l e o n } cold smoke [ tribute ]
Mar 25, 2015 22:53:16 GMT -5
Post by анзие (Anz) on Mar 25, 2015 22:53:16 GMT -5
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leon krigel
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Why should you care - what they think of you? Think of the hands you've brought death to? Leon's hands curl into fists before his watchful gaze, an external force curling his fingers in to press crescents into the skin of his palm like the branding of grief onto his being. Knuckles turn white and he presses his fists into his eyes like the afterimage of light in his retinas can wipe out all that he's seen. Turn him tabula rasa - a blank slate for others to scribble words on like they aren't already. Like he's not marked with pens and kisses and all the things they're putting him out for.
If he wasn't so laid bare maybe he could have collected himself long enough to murmur conviction into some fancy Capitolite's ears, conviction that could have saved a life. Any life.
Any.
Life.
Her name still brings a tiny smile to his face - tainted now with her ghost hovering in his shadows, her vividity threatening to tilt his world askew once again. She embodied temptation, even if in ways so vastly different from that which Leon expects; the tremors in her gestures mirrored his own fading need. A reminder - not unwelcome. Temptation, still, dug her hands into their flesh and gripped their reins tight, driving them forwards, backwards, sideways - or chasms open wide and he would drown in this ocean when Velocity Rush willingly swam for safety. But there's no such chance for life bathing in blood. She was encapsulated, encompassed by brilliance - be it in the tilt of her head or the disjointed way she smiles, she was a spray of glitter in the air clinging to his skin.
That girl's a riot. Wildness in every curve of her being, she is strength of a different kind to save the life of some other girl caught in the headlights on a stage that seems too large to ever feel like home. I could never, would never- Not for all the lives in the world, no, he could never take someone else's place like she did. A flame born of an ocean town and she flickered bright to start the fire - and it rose. Her furious light engulfed them all in the end, and burnt her memory to the back of every eyelid - she would be no blur years down the road, no hazy image of that one tribute, what'shername- Daphne Riot was alive, and her light lingers.
He walked in time with his own melody, intelligence in vague eyes as they skimmed without recognition over Leon's face, hand loosely curled around a weapon or the neck of a bottle; the words that slipped from his sharp tongue may never have meant anything to Leon, but they meant much to the boy who - who in all versions of reality is better was better; a cold gaze and derision and intelligence and endless wanderings across snowy seas a scholarly man make. He was poetry, and reading him was staring through the eye of a needle, was crossing riptides to whatever lay on the other side. Elverum Troshaldr: a puzzle forever unsolved for the pieces are gone.
Brutality in its finest final form, and with death walking in his footsteps - the very definition of career, a successor to Leon's memory of another boy from One - but Mason was so much more than a memory. A career, through and through, but not without anger, or bitterness, or whatever else others carried into their shortened life in the arena. He was muscle, strength and cold calculation, surviving on the wings of sheer power; his very gaze sent sponsors running to buy him all he needed, all he wanted - when flames danced before the eyes of Mason Hammerfell he was bloodlust personified, bringing death down for the enemies surrounding him. Yet, like the man I remember, you were overcome by the extreme. Not a king this time, no - no kings. We all fall- Just... enemies, wreathed in flames.
He lived with a smile and the lighthearted grace of a boy carefree, and Leon can only ever remember him with the light of life in his eyes - with the slow flicker of a smile - with bold confidence in his touch - with nothing bitter when they parted. You would have... made me proud. With laughter bubbling in his throat and a quick comeback he could have sauntered past all the others for the crown he may have gladly taken. Carefree. The Games demanded the extinction of his pretty smile, and it got what it wanted; where Alexis Rhondal now smiles is far beyond its bloody reach - the -dead have carried him home out into the Sun.
He was nothing short of proud, arrogance and a sharp smile, words rolling off his lips with ease as he takes emotion and gives none back - except - except with a boy with as many facets as himself. Even with the touches that linger and a silver band gracing the finger of his lover there are walls and Wyatt Manderson does not strike a person as a man to lower them without reason - and when they feast on each other's lives and blood there is no reason at all. No reason to lay himself bare for the world to see - a man with more willpower than Leon would ever possess, who fell with his head held high above the waves. High, high above the waves.
If he wasn't so laid bare maybe he could have collected himself long enough to murmur conviction into some fancy Capitolite's ears, conviction that could have saved a life. Any life.
Any.
Life.
Velocity.
Her name still brings a tiny smile to his face - tainted now with her ghost hovering in his shadows, her vividity threatening to tilt his world askew once again. She embodied temptation, even if in ways so vastly different from that which Leon expects; the tremors in her gestures mirrored his own fading need. A reminder - not unwelcome. Temptation, still, dug her hands into their flesh and gripped their reins tight, driving them forwards, backwards, sideways - or chasms open wide and he would drown in this ocean when Velocity Rush willingly swam for safety. But there's no such chance for life bathing in blood. She was encapsulated, encompassed by brilliance - be it in the tilt of her head or the disjointed way she smiles, she was a spray of glitter in the air clinging to his skin.
"I'm something."
y e s .
y e s .
Riot.
That girl's a riot. Wildness in every curve of her being, she is strength of a different kind to save the life of some other girl caught in the headlights on a stage that seems too large to ever feel like home. I could never, would never- Not for all the lives in the world, no, he could never take someone else's place like she did. A flame born of an ocean town and she flickered bright to start the fire - and it rose. Her furious light engulfed them all in the end, and burnt her memory to the back of every eyelid - she would be no blur years down the road, no hazy image of that one tribute, what'shername- Daphne Riot was alive, and her light lingers.
"If I go down, I'm taking you with me, bastard."
Elverum.
He walked in time with his own melody, intelligence in vague eyes as they skimmed without recognition over Leon's face, hand loosely curled around a weapon or the neck of a bottle; the words that slipped from his sharp tongue may never have meant anything to Leon, but they meant much to the boy who - who in all versions of reality is better was better; a cold gaze and derision and intelligence and endless wanderings across snowy seas a scholarly man make. He was poetry, and reading him was staring through the eye of a needle, was crossing riptides to whatever lay on the other side. Elverum Troshaldr: a puzzle forever unsolved for the pieces are gone.
"Fuck you."
Mason.
Brutality in its finest final form, and with death walking in his footsteps - the very definition of career, a successor to Leon's memory of another boy from One - but Mason was so much more than a memory. A career, through and through, but not without anger, or bitterness, or whatever else others carried into their shortened life in the arena. He was muscle, strength and cold calculation, surviving on the wings of sheer power; his very gaze sent sponsors running to buy him all he needed, all he wanted - when flames danced before the eyes of Mason Hammerfell he was bloodlust personified, bringing death down for the enemies surrounding him. Yet, like the man I remember, you were overcome by the extreme. Not a king this time, no - no kings. We all fall- Just... enemies, wreathed in flames.
"You ought to be more polite to a man with fire."
Lex.
He lived with a smile and the lighthearted grace of a boy carefree, and Leon can only ever remember him with the light of life in his eyes - with the slow flicker of a smile - with bold confidence in his touch - with nothing bitter when they parted. You would have... made me proud. With laughter bubbling in his throat and a quick comeback he could have sauntered past all the others for the crown he may have gladly taken. Carefree. The Games demanded the extinction of his pretty smile, and it got what it wanted; where Alexis Rhondal now smiles is far beyond its bloody reach - the -dead have carried him home out into the Sun.
"It's a game. It's a game and I'm not going to win, and neither are you."
Wyatt.
He was nothing short of proud, arrogance and a sharp smile, words rolling off his lips with ease as he takes emotion and gives none back - except - except with a boy with as many facets as himself. Even with the touches that linger and a silver band gracing the finger of his lover there are walls and Wyatt Manderson does not strike a person as a man to lower them without reason - and when they feast on each other's lives and blood there is no reason at all. No reason to lay himself bare for the world to see - a man with more willpower than Leon would ever possess, who fell with his head held high above the waves. High, high above the waves.
“But if you cheat on me, I swear I’ll beat up your punk ass face.”
d a r k n e s s
f a l l i n g
l e a v e s
n o w h e r e
t o g o .
