a comet named icarus | umber & eulalie
Oct 4, 2024 21:51:54 GMT -5
Post by eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris on Oct 4, 2024 21:51:54 GMT -5
[attr="class","scrollEulalie"] At the beginning of assessment day, Eulalie feels confident. The sight of all the head trainers with their clipboards at the ready, lower district tributes trying and failing to make a lasting impression — this is her element. Or, at least it should be. She's almost smug as she maneuvers through all the various stations. Head high, shoulders squared, eyes forever locked on the prize. She likes to think of herself as a shark swimming in familiar waters, ready and willing to put her relentless training to use. Her hand-to-hand combat showcase seems to set the tone for the day; it's an impressive enough display of her brute strength, but certainly not her best work. She knocks her sparring partner off their feet, but they don't seem too phased by the fight. The man scribbling on his notepad spares her little more than a nod of approval, no words of affirmation to give. She's bigger than praise, that much she wants to believe, but something begins to take root as the final score flashes on a nearby screen. 91. Nine points shy of the perfection she expects of herself. A sensitive nerve rises to the surface and begins to throb. Her first thought is that maybe she should try to alternate the "throw-away" stations between the ones she views as more important, a little breather of sorts — but seven minutes into her camouflage attempt is all it takes for her to realize maybe that was a bad call. She can't seem to mix the paint properly, trying and failing to make her arm blend seamlessly with a slate gray boulder. It looks as if she's wearing a silver glove, sticking out like a sore thumb where the whole purpose is to hide. The woman manning the station snickers, or at least that's what Eulalie's ears seem to register. Heat rises to her cheeks, her movements speeding up as she tries to rush through this joke of an experience and just be done with it. Then she squeezes the tube of paint a little too hard, and with a sputtering sound, a geyser of gray paint splashes across the front of her training shirt. With an aggravated huff, she throws the tube clear across the station and kicks the boulder at her feet for good measure. Her big toe starts stinging, the cherry on top. She doesn't bother to wait around and listen to what the woman has to say, obviously she's ruined the whole showcase and there's no reason to try salvaging it. Red-faced and paint covered, she only has two stations on the list finished and she already wants to crawl out of her skin. She doesn't even need to look at the screen to be made aware of her failure. 1. What an absolute disgrace. Still, her pride isn't defeated yet. Taunting some nobodies will help her mood, or so she tells herself. She makes her way to the ranged station, where a collection of tributes are trying to shoot arrows at stationary targets. The trainer here seems as impressed with these kids as the camouflage lady had been with her performance. She grabs a handful of throwing knives from a nearby table, positioning herself a little further behind the others. "That's just sad," Eulalie quips at a girl who sends her arrow flying uselessly into the wall. Once the trainer turns his attention to her, his eyebrow arched in interest, Eulalie secures her footing and prepares the blades to throw. As much as she may tell herself she doesn't need it, she is starving for the respect and admiration of her peers. "I'll play fair and put myself at a disadvantage, ten feet behind all the rest of you. Watch what career training teaches a girl." With a strong swing, she sends the first knife whistling through the air, where it inevitably lands in the center of the target with a soft thud. Really wanting to cement her superiority, Eulalie continues throwing the weapons. One with her right hand, another with the left, one with a spiral and another that seems to curve through the air. They all hit their mark, a neat circle around the bullseye. "See? Better hope I'm not the one chasing you down in the arena." With a smirk, she turns away from the nobody, her focus on the trainer whose opinion actually matters. This time, he is actually inclined to speak. "That was an impressive display of your skills, Miss Blake." Her lips stretch into a wider grin, her wounded ego finally feeling a sense of relief. "Unfortunately, we are practicing archery at this time, not throwing knives. I'll have to score you an 85." The screen lights up as her anger does, her whole body seeming to vibrate with rage. "What?! An eighty-five? You're joking. I displayed several different techniques." |
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