ARIA WOLFE - D8 [DONE]

[✨ zozo.]

Name: ARIA WOLFE
Age: FIFTEEN
Gender: Female
District/Area: District 8
Appearance:

Personality:

REBEL YO. COME AT ME WALLS. SNEAKING OUT OF THE HOUSE AT NIGHT/DAY/ALL THE TIME. TOM BOY GRRR. TREES ARE COOL BUT STICKS ARE BETTER TO POKE PEOPLE WITH. THE GAMES ARE COOL. BAMF. I MUST BECOME A LION-HEARTED GIRL. YOU MIGHT BELONG IN GRYFFINDOR WHERE DWELL THE BRAVE AT HEART THEIR DARING NERVE AND CHIVALRY SET GRYFFINDORS APART.

History:

(let's just ignore the beach lol)

LOCKED AWAY IN A CASTLE I'M A PRINCESS KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOUR MOTHER FLIPPIN' DRAGON YO. FEAR ME. WINTER IS COMING. FTP. JON IS COOL. YOU'RE ALL NUTS. JELLY OF SANSA A LITTLE BUT SHHH.

Codeword: odair
Comments/Other:

RABBIT HEART(?) BY FLORENCE Y'ALL

Arya Age 15 Reserved for Zoe
The younger of the two girls, Arya is a spirited girl interested in undermining her mother’s authority, unlike her older sister, Sansa, who is more reserved and as such is often at odds with her, Arya constantly sneaks out, has several friends and enemies in the district and much to her mother’s horror, likes watching the annual games and often tries to playfight with her siblings. Arya is particularly close to her adopted brother Jon who encourages her outspoken behavior, to the point of becoming romantically involved with him behind her family's back.

If you could only see the beast you've made of me
I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free
Screaming in the dark, I howl when we're apart
Drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart
Like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins

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[✨ zozo.]

The looking glass, so shiny and new
How quickly the glamour fades
I start spinning, slipping out of time
Was that the wrong pill to take?
(Raise it up)

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A P P E A R A N C E

I look around, but I can't find you
If only I could see your face
Instead of rushing towards the skyline
I wish that I could just be brave
(Raise it up)[/size][/center]

No matter how hard my mother tries to scrub me, I'm never clean enough. My hair, always matted and full of knots, hanging past my shoulders in the mousy-brown mop I inherited from my father. Blown back by the wind as I run through the District like a mad child, and never, ever tied up. Not like Sarita, with her beautiful red locks tied up with pretty little bows to match her pretty little face. 'I'm beautiful,' she pries. My face, in contrast, is oddly shaped - sharp and painted with a scowl. Empty grey eyes with a thirst for adventure, a need to escape. A round little nose from my mother and a tight-lipped smile that so rarely makes an appearance on centre-stage. In the summer months, my face is splashed with freckles, like the rain in the winter that falls from the sky and sends shivers up my spine and rocks up my skinny arms and through my rough-and-tumble bones to the very core.

('Winter is Coming', my father would whisper, words of wisdom and caution through my ears.) With winter comes shivering, bumpy pale skin and spindly hands rubbing oddly-lengthed limbs for warmth, and with shivering comes rain comes mud, splattered across my face like the fading freckles that hide away in autumn. It gets everywhere, my hair, my bitten-down nails on spiny, knobbly fingers from nervous fits, in between my toes as I dash around with no shoes on, even on my ragged, hand-me-down articles of clothes. Everything is ruined, and I don't give a damn. ('You're as stubborn as these stains', my mother tsks). I hide away in corners and fly over gates. Yelling, screaming, chasing people down. 'Barbarian', they mutter, 'that Wolfe child.' I push with wide palms, shove with pointy elbows and kick with rough, worn-down feet. It's just play-fighting, for fun, but if I do so much as glare at my opponent when I'm really cross, they'll cower in their grubby shoes. Well, I like to think that. They at least look pretty scared to me. My brows furrow, a glint something a mad woman would posses in my arm, my lips curl and my teeth grit. They said they couldn't fight a girl, but I proved them wrong.

[/justify]

You made a deal
And now it seems you have to offer up
But will it ever be enough?
(Raise it up, raise it up)
It's not enough

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P E R S O N A L I T Y

Here I am, a rabbit hearted girl
Frozen in the headlights
I must become a lion hearted girl
Ready for a fight
Before I make the final sacrifice[/center]

There's a rumbling inside of me. A stampede of feet, paws, hooves, claws. A want to explore, a need to rebel, a must to climb and yell and scream and shout. Perhaps it's because I've been locked up all these years, or perhaps it's just a curious nature of mine, but I have always had the strongest of yearnings to stretch boundaries, break rules, take off into the night like a bandit and return as the rising sun that breaks over the horizon. I simply must stretch, fight, break the rules a thousand times over. Point my tongue at my sister's sneering glares and laugh when my little brothers muck up. Chide and whine and complain when my mother tries to force me into pretty little dresses that hang on me like I belong up in a wardrobe. There's an animal inside of me that I must set running free.

I don't get along well with people who don't get along well with me. I hate stuck up people, rude people, people who restrict me, confide me, close me up and squeeze me with their hands until I can barely breathe. People who remind me of my mother and my sister. I'm rough and tumble, as tough as nails and steel. I could go to the 'Wall', as my mother calls it, and return with the only crown I'd ever be prepared to wear on my head. I could, you know. Come back bearing a crown and riches and my own house for Jon and I, and perhaps my brothers, too. Not a crown of daisies my sister loved to make, or a crown made of jewels of a princess or a queen. A crown of a victor, a fighter, a do-whatever-the-hell-I-want-er. Maybe then I'd be worthy of appreciation in this family.

I'm quick to snap back, a temper worse than a dragon from storybooks, and am prone to jealous fits when I don't get my way. Sarita, so perfect in every way, every daughter a mother could dream of, who hoards her love and praise and attention as quick as I repel it. I'll never be her, I never was her. But sometimes, in moments when I hear bursts of laughter from the kitchen, or the living room, or anywhere throughout the house I am not, I can't help but feel that they would be better off without me. I am a hassle, a problem, a flower that will not bloom no matter how much care you tend to it. I am their never-ending problem. Perhaps that is why I wish I could run away forever. To rid them of their problem. To rid them of me.

[/justify]

This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
Raise it up, raise it up

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H I S T O R Y

Raise it up, raise it up
And in the spring I shed my skin
And it blows away with the changing wind
The waters turn from blue to red
As towards the sky I offer it
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My name is Aria, and I hate it when people pronounce it wrong. Are-ee-yah, it's not that hard. But my first name is the last of my worries. The Wolfe name casts a shiver through the District people as the cold winter months do. You hear the stories of the mad widow with too many mouths to feed than she could afford, and the wild, raggedy animal of a child that sneaks out of the house that acts as a prison. That girl is me and they say I'm as mad as my mother. Not all the stories are true, as they're only whispers carried with the wind, twisted through trees and distorted through ears, stolen from our home. But some are. Some I've passed on to the children that fear me, that play chase through the streets, clashing both heads and wooden sticks for swords. Threatening with the tale of my father's ghost haunting their dreams if they ever try and push me into the dirt. Stupid children, they think I'm lying.

My father’s name was Eddard but everyone called him Ned, and one day he didn’t come home from the factory. Mother tells my little brother that he went to a place called The Wall, but I know better than her pretty little white lies. Attempts to secure our mind’s safety, but that’s not all she tries to keep us from. He was in an accident at a factory and got his head decapitated. There. I said it. Clean, simple, straightforward. I heard them, in town. The men talking about it. "Right off in one sweep," they said. I mean, sure, I miss him a bit. But the truth is such a complex thing to keep from someone – and I’m not a little kid anymore. I never really was, though.

I was born in the Coldhouse 15 years ago, in what my father called the Long Summer. It really is freezing in here, but I’ve grown used to the cold. A heater would be nice, though, but I can’t push my luck around here. As were all my other siblings (except for Jon, but I don’t like to mention that. He doesn’t like to be reminded that he’s different from us all,) we were all born and raised here. In the icy winters of District Eight. My home is a never-ending winter – bitter and chilling and a place in which we all long for the sun to warm us up again.

I'm never having kids. Sometimes, I wonder why my parents had so many children. Someone's always in trouble, being yelled at, up to no-good. Then again - that someone is almost always me. Aria, you're doing this wrong, Aria, you're doing that wrong. A never ending rhythm of scolding. I probably came out of the womb wrong. Of course, my sister Sarita, so perfect in every way and so opposite of myself, may have come out curtsying. Everyone adores her, her perfection all tied up with a pretty little bow. Who could compare themselves to her, Miss Dreams and Smiles? The girl who thinks its her moral right to act like my mother, to treat me like the dirt on the bottom of my soles. It's always my fault, though. I'm never right, never well-behaved like the rest of my siblings. In fact, the only sibling I've ever felt close to is Jon, and he's not even my real brother. The first word I spoke was his name, much to my father's humorous delight and my mother's disapproving glance - I always was my father's daughter. At night I cross my fingers and close my eyes and wish that I was adopted, too. But I'm too alike, too similar in features. Rebellious, sneaking off in the dark of the night and coming back in the early dawn of the morning before my mother awakes, not wanting to return at all - but I know deep down in my heart that I'm one of them. Jon is so lucky, not to be attached by blood. But at least he knows what it's like to be an outcast, too.

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[✨ zozo.]

Finished \o/

[Rosetta]

GAME OF THRONES<33 Accepted!

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