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In the midst of the arena sits the lone Conestoga Wagon, an ancient mode of transportation. The covered wagon spans some twelve feet long, with a canvas covering stretched across the roof. It has been lovingly crafted from hickory, perch and sour gum trees. Inside, you’ll find all the treasure you could ever want in the arena. Outside, dotting the transition from the perch to the canvas are planter boxes with flowering vines. A perfect circle has been raked around the wagon, creating a sundial of the sand, with the wagon pointing West. (earthling)

This great fissure cuts a swath through the southwestern sector of the arena, going down up to a mile and a half at its deepest point. It is a barren crevasse, worn down by centuries of erosion. Intricate patterns of minerals are etched as far as the eye can see into the smooth sides of the canyon, but that it not the most startling feature about this place. In a normal canyon, screaming at the top of your lungs would reward you with a series of echoes. However, in this section of the arena, sound is almost nonexistent. Whatever the gamemakers did, it is eerily silent in the canyon, and nothing beyond your heartbeat pounding in your ears makes a sound. In this area, no one can hear you scream. (Charade)

Swelteringly hot during the day but freezing cold at night, the Desert is a place where only the truly resourceful survive. Foliage is sparse, and water is a pipe dream. In a hostile environment such as this, unwary tributes can expect the the wildlife to be hungry and the elements to be unforgiving. Beware. Even if you make it past the harsh weather and the hungry creatures, there are still your fellow tributes to worry about. There’s a reason you keep finding cow skulls after all. (Charade)

The imaginative tribute may find the buttes, which rise from the flat desert, to resemble castles, or even fortresses. But don’t be fooled. These monstrosities are not shelter, but another obstacle. The red and brown faces of the buttes are almost sheer, and heat to over 120 degrees during the day, making scaling them almost impossible. They stand, lonely guardians of the edge of arena, offering little shade and no respite. (earthling)

The verdant stretch of Cacti near the center of the arena is an oasis, a chartreuse break from the burnished sunset colors of the desert. There is food to be found here, if the tribute is clever enough to slip past the spines. Nothing is ever easy in the desert, not even sorting fleshy fruit from the spikes that protect it. And you know what they say about hugging a cactus: they are awful prickly. (earthling)

Nowhere in the arena is as needy as the river bed. Bisecting almost the entire desert, the river bed is a cracked and desolate place, except for the few mud pits which indicate reservoirs beneath the surface. There’s not a drop of water to be wasted. Any excess is burned off by the sun. And beware: it won’t just be and the other tributes trying to sort the precious liquid from the mud. Because the mutts need water just as badly, and they are willing to kill to get it. (earthling)

There are not many buildings left standing in this small frontier town, and all the ones that remain are dotted with bullet holes and signs of a fire. As you enter the town, the first thing you see on your left is rubble, more rubble and then a building marked Saloon. It has no door, and thus you can see what looks like a counter and several rows of empty bottles lining the shelves behind it. To the right of that building is a rotten tree stump, but after that is a building with a broken sign labeling it as the Sheriff's Office. It, like all the buildings in the town, does not have a door. The walls inside are adorned with yellowed pictures of famous peacekeepers and wanted posters of famous criminals. The Jailhouse next door to it is almost gone, only rusted bars show you what it used to be. A dilapidated gallows, once used for frontier justice stares threateningly in the direction of the last building. A theater where scenes from previous games are projected on the ragged screen in black and white. (Charade)

North of the Ghost Town lies the remains of what was surely the towns main source of income. The timbers are rotted now, the air inside thick with must. Every so often, a curious tribute might find a vein of silver in the wall or an overturned minecart on a broken track. That is, if they have a light with which to see. For without a light, the silver mine is a dark foreboding hole that leads deep underground, a relic of industry and perhaps greed as well. Be careful tributes! You may need a light to see, but you never know who or what might see you too. And who knows how long those termite eaten support beams will last... (Charade)