Weald Dunlap [D7]

At six feet even and one hundred fifty-seven pounds, he can certainly be described as "scrawny". Though he has very little in the way of upper body strength, his legs are moderately toned. This comes from his time spent as a runner in one of his district's paper mills, carrying messages and supplies rapidly across the manufacturing floor. Along the same lines, his pale and faded complexion are attributed to the long days spent indoors performing said duties.

Way's grey-green eyes are similar in color to a mossy forest floor, with a soft kindness about them. His hair, once the shade of newly-felled trees, has darkened slightly over the years. It now most closely resembles dirt, for lack of a better comparison. Weald's friends are all too familiar with his trademark smile, a wry sort of quirk of one corner of his mouth, usually accompanied by a mirthful chuckle. The very tip of his left ear was severed during a minor accident at the mill, while a jagged, starbust-shape birthmark dominates the underside of his left forearm.

In a stark contrast to many his age, Way could definitely be characterized as a wallflower. It's not exactly that he isn't interested in joining conversations, more that he prefers to listen. He is keen and observative, possibly to a fault. Though there are certainly a select few who call themselves his friends, it's difficult for him to strike up conversations and make friends in this manner. Some would call him a loner, and this might be true at times, but Weald recognizes his faults and works to overcome them.

Though not as strong as his brothers, both of them loggers, or as intelligent as his sister, speed and cunning are his allies. At younger ages, he was always the one to win such games as "Hide-And-Go-Find-Them" and tag, though the four were not permitted to play such games outside of their modest home. And when his sister didn't perform as she hoped in school, or when one of his brothers injured themselves at work, it was always Weald who was there for comfort.

Working in a mill of many moving parts and people, if you don't keep your wits about you, you're lucky to last a week. His sharp reflexes helped him avoid many an injury, though certainly some were unavoidable. But after taking a relatively soft timber core to the back of the head a couple times, you begin to learn quickly.

He is a severe acrophobe, very frightened of heights. He feels most at home when his feet are on solid ground. Additionally, as a result of his underdevelopment immediately following his birth, and in spite of his speed, he suffers from infrequent asthmatic attacks when running for a significant period, which generally pass in anywhere from one to three minutes.

He is usually quite introverted, taking to writing in his journal or viewing events from afar, only occasionally participating when encouraged by his siblings or his few friends.

My mom always says that on the morning I was born, she was woken up with one of summer's rare, cool breezes licking at her feet, and that was the moment she knew, I was on my way. Dad tells it a little different. He says mom had been up all night sweating, calling him all sorts of names and cursing up a storm, swearing that she'd get him back for doing this to her a fourth time. I think I prefer mom's version.

They said I was very little, barely able to breathe on my own. A runt, I think they call them. But with some nurturing and a couple nerve-wracking nights, I survived. I always wonder about that. How something so little could have such a strong will to live, and endure. Life's kinda funny like that. Some struggle all their life to just make ends meet, and others flourish, simply because of where they were born. I try not to think too much about that part though, because mom says 'Life's too quick and precious to worry about the things we can't change'.

"Way, call your brothers to dinner, will you? And get washed up. It's getting cold," came his mother's voice from the other room. "Okay, be there in a minute," he called back, scribbling away at his journal.

At least we have each other. Mom, dad, Ed, Dwayne, Emily, and me. We're in it together. I wouldn't trade something like that for all the puff pastries in the Capitol. Sure, it means all of us working as much as we can to keep food on the table, sometimes even trading our luck for tesserae. That's not all that uncommon out here though. I figure my name's in that bowl at least twenty-five times now. It's a dumb thing to say, but I don't want to die. Heh. Who does, right? Everyone knows that the games are a death sentence for anyone outside of the career districts.

When I'm not in school, I work at the mill. When I'm not at the mill, I'm home. But no matter where I am, there's not a moment I'm not thinking about that bowl. I even dream about it. More like nightmares, I guess. It's Reaping Day. We're all standing there, and suddenly the wind picks up. It sweeps the tickets out of the bowl, fluttering in the air like butterflies. And then they open up, and they all read the same thing. Weald Dunlap. It's only a dream, until it isn't.

"Weald, I mean it!" He sighed and closed the journal with a sense of finality. She really meant it when she used his full name. "Okay okay," he replied, sticking it back under his pillow and hurrying off to scrub his hands clean and call his brothers to dinner.

Fish!