Timbra Lannett D7 [DONE]

And yes, it's a good good life!
The sun is bright, and the shadows long

Timbra Lannett
73 lb
4'6"

I am small for my district; the top of my head barely comes to the height of my mother's broad shoulders. I'm not powerful, either, which is no surprise to me or anyone else. Height and weight, especially muscle-weight, usually come together. I have almost none of either. I don't think I'm weak, though. I'm wiry, true, but my strength is strung taut like a bowstring rather than draped lavishly across my limbs. I can wield an axe for as long as the next girl, though its swing might be slower in my hands.

My hands. I love my hands. They are rough and calloused, for all their small size. So are the soles of my feet, hard from running barefoot across the earth, as I sometimes do for hours before collapsing, gasping and joyful, on the ground. The rest of my skin is softer, my light tan protecting me from nothing but the sun. It doesn't extend down the back of my neck; my black hair, nearly always loose in a long, rough curtain, takes care of that. If it were cropped short, I'd immedietly burn, a fact I point out to my father when he suggests it would be less cumbersome that way.

Beneath my hair comes my face, small like the rest of me and almost pinched looking with its triangular shape. My chin is sharp and seems to start higher than it should, the angles of my skull falling straight to this one point. My nose is small and somewhat crooked; I'm often asked if it has ever been broken. To either side of it, my eyes sit deep within my head, their deep olive flecks glinting from within the lighter green background. Mother says they are truly beautiful. They are one of my finer points; I won't deny that. If they were a bit closer to the surface, they might even set up the rest of my face to better advantage. But as it is, I'll freely admit I'm no beauty.

I know I'm not going to win any contests for looks. So I don't try, and that goes for my clothes as well as my face. I typically wear brown or black - brighter colors I save for reaping day. I don't wear dresses either, preferring the freedom of tunics and leggings or, in a pinch, a blouse. I always try to slip out without a jacket except in extreme weather, though my parents make me wear one if they catch me. I'm not one of those girls who obsesses over every stitch in her clothing. Practicality and relative comfort are all I ask.

And yes, I have learned to fight!
To beat them back, and to keep me strong!

I'm not always happy. No one is. But I try to love the bad with the good, the bee stings as well as the summer sun. It's not easy to love the things I hate, but when I can succeed it's better for all concerned. So I try. I try my best. But what I can't love is a distinct problem.

I could make a list of the things I detest. Beetles, death, the Hunger Games - but what's the point in that? I don't have any idea how many things I've never seen would make me angry. When I am angry, though, it's not a pretty sight. When I was little I threw tantrums, my tiny feet beating the floor, my face red as I shouted my fury to the world. I don't do that anymore, but I'm close. I still shout, in words now, my fists clenched at my sides. Or perhaps, depending on the situation, I stalk out of the room to spend my day fuming privately. Even when it's not safe to express my emotions so obviously, I glare murderously, acting out what I wish I could do within the safety of my own mind. I can control what makes me angry well enough, but against the anger itself I have only one defense, one that takes time and opportunity to implement.

Running. It's my one defense against my own temper. I can run for hours sometimes before falling exhausted to the ground, if I don't go too quickly. If I could, though, I'd run forever. I've always been able to love, wherever I am, whatever I felt before, as long as I'm running. I suppose it's because I love the running itself - the wind against my face, my hair blown straight backward, my feet hardly touching the ground before they are off again. Like I'm flying. But I can't always run. At school, for instance, I must walk in a collected fashion. And if I'm with another person, one not as fast or with less stamina then I have, I must wait for them.

That's one of the reasons I stay away from other people. I've always been antisocial, always awkward and shy in crowds. It's the main reason why I don't like school, though learning itself is all well and good. I do have a handful of friends, but none of them are close - no one who has a shoulder spare for me to cry on, no one I'd want to invite to my home. I've always preferred my own company to anyone else's. I don't argue with myself, do I? No. Nor do I shackle myself by being incompetent at the things I love to do. Sometimes it would be nice to have someone who understands me, someone who loves and rages and runs and knows what it's like to be Timbra Lannett. But as long as there is no one, I am content to be alone.

And if after all is said and done,
There are no battles, lost or won
One day lost to fear is one too many!

I'm an only child, born within the second year of my parents' marriage. They were both lumberjacks, but my mother had to give up her job to care for me for a time. It was hard on them, paying for the needs of a baby as well as their own out of only one salary. Mother didn't dare work until I was three, either, I was so curious. I was constantly escaping the house, picking up dangerous objects, and otherwise worrying the life out of my parents. Finally, she got it drilled into my skull that kitchen knives and such were not toys, and took up woodcutting again.

My parents worried about me when they were at work; I was so young, and they were gone for the entire day. But they should have worried about themselves. Barely six months after my mother went back to work, her axe slipped and she cut deeply into her ankle. They couldn't afford for her to see the doctor, not at this point. Dad took her to the apothecary and got her ankle bandaged, but there was only so much that could be done with such limited supplies. My mother lived, but the ankle healed crookedly - she would walk with a limp, stand with an unbalanced tilt, and never be able to use an axe again.

Going back to living on Dad's salary was out of the question. Our living quality had lowered during those years, and we'd still had to use most of our limited savings. But being a lumberjack was closed to my mother. My parents didn't know what to do for a while, but then mother remembered the garden. She would grow herbs and sell them in the market, they decided. It wouldn't pay as well as woodcutting, but it was something.

The idea succeeded. My mother has always had a way with gardening, and herbs sold well to the more prosperous families, the sort who could afford to pay for a bit more flavor to their food. My mother still grows her herbs, and we still get by handsomely. I often help her plant and pick the herbs. I like to work in the garden; I'm convinced it's the most peaceful place in the district, and the plants put a wonderful clean scent into the air. A beautiful scent. It's an easier place to love things in than anywhere else I know.