[D2] The Reaping

[admin kay]

The escort of the district stepped out onto the stage, a smile plastered across his face as he stared into the cameras that surrounded it. It was time once again to choose two children to compete in the Hunger Games, and it was his job to do so.

"It is time," he said as he stood over the impatient people of the District, "To once again send two of our own children to the Capitol to compete in the Hunger Games. Let us begin the Reaping!"

He did not look to see the reaction of his district before reaching into the glass ball that held the names of the female children. "Ladies first," he announced, pulling out a slip of paper. He unfolded it and read out to the crowd, "Esther Salvera!" He then reached into the other ball. "Torka Hammerfell!"

OOC- RPing is allowed. If you wish to volunteer, let the tribute post first either accepting or stepping down from their place for volunteers, and then post. If the tribute doesn't reply by Tuesday, June 7th, a staff member will post saying that volunteering is open. Please do not post until you see this staff message. FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE.

Tributes, please do not make your acceptance or denial of your spot in character; instead, please leave an ooc note at the end of your post stating whether they accept or are stepping down for volunteers.

Also, and this is really important: If you have been selected as a tribute and plan on going into the arena, we HIGHLY SUGGEST you take some RP Tutoring lessons ASAP. It doesn't matter what level RPer you are; everyone can use a little help. RPing a tribute is a privilege; if you're not going to put the time and effort into making your posts the best they can be then you can count yourself among the dead.. It's not a requirement, but please please please just consider the lessons. They'll help even the most advanced RPer.

[pogue]

( a c h i l l e s )

His blood burns red like roses, dripping from glass turned weapon to soft skin hands, tracing the boundaries of its kingdoms into her arms. 

This room is laden with golden oceans and bloody riptides, heaving bodies and one night one week one month affairs drowning beneath suede bedsheets, hiding shame beneath pillows, closed eyes when they kiss, open hearts when they intertwine. 

Dead hearts when a love session ends.

Dead heart when she pulls the glass shard from his eye, marching along to the thump of a quickening heartbeat. 

Maybe she wanted to rule the world.
Maybe this is the world in front of her.

Maybe she wanted to rule herself.
(But maybe
maybe she never did) 

After all, she was always a fighter.

After all, she was always

---

"A murderer." 

Fear snaps through every hollow bone, rippling through her body, pulsating with every heel click that echoes through the room. She has stared down the ends of sword and gun alike, felt the cold edge of a knife clash with the soft skin of her throat, felt the hands of a man grabbing at her pride.

But the fear- it is nothing like this. 

"Styx, I-" 

Words sputter and fall into the heavy air of the room, dropping to her feet as her mother's fingers brush against her cheek, gently reaching underneath her chin and lifting her head up.

She had fallen in love with the fires of her mother's eyes, the way it roared and clashed, sweeping and tumbling, striking fear into the hearts of others. Wordless, breathless, she stares into her mother's eyes and realizes that there is no fire.

There is darkness. Voids and black hole space tears, it draws her in and sends ice crawling into her veins, paralyzing her virtues. 

"Murdering the man we were trying to do business with, Achilles." 

Her words are sharp, effortlessly brutal. She speaks with an unmatched prowess in the art of destroying another person from the inside out, venom seeping into the air between them, kissing the skin that her fingertips brushed against.

"We have a lot to talk about, don't we?"

---

Rule one: avoid any and all drinks provided to you.

The lights are blinding, but certainly not unexpected. High heels click against the ground, hitting along with the beat of the dance floor. The sin hangs heavy in the air, cloaking her like a shroud. Her eyes catch half obscured reflections from the stripper poles that dot the room, blurring and stretching her features, turning her into a monster. 

She stares until the ass of a stripper blocks her view, scantily clad in an outfit meant to reveal, making her way towards the lap of a man in a suit, towards the money he holds. 

She drops her ass and her dignity falls right with it, shattered glass shards of her pride littering the ground she kneels upon, tracing love circles into the cheek of her client. 

His money is dug deep into the folds of her underwear. 

She'd promised herself she would never end up like that. 

Nameless, faceless, made for the injustices no one wants to admit to. 

His fingertips brush against her hip, traveling down and down before suddenly pulling off, reaching up to play with the obsidian locks on her head, twirling his fingertips into her hair before leaning in close to her ear.

"Hey, beautiful, mind if I buy you a drink?" 

rule two: break every rule, including the first.

Nothing goes down smoother than the scotch of a wannabe drug lord, ushered into the hands of a girl he wants to bed, ice cold white knuckles gripping the shot glass, feeling the fires spark beneath her skin. It drowns her, the way it grapples and tumbles down her throat, lighting up sparks in her stomach. They've done this before, three weeks ago to be exact. 

Shakily, she downs another, watching the world go blurry, feeling her veins go numb.

It's a ritual, almost. Expected, anticipated, desired. His eyes travel the course of her body, sweat dribbling down from his forehead, fidgeting along his laugh lines, falling down to the stool he sits on. His eyes shine bright like the sun off the ocean waters. Blinding, cracked along the surface, scattered diamonds. They scream of lust and heartbreak, of wants and desires.

Three weeks in and she knows nothing of this man other than the extent of his manhood.

He probably has a wife who puts dinner on the table for him, tastes the alcohol in his breath. Kids who wrap themselves in his arm, ask him where he was today, tell him what they did in school.

Scumbag.

And yet, this man was who they needed.

She guides him to a room, listens to the click of a lock, the slice of a deadbolt. 

These bedsheets are no ocean, they're a tombstone. 

---

Her cheeks are stained red with the marks of her mother, body cast to the ground beneath her feet, hitting the floor next to her mother. She can still feel his fingers twirling into her hair, feel his hands sliding along her hips, up her back, down her backside. Fingertips brush against her skull, feeling for the patch of hair that was ripped from it just prior.

She had wanted to be feared.

But it comes in the form of fearing the ones who gave her power, feeling the cold end of a gun on the back of her head, hearing her heartbeat shatter against her chest. 

Click. 

Her blood turns to ice.

"We don't just go around killing our most vital assets, Achilles. You know that." 

She gulps down the fear.

"Styx, he-" 

"I don't care what he did to you, Achilles." 

rule three: never break. 

"When Axyl called me a whore, you defended me." 

She rises to her feet, turning to face her mother. At the age of fifteen she'd been saved by this woman. Now, she is nothing to her.

"I defended you, Achilles, because you had earned your keep." 

She steps forward again, reaching up to trace the slap marks on her cheek. 

"If you want to earn your spot back."

She leans in to her ear. 
Just like he did.

"Then prove you deserve it."

---

They're herded, men in white prodding them along, watching from behind shades masks. Her face has turned to ashes, then hardened into stone, eyes focused on the space in front of her.

Stoic, broken, put back together.

There's a plan set in motion.

_____

She feels his lips on her neck, breaths heavy against her skin, sending volts down her spine. Three weeks of this, of quenching the desires of a man she doesn't even know. 

His hands travel along her body, tracing the course of her pride.

Maybe she's just desensitized to it.

_____

They say ladies first as if its some sort of privilege, power held in the hands of false gods, praying to the powers they worship, kneeling in churches made of fool's gold and stained glass.

She worshipped a different kind of church. At least, she used to.

"Esther Salvera!" 

Her hand goes up, fingers cracking in the sunlight. Words collect in her throat.

_____

"Stop." It comes out as a whisper, lost in the sounds of tossing bedsheets and murmurings underneath the breath of a dead man. 

Maybe she's just desensitized.

But she's always been a fighter.

"I said, fucking STOP!" Her fingers dig into the hair of his skull, tightening at the cry of pain that garbles up from his throat. He's grappling at her wrist, trying to pry them from his hair. She doesn't let go. Instead, she digs her free thumb into his eye, throwing his body to the side of her before rolling on top of him.

Three weeks and they'd never tried this position.

She takes the shot glass to the left and shatters it against his skull, wrapping her fingers around a shard and raising it in the air.

He's probably praying to a god that he lives.

But she used to worship a god. She learned from the cold metal of a gun that they don't exist.

She drives the glass down straight towards the cracking ocean eyes he's watching her with.

_____

"It appears we have a volunteer!" 

Her eyes are cold, like ice. To think, she used to worship fire.

"Achilles Muto." 

After all, she'd said to prove it.

coding : elegant

{Esther Salvera steps down}

{Achilles Muto volunteers as tribute}

[Malachor Erso D2 (Cato)]

[googlefont="Indie Flower:400"]

Torka Hammerfell

Ahh. The reaping day. What excitement. I can feel my body almost prancing with joy as I step foot out of the house not caring who follows because before I can attend the reaping, I have some last minute training to take care of. I must make sure I'm in amazing shape because I fully plan on stepping foot into the arena this year just to prove the Hammerfells are more than capable of winning. Mason was cocky and died. Orion wasn't cocky, but he still died. I do miss them a lot, but they're gone, and I'm alive, and it's about time someone deserving wins the hunger games. District Eleven had it's luck, and I want to personally make sure district two has the prize this year. That kid from district three better be glad I wasn't in the games last year because he wouldn't be alive now. But I also think it'll be fun to watch people be set on fire and burn to death while I stand back watching, and laughing. Just like that peacekeeper. I step foot outside and feel the sun bearing down on my skin, and it feels amazing. The corners of my lips twist into a wicked grin as I take off running. Every morning I go for a run, only this time my destination is different. Usually I run around the district square until citizens are roaming around and then I head home. I've kept a low profile since my release from the detention center. I have no desire to go back. No desire to be locked away behind bars starving to death as my family runs free. But today I stop at the training center. The same one father owned. He's a peasant now because he gave up after the death of Mason and Orion, but I will not give up. I will grow stronger, and stronger. I will prove that I am worthy of wearing the crown. First thing I do once I'm inside is grab a jar of tar from the counter before smearing it all over my favorite sword. I've trained with this sword for as long as I can remember. I snarl as I light a match setting the sword on fire. It's mesmerizing as the flame grows larger and larger. I swing it around laughing imagining all the people this single flame could devour, but it's nothing like a bit of gasoline mixed with a lighter. Finally I turn towards a dummy. My eyes focus on it as I slice through it's delicate fabric, and I laugh as it rips apart. But this isn't a person, and I know a person would make this much more fun. One slice after another. The arm falls to the ground followed by another, then a leg, then the other leg. Then I gouge the eyes out. The popping sound makes me feel alive. And then I sever the head. My eyes turn towards the clock, and I realize I'm almost late for the reaping. I throw the sword down with a smile because I know I'm ready for the games. I'm ready to make my district proud. I'm ready to show them that I am a true Hammerfell, and that I am not unworthy. I sprint from the training center towards the district square and arrive with sweat pouring from my brow, and my gray shirt plastered to my chest from sweating so much, and I finally take my place. My eyes focus on the escort watching as the female tribute is announced, and I watch as another person takes her place. I would feel nervous, but I'm excited because it's my time. It's my time to stand up for some dumb kid like Orion did, yet it seems I won't get the chance because my name is echoing through the district square. I snarl slightly as I make my way towards the stage wondering what's going to happen, and I'll be damned if someone takes my place. But I stare out into crowd daring someone to move. This is my spot. My chance, and nobody better steal it away from me. Until I hear a voice speak up.

[Torka steps down as 2m]

[Avalon]

P E T R A

She'd felt the rush before -

Adrenaline.
                Ecstasy.
                           Shaking.
                                        Aching.
                                        Aching. Aching.   ...Ach-

Clack. Clack.
Click.

...Bang.

Gasping for breath, the fluorescent lights illuminated against her skin, she'd been caught in a violent whirlwind of thoughts - of day dreams - of day nightmares ? - Cluttering, scrapping against the endless walls of her mind. Physically, a headache. Metaphorically - too far gone & too far much of a 'murderer' to be sane. (But it had been her job - an assassin.)


Club music banged and around her, the shaky feeling of grogginess in her knees, she knew she'd either roofie out or eventually throw it all up soon enough. Instead, she slammed the finished shot glass held capsuled within her hand against the bar table. Shattering to pieces, the crystal shards sparked up, in rebellion, against her fingertips.

"Fucks sake."

Her words escaped in shades of red, ones which ran deep with the droplets of blood that now spilled in a pitter patter. Ones that contrasted the hues of dark shaded pinks, created from neon lights that hit her flesh, mixed with an opposition of formed blues and the result was a war of purples. It felt much like the phase she fell deep into. Poisonous. Venomous. Intoxication.
("You're making a mess all over my counter.")

"If I were you I'd shut the fuck up
before you're what becomes the mess -"

Drunk - Drugged -
It was only all the same now.
She'd felt this feeling before, and it reminded her, etched into the back of her skull, but lost within the thoughts, the execution. Damn, even trained assassins make mistakes. ("Do not accept drinks from anyone. No matter how friendly they may seem.") Broken a vital rule, though, perhaps they were always meant to be broken, they just couldn't let Styx find out. (She guesses why what happens doesn't come as much of a surprise.)


Walking past locked doorways, everything air tight sealed from the outside world. The music grew distant and the world became nauseous, but she'd felt this feeling before. As tough as it might be, she walked against the wall, the poison rising in her throat, and then - 

Click. Click.

...Bang.

She'd felt this feeling before.
It was far too real, and when she did her stomach sank, but only just a bit. She was turned topwards, eyes looking straight through the barrel of a loaded gun, the shot went off first but she was still here and still very well alive. (She wasn't nervous, however, because she knew if she'd fucked up then Styx would come.)


She'd felt this feeling before -

- It was all too real.

"I said, fucking STOP!"
The loaded gun clicked into place, the bullet ready to pierce, shoot and kill.

"Achilles?"

A click once more. No hesitation. 
"Achilles Muto."

"For fucks sake."

("Styx save us -")

She bit the bullet with her head.

table by  fox

[gm bourgeois decadence [aya]]

Volunteering for the District 2 male slot is now open.

[Deleted]

Heathcliff Travers

When they were small, his sister would tell him the tale of the origin of love. The great gods and goddesses had created beings of the world to live down below. They were short and squat, long and tall, with four arms and four legs and four eyes. They rolled around and caused havoc all over the place, getting stronger as their numbers grew. And so the gods, who were not all powerful but powerful enough, decided to stop them from growing too destructive. They split them all down the middle separating some with others, creating the men and women who did not fit together any more. This was the origin of love; this was the time when the world became.

They did not share a fondness for such fairy tales that other young boys and girls had. They thought of the world, of how there had been such cruelness to separate them from their own parents. What they had been left to serve was a woman who saw them as nothing more than creatures to mold into her own. Dancers, finely crafted like dolls so that she may display them for all to see. But he was stronger than any doll; limber and brave. They could have done worse with him, a boy that was still growing, one that didn’t cry when he fought those against him.

That morning had been quiet as all the others. He thought of his sister, of how they were to go into the world and be what their mother had wanted. They had the same long hours each day, spinning this way, jumping, landing, creating the same rhythms that were to display strength and agility. There was a loss of person, he thought—one that dripped like candle wax until there was nothing left exposed but ash and wick. He could feel that there was something different; something about him spoke beyond what she longed to see. A boy of fourteen, he was nothing but mixed feelings. Just a child, like all the others of the district. And yet he was not the same. He was not, by any stretch of the imagination, quite the boy that wandered through the training center and focused on blood.

What is life but taking chances, after all? He thought philosophy was a foolish subject for children. All of them got it wrong—creating their meanings from other folks who knew not much more than they did. Here he was, standing in line with all the other boys pondering just what had been the best for all of them. They would move on, they would live, they would breathe. Their names had not been read by the little strip of paper; their names had not been the ones to blow in the wind. They could rest easy knowing they would not be snuffed out. And yet here he was, thinking of how life was, how it was meant to be lived.

“I volunteer.” He said to himself, at first. Was he loud enough? “I volunteer.” He stared forward, then out toward the knowing faces. His sister would be somewhere, but had anyone heard him? No matter. They would hear him soon enough. He turned back to his childish philosophy and imagined. Life did not have much meaning – at least, not until that meaning was created. He stepped forward.

[Heathcliff Travers accepts the D2M spot]

[анзие (Anz)]

The universe has frozen on his skin, burnt out stars cracked so new life can be born from his old scars; gloved fists hit tap one two, going through the motions with force enough for his body to feel the recoil in his muscle, in his bones. His own harsh breathing whispers through the space of his body, like the lingering ghost of an unspoken promise; everything else has faded into the growing shadow at the edges of his vision. Titus sees nothing but the hanging bag and the place his knuckles will touch to send the bag swaying backwards away from him, and an undiscovered universe.

Titus strikes once, just right, and an explosion of distant galaxies finds its way to mark his skin, and each one spins slowly, tantalizingly, flickering with alternate possibilities that could have led him to this day. In each one, Mason falls to Alexis Rhondal. Orion takes a dagger to his eye from the tiny boy in District 11. Mason collapses to his knees, head bowed low in ultimate defeat. Orion tells the watching crowd, ”Orion Hammerfell. Future victor.”

Tap one two. Tap one two.

“Titus?”

The meshed bag hanging under their house creaks like a weight expanding the space above their basement, leaving the home a little emptier than before. Titus feels the space growing as day after day after day of wandering ghost-like through the house with no direction, of forming callouses over split knuckles and bruised skin on wire surfaces. His family might be oblivious, but Titus feels the ghost of Orion every day.

A cool hand clasps his overheated skin, and Titus looks up, disorientated, ears ringing, at his older brother. Torka raises an eyebrow at his expression and pushes a towel into his chest. “It’s time to head out. We don’t want to miss the Reaping.”

Rubbing the worn cotton over his face, Titus follows Torka out from the basement where his family waits, each of them fully dressed and functional. Titus hurries upstairs to make himself halfway presentable, and soon joins his family stepping into the river of eager careers making their way to the town square. Shrugging the collar of his thin jacket up, Titus hunches his shoulders and stuffs his hands into his pockets through the registration.

His family breaks apart. Their ages split them by year, but Titus can still see the back of Torka’s head where he is, spies Aerys and Rhaegar out of the corner of his eye, has to crane a little to see Odysseus - but he sees them, a small comfort for a big day.

This used to be exciting.

The noise dies down as the escort takes the stage, a gaudy monstrosity wearing what must be the latest fashion in black and fuchsia; he goes through the motions, giddiness lingering on everything he touches. Crossing his arms, Titus resists the urge the yawn only to choke on the intake of a breath.

“Torka Hammerfell.”

—

Broken things became a theme through his training; object after object Titus would shatter with his hands, his arms, his feet — sometimes the reason waxed accidental. Sometimes he claimed it so. Mostly, though, Titus had trouble reining in his anger and often paid for it in splinters of wood or glass in his palms.

“You need to stay calm,” his trainer advised him day after day as Titus became close acquaintances with the feel of abrasive cloth striking his skin. The older man’s hand steadied the wayward punching bag. “Being strong is easy. Strength is nothing if you can’t land a hit at all. It’s the precision that matters. Tap. Don’t focus on the power just yet. Tap. Tap. Tap. Be precise. Tap.”

Swallowing the anger proved difficult, nearly impossible if not for a calmer figure to hold him back. Orion gave him a reason to rein his emotions in; helped him redirect the pent-up energy from wiping the faces of his schoolmates on the floor to finding the exact time, the precise mark for a worthy strike.

Standing in the midst of sixteen-year-old careers murmuring to themselves, still reeling from the idea that his brother Torka stands to lose his life at the top of the stage, Titus can hear Orion saying, “Now.”

“I volunteer,” Titus says. Suddenly he stands in the barren space between the boys and the girls, hoping his voice carries to the stage through the void. He sees nothing but his defiant brother, shadows flickering at the edges of his vision, and the place his fists can touch the meshed wire, and an undiscovered universe of a new arena. Tap one two. He raises his chin, hands spread out in an open challenge for a fight. “My name is Titus Hammerfell, and I volunteer as your future victor.”

The meshed bag hanging under the Hammerfell house creaks, a gently swaying weight expanding the space above the basement: an evolving galaxy of speckled red stars.

TITUS HAMMERFELL

compté mes doigts

Titus Hammerfell volunteers as tribute

[drevilsin]

Trae woke up to the sun barely over the horizon knowing that today would be his day. Today, he would secure his death spot in the games. Even if he wasn’t chosen immediately, he would volunteer, and finally be free from his father. Those who would witness him would probably misjudge his motivations for volunteering, as they would just think he wanted to make his district proud as he was training to be a Career. 

Trae didn’t have any nightmares that night, and instead of being afraid in the morning, he felt eager. However, before the reaping for the year would start, Trae still had several hours ahead of him. Several hours that would be used to have pain dealt to him by his father. Taking his training clothes with him, he traveled down to his basement where his father forced him to train on a daily basis, knowing what would be waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. When he arrived, he was immediately greeted by his father, who seemed to be more cheerful than on the other days of the year. He had always been this way on reaping days, ever since Trae had turned 12. He lightened up, because he didn’t want to injure Trae so much that he wouldn’t be able to move naturally if he got reaped. If Trae was spotted nationally bearing marks of abuse, it would definitely not bare well for his father. This was always another reason Trae looked forward to the reaping. Not because he could finally get away from his father, but because his punishments were never as severe on those days, unless if it was after the reaping, because then the punishments resumed their normal severity.

Picking up his sword, Trae began his training for the day, which lasted at least 2 hours. Trae began to lose track of time as soon as he started, however, as he was constantly thinking about if he would finally man up and volunteer, and take his life into his own hands, even if it was just to throw it away. Each year he asked himself this question, and he was always too scared to do it. “What if I just followed my father’s orders and became a peacekeeper,” Trae would always think, “Would it really be so bad?” And each year it did prove to be bad as his punishments continued to get worse. After two years of asking himself this question, he was fed up with his father and with his own cowardice. This time, he would finally do it. 

Caught up in his own thoughts, Trae missed a slash at his target resulting in him falling over. Getting enraged at his son’s failure to execute a simple slash, Trae’s father grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him up to beat him. Bracing for the impact of his father’s fist against his face, Trae patiently waited, regretting his inability to concentrate on the target, but the blow never came. Instead, Trae’s father put his hand down and let Trae go. “You’re good for nothing, you know that?” His father yelled, “Just go. I hope you get chosen and never come back.” This sealed the deal for Trae. His father was never this cruel with his words, though there were times he was crueler with his hands. He hadn’t even scolded Trae for missing. Instead, all he did was practically tell Trae to get himself killed, which he had been planning to do for several years now in the games. Glaring at his father, Trae silently went to his room to change into his street clothes. 

Leaving his house to go to the reaping, he saw many kids his age who looked at him with fear in their eyes, but also many who wanted to challenge him. “I bet I can kill more tributes than you if I get reaped Tamorlan” One of the kids said with a sneer as he passed Trae by, which made Trae laugh internally. “I would kill a tribute,” Trae thought, “Me.” Approaching the town square, Trae stood in the male children’s section waiting for the male tribute to be announced. As the escort placed his hand into the ball, time seemed to slow when he called out the name. “Torka Hammerfell!” Trae was glad it wasn’t him at first, but then he remembered what happened in the training room and there was no doubt about it. He still wanted to get away from his father. Watching the boy walk onto the stage, Trae knew that he was wasting precious seconds thinking about whether he was going to volunteer or not. Taking a deep breath, Trae looked at the boy as he stared over the crowd daring somebody to take his place, and he boomed in the loudest voice he could muster, “I volunteer as tribute!” Finally, he was free to die.

{Trae Tamorlan volunteers as 2M}

[ghosty]

Asa Benyon

claw our way up their system

Does, Says, Thinks

The bubble of excitement was addictive. The faces of the people of the district was not fear, like you assumed many would be in the other districts, but it was not steady. No matter upon how you looked upon it, someone in this district would be going into the games. And you - you, who's blood boiled in every moment in which the knife was spinning through the air, the fingers that twitched with a sly smile crawling onto your face in glee as the shock grew onto the opponent's face, as they lost to you again in the centre you called your home.

Yet it was not your home, it was something more; it was your castle, and you fought for the throne and crown to call yourself king. And you would do anything to make everyone remember that. You made that plea the moment that the power was in reach, and still, it still stands. And yet you remember the days where you had no power. Nothing beside a name that meant nothing either. Oh so much has that changed. Recognition is something that is not to believed, if you compare that boy to the one you are now. It's an invisible thing, a link, which barely anyone can see.

You intend to keep it like that. It's a weakness that can bring you down, a single taunt into a pause, into a back foot that can never be recovered.

The smell of blood in the air is some kind of drug that you can never ignore. At least that cocktail which is laced around in the air you breathe, a bond of sweat and blood and adrenaline that you can do nothing to avoid. It attracts you like a magnet, a moth towards the yellowed lamp on a summer's day. It is your thing, and you seek it like a beast seeks its prey. You will take control of it, and oh you have.

Yet, you were here at a reaping, where you were no longer the king; you were merely a fly to the swat of the Capitol. You were no longer in the control that you seeked. And yet, you were a king to those that surrounded you. They did not look you in the eye. They seemed to cower- like single blade of grass stood next to a giant. Not touching, yet affected in every way. They are at risk, and they hate it.

Yet you love it.

The escort walked onto the stage. He was merely a stepping stone. The name caller, the rat of the Capitol who did nothing yet cower under their force. You knew you would never fall weak to them, even if you were reaped into their games, into their game which only one remained. It would be you standing, and even the Capitol would cower. A name was called, the female first.You did not know it. But yet, a curling of fingers, and a silent nothingness. It's one that was heard however.

A silent nothingness which stopped that girl's chance of fame. Replaced by a whisper, a sign of weakness to you; to whisper is to hide- and cowards only hide. Her name was as unknown as the first, yet eyes like fire, like ice greeted the grass in front of her.

Now it was your chance, the male name to be called and it was-- Hammerfell. Your lip curled at the family who never stopped fucking up, and making your district look like a weakling. No matter how many times they entered, they never returned. They looked the part, yet no action moved from the muscles too big. They were the nothingness which disgusts you.

His lumbering steps echoed yours as you push through the crowd. His lips opened as yours, yet his did not beat the sound of yours.

"Hammerfell, don't you fucking dare. That's my spot you're standing in." Eyes turned but yours were steel. "I volunteer as tribute. The names Asa Benyon, and don't forget it."

The moment the words stopped tumbling from your mouth, you finally hear the voices of others; yet your eyes did not rotate and see the other boys talking; you were a king, and no one ever commits treason to their king, right? An unexpected closure of a battle which you had decided to win before it had occurred. And you had lost, beyond any reasonable doubt, as a kid stumbles towards the stage, the coronation of the new king to the queen stood beside him.

You reacted too slow to a cue in which you were focused for- not by seconds, but by partitions of a second. You did not enter the games, but oh for sure, you lost your crown. No more did it represent you, from the moment that the voice other than yours called out first, and echoed by four others. The boy was not yet a king of men; he was a child with weak will, at least to you.

But yet he wore the crown of a king that used to call your own, and he, well, deserved it more than you, no more than a disgrace to the Benyon name. You were a king, yet you failed your nation. No more were you powerful, you were a failure. You were no longer the king.

But you, well, just committed treason.

asa benyon tried to volunteer as tribute

[admin kay]

AERYS HAMMERFELL

The razor at my throat is a scalpel, which is the best metaphor I can think of for Reaping Day. It seems innocent – there’s a sense of routine, year after year – but you’re just one wrist twist away from death.

I kind of love it.

I’m more careful than usual with the blade and I’m rewarded for the effort. Clean cheeks, clean lip, clean neck. In some of the other districts, blood’s already being spilled, but here in Two, we’re all pretty orderly. There’s a protocol to follow, and for once, I’m not going to fuck with it. No pranks, no brawling in the Seventeen pen. I might even let Rhaegar do the talking.

This plans lasts for all of five minutes on the walk over. My twin is already knee deep in analysis of the day’s politics. I fidget, and when that doesn’t work, I yawn. He’s used to me though and just keep right on talking, like somehow all this is relevant to my life. I don’t care about other people’s machinations. I only care about my own. We’re herded into the same pen along with the vast majority of our school and training mates. I bump a few shoulders, clap a few backs.

When it comes time for the names to be announced, I’m thinking of the razor resting on my adam’s apple, a hair’s breadth of dividing me from Rhaegar forever. The names are read. Now, I’m also thinking I should have slipped a valium into Torka’s water, because if he rips my head off, this is all for nothing. I didn’t know it was going to be my half-brother called, of course, but I knew it was going to be someone. That was it, the moment when it all came together.

Other voices lifted, but none so clearly as my own. “I volunteer!”

My adam’s apple bobbed over the memory of the razor, killing me instantly.

On the podium, I dip my head over the microphone, and declare myself. “Aerys Hammerfell volunteers for Torka. Sorry, lads. Gotta keep it in the family.”

[ Aerys Hammerfell volunteers - maybe hopefully <3 ]

[noodles]

Marco Guerra

Bitch please, I'm the best

There are some days in life that are a lot more exciting than others. This was one of those special and different days. From the moment that I woke up, I knew today was going to be a hectic one considering that it was Reaping day. My family is one that doesn’t get extremely excited from the reapings, but coming from a career district, everyone around us seems to love death, gore, and blood. I mean... I do see where the appeal comes from, but it’s not like I’m going to run around, screaming what my family considers essentially nonsense.

Each and every other year, yet another one of my siblings become eligible to become reaped. I may not show it, but I do care about the little munchkins some of the time, and as the eldest, it is my responsibility to take of them when my parents aren’t around. The responsibility does get tiresome, and they have annoyed me recently about being dumped by a girl that I had some feelings for, but it’s just regular sibling teasing.

“Are you ready, Santiago?” I kindly ask my twelve year old, doe eyed brother.

His reply is a short and sweet response of “no.” It isn’t like I blame him, but I don’t ever really remember being taught to fear the games. I see it as a way of elevating your life, as well as your family’s life to the next level. You are either lucky enough to accomplish that feat or you die trying. Once you think about it, the concept is actually quite simple the games are just an opportunity for twenty-four teens, not just a death sentence for twenty-three out of those twenty-four.

I’m not a very sentimental guy, but I did take a look around the house one last time. Who knows? It might be the last time I’m ever in it… I take the fourteen year old Theo, as well as the twelve year old Santiago in line to get checked-in, and I see my parents take the two youngest off to the stands where they join every other powerless parent. The drawing of the name from the depths of that crystal ball is completely random, and if it happens to be you, you’re the one with the chance to prove yourself or die trying.

I lead Santiago to the rest of the boys his age, and I return to my spot in the middle of all the other sixteen year old guys. The same escort comes out and gives the same speech he gives every year. I could really care less about what he’s saying. It’s not like they get some new material to say, it’s the same drab each and every year. The Capitol should at least attempt to be original to an extent and write something out less repetitive and tedious.

The female tribute is always revealed first, and the tribute is someone by the name “Esther Salvera.” It is not someone I know, but the girl doesn’t seem to be pleased about getting reaped. Luckily for her, nearly immediately after her name was called, I hear a sharp voice volunteering to take her place. I also don’t know who she is, but I see that she, unlike Esther, has the ambition and drive to actually fight to victory.

The male tribute is shortly revealed after as Torka Hammerfell, and inwardly I cringe. The Hammerfells had already sent two sons into the Games, and both had returned home in coffins. Their family had already had a chance to prove their worth, and they had failed. A third one wouldn't change that fact.

I think about the two options I have right now. I can either volunteer to take the place of the giant, or I can return back to my mundane life. I know that deep down I really shouldn’t be doing this. I know that I can’t be selfish. I know that I have a responsibility here in District 2, and not in the arena inside of the Capitol. I know all of these things, but despite them I still project my voice loudly across the entire square, saying “I volunteer!” I can see everyone turn their eyes on me as I walk up onto the stage. The distance isn’t that long, but it feels like a millennium has passed before I finally got there.

The escort’s face is red with excitement, and I understand why as this is probably huge news back in the Capitol. Not many tributes would dare volunteer for a Hammerfell, after all. “So… We know our female tribute's name… What’s yours?” He asks, shoving a microphone under my face.

“My name is Marco Guerra.” I simply say. Beginning here, although I have my looks and abilities, it is partially left up to fate to who wins. Despite that, I know that I definitely have the strength and ambition to accomplish that goal. My parents look at me with disdain, and my siblings look at me with fearful eyes. A small part of me questions whether or not I made the correct decision, but that slight feeling of regret is stomped out when I think about the luxuries I’ll receive when I win.

OOC: Marco Guerra volunteers for the D2M position

(Yes I'm late but posting cause why not? XD)