elven ranger stranger danger - august + georgie
Sept 27, 2024 18:00:54 GMT -5
Post by august vance d7b [Bella] on Sept 27, 2024 18:00:54 GMT -5
In the commotion of the training room, I soon find myself overwhelmed by all of the choices we have–it feels like I’ve got everything to learn, everything to lose, and zero time. As I walk around the floor, taking stock of the stations, I feel a pang of unease at the way the tributes from One and Four hold their weapons effortlessly, like an extension of their own arm. I choose to look away as they practice, not wanting to psych myself out too early.
Makeshift weapons and armor seems like a safe bet. Stick to what you’re good at. Although I’ve lived my entire life as a pacifist up until this point, and would have never considered making any type of weapon (it was forbidden regardless), I have worked a lot with my hands. And I would say that I carry a basic–okay, caveman-level–understanding about what kinds of objects you can stab people with or protect your chest with. Stab with the pointy end. Tie something onto your chest to prevent others from doing the same.
The trainer, a muscular-looking woman with severe features but generally pleasant-seeming, introduces some of the objects available to make weapons with. There are rolls of twine and wire, pots of tree sap; sticks and boards of varying lengths, small metal objects, animal sinews and fur, and a few other things that seem so random I wonder if they would even be in the arena, like a birdcage and an old watch.
Carving is in my comfort zone, so I decide to give bow-making a go. The trainer hands me a 4-foot length of wood that looks to me like hickory. Hopefully this arena will actually have trees, period, instead of being a desert wasteland like last year, because making a bow out of a saguaro cactus would seriously fucking suck.
Assuming I won’t find real bow-making tools in the arena, I choose a regular 5-inch pocket knife and begin to follow the provided diagrams, pulling slivers off the length of wood. The tools of the Capitol are far superior to anything I could have bought back home. This blade cuts like butter. If only I could take it with me.
I’m really in the zone after about fifteen minutes, absorbed in the shushing sound of the blade slicing into the wood, when someone else approaches the station. Only then do I realize, somewhat self-consciously–that there’s sweat dripping down my forehead. I put my tools down for a second and wipe it away with the back of my hand, taking the opportunity to strike up conversation.
”Hey, you’re Georgie, from Six, right?” The mayor’s daughter, I think, but I keep it to myself, remembering the golden rule: I wouldn’t want anyone to ask if I was the dead peoples’ son. ”I’m August. You up for a little challenge? I’m curious to see if everyone’s as bad at bow-making as I am.” I hold up my project to demonstrate. Mom always scolded me for my self-deprecating humor, but it has helped me make friends, and I’ll need all the friends I can get.