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Ivana Vox [Chime]
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a hard soul to « save » ♕ python Jun 11, 2013 0:09:46 GMT -5

Post by Ivana Vox [Chime] on Jun 11, 2013 0:09:46 GMT -5

- - desdemonda malay

Pitter patter goes a little rabbit heart, stuck inside of a poisoned chest. This is how Desdemonda's heart beat has always been, beating at a rhythm that doesn't fit with the rest. Nobody knows why, they just know that it's strange and that strange usually means bad. She's still alive though, still alive and walking under the sun, the sun twinkling up in the sky and burning the sand beneath her bare feet. The light bleaches her skin even more, turns her hair impossibly whiter. She looks so pure, all cool tones in a world that's on fire.

How looks can be deceiving.

This is one of the few times she isn't with her counterbalance. There's no twin to be seen, she's waiting at home where she's safe. Far, far away from the twisted mind of her sister. Maybe for once she can breathe easily.

Des doubts it. She knows that Jacqueline is unfixable, whether she's by her side or not. She can keep her together though. That's what she's always wanted to do. Just think about the girl that she'd never been separated from. Nothing else mattered, after all.

She kicked at the sand, spinning around so her blue skirts flared around her in a bell. She didn't smile like a normal girl would, just spun. And as she spun, she tried not to think. Not of the beach or the ocean slapping at the rocks, not of her duties back at home. There were too many things that she could be thinking of that she didn't want to, and -

No.

Her name being called from far back. She could pretend that the water swallowed her brother's voice, or she could just go towards him. She took measured steps, her face blank. It always was. Even when she smiled there was something vacant about her expression, as if she was a painting and the artist didn't quite capture anything in the paint. Her eyes were dead, but no one seemed to notice. She was too good of an actress to seem completely wrong, just a little unnerving. Lots of people were like that though. It was the districts, no one was without hardship. Her feet barely left impressions in the sand, she had to be so careful as she walked. Or else she'd run, and if she ran, she'd snap. Who knew what would happen then?

"What is it?" She didn't want the answer, but she got it anyways. She wasn't supposed to be strolling, she was supposed to be working, and she knew it. So it was no surprise when Finn told her off. His voice was soft though, as if he was talking to a wounded animal.

Was she a wounded animal? She didn't know anymore. "Whatever," was all she said, pushing past him and leaving him sprawled out in the sand.

She kept walking down the beach, her feet crunching on the shells now. She revelled in the noise, wondering what things had lived in those cases, what things had died in them. She kept going until she made it to the docks, and then she stopped. It wasn't often that things caught her attention, but when they did, she was all alertness. Perfectly still, hardly breathing, her head cocked to the side. Work could wait. No one would die without her tying knots.

A cacophony greeted her ears, but she was almost certain that no one else heard it. She was just drawn to the bad things in the world, even if she wasn't sure exactly what was going on. Just that it stunk of something not right, and it made her lips quirk up into her ghost of a smile. That odd smirk that looked like a skeleton's fleshless grin. She walked right by her family's boat, ducking between heads so she wasn't spotted as she came across a girl she did not know.

She still had no idea what was going on, but she stopped, her feline movements coming to a halt with an eery silence. She had meant to sneak up on this mystery person though. She never liked to be the one caught unaware, after all. "What is this?" Her voice scratched and burned, like coarse salt on an open cut. Hoarse and low, nothing like what you'd expect from a pretty little blonde girl smiling under a sky of the bluest blues.

"Who are you?" She wasn't following etiquette or protocol. She just... Was. She was as she always was, as she always did. She'd given up on social norms long ago.

it was books that made me feel that perhaps i was not completely alone

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a hard soul to « save » ♕ python Jun 11, 2013 17:06:03 GMT -5

Post by Python on Jun 11, 2013 17:06:03 GMT -5

The ripple of ocean waves was a serenade for some and a source of mischievous delight for one. A mere slip of the foot and a tumble into blue added just one violent wave to the rest, yet it was this soft splash that banished the last traces of gloom from the trickster’s mind. It was possibly the simplest prank she had ever pulled on the royal pain - a mere ‘misplacement’ of seaweed on the dock as makeshift banana peels - but there was no variation in the glee it summoned to Locust’s burning heart.

They say revenge can be bittersweet, but I only taste the sugar. While her highness was flailing in salt water like a seizing octopus, the mischief maker stood by the edge with dry feet planted solid on damp wood, a smirk gracing her snowy complexion. It served the girl right for interrupting her chores and mocking her work. It was her devil of a mother that had assigned Locust the obnoxious duty of scrubbing the family boat until the floor shimmered like a new set of teeth, and she he would’ve felt perfectly content on her own. She was adjusted to slaving for the family, after all, since that was the whole purpose of her adoption. But Miss Priscilla Lovelace had been compelled to follow her and try to faze her with subtle teases and measly insults. You’d think she would’ve learned her lesson by now. That was the fun part, though - the fact that Priscilla Lovelace would always be a verbally impulsive moron.

The pitter patter of ginger footsteps drew her gaze around to meet those of a stranger’s. A beautiful stranger, might she add, although a chocolate shell with no sweet caramel filling would just be another career clone. All bitch and no bite nor joy made Locust a bored little slave. If the girl was anything like her ‘sister’, she wanted nothing to do with her. ”What is this?” She suppressed the urge to send a stream of sarcasm her way (”It’s the ocean, what does it look like?”) and considered a different approach despite the failed attempt to understand the context of the question. Was she talking about the sopping wet girl grumbling in the water? Because she would be happy to describe the pride and joys of vengeance, as insignificant as it was compared to previous pranks. Instead of a given chance, though, the girl continued to speak. ”Who are you?” Right, that was a rather strange way to ask for an identity, not that it actually mattered who she was. Her name was about as important as this stranger’s, but a proper response might not hurt for once. She was overdue for a touch of normalcy, anyhow. However, there was still one order of business to attend to - and it was very angry business. Business wearing a pink skirt and shoes way too small for delicate feet.

”You bitch!” Blonde, tangled hairs were plastered to the girl’s cheeks as she stomped across the creaky dock’s surface with only one shoe still present. It wasn’t the roused emotions or even the ruined clothes that really stirred Locust’s cruel sense of humor - it was her face. Her eye shadow was smudged, foundation dripping atrociously over dimpled cheeks, and there were two inky streaks like onyx tears crawling down her puffed cheeks. She looked like a soggy clown from an old-fashioned horror movie, and Locust couldn’t swallow the shriek of a giggle that tickled the back of her tongue. She quickly composed herself and watched her sister writhe helplessly with seaweed clinging to her ankles. She looked beyond pissed. ”You are so immature!” Normally she would roll her eyes at Priscilla’s dramatic behavior but the humor was too rich. Amusement danced across pale irises as she observed every awkward movement the girl made while she stamped away, steam practically whistling out of her reddened ears. It was golden. ”Don’t mind her, she’s a royal bitch,” she finally said, acknowledging the stranger for the first time since Priscilla’s hand had slapped the deck in frustration. They were meeting on rather odd circumstances, but she didn‘t mind. She could think of no better way to make a first impression. ”Name’s Locust.”[/justify][/blockquote]

Last Edit: Jun 12, 2013 20:59:08 GMT -5 by Python

Ivana Vox [Chime]
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a hard soul to « save » ♕ python Jun 12, 2013 0:01:43 GMT -5

Post by Ivana Vox [Chime] on Jun 12, 2013 0:01:43 GMT -5

- - desdemonda malay

It wasn't often that Desdemonda managed real interest in something. She feigned it often, mostly just to appease the people around her who seemed to think that being disconnected from the world in a way that kept her from getting tied down by an anchor stuck in the rotting sand at the bottom of the ocean was a bad thing. She couldn't see a thing wrong with it, but that was her opinion, and it tended to be at least a little bit skewed. Especially considering the fact that while she watched things play out, her eyes skimming from the dock to the ocean that she knew could swallow people whole and never let go, no matter how much they kicked and screamed and clawed at the break-away surface. She wondered briefly what things lurked under the dock and if any of them were hungry enough to turn an innocent prank into something disastrous.

Now that would have been something worth smirking over.

Not that the sight she got to behold was anything short of picture-worthy. If she had any way of capturing that stranger's sopping wet likeness in that moment, she would have done whatever she had to just to accomplish that tiny task. All she could think of was a cat that fell off of the dock, claws skittering and gripping onto the slick wood just to fall into the warm water. There was something even better about it being a girl that looked like she could have been pretty, gorgeous even, and she certainly seemed like the kind who would be perfectly aware of her own appearance. The kind that would try to use it to the best of her advantages, flaunting around her privilege like the lash of a whip.

The girl's high-pitched voice was both nails on a chalkboard and a symphony, a thousand instruments that squealed and squeaked and hit the wrong notes so many time that it became it's own off-kilter music. She looked around and wondered how many people would see that soggy little self-entitled princess. She wondered if the girl knew how much it could effect her "image," and if it would bring salty tears to her eyes to make her makeup run even more.

She wondered if even the ocean didn't want her like that.

"You did it wrong," she replied simply, instead of introducing herself. "You have to know about the place just a few boats down where they throw away all of the unwanted fish once it's gone to rot. It would have been much funnier if you'd thrown a few of those in before casting her over, too." The birds would have pecked at every strand of her blond hair and she probably would have smelled of the fouled flesh for days, if not weeks. Maybe she'd even attract a not-so-secret admirer in the form of a gull.

Now she did smile, something close to expression in her stormy grey eyes. "Desdemonda, but Des is easier." Usually, she wouldn't have gotten around to her name, would have kept walking on by and shouldered Locust into the ocean on her way. Then, just because she felt obligated, "It was a good start though, Locust. Everyone can leave room for improvement." Her voice was still eery, not lifting or wavering in any way. It sounded like a recording, even as her mouth moved around every vowel and consonant to string together her sentences.

She looked over at where the girl had disappeared, eyeing the trail of water quickly being soaked into the weathered dock. "What was she?" Then, just to make sure because sometimes people did get her mixed up for her twin, despite the fact they weren't quite identical, "Not your sister. A school mate's sister, someone who dipped your hair in ink when you were little? A pick pocket? Just a regular, run of the mill brat?" Technically speaking, Des didn't care, not for the reasons she should. She just wanted the story so she could snicker a little bit more.

It wasn't often that she came across something that pleased her in any sense of the word. Who could blame her for hanging onto the things that did, even just a little bit? It couldn't possibly hurt her.

And maybe she was just a little bit intent on this dark-haired stranger, someone who seemed just cruel enough to not shy away from all of her dark corners. She was tired of being surrounded by summer girls with their shining smiles and sun-warmed hearts. She wanted to wait and see just how deep the ice went with this one, just how far her hatred creeped.

"Do you think she'll cry?"

it was books that made me feel that perhaps i was not completely alone

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a hard soul to « save » ♕ python Jun 13, 2013 15:53:44 GMT -5

Post by Python on Jun 13, 2013 15:53:44 GMT -5

The drenched figure faded into a discolored blur against the palette of blue that was their homeland. She walked at an awkward, unsteady pace that told the tale of her well-deserved misfortune, and Locust took the pleasure of absorbing the highlight of the image until her form blended with the background colors and abandoned her with this mysterious presence - the girl who didn’t seem to comprehend the norms of introducing oneself, not that Locust could be bothered to care. Sometimes a pinch of spice was a good thing, as long as it wasn’t poisonous.

”Oh, I’m definitely familiar with that place,” she said, a hint of a smile crossing her visage. The thought of dumping Priscilla into a vat of decaying fish and sticky salt water was pleasing to the nerves. She could almost picture her shell-shocked expression mixed with the appearance of disgust and defeat as globules of melted fish organs filled every crease in her dress. The shrieks would be delightful, too; like a symphony to her ears. ”It was a matter of convenience, though. I came out here to finish my chores and clean the family boat, but she interrupted me. I had to think of something quick.” It was an amateur prank, she would admit to that, but did that make the situation any less amusing? Definitely not.

”Desdemonda, but Des is easier.” I’ll say. It was an exotic name unsuited to someone living in the fishy career district, but she liked the sound of it. It was feminine, unlike her own name ‘Locust’ (not that she complained about her own singularity). It was a peculiar name that matched a pretty face. ”It was a good start though, Locust. Everyone can leave room for improvement.” The naivety of Locust’s true nature was worthy of bitter acknowledgement, but she couldn’t find the energy to feel offense. There was no reason to care about thoughts that were not her own - that was just putting forth too much wasted effort, and for what? To find everyone’s opinions of her? Opinions wouldn’t grant her the freedom she deserved or she life she sought. That was on her shoulders, not anyone else’s, though the Lovelaces seemed bent on disagreement. She shrugged and rolled her shoulders back, focusing on the drawl of Des’ voice rather than the words that escaped. The apathy reminded her of something mechanic, like robot programmed to speak in a science fiction movie. The tones were one and the same, except this one was given the voice of a woman and the eyes of a corpse. She knew dead eyes when she saw them, and these grey orbs were absent of a spark - the very same spark that shimmered in her own when she watched her sister writhe.

Her gaze followed the hollow one of Desdemonda, who turned her head and stared at the trail of fresh salt water Priscilla left in her wake. ”What was she?” A thousand insults illuminated at once, like neon signs behind her eyelids - idiot, monster, bitch, brat, sister. Priscilla was a lot of things, and she couldn’t pin point one word in which to describe her. Not until Des spoke up again. ”Actually, she is my sister, but we’re not blood. Her family adopted me when I was eleven. I get to do her chores while she prances around with the careers all day.” Not that she could actually win the games even if President Snow handed her a crown on a silver platter. She resisted the temptation to roll her eyes like she always did when she was irritated with Priscilla. The girl was a damn dictionary definition of the word irritating. She was selfish, lazy, insolent, and most of all she was a fraud. A career, Priscilla? Sure, her parents encouraged her to train like the others, but Locust has witnessed her in action. She was so pitiful it was embarrassing to watch, yet the other careers seemed to praise her every second of the day. Is it because she’s pretty? Is it because ~~our~~ her mom is terrifying in every sense of the word? It was an unsolved mystery to her, how Priscilla could even manage to find friendships let alone maintain them, especially with the careers.

”Do you think she’ll cry?”

Now that was a question she could answer on the spot. ”I don’t think she’ll cry, I know she’ll cry.” The image of her tear-streaked cheeks already stained black with running mascara reminded her that while Priscilla was as agitating as most girls could become, she was one of the few things that made her life just a little more interesting. And for that, she could be grateful. ”That’s what Priscilla does when she loses.”[/justify][/size][/blockquote]

Last Edit: Jun 13, 2013 15:56:44 GMT -5 by Python

Ivana Vox [Chime]
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a hard soul to « save » ♕ python Jun 14, 2013 17:37:00 GMT -5

Post by Ivana Vox [Chime] on Jun 14, 2013 17:37:00 GMT -5

- - desdemonda malay

There was something foreignly pleasant in taking the situation of another's misfortune for the gain of someone she had never before in her life seen, let alone spoken to or cared about. Des couldn't name it, the odd elation that came with watching someone she knew nothing about make a walk of shame down creaking docks, but she had an inkling that it had more to do with seeing someone else's cruelty come to light. Sure, it was an innocent enough prank, but she'd gotten so tired of people being too afraid of ranks and authorities to put themselves in even the tiniest bit of risk. "Impressive, then, for something you thought up on the spot. Nice use of resources." She didn't often play pranks, didn't let herself be so easily qualified as a trouble maker or someone that stirred up conflict. Then it would make things too obvious. She preferred her half-life, half-lie in which no one looked at her long enough to know anything at all.

Careers. Des' face turned upwards at the word, turning her emotionless gaze to Locust's and scanning for something, some kind of awe or appreciation for those who trained and trained, day and night, just to be part of something that was designed to keep them trapped inside of a broken world. She was surprised to find none of those things, but instead a sort of resentment that she thought had more to do with the brat that had stumbled away than with the people she had the "great opportunity" of training with. They're all monsters and spoiled brats, hiding behind gear and pride; zip it all away and all that's left are murderers She didn't voice her thoughts, there were too many people around and she didn't know this prankster well enough to judge if she wouldn't tattle. Maybe she would think of it as another fun little joke. This she wasn't going to gamble with. Too much rested on her not saying the things that could link her to a kill with a cause, the kind of thing that the Careers would never have the chance to really do.

"Must suck," she started, her tone not dropping with sympathy or rising with sarcasm, just the same robotic voice of someone who'd forgotten how to feel. "Being adopted by a Career family and not going through it yourself. Must be even worse to do her chores, but at least she's an awful excuse for a trainee anyways." She had a feeling that most Careers wouldn't let their sisters/step-sisters/servants push them around. Or, in this case, push them right off the edge of a dock into the water that ran their entire district. Des hoped that the girl's self-righteousness hadn't ran into the ocean and poisoned all of the fish, turning them into awful mutations that creeped over the land and ate all of the citizens whole in revenge for their brethren.

"That's what Priscilla does when she loses." Black smudged makeup and tear reddened eyes flashed in Des' mind, making her lick her lips as if the idea made her hungry. Hungry to see jewels run down a spoiled girl's face and fall to the floor, to hear her sob and blubber and make a fool of herself. This girl was not fit to be a Career, even she knew that, the blonde girl who would make a perfect tribute simply because she knew she could kill, not just go through all of the theory and motions without doing the deed. Whoever just waddled away was as much a potential tribute as a child clinging to her mother's skirts. "Then lets hope she doesn't get reaped," she muttered, her voice cold, the closest thing to feeling it had held. "We need a winner, and if we have a loser, we need them to die on their feet. Not begging for mercy. There was nothing more embarrassing than watching a tribute plead for something they would never be given.

She wondered why this girl would even stick around, an adopted, hated thing, a slave to a family that probably saw her as an asset and a potential piece in a game that never had a real winner, just a few victors with glory and broken minds. She looked like the type that could take care of herself, and there were probably better positions in the District for someone who was pretty enough to be etched into a painting. But she's just a girl with a mean streak, not a beast. The knowledge almost made Des sad. It was a lonely life, even if it suited her just fine. It was less companionship that she was searching for and more an example of the evolution of insanity - a science experiment that she could observe and record, see just how far jealousy could grip.

"How old are you now? How long have you been picking up after her laziness?" She asked, less out of sympathy or the hope for a story and more for the analyzation of how long it took for a pretty girl to snap. "Have you dunked her before?" And then, most importantly, "Would you do it again?"

it was books that made me feel that perhaps i was not completely alone

Python
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a hard soul to « save » ♕ python Jun 28, 2013 21:36:02 GMT -5

Post by Python on Jun 28, 2013 21:36:02 GMT -5

There was something peculiar and oddly rewarding about this homely exchange with an untrustworthy stranger. Normally she would purposely avoid social situations, since the majority of them seemed to carry with them a burden of nuisance or unnecessary fuel for her mischievous fire. There were the career packs, who were very familiar with her living predicaments yet somehow completely naïve of her capabilities when they diced her with daggers of crude insults. They were a haughty species, always defending the well-being of her sister - whom might she add, could hardly lift a sword let alone use it if the battlefield were ever to summon her (if only) - and thrusting her into the shadows as if she couldn’t belong. Then there was the rest of the population; a plethora of morons of every variety, with only the occasional genius or tolerable young adult. It was a wonder Locust was even speaking at all - her life was none of their concern. She always figured people wouldn’t care, that if she was going to solve her problems she would do so alone and without an anchor. Most would consider it pessimistic; she merely thought of it as realistic, because the easy way out only existed in fairytales and bedtime stories.

Still, she was rather fond of the company. Des was obviously a listener and a talker, and she was right about Priscilla. She was in the career crowd but she was not one of them at heart. She could not murder, she could not maim, and for this reason she could not win. Locust could easily imagine the black tears streaming down her blushed cheeks if her name were to be called during The Reaping. Of course she would plead for mercy in the arena, it would be her only method of survival! She was all sharp tongue with no fangs to accompany her assaults, and that was why Locust would always emerge victoriously during their disputes and arguments. Locust took action, while the blonde princess barked helplessly from a distance creating a façade of intimidation to conceal her weakness as a fragile flower. It would almost be a pity to see her walk into the Games. Almost.

”I’m seventeen. I’ve been living with her since I was eleven.” She grimaced at the memories; the odor of ash wafting through the air as her house burned down, the obnoxious children at the orphanage, and the unsettling smile flashed by Priscilla’s mother when she decided to adopt Locust. If she could rewind time she would’ve saved her parents from the tragic fire or died with them. This alternative was everything she never wanted.

”Her parents don’t really care if she does her chores, they just make me do everything.” She shrugged rather calmly for someone who was adopted solely for the purpose of slave’s work. She had adjusted to the new lifestyle long ago, and could do nothing but endure and torment their only daughter until she turned eighteen. After that, she was hitting the streets and finding a place of her own to live. It wouldn’t be difficult to find a job; she had experience in many things being the Lovelace’s personal maid and servant and all. She would definitely settle down somewhere far, far away, and finally be allowed to start over and return her old identity. Hopefully she would never have to see the overdecorated face of Priscilla Lovelace again. ”I have dunked her before, but not like this. I pull pranks on her all the time.” Some were worse than others, she failed to mention. Like the day she replaced her toothpaste with shaving cream, or the day she poured hot glue on her brush. They were hilarious pranks with notable results. A disgruntled, sobbing Priscilla would always brighten her ray of sunshine, even if she ended up grounded afterwards because of their tyrant mother. ”Of course I would do it again. I will do it again. She deserves everything she gets from me.” She smirked confidently, evidently pleased with her choice of torture for the career poser.

She would admittedly never fail to reap pranks of their delightful doses of satisfaction, even if others considered her childish to obsessive in her acts of vengeance. How else was she supposed to spend her free time? The Lovelaces granted her very little freedom, and when she was allowed to take advantage of it there were no companions to seek. What better way to spend her time then by tormenting the source of her misery? ”Why so curious, anyway?”[/blockquote][/justify]

Last Edit: Jun 28, 2013 21:37:04 GMT -5 by Python