Subtle Aesthetics [Galax]
Dec 29, 2011 0:36:04 GMT -5
Post by edelweiss on Dec 29, 2011 0:36:04 GMT -5
Blades of grass- torn from the root by the wind beneath her spear. Training was a meticulous process, not for the weak willed in the slightest. She had repeated it over and over again. Red rings delineated vital organs, a thousand deaths for the mannequin just a few yards away from her. Stella had practiced for hours, and the sunset was steadfast in front of her. Nonetheless, she continued her articulate throw repeatedly until meeting the goal she had set for herself. Dark eyes scanned over the remnants of a figure once personified to be a mortal. The edge of her weapon, so humbly nicknamed the "spear of destiny" had become quite dull over the last trial or so and would inevitably need replacement. She brought a cloth from her satchel to wipe sweat beads from her face. A rosy pink hue had since replaced the temperament of dry ice usually adorning her skin. Her intention was nothing less but to hurry on home, as she often felt vulnerable in her exhaustion; Exposed in her lack of energy. She straightened her black poncho and tugged gently at the hem of her skirt. Removing some ointment from her waste-pocket she spread the cream over her sore arm and agitated ankles. Stella was careful in removing the training slippers from her feet and replacing the dark brown moccasins she wore in causality.
Hair, undone - disheveled even. A windy afternoon it had been, the training grounds weren't as cold as usual but quickly became uncomfortable for the average loiterer. Stella brought her hair back into form and straightened the turquoise headband, using a puddle to observe herself as she did so. Unfortunately her appearance was not what it had been. Kneeling down to observe the remnants of an oleander, white, Stella rubbed her thumb and index finger against the ribbon of her headband, noticing its absence. She laid out the crushed flower in her palm, then cast it to the wind. "I'll have to replace it from the garden when I get back home." she said. Sitting down on a nearby bench she re-opened her satchel and took out a canteen, sipping from it slowly in between deep inhales and swift exhales. The Angel plucked off her delicate leather to inspect her hands. "Still soft," she said, running her index finger over her lifeline and around the pocket of her thumb. The sun was going down, and surely her parents would be upset if she was late. They had been proud of her choice to become a career but they would worry if she came home too late regardless.
She arose with a sigh, gazing toward the path that would take her home. She began her journey back into town, left foot before right. Everything had to be done precisely, for otherwise it held little value. That is what she lived by, and Stella would be resilient to alter such a paradigm. "Makes since that I would be the only one still training this late, slackers - all of them. Pathetic really." said the Angel, self occupation had become a habit in lack of intriguing company. A bird, a bee, a beast of the field, a beast of any variety, made better company than human beings in the mind of the marble haired girl. Life was to be lived in quite solitude and contemplation. Those who disturbed her peace of mind would most certainly pay the price for their insolence. A martyr she was, and who would dare to interfere with the happiness of a martyr? Her life, on a pedestal, put forth for the honor of her district, surely disrespect was an injustice paid not solely to her but to the district, the capital and the rest of Panem. That was most definitely unacceptable. Yet somehow, this way of life had been satisfying, no alternative was alluring enough at best.
A rather brisk walk it would be, for her abode was a farther distance from the training field than most. A song, sung gently to her and her only, would certainly be the best way of passing the time. Pale pink lips thinned and then contracted to let forth the soothing sound of a music. It was a lullaby her mother used to sing to her long ago. She had never shared it with others, but used it to calm down upon leaving the field. The brisk walk would become a relaxing stroll and a quest for a new oleander to replace the one she had lost.
Hair, undone - disheveled even. A windy afternoon it had been, the training grounds weren't as cold as usual but quickly became uncomfortable for the average loiterer. Stella brought her hair back into form and straightened the turquoise headband, using a puddle to observe herself as she did so. Unfortunately her appearance was not what it had been. Kneeling down to observe the remnants of an oleander, white, Stella rubbed her thumb and index finger against the ribbon of her headband, noticing its absence. She laid out the crushed flower in her palm, then cast it to the wind. "I'll have to replace it from the garden when I get back home." she said. Sitting down on a nearby bench she re-opened her satchel and took out a canteen, sipping from it slowly in between deep inhales and swift exhales. The Angel plucked off her delicate leather to inspect her hands. "Still soft," she said, running her index finger over her lifeline and around the pocket of her thumb. The sun was going down, and surely her parents would be upset if she was late. They had been proud of her choice to become a career but they would worry if she came home too late regardless.
She arose with a sigh, gazing toward the path that would take her home. She began her journey back into town, left foot before right. Everything had to be done precisely, for otherwise it held little value. That is what she lived by, and Stella would be resilient to alter such a paradigm. "Makes since that I would be the only one still training this late, slackers - all of them. Pathetic really." said the Angel, self occupation had become a habit in lack of intriguing company. A bird, a bee, a beast of the field, a beast of any variety, made better company than human beings in the mind of the marble haired girl. Life was to be lived in quite solitude and contemplation. Those who disturbed her peace of mind would most certainly pay the price for their insolence. A martyr she was, and who would dare to interfere with the happiness of a martyr? Her life, on a pedestal, put forth for the honor of her district, surely disrespect was an injustice paid not solely to her but to the district, the capital and the rest of Panem. That was most definitely unacceptable. Yet somehow, this way of life had been satisfying, no alternative was alluring enough at best.
A rather brisk walk it would be, for her abode was a farther distance from the training field than most. A song, sung gently to her and her only, would certainly be the best way of passing the time. Pale pink lips thinned and then contracted to let forth the soothing sound of a music. It was a lullaby her mother used to sing to her long ago. She had never shared it with others, but used it to calm down upon leaving the field. The brisk walk would become a relaxing stroll and a quest for a new oleander to replace the one she had lost.
