it was stupid and silly. Her mother did not. Her ears still hear the fade sound of clapping to this day. She had got up from her seat and was looking at her with a proud face as if to say: well done, Sparky.

Blood slipped down from her fingers, coating her knuckles and making a metallic, copper smell linger in the air. Her red hand-print remained on the handle of her sword when she picked it up from the ground along with some particles of sand. When she straightened up and strolled towards her mother, she had been smirking. It was a time when her confidence was on peak, when she able to face her mother with no trouble or fear.

"Well done, that is how you become a Morris." Morris. She said the name she got from her father. Dazzle Morris had always said her last name as if it was a treasure.

"I still hate being called Morris, after what he did to our family. I can't believe John and David didn't kill him. I would if I had the chance." The sharpness in her voice was wild and uncontrollable. She propped down a spectator seat, besides her mother with a cloth in hand, cleansing herself of blood, sand and sweat. She remembered how uncomfortable she was feeling from all the dirtiness of her body.

"Joshua is a dickhead but the last name is not. It's our family's name and he doesn't belong to it anymore." She said, surprisingly calm. She had always been calm and also tired. She faced her when she talked and then narrowed her eyes. "Is that a new dress? Gods, Spark, I thought you were done with buying new ones."

"Mom, shopping is better than being a career," She blurted out, running her fingers along her silky hair. Then, she paused, realizing what she said and added swiftly. "But that doesn't mean I hate being one. Shopping and being a career are parts of my life. Important ones." She found herself being eye-rolled at. But, her words were true. She loved shopping and training at the same time.

Anyway, back to her father, the dickhead.

The night her father left from the household, her mother, Dazzle Morris, had been calm. She had her fists clenched so tight, they were the color of ivory but she did not show any signs of rage on her face. She remembered her saying, "Let him leave. It's not our fault. He's just not interested in us anymore. We still have all the fame, money and power. He has his side-sluts." Her hand waved, gesturing at the ceiling of their house. Their grand house, gigantic like a small cathedral.

The Morris family was rich. Her mother was the head of a stonemason factory, a work that was passed down generations. She wondered if she grew up, she would have to work at the factory too. Her two brothers- John Morris and David Morris -works part-time there. Her mother says it was to enhance their strength. They were also careers, the ruthless ones.

This day was a memorable one. It marked the first time for her hands to be painted red with blood. The first time she succeeded in taking down her mentor. And, she had talked to her mother about her father. It had been long, she had not heard the mention of her father or his name for a long time. It had left when she was 8 so she had perfect memory of him: bulky build but very flirtatious. Perhaps she had inherited her flirtatious side from him. The thought made her shudder but it was still true.

No matter how much she does not want his blood in her veins, she still has. She will always be his daughter. The girl who was born in the battlefield yet loves wearing high heels and dresses.