Kipora Tonraq [D3] ~LoK Plot~ FIN

Hear my voice
I came out of the woods by choice
Shelter also gave us shade
In the dark
I have no name

I am at the age of seventeen, yet I have been told that I possess the mind of one much older (A mind troubled with the memories of a confusing past; a mind that formed a shell around my skin. Not to protect, but to hide.) When that statement falls upon my ears, my head turns away, the same thought flowing through my mind: If you had seen what I've been through, you too would be hardened. An arduous Wanderer's life full of mixed sceneries and encounters is bound to change you, especially when you find yourself washed up onto the polluted land of District Three, with only your name to call your own. When trees suddenly morph into factories, one must learn to harden themselves and just fit in. That doesn't fit well with me, though. I must fight back.

So leave that click in my head
I won't remember the words that you said
A clouded mind and heavy heart
But I am sure
I'll have a new start

[/size][/right]

Fighting has always been a part of me. The training that has shielded me from the world - the shield coming in the form of trees and a layer of grime and dirt constantly upon my dark skin - is seen easily throughout my body. The constant fighting my body has suffered through has been etched clearly across my skin. More likely written across my skin, by the people who believe they created me. From the bruises and scars that dot my body, so colorful when standing out against the dark background, to the toned muscles that bulge out, clearly showing that I don't belong here.

Fit in. The plan of fitting in in this polluted land was ruined the moment my big bare feet stepped down upon it, the feet of a Wanderer seeming to leave traces of my past behind with each step. Patches of green that fell behind me as my wide blue eyes fell in wonder upon the broken factory windows, memories of a free way of life disappearing in the patches, as if they didn't want to get stuck in the cage of Three. Yet here I remain, with my long fingers - claws - gripped tightly around the bars, a lion's mane of black hair shielding my eyes from the outside life... The life that is no longer mine.

I try and force myself to forget the past, yet the realization that it will never be truly gone is seen in the hardened features of my face. The line of pale pink lips remains thin (yet flashes a smile, with white teeth that stand out brightly against the brown, commonly when a battle is won. A confident; arrogant smile,) My eyebrows remain furrowed between my large eyes, as if constantly deciding battle strategies and challenging each word that falls from a person's lips - most likely a comeback to Tarzan, who constantly chastisises each confident, yet careless, move I make.

It's at these judging moments, when the shallow faces of the District stare me down, when I realize how trapped I truly am. Their scowls widen as they glance at the baggy clothes I wear, my face reflecting there's in an annoyed mock. If only they knew what I was hiding behind these clothes. A muscular, yet skinny form would definitely raise suspicion. Yet of course, it's all part of the plan of fitting in. Fitting in, fitting in, fitting in... completely standing out. It's about the only thing I fail completely at.

[/color]
[/size][/right]

I remember the words mama used to say: "One day ya gonna break, hon, an' I ain't gonna be there when it happens." Those words constantly linger in my head, stuck in the turmoil and mixture of emotions that sit there - waiting to find each and every break on the surface of my skin, only to pour out and envelope me in a sea of my own weaknesses. I block them out, though, and punch them farther down into the few spaces that remain, until my knuckles are black and blue and reflect the splotches that cover my skin, my sweat washing away the fears that linger upon the furrow of my brows. If only they stayed washed away, yet they continue to come back, like a seashell that is continuously forced to crash upon the sand with each wave. Drowning and dying in the heavy weight.

Papa's words were different, though. "Ya gotta let go of that fear, Kip, or no one ain't gonna take ya serious. Push it down, and it's just gonna go away." If only he knew how wrong he was. Mama looked upon him with disapproving eyes, yet her melancholy glance was lost in the sea of training that constantly shadowed my life. Instead of being a normal girl (I tended to leave the image of a girl at a young age, clinging to the realization that to live out in the forest, I needed to be like papa), my gaze lifted up to papa, looking for the approval nod that came at such rare moments. If only we had noticed the misery in Mama's eyes earlier... before it was too late.

I didn't shed a tear. As I stared at the feet of my mother - so high up from the dry grass below -, I simply turned my back. The water that falls from one's eyes is only the weakness that has managed to leak out, the will of the owner succumbing to the turmoil that exists within, like a volcano that continues to boil inside, erupting at the most unexpected moment. I would know. That was when I truly morphed into the vision that I had always dreamed of: A girl who earns the grins of her Papa with every wound she causes; a girl who is accepted among the barefooted Wanderers that travel the forests like a band of gypsies.

I was a free spirit, that is, as close to a free spirit a person like me can come to. Crude words and violent - yet friendly - punches flowed freely through the forest, implanting a sense of a world without consequences firmly in my mind. I vividly recall the memories of the life of the green and browns, the sounds of laughter - a rather stiff laugh, the sound of a hardened person hesitantly letting out the emotion that is so hard to come by - and the memory of swinging from branches standing out among all others.

I was free.

Now, I'm caged in the polluted encasement of District Three, everything I've stood for casting a permanent disapproving frown upon the citizens that glance down at me. I refuse to break though, for the rude, arrogant comments still manage to spill from my fiery tongue, challenges springing the moment it surfaces in my thoughts. "You're so hotheaded, Kipora. That'll get you in trouble here." Those words, from the "wise and all-knowing" Tarzan, who would like the appear as my father figure. If only he knew how truly different he is from Papa.

Yet here I am, staring at the man that now takes care of me - or at least owns the house I stay in. Never will I truly be "taken care of", for I like to believe that I belong to no one else but myself - and listen to him as he tells me to take deep breaths. "Clear your mind." The moment air starts to come in, though, it gets stuck in my throat, blocked by the pain and suffering that seems to make a wall at every opening. In fear of breaking it down, I blow back the oxygen with another rude comment of how stupid this exercise this is (how hard this is.) I don't need mental stability to be strong... I only need strength.

[/i] [/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify][/size]

Rest too long in my youth
And find it hard to live in the truth
But do not tell me what is right
When I lose my head
I lose my sight

Sometimes, when the walls of my bedroom - any wall in general... so different from the enclosure of trees - seem to close in on me, my eyes close and I escape within myself, reflecting on the emotions that I seem to hide so well. I actually think of happy things. I like to imagine that I was not born, but created by nature itself. The thick limbs - like the rough hands of Papa - reached far down, to a surface it had never touched before, and scooped out part of the quiet earth - like the silent gaze of Mama - and began to sculpt. Life was given to the creation. A baby that was one with nature, and would forever be free.

Yet of course, all fantasies must come face to face with reality, in the end. In a world such as mine, one does well not to dwell on the imaginations that a young girl would dream up. Of course, there was an entirely different creation story for me (one that was far less colorful and vivid, instead dull and full of difficulties.) Mama and Papa were born Wanderers, creating a full-blood sense of freedom in me when I was born. Of course, my coming to this world was a mistake - it was uncommon for a Wanderer to have a child, for only misery and pain would follow - yet I was raised with love and the teaching that the forest is my home.

Life was easy at first. I can still see flashes of smiles in my memories... smiles that were actually as a result of pure joy and happiness; smiles that would show up on a regular basis. I recall chats at the campfire, swinging from the limbs that I commonly believed were an extension of my arm, and the first time my bare feet pressed down upon the sand of the beach at District Four. Every happy feeling has to come to an end, though

As a family that had never stepped foot in a District, we liked to believe that life would remain easy as long as no one knew we even existed... yet awareness of Wanderers spread, and spottings of them suddenly became more common. We were becoming hunted. That was when the brutal training started. Papa's soft gaze and warm smile beneath a thick beard became a harsh glare and a thin line that made his mouth disappear completely. I was scared. The moment that statement left my mouth, though, they were slapped right away, by the callused hand of Papa. In a changing world where we were the prey, there was no time for a weakness such as fear.

My small arms began to develop muscles that a girl my age shouldn't have, yet I had to carry my own weight in such a hard life. I could see the despair in Mama's eyes as she stared down at me (most likely feeling the guilt of bringing her young daughter into such a life) as I kicked and punched at the trees for practice. She never protested, though. Maybe if she did, she would still be alive. Yet of course, she kept it all held in, waiting patiently for the guilt and despair to eat away at her insides. Sometimes I wonder if that's how I will end up: on a noose hanging from the limb that I once believed would always be a part of me.

The regular appearance of Peacekeepers, and the regular wounds that continued to appear upon our skin drove Mama to her breaking point. Papa and I (me being at the age of fifteen) walked to the clearing that was our home for the night - there was a different home each day, for we lived in a world where we belonged anywhere under the canopy of leaves - and saw Mama's lifeless body swinging in the wind. Papa and I never discussed that moment, for that drastic moment in our lives was placed within all the other memories that we kept locked away. Another emotion to eat away inside of us.

Life carried on, yet a wall seemed to be put up between Papa and me. Running permanently left our muscles sore, and our minds alert. Deaths were seen commonly on the trails of the Forest-Walkers, creating a knowing sense of dread in our minds that our time was going to come eventually. Yet somehow... I believe my father began to welcome that time. I saw it in the way his movements became sluggish; the way I would catch him staring at me with a look of guilt and pain. If only I knew what was going to happen... I would have said something. Yet words were rarely shared between us at that point.

My entire life changed in a heartbeat. The fleeing from Peacekeepers was common, yet I knew this time - when the masks of white appeared from the brush, with weapons glaring down at us with hatred -, it would be completely different. Instinct caused me to flee, yet once I realized I was alone, I was too late to save him. My last memory of Papa was of him on his knees, the whisper of "I'm sorry" echoing against the silent trees, that welcomed their kin with open branches the second the gun was heard in the air. As the birds opened their wings and took flight, - as if flying away to welcome him into the world that he always longed to become one with - I can still hear my scream echoing in my dreams. Everything else that happened was a blur. All I recall after that is the body of white thumping to the ground after I had disarmed him, the weapon that had taken Papa's own life gripped firmly in my callused hands.

I ran.

I ran until I could no longer, not knowing how much time had passed. Before I knew it, my life had transformed once again.I had wandered into a completely different world; a world full of buildings that I had only nightmares about. I don't know what caused me to run into District that was shaded by buildings and covered with citizens that would never accept me, yet something clicked in my head. Maybe it was the thought of dying a gruesome death such as Mama and Papa, or maybe it was the thought of living alone in such a wide forest that I would always be running through. Either way... there is no going back.

I wandered the streets for days, picking fights with whoever came across my path - most stayed away, though, becoming uneasy when their gaze fell upon the twigs and branches sticking out from my mane of hair that had never felt a blade before; the blood that covered my clothing. That life ended, however, once I met the kind and gentle Tarzan, who immediately outstretched his hand and welcome me into his home. Manners, proper attire, and grammar were instantly pressed down upon me. I refuse to listen, forever pledging to stay as the free girl that once traveled the forest with the only two humans she had ever laid eyes on.

I was pressed to make friends, yet most stayed away from me. "Don't go near that girl. She's nothing but trouble." The closest I came to friends was The Fire Ferrets, a fighting group that hesitantly took me in once they had seen my skills in combat. For once, I felt as if I fit in among District Three. If only the way I had made friends wasn't considered illegal by the authorities. It is stated that the underground fighting arena was established to help the children of District Three have a chance at The Hunger Games - an event that I only just began to hear about, the only statement of it in the woods being myths that were told by the campfires -. I do it for a different reason, though.

I do it because fighting is who I am.

[/justify][/size]

So leave that click in my head
I won't remember the words that you said
A clouded mind and heavy heart
But I am sure
I'll have a new start

[/size][/right]

CODEWORD: Odair
FACECLAIM: Jessica Szohr
OTHER:

Hopeless Wanderer by Mumford & Sons

MAIN: 3B4761
THOUGHTS: 616F8A
OTHER: 757B81
TALKING: 675E51
OTHERS TALKING: 37312E

[/size][/color]