[open?] written in flames

[[Ella] -- gone until 10/25 D=]

gerrard menderson.

When his parents took him to the doctor, it wasn't because there was anything wrong with him. To Gerrard, an appointment meant another visit with the medical counsler, in which he had no interest. Same questions were asked, with the same answers. At times like these, he wondered why his parents even bothered. He'd thought they had already learned.

And then, of course, there would be one primary questions to the list.

Do you still keep matches on you?

Gerrard would tell the truth. No, he didn't keep matches on him. That wasn't how he made his fire. The flames were the only thing that he understood. With his personality, he couldn't understand anything about himself or, especially, his emotions. But fire was another story.

He had a torch with him right now as he crossed over the uninhabited lands of the District -- even if it was a vivid, sunny afternoon. Still, Gerrard didn't need the fire to see. He took a seat on the hill and stuck the wooden stick between his knees, staring into the flames. And as he did so, he muttered something under his breath.

"It's not matches I have." Gerrard sighed and leaned back, never once letting the torch fall onto the grass. Once again, he was struck by how lively, how passionate the flames were as they danced across the top of the stick. It was a familiar feeling he couldn't describe. Was it happiness? Joy? Gerrard has always had trouble describing almost every single emotion he feels in his body. One thing was for sure though: he wanted to be exactly like the fire, feel exactly like it. But he couldn't. Not with his condition.

Gerrard shifted in his position, eyes locked on the shape in front of him. "I wonder what would happen if I throw the torch at that tree," he mused aloud to no one in particular. And yet, it was a pointless reverie. He'd never give up the fire that easily.

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[Micra]

((Mind if I join?))


Every day, a new adventure. This particular afternoon was no different. A bet made with Shale, a simple challenge. And now she had to figure out how to outsmart his bet. She hadn't lost one in two years, and that was not going to start now.

So today, Micra was looking for wood. The latest dare required her to spend a night in the woods with Shale. She'd never gone into the woods before. If she lasted the night without going back to the District, she won. She might not have accepted, if not for the more detailed terms of the bet. That, and the loser had to dye their hair with some pilfered dye. She had always wanted to see Shale as a blond.

But to survive a night in the woods, she needed to know how to make a fire. No way was she sleeping outside without the comfort of a flame, even in this heat. She hoped it would scare the animals off. And of course, it would dispel the dark so she could look at Shale's hair and imagine it blond to keep her going.

So she would find wood, and she would refresh on how to make a fire. She could remember re-lighting fires in the factories to keep the machines going. But that had been years ago, before the old machines were replaced.

It didn't take her long to notice the boy staring into the flames. After all, there was nobody else around. She'd never seen him before, though he looked about her age. But he could make fire. Talk to it, even, it seemed. But the master herself couldn't condemn anyone else for talking to inanimate objects. She approached him, cautiously.

"That's a nice fire. Could you... Could you teach me how to do that?" she asked.

[Prince Inigo]

(I'll boot out if three is too much. xP )
Pystan Jam

A happy blond head of sunshine would laugh and mingle the hours away with any a soul that happened to pass a word to her. A social butterfly was an understatement; she was a social bird, not fluttering but flying and darting. The ruffles of her skirt accentuated the effect of flight. The strings of her corset were the tail feathers.

Her trail of talking had isolated her to the part of the District uninhabited and lacking of citizen attendance. The blond turned, her back to a hill, ready to curtail to where hence she came, but a noise drew out her curiosity. It was distant, small, periodically flickering, almost like a child's laughter. The girl readjusted her footing towards the source and began the peculiar, curious adventure.

While doing so, notions glided to the District 3 Tributes, her fellow denizens who fought and was still fighting for their lives. Garrett Vanderbuilt was down; Melanie 'Mel' Clark was still going. The one who stole her place when she had the chance to back down.

The blond could not feel bitter anymore. The Hunger Games gave her one relief, one thought that made her feel better about life, in its own sick twisted way. Though a certain Carter would propose against such a thought.

The grass was crunched under her feet as she ascended the slope, having to use established leg strength against the incline. The 'laughter' grew louder, snapping. She finally realized it could not be even described as 'laughter', but a 'cackle'.

Mixed green orbs set themselves on a fire, lively and dancing, though keeping some vision of a girl and a boy. The guy seemed to be cute, in her opinion, yet seemingly morbid or sad or something she could not pinpoint well, which threw off his entire scope of cuteness. He could do without the little bit of facial hair, though.

Curiosity spilled into her words, starting with: "Morning, morning. I heard the fire from afar. I came to check it out." She stopped with a little distance between the male and female. "Why do you have one set up when the sun is out? Can't you see just fine without it?

[[Ella] -- gone until 10/25 D=]

((OOC: Well, you know what they say: the more the merrier xD))

Gerrard wasn't the type to get bored. If anything, he could get completely into his own world and forget about anything else. That was natural enough. With the vivid, easily remembered dreams that he's always had, he could recount a particular scene at night and relive it. Night was, after all, the best time. That day though, Gerrard was attentive. And when he heard footsteps heading his way from the distance, he couldn't help but turn around and search for the newcomer.

His eyes landed on a girl, around his age he guessed at once. She walked toward him, in what seemed to Gerrard was a slow, careful manner. He wasn't exactly sure what the word to describe that emotion was. It was caution, wasn't it? But then again, what would he know?

The girl spoke to him, her words carried away by the cackling of the fire in front of him. He listened harder then and managed to hear enough to understand. "I suppose," he replied, thoughtful for a moment. "But I don't have my material with me. We could probably use something else though." If he found the sequence of the conversation random, he didn't show it.

It didn't take long for another girl to join the duo. Gerrard glanced up, surprised that there were actually people coming to the deserted area. That was definitely new. This girl seemed much more confident than the other, but Gerrard barely dwelled on that acknowledgment. "I didn't make the fire for the light," he muttered, answering her question. And he stopped there, because he felt that there was something missing. Something...left out. What was it?

It hit him then and he shifted so that the torch was back in his hand. "I'm Gerrard, in case you were wondering. Was the fire really what brought you two here?" He returned his gaze back to the flames. So he was probably being creepy now. It didn't really matter to him at the moment.

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