hither and yon —「d10 train, 93rd.」
Feb 2, 2023 17:02:44 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Feb 2, 2023 17:02:44 GMT -5
Before they leave, he asks Ma to cook up a storm.
From the thick-crusted rock cakes beloved in District Twelve to the classics of Ten—hot pecan pies, peach cobblers browned over a gentle fire, and tart yellow bars made from golden rinded lemons—he lets them tow it all onboard and prepare a big feast with it. White tablecloth, tiered like a wedding cake, is spread over a grand mahogany table and little tea candles flicker with soft, demure glows atop it, unperturbed by the train's rocking. He asks them to reheat each pastry as well. If the two tributes do not make it, they at least will die with the memory of having indulged in a meal of excess.
They call these death row meals. A bad omen to act as the starting point, to start off from, but truth be told, Andal does not know what to do or how to start, and this acts as a perfect front for that.
After all he lacks the career expertise that Katrina would have offered, the steel-willed edge she was renowned for, and he isn’t a social butterfly, not in the way Chiara was, the magic to have the masses singing amor and worshipping the ground you walked on.
Andal is a builder. He knows of foundations and crenellations, of putting a building together from raw materials, and he isn’t quite sure how that can help the other two. Hey, let’s build our way out of death! Sigh.
Well, there is that politeness of him though, and that has charmed some politicians and higher officials. The power to hold his tongue and speak syrup-sweet words. To acknowledge someone respectfully. And perhaps idle hands could also make some marvels in the arena. Pitfalls, lariat tricks, one could get imaginative with it.
He takes a sip of strong tea for the nerves. Empties the mug, really. There is a need in him for something stronger, spicier, fire whiskey burning a line down his throat, but he has heard many cautionary tales around victors and alcohol. Not too pretty.
It’s time. Andal hears them enter the banquet chamber, a soft shuffling of feet, and pleats his gloved fingers together to fists together for a moment.
Breathe in, breathe out.
You can do this. You have to do this.
He slides open the doors, clutches onto the smile upon his lips like some sort of anchor. Elm Errington, bright as a wisp of ember in a wintry night, and Autumn Oakley, a princess with an invisible crown already atop her head. It would put his own to shame. “How do, how do,” he greets in an onrush of breath. Raises his hand as if to shake, registers that there is really two of them there, and abandons it halfway. Instead he reaches deep within his pockets and fishes out what he has worked on for the past hour: two copper-wire dolls, latticed to resemble the glinting likeness of the two.
“I gifted one to Mrs. Lowe last games,” a roll of broad shoulders, “thought I would honor the tradition. Pardon the crude craftsmanship.”
He looks at them both, archives the planes of their faces, the way the pristine sunlight casts them in an almost angelic glow. He wishes they both could make it back on this train already.
”Have you tried the pies?” Andal nods towards the table. “Pecan’s lovely.” He sneaks a look back into the hall, where is Saff and Mace? “Sorry, uh,” a finger nervously scratches the stubble he’s forgotten to tend to, ”those two should be here soon and we can officially start.”
And you’ll be in competent hands again.
He levels his eyes with them both. “How are you two feeling?” Andal asks in quiet yet sharp earnest, a question that quells the nerves for a moment from how much it reminds him of his first time here. The air was too sharp, the lights too cold. He stands a little taller, carries himself a little higher as he adds, “It’s alright to invite the fear in. There will come a time, when you are lost within the darkness, it becomes your only friend and companion.”
From the thick-crusted rock cakes beloved in District Twelve to the classics of Ten—hot pecan pies, peach cobblers browned over a gentle fire, and tart yellow bars made from golden rinded lemons—he lets them tow it all onboard and prepare a big feast with it. White tablecloth, tiered like a wedding cake, is spread over a grand mahogany table and little tea candles flicker with soft, demure glows atop it, unperturbed by the train's rocking. He asks them to reheat each pastry as well. If the two tributes do not make it, they at least will die with the memory of having indulged in a meal of excess.
They call these death row meals. A bad omen to act as the starting point, to start off from, but truth be told, Andal does not know what to do or how to start, and this acts as a perfect front for that.
After all he lacks the career expertise that Katrina would have offered, the steel-willed edge she was renowned for, and he isn’t a social butterfly, not in the way Chiara was, the magic to have the masses singing amor and worshipping the ground you walked on.
Andal is a builder. He knows of foundations and crenellations, of putting a building together from raw materials, and he isn’t quite sure how that can help the other two. Hey, let’s build our way out of death! Sigh.
Well, there is that politeness of him though, and that has charmed some politicians and higher officials. The power to hold his tongue and speak syrup-sweet words. To acknowledge someone respectfully. And perhaps idle hands could also make some marvels in the arena. Pitfalls, lariat tricks, one could get imaginative with it.
He takes a sip of strong tea for the nerves. Empties the mug, really. There is a need in him for something stronger, spicier, fire whiskey burning a line down his throat, but he has heard many cautionary tales around victors and alcohol. Not too pretty.
It’s time. Andal hears them enter the banquet chamber, a soft shuffling of feet, and pleats his gloved fingers together to fists together for a moment.
Breathe in, breathe out.
You can do this. You have to do this.
He slides open the doors, clutches onto the smile upon his lips like some sort of anchor. Elm Errington, bright as a wisp of ember in a wintry night, and Autumn Oakley, a princess with an invisible crown already atop her head. It would put his own to shame. “How do, how do,” he greets in an onrush of breath. Raises his hand as if to shake, registers that there is really two of them there, and abandons it halfway. Instead he reaches deep within his pockets and fishes out what he has worked on for the past hour: two copper-wire dolls, latticed to resemble the glinting likeness of the two.
“I gifted one to Mrs. Lowe last games,” a roll of broad shoulders, “thought I would honor the tradition. Pardon the crude craftsmanship.”
He looks at them both, archives the planes of their faces, the way the pristine sunlight casts them in an almost angelic glow. He wishes they both could make it back on this train already.
”Have you tried the pies?” Andal nods towards the table. “Pecan’s lovely.” He sneaks a look back into the hall, where is Saff and Mace? “Sorry, uh,” a finger nervously scratches the stubble he’s forgotten to tend to, ”those two should be here soon and we can officially start.”
And you’ll be in competent hands again.
He levels his eyes with them both. “How are you two feeling?” Andal asks in quiet yet sharp earnest, a question that quells the nerves for a moment from how much it reminds him of his first time here. The air was too sharp, the lights too cold. He stands a little taller, carries himself a little higher as he adds, “It’s alright to invite the fear in. There will come a time, when you are lost within the darkness, it becomes your only friend and companion.”
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