Dove Whitefoot | District 7 [FIN.]
Nov 19, 2015 19:26:14 GMT -5
Post by Pheasant on Nov 19, 2015 19:26:14 GMT -5
DOVE WHITEFOOT
FIFTEEN | FEMALE | DISTRICT SEVEN
APPEARANCE
There's truly nothing to boast about my strength—even if I did have i I wouldn't have the courage to use it. I'm extremely small—four feet, ten inches to be exact—but that never stops me from doing my work. Father decided when I was ten that I would never be old enough to work in the lumber industry. I could barely lift an axe two feet off the ground when I was thirteen, and my brother was already chopping wood with that same axe when he was eleven. There's a definite difference between the height of the men and the women in the family.
I don't want to put myself down, however; mother said while it's not nice to brag, it's bad to think bad of ourselves. I may not have the brute strength that my older brother has, but I am quick and light on my feet. I've been able to sneak up on my father while he's working for years without him hearing me. I guess the whole five-foot-ten-inches and one hundred pounds thing's got something going for me.
Besides my small size, I like to think that I'm a relatively good-looking person. Living right next to a river in the woods means that I often get to bathe in the cold waters—though I tend to take less showers during the winter months—so I'm not usually covered in dirt. My skin in naturally tan, but that could be explained from the mixture between my mother's darker skin and my father's lighter skin.
Unlike my mother's fine hair, my locks are long and thick. I've seemed to inherit my father's dark brown hair color, as well as my mother's dark brown eyes. My face is thin along the edges, but my cheeks are relatively puffy—I haven't lost all of the baby weight. My eyebrows tend to be neater than my father and brother's, but the hair is very light and simply tugging on them could be the difference between having an empty space in the middle of one of my brows.
My body is naturally curvaceous, which once again I can say that I inherited from my mother. My stomach is usually flat, but simply eating more than usual can cause me to get bloated. My hips are rounded and my waist is small, but you can often see my ribs poking through my abdomen. Finding food isn't always as easy.
I don't like to talk badly about myself, but mother says you can't be honest with other people until you're honest with yourself. I like to think that I'm a ... generally nice person, but I'm far from perfect. For one, I'm as far away from brave as possible. Even living in the middle of the woods, I'll run screaming if my brother brings a harmless snake and puts it in my face. Every year, during the reaping, I literally shake in fear and close my eyes until they finish reading out the name of the female who will compete in the Hunger Games. I'd never survive two days in the horrid competition. I might be able to survive off of nuts and plants to eat, and I might even be able to escape being detected by the other tributes, but it's highly likely that the first rush of cold air would put me out of my misery. The cold is my worst enemy.
I'm far from having a dominant personality. My mother's often disappointed in my inability to stand up for myself when the bigger girls pick on me at school. I always think about what I'd say to those girls the next time they say something, but I always end up running away with my tail between my legs. I'm not the kind of girl that other's are always looking up to for advice. I'm usually the one in need of advice. I'm weak at heart and can't stand others putting me down. After I run away from the scene, I tend to curl up in a small nook somewhere and weep until I build the courage to leave.
That's enough of the bad stuff, though. I'm about to make myself tear up again. That would be the third time this week! While I'm not the bravest person when it comes to defending my own self, I do think there are some good things worth noting about myself. For one, I think of myself as quite clever. I'm good at solving problems and thinking outside of the box, even if I'm not the most detailed-oriented person. At school, I get good grades and could even possibly be considered one of the smartest students in some of my classes. It's not that I have a genius brain, however—I'm good at memorizing things and am a strong logical thinker. No one ever realizes those things, though.
One of the parts of me I've always bashed myself on—outside of my cowardice, of course—is my inability to think realistically. I'm a complete idealist, imagining my future with the best possible outcomes. Under the list of "things I'm most idealistic about" is my love life. Because I'm a little too shy to actually talk to most boys, I've never had a boyfriend, nor has any one of my crushes actually figured out that I've liked them. Heck, I doubt they even knew of my existence!
I don't know what you're expecting to hear from me, but I can promise you that there's absolutely nothing special about my life. I wasn't raised in the richest nor poorest district, and I've always lived rather ... simply. I would consider myself one of the luckier members of my district, living near one of the rivers that flows through our homeland, and having plenty of lumber to chop down. My mother is Freesia Whitefoot—she injured herself when she was seventeen and was never able to work in the logging industry again. She met my father when she was in her early twenties—he wasn't someone my grandmother approved of.
My father—Chip Whitefoot—has always been sort of ... distant. Not in the way that he doesn't show his love for up—he does that all the time—but he's very emotionally reserved and doesn't show his emotions. I know he fears that my brother or I will be sent into the Hunger Games each year, but he never sheds a tear or allows his eyes to water. He's told me that the first thing that made him recognize my mother was her sweet, tender smell. While all the others smelled like lumber and forest grass, she smelled like the sweet flowers she was named after. Freesias. Supposedly her mother named her after the only flowers that would ever grow in their homemade garden.
My brother was born two years after me, and it seems that he's been the only productive child between the two of us. His name is Eagle, which I assume follows the naming theme of birds that my mother must have chosen to go with. He's six feet, two inches tall already, and weighs a fair one hundred and fifty pounds. Let's just say he often gets mistaken for my older brother, even if his face does look a few years younger than my own. He works with father out in the woods while we're not at school, why I tend to help my mother inside.
Because mother was never able to work in the logging industry after injuring her foot as a teenager, she took up two hobbies: medicine and wood-working. She's taught me how to do both. She's no expert by any means, but she knows enough about edible plants and herbs to cook up some nice herb soup and made some "herbal tea" for anyone who's feeling a little down. She has a little herb garden growing in the backyard of our home, right down next to the river. She'll sometimes sell the herbs in the market, but mostly she uses them to care for our family and our neighbors that aren't feeling well.
I want to say there's much about my childhood to be explored, but honestly I've been living in a constant state of repetition. I wake up, bathe in the river, go to school, come home, carve some wood, harvest or tend to the herbs, eat dinner, and repeat. It's not all so exciting, I know, but it's much better than being miserable with a dead family. One of my friends from school lost a mother to a peacekeeper's rage, and it had her terrified of everyone ever since then. I think it's better to have a boring and peaceful life than a thrilling and sad one.
I don't want to put myself down, however; mother said while it's not nice to brag, it's bad to think bad of ourselves. I may not have the brute strength that my older brother has, but I am quick and light on my feet. I've been able to sneak up on my father while he's working for years without him hearing me. I guess the whole five-foot-ten-inches and one hundred pounds thing's got something going for me.
Besides my small size, I like to think that I'm a relatively good-looking person. Living right next to a river in the woods means that I often get to bathe in the cold waters—though I tend to take less showers during the winter months—so I'm not usually covered in dirt. My skin in naturally tan, but that could be explained from the mixture between my mother's darker skin and my father's lighter skin.
Unlike my mother's fine hair, my locks are long and thick. I've seemed to inherit my father's dark brown hair color, as well as my mother's dark brown eyes. My face is thin along the edges, but my cheeks are relatively puffy—I haven't lost all of the baby weight. My eyebrows tend to be neater than my father and brother's, but the hair is very light and simply tugging on them could be the difference between having an empty space in the middle of one of my brows.
My body is naturally curvaceous, which once again I can say that I inherited from my mother. My stomach is usually flat, but simply eating more than usual can cause me to get bloated. My hips are rounded and my waist is small, but you can often see my ribs poking through my abdomen. Finding food isn't always as easy.
PERSONALITY
I don't like to talk badly about myself, but mother says you can't be honest with other people until you're honest with yourself. I like to think that I'm a ... generally nice person, but I'm far from perfect. For one, I'm as far away from brave as possible. Even living in the middle of the woods, I'll run screaming if my brother brings a harmless snake and puts it in my face. Every year, during the reaping, I literally shake in fear and close my eyes until they finish reading out the name of the female who will compete in the Hunger Games. I'd never survive two days in the horrid competition. I might be able to survive off of nuts and plants to eat, and I might even be able to escape being detected by the other tributes, but it's highly likely that the first rush of cold air would put me out of my misery. The cold is my worst enemy.
I'm far from having a dominant personality. My mother's often disappointed in my inability to stand up for myself when the bigger girls pick on me at school. I always think about what I'd say to those girls the next time they say something, but I always end up running away with my tail between my legs. I'm not the kind of girl that other's are always looking up to for advice. I'm usually the one in need of advice. I'm weak at heart and can't stand others putting me down. After I run away from the scene, I tend to curl up in a small nook somewhere and weep until I build the courage to leave.
That's enough of the bad stuff, though. I'm about to make myself tear up again. That would be the third time this week! While I'm not the bravest person when it comes to defending my own self, I do think there are some good things worth noting about myself. For one, I think of myself as quite clever. I'm good at solving problems and thinking outside of the box, even if I'm not the most detailed-oriented person. At school, I get good grades and could even possibly be considered one of the smartest students in some of my classes. It's not that I have a genius brain, however—I'm good at memorizing things and am a strong logical thinker. No one ever realizes those things, though.
One of the parts of me I've always bashed myself on—outside of my cowardice, of course—is my inability to think realistically. I'm a complete idealist, imagining my future with the best possible outcomes. Under the list of "things I'm most idealistic about" is my love life. Because I'm a little too shy to actually talk to most boys, I've never had a boyfriend, nor has any one of my crushes actually figured out that I've liked them. Heck, I doubt they even knew of my existence!
HISTORY & PERSONAL EXPERIENCES
I don't know what you're expecting to hear from me, but I can promise you that there's absolutely nothing special about my life. I wasn't raised in the richest nor poorest district, and I've always lived rather ... simply. I would consider myself one of the luckier members of my district, living near one of the rivers that flows through our homeland, and having plenty of lumber to chop down. My mother is Freesia Whitefoot—she injured herself when she was seventeen and was never able to work in the logging industry again. She met my father when she was in her early twenties—he wasn't someone my grandmother approved of.
My father—Chip Whitefoot—has always been sort of ... distant. Not in the way that he doesn't show his love for up—he does that all the time—but he's very emotionally reserved and doesn't show his emotions. I know he fears that my brother or I will be sent into the Hunger Games each year, but he never sheds a tear or allows his eyes to water. He's told me that the first thing that made him recognize my mother was her sweet, tender smell. While all the others smelled like lumber and forest grass, she smelled like the sweet flowers she was named after. Freesias. Supposedly her mother named her after the only flowers that would ever grow in their homemade garden.
My brother was born two years after me, and it seems that he's been the only productive child between the two of us. His name is Eagle, which I assume follows the naming theme of birds that my mother must have chosen to go with. He's six feet, two inches tall already, and weighs a fair one hundred and fifty pounds. Let's just say he often gets mistaken for my older brother, even if his face does look a few years younger than my own. He works with father out in the woods while we're not at school, why I tend to help my mother inside.
Because mother was never able to work in the logging industry after injuring her foot as a teenager, she took up two hobbies: medicine and wood-working. She's taught me how to do both. She's no expert by any means, but she knows enough about edible plants and herbs to cook up some nice herb soup and made some "herbal tea" for anyone who's feeling a little down. She has a little herb garden growing in the backyard of our home, right down next to the river. She'll sometimes sell the herbs in the market, but mostly she uses them to care for our family and our neighbors that aren't feeling well.
I want to say there's much about my childhood to be explored, but honestly I've been living in a constant state of repetition. I wake up, bathe in the river, go to school, come home, carve some wood, harvest or tend to the herbs, eat dinner, and repeat. It's not all so exciting, I know, but it's much better than being miserable with a dead family. One of my friends from school lost a mother to a peacekeeper's rage, and it had her terrified of everyone ever since then. I think it's better to have a boring and peaceful life than a thrilling and sad one.
