Post by L△LIA on Oct 25, 2018 14:45:54 GMT -5
The layers of paint have begun turning muddy on her fingertips as green mixes with yellow mixes with purple mixes with a fresh coat of white as Denali dips a pinkie finger into a new jar taken from the camouflage supplies. Carefully, she dots bright little eyes and teeth onto artwork sprawling across the floor beneath a pair of pushed together tables where she has created a secret fort. A few stolen tarps from a survival station are draped over the top and occasionally she peeks outside to study the faces of the other tributes, trying to get her portraits justtttttt right. The Lyons girl isn’t what most people would call a good artist, but finger painting calms her and right now that’s what she needs. Relaxation. The centering of her soul within her own body. This is why nine of her fellow tributes are painted out upon the floorboards, reimagined as zombies. Maybe calling everyone out as the walking dead is a little too morbid or a little too truthful, but there’s something amusing about the depiction in this moment. Denali snorts with a giggle as she leans back to examine the finishing touches to the face of the girl from Seven - a crude caricature with wildly blank eyes, rotting green flesh, and a hunger for the brain of her nearest foe. One giggle follows another and she continues sketching out a new figure while cracking up within the cover of her fort. It’s only when the sound of curious footsteps outside registers that Denali slaps a paint-covered hand over her mouth and mumbles through her fingers, “no one’s home!” Eying the flap at the seam of the tarps and glancing over her shoulder, she listens for any telltale rustling of plastic, hoping that somehow her brilliant ruse will be a successful deterrent. |
