wicked ( inga & marceline, day 1

The goods from the tower are enough to pacify Inga, just slightly.

She'd climbed back down with Gunner's knife clenched between her teeth and the sponsorship canister slung across her back. She's tucked the dart gun into her boot. The extra vibrant-tipped darts sit rattling in the pocket of her jacket. There's a canteen too, and matches, and a little Capitolite note that felt more like a riddle than a message.

It isn't quite enough to appease her, but it is a bolster to her confidence.

Maryn's words come back to her still, the sharpness of her consonants echoing in the crunch of the snow. This isn't the place to be polite. She can't afford it. And the grudge sits petty in her chest now.

If she was the type to talk it out, some kind of diplomat or mediator, then she wouldn't have been here in the first place. She acts first and demands forgiveness later. The chip on her shoulder is a wound.

Inga cracks the hand warmers and stuffs them into her gloves, shaking then, pressing the heat to her ears before setting out again.

She prowls through the woods until the trees change. The branches get thinner. Sparser. The behemoths start to wane, stretch out, and the wind changes direction. It's less suffocating, but more bare. The air feels open.

She's keeping an eye out for a glimpse of purple, or of white.

The woods are unerringly still, and so the flash of teal, when it comes, draws the eye like a bright little bird.

Inga turns Gunner's knife in her hand and throws it without breaking her stride. Instinct - it goes flying, turning, directly at the poor little thing standing there like a deer in headlights. It thunks solidly into the tree trunk next to the girl, quivering.

"That was a warning shot."