Stella Errans {Wandering Star} [District 2]

The pale, graceful appearance of a Moon-Lilly, and the personality of a water hemlock. Stella stood about 5'6, long white hair spilling over her pale cheeks and dark, haunting eyes. She was beautiful, yet repulsive. Like a statue to be observed but never touched. A diamond in the rough, shimmering and sparkling, tearing open your hand as you pick it up.

Milky white skin, Lilly white hair, the facade of someone sickly. Nonetheless, as a career her focus had been on accuracy and agility more than brute strength. The visage of an angel, she was graceful and patient. Her hands were soft, lacking the scratches and calluses of a javelin user. The work of well made gloves, black, stopping short at the knuckle. Obsidian skirt, cut in thin triangles at the side, shorts underneath, met at the waste by a ring of triangles, the end of a blouse. These garments were rarely exposed however, as Stella wore a silky black poncho which concealed the majority of her physique. Held in place by a blood-stone brooch, it's frail black spikes greeted a pair of brown moccasins, a tessellated pattern scaling the sides. The angel wore a headband as well, a white ribbon streaming down the left side of her hair down onto her shoulder. Adorned with white oleanders, each pinned neatly and carefully to the fabric. Her nails had been longer than usual, but not so much to depreciate the delicate appearance of her satin white hands. Her eyes a dark hazel, black to the naive spectator. Haunting symmetrical cornea, pillars supporting large dilated pupils.

She smelled like potpourri, her breath a minty whisper in the wind. Thin pink lips, almost matching her skin rarely opened to divulge something other than meaningful utterance. Her hair was smooth and cold, like woven marble. her shoulders were well defined, yet not opposing and broad like a males. She most certainly was not muscular in a traditional sense, yet her performance and aim were near flawless, the result countless practice perhaps. Tedious trails duplicated over and over again.

I watched them walk, the continuum of every day life I suppose. It wasn't meaningful however, any of it. They weren't meaningful. Average, frail and profane. It disgusted me very much, the failed and unreachable potential of man. I observed them often, never questioning, never withholding a glance of persecution. Built to destroy they were, and I as well. In a way it seemed savage at first, to kill. Not until the moment of my absolution did I realize the meaning of it all. The struggle, the plight, that is what this world is for. The weak have no place in it I would say, they never have. Appalling their lack of intuition was. The acceptance of weakness disgusted me, I could never concede to it.

I brought the glass back up to my lips, tasting the tart chilled cranberry juice once again. feelings, emotions, weakness. If God exists he is most certainly a sadist. The architect who constructs an arena, and dictates us all to be gladiators, spilling blood and ending lives for the sake of entertainment. I suppose the capital was no different. Yet somehow, I loved it. The friction on my gloves as the javelin slid out of my hand toward my target. The thud, the vibration reverberating from the weapon upon impact. Persecution, it was enthralling. Every javelin I had was but an angel's tear, wrath raining down upon these miserable creatures for their ineptitude.

I glanced back down, observing the remnants of my meal. "Stella, are you finished eating?" my mother had asked. "If you don't eat, you wont have the strength to train." said my father. I ran a finger along my hand, tracing the lines of my palm. "I will have the strength, I always do." They smiled, as always. Their daughter, a career , I thought it was nothing special but they felt otherwise. Beauty, strength. Burden's wrapped in pretty packages, presented as gifts from god - and heredity I would assume. I will unwrap them, no matter what it costs my happiness. A chance at freedom, that's what the games are for. The obligations of an imperfect society neglected by a state of nature. Nihilism as the way it should be. I long for it.

Stella Errans was born in district two to the Errans. A cold, aloof child, she rarely spoke in public. Her parents were not of outstanding wealth, but their reputation and loyalty to the capital proceeded them. Stella accepted this as absolution quite early on, because fate could not be changed as they would often say. Her training began as the age of six, and after years of practice she became accustomed to persecution, to justice for the strong.

Preparation as a career tribute was certain and Stella held no outstanding qualms with this. Other citizens of the district often described her as distant and mysterious. Her sarcasm was notoriously cutting as was her fondness of rhetorical questions. It was a responsibility to enlighten the victims of her wrath she felt.

Stella prepares for the games with very thorough training, in javelin throwing, agility and endurance. She holds the mentality of a career tribute, yet her occupation as one is most certainly of obligation than desire. Nonetheless, Stella is fully prepared to put forth her life for the sake of entertaining "god" and the capital alike. But can death be a tragedy for one whom encourages persecution of weaker beings?

Notify me of any editing needs and I'll be happy to oblige. ^.^