wicked ( inga & marceline, day 1

[tick 12a / calla]

I N G A

The goods from the tower are enough to pacify Inga, just slightly.

She'd climbed back down with Gunner's knife clenched between her teeth and the sponsorship canister slung across her back. She's tucked the dart gun into her boot. The extra vibrant-tipped darts sit rattling in the pocket of her jacket. There's a canteen too, and matches, and a little Capitolite note that felt more like a riddle than a message.

It isn't quite enough to appease her, but it is a bolster to her confidence.

Maryn's words come back to her still, the sharpness of her consonants echoing in the crunch of the snow. This isn't the place to be polite. She can't afford it. And the grudge sits petty in her chest now.

If she was the type to talk it out, some kind of diplomat or mediator, then she wouldn't have been here in the first place. She acts first and demands forgiveness later. The chip on her shoulder is a wound.

Inga cracks the hand warmers and stuffs them into her gloves, shaking then, pressing the heat to her ears before setting out again.

She prowls through the woods until the trees change. The branches get thinner. Sparser. The behemoths start to wane, stretch out, and the wind changes direction. It's less suffocating, but more bare. The air feels open.

She's keeping an eye out for a glimpse of purple, or of white.

The woods are unerringly still, and so the flash of teal, when it comes, draws the eye like a bright little bird.

Inga turns Gunner's knife in her hand and throws it without breaking her stride. Instinct - it goes flying, turning, directly at the poor little thing standing there like a deer in headlights. It thunks solidly into the tree trunk next to the girl, quivering.

"That was a warning shot."

ELEGANT

scavenges charred cabin
rWE4izV2ni1-7
6. Beanie (-1 weather damage)

1-7

[andromache s. ⚔️ [d1b] sucy]

Remember who you are, Marceline. Remember what you’ve done.

That was a warning shot.

Yeah, much too close for comfort. Marceline was making her way back through the witch’s wood, looking out for Váli’s blonde head, Hal, and the forest green of District Seven’s uniforms – which looked remarkably out of place in a woods like this. She’s there, wondering if the trees, so uncanny for her, are any comfort to the members of her alliance, foolishly pausing for a second, when Inga’s icepick swishes past her head. Marceline doesn’t turn to look at it, she’d rather not, and instead just snaps her head in the direction it came from.

Marceline’s eyes, big and wide and unnaturally blue, lock in on Inga Vanas, from District Four. She can feel her familiar scurrying its way down her spine, down her leg, down to hide. Marceline can’t blame it. She would do the same if she could.

Remember, Marceline. You’re not at home anymore. She blindly feels around beside her head for the knife, yanks it out of the tree.

She holds out her new knife, as if to throw it. On shaky legs, Marceline sidesteps a wide arc around Inga to pass her.

"You –" Marceline stops, starts again. She doesn’t threaten people. She doesn’t talk to people at all. "You heard that cannon earlier, right? That was me. Before I even got my hands on this," she turns the knife in her hand. It lines up with the twist in her gut, "so let’s just go our own ways, alright?"

She continues backing away, sweat beading on her skin beneath all of her layers, even though she’s still cold.

table credit to napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. !