[D9] 75th Hunger Games Volunteering Thread

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gm bourgeois decadence [aya]
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"GUNNERRRRR~"

[D9] 75th Hunger Games Volunteering Thread Jan 28, 2017 0:14:52 GMT -5

Post by gm bourgeois decadence [aya] on Jan 28, 2017 0:14:52 GMT -5

"It is time," the Escort announces, standing over the impatient people of the District, "To once again send our own children to the Capitol to compete in the Hunger Games. Let us begin the Reaping!"

The crowd seems to take in a single, united breath. Expectation and fear go to battle across every face, be it the ones brave enough to fight for their home or the watchful faces of their family and friends, neighbors and strangers. "Who will volunteer as tribute, for the honor and glory of your District?"

OOC- RPing is allowed. If you wish to volunteer, you must post by Wednesday, February 1st (11:59 PM). There may be multiple male and female tributes for each District.

Please leave an ooc note at the end of your post stating whether your character is volunteering or not.

Also, and this is important: If you are going into the arena, we suggest you take RP Tutoring lessons. 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 it is recommended. They'll help even the most advanced RPer.

Please be extra considerate of the Tutor team these Games. There will be many more tributes than usual and the Tutors may also be writing tributes themselves. The more everyone works together, the better the experience will be for all!

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[D9] 75th Hunger Games Volunteering Thread Jan 28, 2017 1:18:07 GMT -5

Post by sbeeg on Jan 28, 2017 1:18:07 GMT -5

She stood there, a teenager on the brink of freedom. The escort stood on the stage in front of her, dressed in a ridiculous costume that cost more money than Zanita had ever had in her life. Their voice boomed out calling for volunteers.

What a sick twist.

She looked around her at the other eighteen year old girls dressed in their finest. Some were like her, weathered and hard, but others were soft. Too soft for death and blood.

Something tugged at her chest. A sensation she couldn't place for a moment. A need to shout and raise her arm. To announce herself-

No. That's suicide.

She took a breath to calm the thunderstorm in her chest. She had people here in District Nine she needed to take care of. She peered over across the pens at her brother, Kovu. With his fair skin and light eyes it was so obvious they were not blood related yet Zanita had basically raised him. When she thought of Kovu her thoughts usually drifted to him as a child. young, skinny, and covered in scraps and bruises, smiling through half rotten fruit Zanita managed to fish out of a dumpster for him. Now, he was a man. He stood a head taller than her now. A mole hill that grew into a mountain.

He doesn't need me anymore.

Silence covered the square. Every child was too afraid to move, too scared to make a noise lest they be mistaken for a volunteer. Zanita sucked in a breath and held it in her lungs, set on keeping quiet. After all, even if Kovu didn't need her she still had...

Did she ever have Sebastian?

At one time, yes. What felt likes years ago she fought with him and kissed him and slept by his side during the cold nights to stay warm. He was always warm. His skin burned under her fingers but she was never hurt by his flame. He wanted to be adults. Rich adults who get married in white dresses and live in little houses and have lots of children.

She didn't dare a look at the boy's pens. Zanita couldn't handle meeting his eyes now. She had too many questions- for him, for herself. She didn't want to face them now. Or ever, truthfully. She wanted to put this all in the past, everything behind her.

There she was. A teenager on the brink of freedom. If she held her breath for a few more moments she would be safe from the reaping forever to live a life of...

To live a life of what?

Zanita had nothing left. Kovu had grown away from her, and she couldn't even look at Sebastian without her stomach churning with guilt and regret. She didn't know how to feel, but she knew that whatever life she lived in District Nine after this day would be meaningless. A worthless street rat living off of scraps and handouts. A woman who grew too old to stand the harsh winters on the streets, or too weak to fight off thieves. Another casualty of life in District Nine. Another citizen that was born, lived, died and was soon forgotten.

Zanita wasn't made to be forgotten.

"I volunteer as tribute," her voice was clear and strong, her hand raised above her head. She stepped out of the clump of girls and towards the stage.

She climbed the stairs and took her place beside the escort, looking over the crowd and avoiding the few eyes she still couldn't bear to meet.

There she stood. A teenager on the brink of glory. A tribute.

OOC: Zanita Luzell volunteers as tribute

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[D9] 75th Hunger Games Volunteering Thread Jan 28, 2017 1:19:17 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Jan 28, 2017 1:19:17 GMT -5

I never dream't of much.

A father's hands on mine, "Helios," a broken voice. A broken sermon, a strong backbone -- I've never had much in this whole plan, and that's good, correct? One family of sins and sinners, damping on raven wings, we all know what prices we pay- at least, I always have. Xanthe's bones are eaten away by every sip of that dark poison -- "Helios" -- in a way they killed Percy.

"Helios!"

But I shouldn't blame them. Shouldn't blame them for a sister's death, nor the wrath of an angry hand; I know it. I know how these things work, every single piece and edge and how everything fits, every single idea and sermon and word they all just cross on the inside of my eyes- words, words, words that's all there is! And it's so infuriating, you see, always knowing the punishment but never knowing what to do, never knowing nothing more than what happens if you do and- "Helios, goddamn it-"

"WHAT-" a scream, some type of roar and for a second I blink, and only for a second, father whites eyebrows furrowing before striking my face, one single clap echoing through the church town walls- "do not." Stern eyes, my mouth hangs open for I have never known a beast to walk these halls, there are no words limp on the edge of my tongue. Not any that I know of- "I expect this level of disrespect from infants," and I try my hardest not to breathe.

"there is work to be done."

And maybe there is, somewhere between undecided words and symbols. I trace my fingers along the hem of my pants, sitting down between rays of lights and sanctuary; I am no prophet. In a world as such we can hardly go on believing there are, Father White continues on his speech. Dialogue fills the air - it has no weight, you see, meaningless little things, filler white noise and I ignore it all. Ignore every since second of it as I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose.

Temptation, a demon I know by name, I feel like there are petals in my chest, slowly sprouting and growing until they scratch the back of my throat -- a branch of one ugly mess (forgive my language). There's a thing about devotion, my entire soul placed on one single surface and maybe it's a good thing, waiting to crack under the pressure and drown me under judgement; maybe it's already here. Water at my throat in the form of sunlight, to this point it's hard not to question living in caves. It's an echoing thing as well, one pounding, hell of a headache.

(What's the point in dying for this-?

And there very well may not be.

Father White rubs his thumb across my forehead, "may Ripred be with you," and it kills me, in a way I wished, more than figuratively. A washed dream as well; if there is any deity out there it's hard not to question them any. I bow my head.

Kill me first, if Percy died for this just for this to fail-
what's the point?

("Don't do anything stupid-")

---

I grip a rosary; I am no Ansgar.

Merely an idiot, for lack of better words- it couldn't of worked better. Couldn't followed a better, narrower path of unlikely fallacies, and I woke Skully up this morning. Just like I had every year, waking her up in the morning along with every other sister, their knives torn to my throat and this time I didn't question it, didn't miss a beat. I kissed Xanthe's forehead, she nodded and I untucked Percy's bed, just like I had last year. Just like I had the year before.

Skully and I walk together, the younger ones just keep getting older- there's not going to be room for me much longer, huh? If it wasn't so depressing I would smile, and never before have I gone against an unspoken word. My life a guideline, and one breath of Ripred holds my soul afloat, and I've finally decided to sink myself h-

I'm sorry, I'm not making sense.

Nobody hugs me back at the reaping, words laced like gold on a simple plaque -- it's okay. And I grip my own hand, hold my own spirit close- "don't do anything stupid." For all these smalls words I've been learning, I think this is a time to break imposed rules. That's the glory of living, huh? This is ridiculous, a priest's boy. I bite my tongue, wait for names. Wait for rules, one last passing cloud before I taste sunlight again. This doesn't make much sense, oh lord -- I'm sorry.

You see, I dream't of it. A grim existence, Ripred killing me himself- then I fell asleep. In a blanket of nothing, nothing but words and dark and sleep and it was the simplest anything's ever been, and if there's a heaven I could have Percy back. My hand grasped around her's- I've always been a lover you see, loneliness is more of a killer than any other.

"Hello, sir-"

I don't know how this works. Shaggy clothes, a nice smile- Percy holds my hand on the walk, I'd like to think.

"Helios Delacroix, thank you."

And may Ripred be with you.

H E L I O S DELACROIX ;
volunteers }

{ trib wall mayyybe

Last Edit: Jan 28, 2017 1:56:49 GMT -5 by Deleted

lance
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[D9] 75th Hunger Games Volunteering Thread Jan 29, 2017 1:22:34 GMT -5

Post by lance on Jan 29, 2017 1:22:34 GMT -5

l u c a s o ' h a r a

The Quell. A daunting word full of promises of death and desolation in unique and creative twists sprung from the most clever of Panem's minds.

It was a prospect that was as tantalizing to his young mind as it was terrifying.

He'd been alive for three different quells, but only remembered one with any clarity. The twist of reaping individuals regardless of their district from the Seventieth had claimed only one from his home, a girl who would fall victim to the deadliest and most striking mutt he had ever seen before or since.

One of his most prized pieces depicted that scene, a sketch of a girl in mid-descent, dark hair flowing and arms outstretched, one eye filled with fear and surprise, the other a simple socket where a second eye had been seconds prior.

The fall of Maya Xiaoqing had arguably come too soon, but it had been one of beauty, and one of grace.

Many more beautiful deaths had followed, and with each one came a painstakingly detailed sketch. The Victor's sister, Hannah O'Leary, taking an axe to the chest, courtesy of a boy who, like her, had had their blood spilled in the Games years before their own conflict. Delta Castley going up in flames, a literal human torch to light the arena in a brilliant blaze of orange and red. Timothy Feldon, chained to another, a warhammer in hand and a smile spreading across his face - a face that was airborne, upside down, and nowhere near the rest of his body, for the Capitol had deemed it necessary to remove his head from his shoulders in one swift motion. Percy Delacroix, impaled through the chest while bravely defending a friend, a victim of an almost literal eye-for-an-eye scenario. Sabrina Larue, a girl who made the mistake of crossing a Career before her skull was crushed beneath his hands.

They had all come from home, and they had all been a part of the greatest displays of beauty that he had ever seen.

Unlike many in his home, he had been looking forward towards the monuments Games with anticipation as opposed to dread.

And why shouldn't he? The last Quell had been full of many twists and tricks that had surprised him, from the early death of a fan-favorite Career to the literal fucking cornucopia of all things rising from the ground and revealing itself as an automation to the startlingly life-like doppelgangers that had carved their own paths of beauty through several tributes (he had felt just the tiniest twinge of disappointment that Maya had failed to live to experience such a phenomenon herself) in a spectacle that had taken up many pages of a sketchbook.

This Quell had already started off with a bang, when it had been revealed through live television that, in an unprecedented move, a Victor of a previous Games in the form of Cricket Antoinette would be Gamemaking the upcoming spectacle.

It was an announcement that had left him pondering just exactly why the woman who had survived her own brush with death at the hands of the Games would return to their depths, this time as the puppet master as opposed to the puppet.

Was it possible that he wasn't alone in his viewpoint of the Games? Was it possible that the views that had labeled him a freak to virtually every soul he had shared them with were in fact not unique to him and him alone?

Or was his secondary dream merely a fantasy, and the latest Victor from Two had simply been coerced into it against her will?

It would certainly explain the fact that her sister had been reaped not once, but twice in the span since the last Quell had taken place, the name "Halcyon Antoinette!" had echoed through a District Square far from his own, swinging a hammer of death towards the girl with the unfortunate name.

And twice, she had been spared, as someone else had stepped up to the plate to take her place, as was commonplace in a Career district.

Whatever the reasons were, the facts remained the same: this quell was unorthodox from the very beginning, and it was a prospect that had garnered much excitement from him.

For weeks, he had waited, a mixture of enthusiasm and uncertainty flowing through his veins as day after agonizingly long day passed by with little to no news on the subject.

Yet slowly, inevitably, the day of reckoning had arrived.

With sketchbook in hand and eyes bright with excitement, he watched as the screen flickered to life. Standing in all of his intimidating serpentine glory, the shape of President Snow grinned out at the crowd, a gesture that even from many hundreds of miles away still brought a shiver to his spine.

He made a mental note of the picture before him, vowing to transfer it to paper once he had retreated to the safety of his room that evening.

A golden envelope in hand and the same snake-like smile on his face, President Snow began to speak.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, voice loud and thunderous. "Welcome to the 75th Annual Hunger Games!"

A muted cheer, no doubt courtesy of the crowd of Capitolites that were attending the speech in real time, echoed throughout the square.

The square itself, by contrast, was so quiet that he swore he could have heard a pin drop.

"Of course, the 75th Annual Hunger Games are a Quell — and as such, there will be a change to the Rules," the president continued.

Finally.

The moment he had been waiting for had finally arrived.

The leader of Panem withdrew the card from within almost in slow motion. He watched, sharp gaze focused entirely on the slip of paper withdrawn.

The entire world held its breath as he began to speak.

"To remind the Districts that rebellion is punished and supporting the Capitol is rewarded..."

Though, for all he knew, it could have very easily just been him.

"...the tributes of the 75th Annual Hunger Games will be volunteers only. All volunteers will be accepted and their respective Districts given an increase of supplies for the coming year, while any Districts that fail to provide tributes will have their provisions cut."

He blinked.

Silence broke out into quiet chatter as slowly, surely, the true meaning of the words sunk in.

Volunteers only.

The meaning of the words sunk into his brain exactly half a second after that of another, a pretty, dark skinned girl who squeezed her way our the center of the eighteen year old girl's section, the words "I volunteer," fresh off of her lips.

He blinked again, and suddenly, a boy a few feet to his left was also in motion, his voice quieter than that of the girl but his intent the same.

A thought flashed across his mind like a shooting star, bright and wild and ever so tempting, and suddenly he too was in motion.

He'd always flirted with the idea of volunteering for the Games one day, to experience the raw beauty firsthand instead of merely through a screen.

After all, what did he have to lose?

Some might argue his life, but if he was quite honest with himself, he didn't see that as a high price to pay. He was eighteen years old, mere months from being outside of the period of reaping eligibility, and all he had were his skills with the pencil and paintbrush and the ability to attract a multitude of guys and girls alike.

He didn't want to spend the rest of his life in a factory.

He thought of Rolf Parks, the first boy he had personally known that had entered the Games, and of a grand, risky adventure in the closed off woods in the far end of the District.

A drawing of the dark-haired boy decorated the last filled page in his sketchbook, a war hammer in his chest and a look mixed with hatred and surprise adorning his facial features.

The boy had pushed him into his first truly risky scenario two years ago, and it was one that he had not regretted in the slightest.

Maybe, just maybe, this one would follow in the footsteps of its predecessor.

A hand raises. A voice emerges from within, meeting tongue and lips and forming the words "I volunteer." with crisp articulation coating every syllable.

And like so many others before him had already done, Lucas O'Hara was determined to create something raw and unique and, most importantly, beautiful.

One way or another, whatever the cost may be.

ooc: lucas o'hara volunteers for ~~the~~ a district nine male spot.

trib wall, maybe?

credit to darsypoo uwu

credit to fireflyz!

credit to stare!

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[D9] 75th Hunger Games Volunteering Thread Feb 11, 2017 21:32:24 GMT -5

Post by Tom on Feb 11, 2017 21:32:24 GMT -5

Writing Thinking Hearing Saying

There's a smile.

It hides in his nightstand.

A drawer opened with the handsome stranger. Heart flutters for a second as he wanted something more. Learn the ever so nice looking body of the beauty. It was only the morning, sun shining through the windows, paints strewn across his room from the storm of the night before. A whirlpool of madness that was made red instead of blues. A heart at the bottom, open and still beating. The bed warm with covers that tangled with his body as his heart fluttered. Attraction, thick upon his body as he dreamt of the boy with a smirk that made his knees weak. It's felt like forever since he's met the adonis that he had sketched perfectly. The first time he's felt confident in taking down a person onto paper.

Parents ran around like they were mad. Whispers and secrets hiding within their words. A roll of his own eyes as he slips a plate of breakfast from them, munching silently on it. "I hope he's reaped. It'll be good for us." Plate falls, crashing to the ground. Shattering into pieces, just like his calmness. They stare at him like animals caught by their prey. Terror of his father's words reaching his soul as the black paint splatters over him. Anger flooding through his veins as he speaks quietly.

"If only, just so I could escape you."

Feet stomping off as he rushes to the shower. Stripping down to nothing, his skin shakes. Sobs escaping his throat as their lifeless eyes burrow their way into his mind forever. He needed to escape. He needed someone. He needed anyone who could make him feel better. The cool water runs down, mixing with his tears as he leaves the comfort of the water. Reaping was today and he wasn't about to be late so Peacekeepers could hunt him down. Clothes that he picked out the night before. Almost a suit, but he decided against the jacket that hangs in his closet. A soft sigh escapes him as he's ready and heads out to the scene of children crying or the eerie silence that could bring a storm for all the thoughts.

Standing in the crowd, he could feel the air. Nice and delightful upon his skin, eyes staring forward watching the escort as he shows the same film over and over every reaping. Hearts strike like lightning as their eyes watch in anticipation for the inevitable. A victor Gamemaker preparing for the ultimate beauty and ultimate torture of people who will lose themselves to the storms that they would become. Thunder, lightning, tornadoes, hurricanes, floods, earthquakes, and so many others. Each person had their own storm that flew gently inside of them. It only took a few things to let it release. Sketch in his pocket of the boy whose smile was burned to the inside of his skull. Eyes wander, until he can see the adonis a bit away. Muse flashing a smile over to him, even if he could see him.

The video ended.

The world shuddered.

The black paint splattered.

The escort's words spoke up.

"Who will volunteer as tribute, for the honor and glory of your District?"

Volunteers who would allow their storm to rage on. Paintbrush strokes as they quelled and released the fire inside of their souls. His parent's words coming to mind as he stares at the adonis who seemed to be stuck in thought. Muse couldn't throw it all away. There was unfinished business, known as Lucas to quell the pain that sticks to his heart. A small smile pulls at his face as the adonis looks quite handsome in everything that he did, including standing in the reaping. Eyes scan back to the stage as a girl speaks, volunteering her life for the games. Fire stuck in her eyes as he can see the type of storm she could be. A wildfire burning through everything that got in her way.

His mother would have called him a fool for labeling people as storms. His father would have screamed at him to volunteer his life. They hadn't even shown up at the reaping. They didn't care about him. It was already known. Gravity pulling him to the earth as he watches a male, whose name is familiar. Natasha Delacroix. This was someone from the gangs that lie within the underground world of District Nine. A sigh escapes his throat as Helios clambers forward. The storm that he could imagine was more of a surprise to him. A flood that could turn the dirt to mud for months. Not paying much attention to the Delacroix, heart feels safe.

It would have been safe.

If it wasn't for the next two words that comes from Lucas' throat.

"I volunteer."

You weren't meant to love, Muse.

Handsome looks and a strong confidence comes from what he can see of Lucas. Screams threaten to escape his throat, but he's shattered. Black paint spread across the beautiful storms that could have mixed together and made a beautifully devastating natural disaster. The sketch in his pocket lies like a weight to his body. The adonis that had taken his breath away was leaving. The storm that he had wanted to be apart of. The one thing he wanted to learn since he had met the guy. Eyes try to catch Lucas' but they're focused on something else.

You were never meant for him.

He wished that he could have been. He wished that everything would be okay, but nothing would be okay. The hurricane that was Lucas O'Hara was going to rage in front of others. A frown pulls at his face. Words behind his head speaking of him to push forward and follow for his own selfish wants, but he couldn't. Couldn't bare putting himself on the line for Lucas. He couldn't do it. He was too weak and dumb to be able to do it. Hearts beat, tears threaten to blow, and hands shake. A whisper upon his breath as he tries to speak.

"No. This..This can't be real."

It was real.

Everything was always real.

As soon as it happened, it vanished. No one was there, only the last thing he could see was Lucas. A determined look upon his face. Muse's hand reaching into his pocket as he carries the sketch of a hurricane that would be released. Gorgeous features, joyful feeling, and broken hearts. He wasn't meant to mean anything to Lucas O'Hara. He wasn't meant to feel anything. He wasn't meant to be apart of the life that was Lucas O'Hara. He only had one chance to let go, but how could he. How could he stand there, watching as the boy he dreamt about leaves him for good.

Staring at the sketch in his hands, fingers tracing the jaw of O'Hara. Nobody was around. He stood in the square for a good 20 minutes after everyone had left. Alone, cold, and terrified. He sighs, letting go of the emotions that were threatening to break in him. Black paint splattered upon the beautiful art that he dreamed of making. This all happened for a reason. It was real. It was happening. He had to accept it, but he couldn't. Only a whisper upon his lips as he begins walking home, tears pulling at his cheeks.

"Goodbye Lucas."

All that laid on the ground was a pencil sketch of a boy who would become a hurricane in the dreams of a forgotten boy.

You were meant to lose it all.