Torvan Lofas D12 M

Name: Torvan Lofas

Age: 17

Gender: M

District: 12


Food. Food was all that was on the mind of 17 year old Torvan. He knew he was running out and needed to supply himself along with his younger brother and sickened mother. But there were some, complications, as one might say. Torvan always pawned whatever items he could find at District 12’s black market equivalent, the Hob, for food, but this time around there was nothing, and the only source of food was by robbing the local bakery for food and hopefully some money too. That was, unless he pawned off his father’s last remaining possession, an antiquated pocket watch that was found at the scene of his murder seven years ago. The offer was too hard to resist! 35 solid coins! He would be rich! Well, in his terms anyway.

But was it actually worth it? They were all already on the verge of death. Torvan was nearing the state of being called emaciated, his ribs clearly visible every time he took a breath, and he wasn’t even able to afford a razor or haircut for his head full of matted brown hair. Whenever he needed a haircut, he would take any sharp object he could find, including broken glass or rocks, to roughly cut it, which always resulted in choppy hair. Because of this, he wore a dusty flat cap he’d found a few years back to cover the mess that was his hair.

Despite that, the rest of his clothes are always torn, as he was too poor to afford much more. His black shirt was a couple of sizes too big and his pants were torn in so many places that they looked like rags on his legs. In addition, his shoes were several sizes too small and his toes were sticking out. The look of desperation could be seen in his brown eyes. He also, thanks to the little amount of weight he had, couldn’t even build muscle mass on his 5’9” body and would tire out quickly.

“But anything for my family, right?” Torvan thought to himself as he trudged on with the pocket watch in his pocket. He went on, slowly walking to the Hob from the Seam until he was tripped by the local ‘cool’ kids, or as the Seam kids put it, the spoiled merchants’ brats. Torvan crashed hard into the rough ground and his cap flew off. As usual, the group just mocked Torvan and kicked him around as they knew he’d never do anything against them. They even went as far as to strip Torvan of his belongings to see what he had. He watched with a frightened look in his eyes as their leader proceeded to remove the pocket watch, and pocket it.

But something changed in Torvan, like a spark igniting when a pick slams into coal several hundred feet below him, and Torvan was infuriated. He clumsily got to his feet in front of the bullies, who watched in amusement. He violently swung at the one who took his watch and it connected, but hurt Torvan more than his target. Torvan had to hold back tears, and he knew his hand would be bruised the next day. The merchant’s son wasn’t even stunned. He still seemed amused, and he even showed this by grinning as he punched Torvan square in the face so hard that he flew back several feet and slammed into the ground. Whatever spark that was ignited inside Torvan was suddenly extinguished, and tears streamed down his face, mixing with the blood coming from his nose. “See you later, punk,” the group’s leader said as he left Torvan in the dirt. “Let’s go guys.”

Evidently, Torvan wasn’t the strongest physically and emotionally. Whenever the ‘rich’ kids walked past him in school, he always cowered in fear, afraid of what they’d do next. But Torvan wanted all of that to change. He wanted to defeat the bullies. He wanted to be able to slam them against the wall and make them beg for Ripred, before he made them squeal like the pigs at the butcher’s. But before that, he needed to take hold of his emotions and bring them under control, unless he wanted to be labeled as that one wannabee tough kid who was just a crybaby.

After several minutes of lying in a fetal position, crying his eyes out, Torvan finally came to his senses, picked up his cap, and stumbled back home. “Rich merchants’ kids,” he thought, “Always thinking they’re above those of us from the Seam.” Coming to what he called home, a rundown shack, he immediately plunged his face into the cold, muddy water to clean the blood and tears from his face. He should’ve probably gone to the doctor in the Merchant’s section, but he wouldn’t have been able to afford treatment anyway, and the doctor definitely didn’t like it when poor kids from the Seam came in with nothing to pay.

After washing his face, he quickly went over to his mother’s bedroom, which she shared with him and his brother, and checked on her. She wasn’t in the best of shapes. She was definitely dying, which worried Torvan, as that would leave him to take care of his brother. And if that situation ever arose, he wouldn’t know how to handle it. But first, his family was relying on him for food.