anagallis sage d11 | fin
Oct 26, 2015 3:54:20 GMT -5
Post by Lyn𝛿is on Oct 26, 2015 3:54:20 GMT -5
5ab430 ff4e3f dfc400 df3b90
Appearance:
At five foot eight, Ana is tall and thickset, with narrow shoulders but a bulky frame from the work she does. Springy black hair frames warm copper skin, falling down to cover her neck and shoulders. She keeps it tied back with a ribbon when she's working, but otherwise prefers to wear it loose. Her eyebrows are thin, set over deep brown eyes, a wide nose, and full lips.
Long arms stretch down to thick, short hands, the palms and fingers covered in scars, calluses, and tree sap. A straight, poised torso and lengthy legs make up the bulk of her height. Her feet are large and sturdy, supporting her all day as she works in the fields of District Eleven.
She's dressed in the uniform of the fields most of the time, when they're working for the harvest. But normally she prefers wearing a simple cloth dress and a pair of flats. I know it might sound odd, coming from somewhere as poor as Eleven, but I've actually always enjoyed watching the Tribute Parade. Not the Games themselves, obviously, but it's quite interesting to see how the costume designers come up with all these elegant designs every year. Although I can't decide whether to cringe or laugh at how ridiculously the District Eleven costumes always seem to portray us as. Her reaping dress, a soft minty green with ribbons and lace along its edges, is her favorite outfit, even in spite of its connotations.
Personality:
History:
Other:
faceclaim: Malaika Firth
Anagallis Sage
18. female. district 11
{and yet I need not to need
or else a love with intuition
someone who reaches out to my weakness and won't let go
I need not to need
I've always been the tower
but now I feel like I'm the flower trying to bloom in snow}
or else a love with intuition
someone who reaches out to my weakness and won't let go
I need not to need
I've always been the tower
but now I feel like I'm the flower trying to bloom in snow}
Appearance:
Long arms stretch down to thick, short hands, the palms and fingers covered in scars, calluses, and tree sap. A straight, poised torso and lengthy legs make up the bulk of her height. Her feet are large and sturdy, supporting her all day as she works in the fields of District Eleven.
She's dressed in the uniform of the fields most of the time, when they're working for the harvest. But normally she prefers wearing a simple cloth dress and a pair of flats. I know it might sound odd, coming from somewhere as poor as Eleven, but I've actually always enjoyed watching the Tribute Parade. Not the Games themselves, obviously, but it's quite interesting to see how the costume designers come up with all these elegant designs every year. Although I can't decide whether to cringe or laugh at how ridiculously the District Eleven costumes always seem to portray us as. Her reaping dress, a soft minty green with ribbons and lace along its edges, is her favorite outfit, even in spite of its connotations.
Personality:
They say I'm too sensitive for someone from Eleven. That I should be the strong and pragmatic one, taking care of all my younger siblings. As if working in the orchards means I'm not allowed to feel and dream and have those bad days just like anyone else in the district. I've always admired my mother's ability to keep going even in the face of all the abuse and starvation and hopelessness, but I know I'm not like her. She was a fighter, the type who'd probably join a riot if one started in the District Square. People tell me she had a sharp tongue and a no-nonsense attitude, but sometimes it becomes blurry what parts of my memory are actually her and what parts are others' exaggerated retellings. They say, after all, that if you repeat a lie enough times it becomes the truth. What is the truth in District Eleven? Most of the time, it's hard to tell.
Part of me wants to become that image that people must have seen my mom as, wants to believe that if I can just adopt that indestructible persona I'll be safe from the whips of the Peacekeepers and the heat of the harvest sun and the gnawing pains of hunger as we are surrounded by food we cannot take. Part of me wants to be worthy of being the role model that my siblings all see me as, but only because I have to hide to them how close I feel to falling apart. But there's another part, equally loud, equally a part of me telling me this isn't a part I can play, not for long. I stare in the mirror and my mother's face stares back at me, but I still can't manage to will myself to become her. Maybe she was putting on an act too to survive in this godforsaken district but if she was at least she was damned good at it.
I dream of what it would be like to live somewhere else, to be in One where the streets are paved with precious stones or Four with its oceans rippling like golden fields of grain or Seven with its trees like thick flagpoles jutting from the landscape. There are songs about all the districts, in Eleven, songs passed down from before the Dark Days, from a time before Peacekeepers and Hunger Games and a Capitol that takes everything we make and gives nothing back. Songs passed down through word of mouth and storytelling and workers in the fields, because music is the best way to express thoughts and feelings and not even the oppressive Peacekeepers can truly kill the desire to sing, the yearning melodies. So I sing as I harvest the fruits from the orchards, and with each note I'm transported to a world far away from these harsh realities, a world I can create for my own.
History:
Ana is the oldest of many siblings; large families are common here because more children means more hands to help with work. Born into poverty in District 11, she joined her parents in the orchards from a young age, climbing the fruit trees to harvest from their highest branches. In her district, all of the kids are required to work in the fields during the harvest season, while the Peacekeepers patrol to make sure nobody sneaks off with any food. After her first whipping from the Peacekeepers, Ana learned her lesson, and she keeps her thoughts to herself even as she chafes at the restricting atmosphere of the district.
Since I was young, people have told me that I need to be strong to survive. You were named after a wildflower, my father says, a flower that takes every opportunity to bloom from the cracks in the sidewalks and the empty patches in the fields. But that's ignoring that, wild or not, a flower is still a fragile thing that can be plucked or trampled or destroyed.
Since I was young, people have told me that I need to be strong to survive. You were named after a wildflower, my father says, a flower that takes every opportunity to bloom from the cracks in the sidewalks and the empty patches in the fields. But that's ignoring that, wild or not, a flower is still a fragile thing that can be plucked or trampled or destroyed.
When Ana was ten, she lost her mother in a tractor accident. Even after all these years, what sticks out to me the most from that day is how she never even got a funeral. It was the peak of the harvesting season, and all of us were forced to get back to work, as if nothing had happened. No one else mourned her; in fact, most people seemed like they didn't even notice. After all, life is cheap here in District Eleven. People die all the time, whether by starvation, or execution, or gruesome accidents like what happened to my mother. Or you could be one of the two unlucky kids who get Reaped every year, assuming you didn't win the Games.
Since then, Ana has taken her mother's place in the fields, working to produce the forbidden fruits that the District's own citizens are not allowed to enjoy. She knows that her work is what helps to support her siblings, and any hint of resentment may be taken as an excuse for the Peacekeepers to punish her, or worse, her family. But that doesn't keep her from longing to be out of the hot sun and wondering what it would be like if she were born into one of the other districts. Well, I mean, One, Two and Four always look the most well-fed when we see them during the Tribute Parade. But those stylists can make even a scrawny kid from Eleven look like a threat. At least I'm not from Eight - I couldn't mend a shirt to save my life. But for as long as the Capitol kept sending fresh Peacekeepers to their fields, she knew those thoughts were nothing more than dreams.
faceclaim: Malaika Firth
