Round Two: Northern Feast
Apr 30, 2023 16:15:23 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Apr 30, 2023 16:15:23 GMT -5
You lost count hours long ago.
That was Maestro’s duty. Her left hand dictated your movement, your tempo, your flow, but her right - ever graceful, ever fluent - controlled time. She could slow the orchestra if she wishes, calming the way it rushed, or she could quicken it if needed, work it to her will like the pulse of a single machine that drew blood from her to lived. All of you were a symbiotic relationship, the Swan String Orchestra. All of you were marionettes that had your strings tangled beyond help, and instruments to be played by powers that surpassed them. All of you were—
children of war, or rather of those who survived it.
You knew only grey skies of impending storms and winters that never thawed. Your house was the first to go when the cold arrived, an electric bill left unpaid that led to death of the lights and the heaters. Your father begged. Your father, part of the war effort and supplier of fine jewelry to the Capitol’s elite, sold everything he had and begged and begged on his knees, but even that could not save it. They wanted to let go of your family. All of you were, in their eyes, a stain that should have been cleaned long ago.
“Please, please, you have to understand, my wife and son, they—“
“—We’ve heard enough, Mr. Cai. The other families need as much your power does. Perhaps we could supply some if there was, uh, any incentive to do so, but—“
“—I’ve paid you everything I have.”
And not enough. This world was like the sore burning in your stomach now, eager to chew away at emptiness. Eager to eat. And if you gave it a chance, it would eat you alive, too.
That was why you needed out. That was why you need to win. Trembling softly as you lumber, you keep one hand trailing along the walls of thorns making your path, letting occasional thorn prick you to life at intervals with their sharp edges. Your throat feels full of briars - you had been singing for hours - but you do not stop the raspy, labored rendition of the Capitol’s anthem. Every word, every lyric, shoots up like tiny currents through a dying machine to power it until it accomplishes its given task.
The monotony of the hedge walls begins crumbling as the sky brightens. Indigo, lilac, and pink, all before a gate before you opens to daylight, so suddenly bright you wince and use an arm to shield your worn-out eyes. But you lower it quick. Your bones tense and your stomach turns as you eye what’s in front of you: a lavish feast, prepared to be dined on, and awfully reminiscent of the dinners you used to had when your father had the wealth.
No, you think, crushing your torn up hand into a fist, wait.
You eye others who have also found themselves here, hunger creasing their eyes as well, and let the pain hold you in place. There is quiet. You keep humming the anthem, eyes looking left and right, and it’s the expectant quiet before the beginning of a piece, the waiting, the readying—
Harlan’s voice booms. You do not hear, opting instead to race up to the feast and shove a piece of whatever in your mouth. You chew once, twice, and gulp. Once, twice, and gulp. After your second mouthful, you wipe your lips with the back of your arms and look back in time to see the doors swing close.
Your sword grows heavy. Your eyes, alive, scan the field and see the arc of the sword timely enough for a quick dodging movement, a fast backwards step, and her sword nicks instead of cut. You pick up your emptied plate of food, shatter it into pieces, and throw the sharpest one at her. That’s the introduction piece. The chorus, the body of this performance, is your body twirling with a practiced grace behind her to use the momentum and swing.[ Larkin attacks BamBam | Sword ]
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