Marshelder Cane // District Eleven

Marsh is destined (doomed?) to always look like a child. His face is fully and round, fat clinging to his bones, softening all of the edges that usually define a man. His nose is broad and flat the bottom, his eyes small and bright. Full lips and squat ears complete the ensemble. All of this separately wouldn't be much. In fact, it doesn't really amount to anything spectacular either. The best you can say, if you really focus on Marsh' looks, is that he looks nice. Average. Normal. Nothing too striking or too hideous.

Those big lips hid a devilish smile though, the kind that transforms. It isn't that he has the straightest teeth, or the whitest, but something about the set of it, of how it seems so friendly and welcoming. Marsh has a lot to be grateful for in that smile; it has gotten him out of more trouble than he'll ever know. It can be a bit of a burden; Marsh has been known to smile through punishment, even in pain. It's all he's got, really, so he trots it out often.

As with most young lads in Eleven, the work Marsh does in the orchards has made him strong. He's just started to shoot up, the baby fat liquidating, skin stretching to accommodate new muscles. He stands at 5'9" but it's clear he's not done yet either, not at the rate he's going through shoes. He wears his work clothes, mostly, with only a few nicer things passed down from his father. He's not picky though; Marsh knows that his clothes aren't going to be the thing that makes or breaks him.

Monday's child, full of face. The line of poetry suits Marsh's personality, much more so than his mundane looks. He makes up for the softness of his features by having more charisma than the rest of district eleven put together. He can ooze and charm, delight and embarrass, and has been known to talk from dawn to dusk. In fact it's a little difficult to get Marsh to shut up, once he gets going. And it's not like he's waxing eloquent; most of the time he's just blabbing about whatever enters his head, or whistling a tune when the Peacekeepers aren't around.

Marsh has a decent voice, and this continues to win him friends. He can turn almost anything in rhymes, lay them over tired tunes. It's hard not to crack a smile when he's rhyming words like "peach" and "beseech." Because in all those years of coming up with songs he's developed quite a vocabulary, even if he can't always define the words exactly, he understands the context well enough. Marsh isn't the brightest tool in the shed, but he figures if he talks long enough, no one will think twice about that.

It's the quiet that plagues Marsh, silence that kills. He can't stand to have a lull in conversation. He's real friendly because of that, will walk up to anyone and introduce himself. And he can be a little skeevy, if only because he hasn't yet perfected his ways. He is, after all, only sixteen, and often tries too hard. Some women go for the serenades, the flowers, the professions of love, but the ones he really wants, the ones he should aim for, want something more serious, more real. Marsh hasn't figured that out yet, and once he does, he'll be in an even bigger pickle. Because there's not a lot bubbling below the surface here. Just fun and games and charisma.

He can be a little more real around his brother, his boys. For all his flirting and chasing, Marsh is the dog with cars. He doesn't know what to do once he's caught one. With his guys, it's different. He still yammers on, but he knows they get him, and he understands them, too. It's just more comfortable. And somewhere far away the Capitol makes sure he's in the orchards every day int he autumn, sun up to sun down, and they ensure this by hosting the yearly Games. But Marsh doesn't think about them much, doesn't care to. He yaps his way through each year's Reaping, never looking twice at the shadow it casts.

Marshelder was the first child born to the Canes, followed soon after by his little brother. Two boys was a very good omen for the family in a district that broke its back for the Capitol. As soon as he could toddle around, Marsh went with his father and mother to the orchards, growing up climbing trees and sneaking fresh fruit. The Canes worked primarily with apricots when he was a toddler, but they have branched out to picking whatever fruit survives the harsh summers, the brutal winters.

For some, the appearance of another child might have been a thing to resent, but not for Marsh. He loved his little brother even before he made his way from their mother's belly into the world. To have a friend, a playmate, someone to learn to talk with - it was perfect for Marsh. He insisted on taking the little baby to the orchards, and as they grew, Marsh made sure they were assigned to similar duties. It was quickly clear that his brother would always be smaller, more suited to climbing. So Marsh started focusing on catching, picking that which his brother dropped.

It was hard work, no doubt, his childhood far from idyllic. And yet, if you asked Marsh together, he'd go on and on about the days between winter and spring, when he was free to do as he wished, to the long autumn days spent side-by-side with his family and friends, gathering fruit. There are easier lives in Panem, but none quite so full as Marshelder's. He has especially found companionship among a select group of boys, all quite close to his age. He wouldn't dream about doing anything without his brother, so he's been ushered into the group as well. They party, get into minor trouble, chase skirts. Nothing too epic, and Marsh is happy to go with the crowd. He would never be to the one to suggest an outing, but he'll always be the first to support the motion.

It has only just begun to dawn on Marsh that he will eventually need to settle down and have a family on his own. While that seems like a long time in the offing - perhaps about five years - he started to get a little wiser, a little focused in his flirtations. And he is beginning to know the world outside of district eleven is not perfect. His friends gripe about it. But Marsh lives in his own little bubble, actively maintaining his ignorance for as long as possible.

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