Adaira Lynsen, District One
Mar 18, 2015 20:21:07 GMT -5
Post by moon(stone) on Mar 18, 2015 20:21:07 GMT -5
name: Adaira Lynsen
age: 16
gender: female
district/area: District One
appearance: My appearance is what I hide behind. I'm 5'4, 112 pounds, with a delicate build, long legs and arms, and pale skin. I have a small waist, but I don't consider mine to be an hourglass figure. My face is angular, especially the cheekbones and nose. I have well-defined eyebrows, short lashes, and hazel eyes. Of course, I have my hair, which is pink as previously mentioned.
I do wear makeup. I first learned to apply it on my thirteenth birthday. My mother and I stood before the high bathroom mirror and I mimicked her motions. She laughed at the lopsided way my little fingers applied lip liner and my clumsiness with a mascara wand. At the end of the session, she presented me with a jeweled wooden box. I opened it and it contained a magnifying mirror, plus compartments for the various accoutrements. Every morning I make myself beautiful in front of this same mirror. I have gained focus over the years. Now, I apply it with the precision of a surgeon.
I like to think I dress well. My wardrobe contains far less pink than you would imagine. It's a veritable wonderland of options. For school, I normally make myself up and don one of many dresses. My favorite few are a deep blue one with a speckled sash, a red one with a built-in sweater, and a forest green one. I mix and match jewelry as appropriate. Sometimes I want to make a statement; other times, not so much.
For training I dress down quite a lot. Most of the time I pin up my hair in a bun. I wear linen pants, a soft tank top, and rubber shoes. When I don't want to be noticed, I take a hoodie or a hat. It's far more difficult to fade into the woodwork in District One. Everyone wants to be known, and therefore it's simple to know other people. Occasionally I dislike being observed.
personality:
I would call myself a perfectionist. Someone who's precise. I stopped craving affection after I gorged myself on attention. It's easy for me to be known. Being liked is less simple. But making myself known to other people? That's always been elementary.
I get bored with other people. It's not that I'm vain. It's just my nature. People approach me with their sob stories and expect me to do something about it. But unless you give me a reason to respect you, I'm not going to help you. I like to think of myself as self-sufficient. I'm my own best friend.
I'm also my own worst enemy. I have eyes that can see the brilliance of crystal and all its flaws. It's not easy for me to admit it, but most of the time I'm too picky. I overlook something if I dislike it. I criticize everyone. Even myself. When I'm in training, losing breaks my heart. The only thing good enough is a knife that hits the target every time.
In my more pensive moments, I wonder if it's because I've been given the best of everything. I've come to accept nothing else is like being on top.
history: So here's a bit of family history.
My father was raised in the Capitol. He still has the accent, or tries to. His father fell in love with a beautiful Victor from District One; the Victor of the 49th Games, Radiance, I think that's her name. He went before President Snow and asked what conditions their marriage would fall under.
The consensus was that he could move to District One's Victor's Village with her and with my father, who was about fourteen at the time. People were astonished that he was lowering himself to the status of a district citizen. My father was not entered into the reaping ball, but any children my grandfather had with Radiance would be considered citizens of District One.
My aunt was eighteen. She was a legal adult and a citizen of the Capitol. She was allowed to call her father occasionally, but even that was rare and pushed the envelope. She got a job as an intern for the Gamemakers and learned of the rest of my father's life in brief, chaperoned calls with Peacekeepers present. There was a Games where she finally got to do some work in designing the arena.
And then there was the following Victory Tour.
It was Games-related business. Somehow she got herself hired on the train to help transmit information back to the Capitol. She begged and pleaded with the heads of her department to please, please let her see her family she hadn't seen for years. Just a few days. If they wanted, Peacekeepers could be present the whole time.
She managed to inspire just enough pity for them to let her see my father, my mother, and little me. I was named after her and they hadn't even let us send so much as a picture.
That was the first and only time I ever saw my aunt. After learning of it Snow cut off all contact. I saw her once on television during a special about the design of the Games. Her face was in the background. It looked older than I remembered. Not just older, but sadder. I know she's been through quite a few Games now. My father only ever mentions her offhand when he's talking about the Games. "That sounds like something Ada would dream up," he says of a particularly clever design. I know he's talking about her because he calls me Adaira. He calls her Ada.
code word: odair
{this is my very first character so I hope it's a good one. how do I register face claims?}
When I was young my paternal aunt Adaira came to visit us from the Capitol. Her high heels clicked on the marble floors as she walked through the entryway of our home. The adults talked and sipped bubbling cocktails while I sat watching them, playing with my toys. I had already learned to talk and I was rapidly learning colors, sorting sparkling glass gems into separate piles.
My aunt was talking about the dress she was wearing. It was slim-fitting up to the waist, where it spiraled into a swirling full skirt patterned with birds. I toddled over to her and tugged at the fabric. My parents frowned disapprovingly, but my aunt smiled. She picked me up and lifted me onto her lap. "Hi, little Adaira," she said.
"Colors!" I burbled, indicating my gems.
"Yes, colors," she said. She pointed to the ornamental trim on the rug. "What color is that?"
"Yellow."
"What color is the sky?"
"Blue." I held up the blue gem.
"What color is my hair?"
"Pink! Pink!"
"No it's not," she said. "It's purple!"
"I like pink," I said. "I wish my hair was pink."
The next day was my birthday. My aunt was holding my hand as we walked through the city streets. Being from the Capitol, she looked curious to many people. We went into the hairstylist's, where I was met with a tiny chair and a promise that my light brown locks would come out pink. For thirteen years now I have gone into the same salon every three weeks or so for touchups. I couldn't imagine life without my hair this way. It certainly inspires envy from those who cannot keep up with the frequent appointments and high cost of hair dye. I've been called everything in the book: pinky, rose girl, powderpuff. Most importantly, it throws people off. It tells them that I am a little girl; It makes them think that I am defenseless, innocent, frivolous. This should be helpful if I ever get to the Games.
That's my ultimate goal. I would never tell my parents of it. I'm rich and the daughter of the rich. My mother is the head of a family guild of jewelers and craftsmen. My father designs furniture and other knickknacks. He's never had to get his hands dirty. People think the Games are made up of hard-scrabbling children and overfed Careers. This isn't true. I'm a District One girl with Capitol blood. The odds are in my favor. And yet I don't want to escape the Games. I don't want to live a life as a dusty shelf ornament comfortable in her privilege. I feel like I have something to prove.
I would be a Career if I was reaped. Every day after school I walk three blocks from the squarely built classrooms down increasingly skinnier streets. The buildings change from brightly colored to grim and grey. This is where the children come to train. Most of them are poor, at least relative to the very wealthy in District One. They have no other option. People like my parents buy them off to volunteer for us. I have a hell of a safety net should I be reaped against my will. The majority of the kids are very strong and crudely so. However, many of them are also smart, and these two together make us formidable.
District One has no shortage of Victors.
I have noticed the worst of the Career flaws: arrogance. It's what takes most of us down. When you know you can win it's hard not to flaunt it. We get far better training than most of the other tributes and we're far, far better fed. I'm cushioned by my status, my district and my reputation. My family are loyal to Snow; in fact, one of our most prized pieces of furniture sits in his hallway.
I have a life that I would love to come back to at home. My one true talent is for the visual, and I am not bragging- just repeating the words of one of the trainers. I can understand the million messages someone sends with their clothes, hair, smiles. It's always been easy for me to understand why things look visually pleasing. My drawings have been praised at school for their accuracy and attention to detail. Paradise for me as a child was a book with full-color illustrations. Instinct never fails me.
I know I could grow up happily never having seen the inside of the arena. I would become a designer and carry on the work of my parents. I could get through school, find someone to settle down with, and dye my hair brown again. I could stop my visits to the training center. My family's money would protect me. I possess chances that a million people would covet.
But I have chosen the bold route. The foolhardy route. The dangerous route. I continue to train. And there may come a day where the arena will hold a girl with pink hair.
age: 16
gender: female
district/area: District One
appearance: My appearance is what I hide behind. I'm 5'4, 112 pounds, with a delicate build, long legs and arms, and pale skin. I have a small waist, but I don't consider mine to be an hourglass figure. My face is angular, especially the cheekbones and nose. I have well-defined eyebrows, short lashes, and hazel eyes. Of course, I have my hair, which is pink as previously mentioned.
I do wear makeup. I first learned to apply it on my thirteenth birthday. My mother and I stood before the high bathroom mirror and I mimicked her motions. She laughed at the lopsided way my little fingers applied lip liner and my clumsiness with a mascara wand. At the end of the session, she presented me with a jeweled wooden box. I opened it and it contained a magnifying mirror, plus compartments for the various accoutrements. Every morning I make myself beautiful in front of this same mirror. I have gained focus over the years. Now, I apply it with the precision of a surgeon.
I like to think I dress well. My wardrobe contains far less pink than you would imagine. It's a veritable wonderland of options. For school, I normally make myself up and don one of many dresses. My favorite few are a deep blue one with a speckled sash, a red one with a built-in sweater, and a forest green one. I mix and match jewelry as appropriate. Sometimes I want to make a statement; other times, not so much.
For training I dress down quite a lot. Most of the time I pin up my hair in a bun. I wear linen pants, a soft tank top, and rubber shoes. When I don't want to be noticed, I take a hoodie or a hat. It's far more difficult to fade into the woodwork in District One. Everyone wants to be known, and therefore it's simple to know other people. Occasionally I dislike being observed.
personality:
I would call myself a perfectionist. Someone who's precise. I stopped craving affection after I gorged myself on attention. It's easy for me to be known. Being liked is less simple. But making myself known to other people? That's always been elementary.
I get bored with other people. It's not that I'm vain. It's just my nature. People approach me with their sob stories and expect me to do something about it. But unless you give me a reason to respect you, I'm not going to help you. I like to think of myself as self-sufficient. I'm my own best friend.
I'm also my own worst enemy. I have eyes that can see the brilliance of crystal and all its flaws. It's not easy for me to admit it, but most of the time I'm too picky. I overlook something if I dislike it. I criticize everyone. Even myself. When I'm in training, losing breaks my heart. The only thing good enough is a knife that hits the target every time.
In my more pensive moments, I wonder if it's because I've been given the best of everything. I've come to accept nothing else is like being on top.
history: So here's a bit of family history.
My father was raised in the Capitol. He still has the accent, or tries to. His father fell in love with a beautiful Victor from District One; the Victor of the 49th Games, Radiance, I think that's her name. He went before President Snow and asked what conditions their marriage would fall under.
The consensus was that he could move to District One's Victor's Village with her and with my father, who was about fourteen at the time. People were astonished that he was lowering himself to the status of a district citizen. My father was not entered into the reaping ball, but any children my grandfather had with Radiance would be considered citizens of District One.
My aunt was eighteen. She was a legal adult and a citizen of the Capitol. She was allowed to call her father occasionally, but even that was rare and pushed the envelope. She got a job as an intern for the Gamemakers and learned of the rest of my father's life in brief, chaperoned calls with Peacekeepers present. There was a Games where she finally got to do some work in designing the arena.
And then there was the following Victory Tour.
It was Games-related business. Somehow she got herself hired on the train to help transmit information back to the Capitol. She begged and pleaded with the heads of her department to please, please let her see her family she hadn't seen for years. Just a few days. If they wanted, Peacekeepers could be present the whole time.
She managed to inspire just enough pity for them to let her see my father, my mother, and little me. I was named after her and they hadn't even let us send so much as a picture.
That was the first and only time I ever saw my aunt. After learning of it Snow cut off all contact. I saw her once on television during a special about the design of the Games. Her face was in the background. It looked older than I remembered. Not just older, but sadder. I know she's been through quite a few Games now. My father only ever mentions her offhand when he's talking about the Games. "That sounds like something Ada would dream up," he says of a particularly clever design. I know he's talking about her because he calls me Adaira. He calls her Ada.
code word: odair
{this is my very first character so I hope it's a good one. how do I register face claims?}
When I was young my paternal aunt Adaira came to visit us from the Capitol. Her high heels clicked on the marble floors as she walked through the entryway of our home. The adults talked and sipped bubbling cocktails while I sat watching them, playing with my toys. I had already learned to talk and I was rapidly learning colors, sorting sparkling glass gems into separate piles.
My aunt was talking about the dress she was wearing. It was slim-fitting up to the waist, where it spiraled into a swirling full skirt patterned with birds. I toddled over to her and tugged at the fabric. My parents frowned disapprovingly, but my aunt smiled. She picked me up and lifted me onto her lap. "Hi, little Adaira," she said.
"Colors!" I burbled, indicating my gems.
"Yes, colors," she said. She pointed to the ornamental trim on the rug. "What color is that?"
"Yellow."
"What color is the sky?"
"Blue." I held up the blue gem.
"What color is my hair?"
"Pink! Pink!"
"No it's not," she said. "It's purple!"
"I like pink," I said. "I wish my hair was pink."
The next day was my birthday. My aunt was holding my hand as we walked through the city streets. Being from the Capitol, she looked curious to many people. We went into the hairstylist's, where I was met with a tiny chair and a promise that my light brown locks would come out pink. For thirteen years now I have gone into the same salon every three weeks or so for touchups. I couldn't imagine life without my hair this way. It certainly inspires envy from those who cannot keep up with the frequent appointments and high cost of hair dye. I've been called everything in the book: pinky, rose girl, powderpuff. Most importantly, it throws people off. It tells them that I am a little girl; It makes them think that I am defenseless, innocent, frivolous. This should be helpful if I ever get to the Games.
That's my ultimate goal. I would never tell my parents of it. I'm rich and the daughter of the rich. My mother is the head of a family guild of jewelers and craftsmen. My father designs furniture and other knickknacks. He's never had to get his hands dirty. People think the Games are made up of hard-scrabbling children and overfed Careers. This isn't true. I'm a District One girl with Capitol blood. The odds are in my favor. And yet I don't want to escape the Games. I don't want to live a life as a dusty shelf ornament comfortable in her privilege. I feel like I have something to prove.
I would be a Career if I was reaped. Every day after school I walk three blocks from the squarely built classrooms down increasingly skinnier streets. The buildings change from brightly colored to grim and grey. This is where the children come to train. Most of them are poor, at least relative to the very wealthy in District One. They have no other option. People like my parents buy them off to volunteer for us. I have a hell of a safety net should I be reaped against my will. The majority of the kids are very strong and crudely so. However, many of them are also smart, and these two together make us formidable.
District One has no shortage of Victors.
I have noticed the worst of the Career flaws: arrogance. It's what takes most of us down. When you know you can win it's hard not to flaunt it. We get far better training than most of the other tributes and we're far, far better fed. I'm cushioned by my status, my district and my reputation. My family are loyal to Snow; in fact, one of our most prized pieces of furniture sits in his hallway.
I have a life that I would love to come back to at home. My one true talent is for the visual, and I am not bragging- just repeating the words of one of the trainers. I can understand the million messages someone sends with their clothes, hair, smiles. It's always been easy for me to understand why things look visually pleasing. My drawings have been praised at school for their accuracy and attention to detail. Paradise for me as a child was a book with full-color illustrations. Instinct never fails me.
I know I could grow up happily never having seen the inside of the arena. I would become a designer and carry on the work of my parents. I could get through school, find someone to settle down with, and dye my hair brown again. I could stop my visits to the training center. My family's money would protect me. I possess chances that a million people would covet.
But I have chosen the bold route. The foolhardy route. The dangerous route. I continue to train. And there may come a day where the arena will hold a girl with pink hair.
