NOW my (w a t c h) begins~ // Charade, Zoe

[Onyx]

J

[/font]O H A N N E D D A R D W O L F E[/center]

Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk to you again

[/i]
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains[/i]
Within the sound of silence
***[/center]

The bread here is always cold. I've heard that, in other Districts, the bread tastes like sunshine. Imagine that, biting into summer, soaked in the warmth of a sun-covered pool, crackling with the sound of green leaves on the trees overhead. With every bite, the comfort that comes with long days and short nights would fill your mouth, your throat, your stomach. A whole season crammed into one loaf, the liquid gold of rays of light pouring from it in flour and a fresh scent. I've heard that, in other Districts, the bread may taste like sunshine. But other districts are not District Eight, other bread is not my bread. And cold bread is more fitting for King Jon.

I stand in the dark kitchen as I do every morning, letting the filtered sunlight hit my scarred arms in the glass silence of the dawn. Silence that is almost visible if you're looking, but that can shatter at the slightest disturbance. Wavering like water through the old windows of this wrinkled house, the light is almost blue, and just as cold as that colour should be. I am often up this early to admire how our their house is trapped in a whirlwind of winter, even in the foul heat of Panem's July. It is refreshing, in an almost haunting way, that the grass still crackles underfoot, and the house has the aroma of death and sorrow that has hung here, as if on gallows, since Father's death. The cold keeps memories suspended long after heat would have rotted them away.

I don't sit down as I eat – never have I seen an invitation to sit with the rest of the family in my mother's hollow words. Instead, I stand by the course metal sink, hypnotized in the moment as single drops of water hit the plughole as solemnly as blood from an executioner's axe. Father always said that if someone needs punishing, the man who passes the sentence should wield the sword. But right now I don't feel like the executioner, and I have no one to blame. Right now, I feel like the headless corpse. And usually, I would blame myself, and discipline myself for the crimes I consider huge, just being here seems to be a crime in mother's eyes, but all this self-punishment, the tiny little executions I make on myself every day, evaporates at the sunrise every day. For the end of the long nights that make up my bitter life, I forget about the day to come and live in the moment.

It's incredible, how such a tiny thing as water from a tap can enrapture me so when I am like this. Everything else fades into clouds of icy mist in my mind, and I stare at the slow drip as if it is the most important thing in the world. It's pathetic and ridiculous, Jon, I chide myself, but even blinking doesn't help to break this trance, if a king cannot focus on his whole realm, he does not deserve to be a king at all. But I am a king, and I will be the head here, once the woman who I am supposed to call mother is gone, nothing more than a name and a chill that will join her husband's around this place. Before the Dark Days, there was a king the people called the Usurper, for he stole the throne from another man. Will I be this era's usurper, for stealing the Throne of the Coldhouse from my brother?

But is it really stealing if I am the boy man who is worthy of the throne? Though this family might not see it, I do so much for them that they will never know. I stay out of trouble, invisible and insignificant, not ruining the perfect family portrait by spreading the word that I am not a Wolfe, that I wil never be a Wolfe, making sure I do everything the widow asks without answering back, always upholding the honour of this ancient family that they can only dream exists and–

[/i] The slice of half eaten bread in my hand quivers as I suppress the anger inside me. What am I saying? Though it may be mother's aim to make me feel unwelcome in the home that is mine, I have my father's name. And I shall have his Castle, too.

A rustle from the doorway alerts me and I quickly cram the remainder of my frozen breakfast into my mouth. Spinning on my heel and rolling down my sleeves, I take in the striking silhouette of the Lady of the house herself. Talk of the Devil… I swallow hastily, forcing away the now ashen food to make room for words and, twisting my face into what I hope is an acceptable smile, I murmur, "Mother, how nice of you to join me."[/size][/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify]

"Fools," said I, "you do not know
Silence like a cancer grows

[/i]
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you"
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed[/i]
In the wells of silence
***[/center]

[charade]

[color=[plum]Caroline Wolfe

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In the night I hear them talk,
The coldest story ever told,[/color][/center]

The night receded as as it always did, the dawn heralded by a single shining shaft of morning sunlight piercing through the heavy black curtains that hung like a funeral shroud from her windows. The Wolfe widow stretched leisurely, carefully extricating herself from underneath the pile of downy comforters that kept the chill of the starlit nights from freezing her solid. What a tragedy that would be, the mother of five wonderful children found dead in her room, a lifeless ivory corpse in stark contrast to the darkness of the sleeping quarters. She looked at the empty pillow next to hers and for a moment, let her mind wander to memories of better days. Of a time when things didn’t seem quite so cold.

Banishing the thought, Caroline slipped out of her nightgown and approached the oaken wardrobe that stood regal as a king in the corner. She would dress as she always did, the plain colors of white and black showing her lack of need for extravagant colors. A skirt, a shirt, perhaps some finger less gloves. Jangled bracelets and a necklace made of luminescent pearls completed the ensemble. Fit for a queen. Snowy powder daubed on both of her cheeks, thin lines of black eyeliner that served to make her eyes glitter like polished stone. Pale red lipstick artfully employed; There was no sense in dolling herself up to look like Rajas’s painted whore.

Jeyne. Pursing her lips in the mirror, she felt a scowl creeping up the sides of her face. The girl was a wreck, and delusional to boot if she thought Caroline would ever allow her to marry her eldest son. Jeyne Wolfe. The very notion was laughable. Satisfied that she was looking presentable, she exited her room and started her morning rounds. Five doors lined the hallway down from her room, and she meant to check on each of them before heading downstairs. The closest door belonged to sweet little Ricky, her youngest, too young to understand the harsh world they lived in. His small form still slumbered peacefully; innocent, his tiny mouth drooling ever so slightly on his blanket.

She shut the door quietly, not wanting to disturb the sleep that younger children required. The next bedroom belonged to her artist, the one forced to use a contraption to get around in. He was still fast asleep as well, so Caroline moved onward, there were other things to take care of before heading downstairs to make a breakfast for her little princes and princesses. Rajas’s room was empty, as he had left for work some hours ago. She stood in doorway and sighed irritably. That he was so smitten with that girl he’d betray his own mother truly hurt her; not enough to crack the ice that covered her emotions like a frosty shell, but enough to make her a calculated type of angry.

How could you be so,
Cold as the winter wind

Sarita slept, a hand resting on her forehead, giving her the appearance of a maiden that had simply swooned at the sight of an honorable knight, or perhaps a dashing rogue trying to sweep her off her feet. One day she would get married, and Carol hoped it would be a pleasant affair. No reason to burst her daughter’s bubble about fairy-tale endings... Like the one she had once had. Right? In the room across from it, Aria was twisted and turned up and around, a blanket on the floor and another entwined around her form, limbs askew at odd angles. She stirred in her sleep some more, and the Wolfe mother gently placed the offending blanket on tip of her. None of her children were going to catch their death of cold.

Satisfied that they had all slept well and would continue to do so, Caroline headed downstairs to check on the bedroom that was apart from all the rest, a room so near the door one might say it was a subtle hint for the person in question to leave. But, the small room was vacant, which meant that the boy was elsewhere in the house. Johanne you don’t deserve his name Wolfe.

Taking measured steps into the the kitchen, she was greeted by a most unwelcome voice. "Mother, how nice of you to join me." She let a sigh out, and raised an eyebrow disapprovingly. Jon grinned at her, which only made her annoyed. The way his mouth curled up at the sides was so reminiscent of .. of..“Wasting water are we? I’m not made of money. Shut that tap off before it leaves rust spots.”Her eyes roamed over to the counter and she placed her hands on her hips. “You left the bread out as well. If you are attempting to take more food out of my childrens mouths than you already have, I’d suggest you at least take the time and have the courtesy to clean up after yourself.”

"How could you be so heartless?"

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[Onyx]

J

[/font]O H A N N W O L F E[/center]

Several times during meetings like this, I feel like I ought to be kinder to Queen Wolfe. I regard her as goosebumps rise on my flesh, caused by the imaginary draught I conjure up every time a situation becomes as icy as this. Her eyes which were once beautiful, warm and unwrinkled are now weighed down by heavy bags filled to the brim with sorrow. The colour that was bright and dazzling is faded by constant tides of salt water, assaulted by tiredness and an immovable schedule. The lips, pale red with makeup but still cracked and uncared for never support a smile, but are dragged down at the corners by the heaviness of widowhood. She holds herself upright, but still looks frail and old. She is too weak to rule this kingdom. Whereas I, though I may not be hers of blood, am fit to rule over the whole of Panem. But I do not desire that. And sometimes I am grateful I am not this woman's son. Right now, as I regard her, I think what it would be like to come from her, to look like her as all her other children do. Apart from Aria – the only perfect one out of them all Sometimes, I am told I look like father. I would not mind being his son at all, but to turn out like this woman? I cannot imagine it.

And once again, I am filled with mixed emotions towards her as she speaks. "Wasting water are we? I’m not made of money. Shut that tap off before it leaves rust spots." I make no move to mute the drip, drip that is the only thing keeping me in the real world and out of the fantasies where I stab this woman through her wintry heart. She keeps ordering, accusing, "You left the bread out as well. If you are attempting to take more food out of my children's mouths than you already have, I’d suggest you at least take the time and have the courtesy to clean up after yourself." Her children's mouths. My fingers tighten around the side of the surface, knuckles turning as white as corpses. Here is where the conflict I have for Caroline Wolfe mostly occurs. Perhaps, if I had been one of her trueborn children, I could have avoided insults like this. Heart-wrenching attacks on the name I can't help but have, that make my hands shake and the blood pound cold and hard through my veins. I would have been the first born Wolfe, perhaps, and the rightful heir, and would not have to take it through unappreciated force and determination. Although this way, I prove to myself and, when I am King, to others, that I am truly worthy. Yes, there is a second side to the argument. Provoking mother amuses me, if only momentarily. I know it is cruel, but to watch her face twist up in fury that she is afraid to let out thrills me. I love to see her so ugly. I would never have wished to have been born to this woman. Would father have held me any higher then? Or would he only have looked at me the way he looks at Rajas now – with respect and pride, but as just another one of his children. I was his favourite, I was the one who was given his name.

Finally, after an infinity of excruciating minutes, I smile again, inclining my head in a tiny mock bow, and turn off the tap. Silence surrounds us like a snowstorm, crushing and deafening us with its power. "You must think me a crook, mother, taking all this bread for myself," I raise the new loaf, freshly cut with barely a slice taken off it, showing her just how much I have really stolen. "Sneaking about, taking from your family, wearing your husband's name like a badge." She tenses at this, and I know I've hit the tender spot I really want to. But now that I have started, I can't stop. "Well I'll tell you something, mother," I almost snarl, though my voice is quickly getting louder to fill the loaded silence, "I am a part of this family just as much as you are. And when you're dead and gone, just like him, I'll still be here."

[/b] On here, I bring the plate I am still holding down with such force it smashes right in my palm. Shards of porcelain china, almost as pale as the widow's face, embed themselves in my already scarred flesh. I don't cry out, but simply pull them from my hand and lay them on the counter. The blood runs freely down my fingertips, meandering with the tremors storming around my body.

Caroline stares at me, speechless, but I hear movement from upstairs. I have woken someone with my stupid, unkingly outburst. I can only hope it is someone who is willing to defend me – my dear Aria – though there is more in that prayer to doubt than to hope for.[/size][/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify]

I've made it so either Charade or Zoe can reply, seeing as I'm not sure who's next xD

[✨ zozo.]

My hands are tired
But my eyes are open
This modern denial
Has me broken
I'll be your warrior

[/i][/center]


I awake, groggy, a blanket wrapped around my body, to a house full of tension, ready to snap. Much how my fingers feel when winter comes, as if they will break with one wrong mistake. Words are gold, precious, but so easily turned to stone. I'm much a cause for this tension, a fragile bond between my mother and I strained with every day that passes, whilst my sister's bond grows tighter. One day, we'll snap. Irreparable. I can't even say I tried my best to keep us attached, because I don't. I do the complete opposite. I drive her to her wits ends, I disobey, I yell. I sneak out in the middle of the night and don't care if she catches me, for I just want to frustrate her.

I'm not one for feeling guilty. I am distant, except for the very few I am close to. Or rather, the only person alive that I am close to. Now that my father is gone, all I have is Jon. Now that my father is gone, I may not have Jon for much longer. The thought that keeps me up at night, steals sleep away from me. I don't have friends, moreover the kids who run along side me in the streets, the kids who I pushed into dirt, pulled at their hair and played rough-and-tumble with. I only have Jon. Father said I wasn't supposed to hurt the people you care about, but that never stopped my mother. It still doesn't.

In my half-awake haze, I assume I've been arisen from the sounds of outside. Sounds my mother thinks I should only hear from inside, from the 'safety' of our home. I'm the one running about in the dead of night, howling at the moon as you cower in your bed-sheets. Stirring under the blanket, not quite remembering how it came to be wrapped around me in the first place, I sit up, brushing my mop of hair back from my face with slender, grubby fingers and kicking the blanket off, coming to terms with the morning around me.

And then I hear them.

Treading on fragile ground, voices rising up from below the floorboards. Anger seething through their ceiling, tempers rising and tension sizzling, so hot that if this house were not so cold, the walls may melt into the floor. It's not the first time I've awoken to a shouting match - but the voices in this one set them apart as not petty arguments, but a raging battle that spanded year after year, ongoing and never-ending. There's Jon, deep monotones clashing with my mother's bitter voice, so indifferent to her fretting that seems to follow me around constantly. With me, it's irritable, sharp - yet with Jon, it's something else altogether. Like she's talking to the dirt on the floor that won't scrub away. She knows if she sends him away, she'll loose me altogether. My mother has no business treating him like that, and suddenly I am overcome with anger for the prejudice on Jon. I'd choose him over anyone else under this roof any day. I'd choose Jon over my own mother, and I feel no sense of guilt whatsoever.

Instead, I feel like a scolding flare, cold feet hammering down the stairs. My heels slam against the steps, bang bang bang to the rhythm of my footsteps. When Father was here, she never risked it. Bitter words and harsh accusations float up the stairs I descend in a hurry. I won't let her treat him like dirt. With Father gone, I'm the only one left to protect Jon. The last thread left attached to a wearing rope before it snaps clean altogether. A knight in shining armour, ready for battle.

"Stop it!" I bark at her, arms outstretched to push the two colliding personalities away. "Stop it now, Mother!" Not caring who else in this house I wake, I wedge myself between my mother and Jon, burying myself into his body and easing him backwards, whipping my posture around to glare at my mother. "You've got no right, none! Father wanted him here, this is his home, and it's been his longer than me or Sarita or any of us!" Fury not only makes itself apparent in my words, but my eyes do not break from the piercing look of dissaproval I launch at the other side of the argument.[/color] "He can have my breakfast, I don't want it no more" I finish in a huff, knowing that bread was the last of her concerns. Everyone knows I'd fight to the death for Jon. Even against my own family - but for the longest time, Jon has been the only family I have had left.

You're taking over
And I'm feeling small
When I was a child
I knew it all
I'll be your warrior

[/i][/center]
[/justify][/blockquote][/blockquote]

desc
think
talk

[/size]

[charade]

[color=[plum]Caroline Wolfe

[/color][/size]


The audacity of the brat, she thought. Refusing to obey her commands and being so insolent to her face. He wouldn't be so brave if her other children were downstairs. Jon dared mock her with with corners of his mouth and a nod. The water ceased its incessant dripping, leaving the sound of the pairs breathing to fill in the empty space. But if that wasn't enough, the lad began an insulting tirade. Daring to grab the bread loaf, he smirked at her."You must think me a crook, mother, taking all this bread for myself," The bread is proudly held aloft like a cat would show off a hairball.

"Sneaking about, taking from your family, wearing your husband's name like a badge." Her shoulders tensed, as her bottom lip began to quiver with fury. How dare he take a tone like that. How dare he insult her husbands memory like this. "Well I'll tell you something, mother," Mother? She was no mother to this.. this...filth. This... growling vermin.I am a part of this family just as much as you are. And when you're dead and gone, just like him, I'll still be here." The plate suffered the brats fury, sending bits of itself everywhere with the bread, shattering like the dreams of a happy young girl who was long gone.

"You..You..."

A clatter from the stairs gives her pause, the escalating argument having awoken one of her children, as if there wasn't enough trouble already. The haphazard steps that flew down the staircase could only belong to her Aria. The brat's partner in crime. Another thing fro him to answer for, the slow but inevitable corruption of her youngest daughter. "Stop it!" Her daughter stands defiantly in-between the mother and the unwanted financial burden."Stop it now, Mother!"; She covers him with an undeserving protective stance. "You've got no right, none! Father wanted him here, this is his home, and it's been his longer than me or Sarita or any of us! How did the saying go? Fish and visitors stink in three days. "He can have my breakfast, I don't want it no more."

Fixing her cold eyes on the offender, she spoke in a deathly calm and quiet voice."He's already had his breakfast sweetie. Isn't that right Jon? It's just a shame he wasted the rest of the loaf."Moving Aria over ever so slightly with her hands, she stared down at the outcast Wolfe."I am the parent and you are a child. Yes, you are here because of Ed. Never forget that. But..."She slapped him hard across the cheek."You only remain here at his request."She walked briskly away from them, not wanting to hear her daughter complain further about her treatment of Jon.

"I'm going to work. This mess had better be gone when I return. Make sure your siblings are fed."

-Caroline Leaves-

OOC:I'm leaving it open for some Aria/Jon interaction. Have fun you guys. ^ ^

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