third bespoke / inga + maryn

Like a long shadow, Maryn makes her way through the halls of the Training Center. She is a woman of few limitations, the kind to look at an iron bolted door and think to herself, 'that's where I'm meant to be.' She likes to imagine herself as something of a goddess in this place, like a warrior queen looking out at her ill-fated soldiers. It's so fun to watch them squirm, attempting to put on a brave face as if it changes the inevitable. Like rust, like blood, she can smell the metallic scent of their fear so easily.

She's aware that there are access points available to her that entirely bypass any potential interactions with the tributes, but she quite enjoys taking the public elevator system. To her, she imagines these interactions like a lamb walking into a clearing with a wolf. No, she will not kill them by her own hands, but she is certainly pulling the strings. Guiding them ever so patiently to a cliff where she will toss them away. Her late father never thought to teach her how to respect her toys.

And now, as one of the political heads of the entire country, this whole forsaken world is Maryn's playground. And everyone in it, save for Hades Lochlan, belongs to her and her ruthless grip. It's not that she's trying to be the supreme leader, that's far too much work. Rule number one: always allow for at least one person to rank above you, should the need ever arise for them to protect you. Like any expert of chess, Maryn knows how to play the field before going in for the kill.

She notices Inga before the girl is aware of her presence, a rarity she's sure. The career is one of the sneakier ones, catlike and graceful with quiet steps. Seemingly a level head on her dainty shoulders. Maryn is not at all intending to recreate the bond she shared with her last favored tribute from Four, but she cannot dismiss the presence of meat when it is so readily offered. All of her wants are carnivorous.

Closing the distance between them with confident strides, Maryn appears from the shadows of the training room and inserts her hand between the elevator doors just before they can seal shut. She enters the space with Inga like a toxic cloud seeping in, pressing one of the buttons on the keypad before glancing in the girl's direction. "Gamemaker Hale," the redhead is quick to show off her good manners, a polite expression on her face. Maryn smiles wolfishly, a dry laugh leaving her crimson lips.

"You can call me Maryn," she teases like a knife scraping across an old wound. The sound of her voice is just that sharp. The truth is, if Inga had been so bold as to use her first name during their first meeting, her skull would probably be cracking against the wall of the elevator right about now — but it's easy to correct subservience once it's already been displayed. "Inga Vanas. Cousin of Willem."

She levels the girl with a piercing stare. Scalpel to flesh.

"I wonder: do you think it'll become tradition for your bloodline to die young? Or do you intend to change history?" It is terribly fun to inspire hope before destroying it. "As a note, polite girls don't change history."