i'm the cold heart {moon} finished

[ghosty]

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TAWNY BLYTHE
RHYTHM IS A DANCER

[attr="class","next"]The smell of the training center's is always the same. Of blood, sweat and dreams. It's not overpowering, but it's always there, in the background. And everyone is adding to it all the time. Everyone knows that somewhere in this room could be the next victor of the Hunger Games, and everyone is hoping that it's them. And I'm no different. I head over to where the knives are. and instead of picking up the nearest knife, and chucking it like a moron, I put on my dance shoes. It's gone past the stage when the hard careers stare with utter disbelief of what I normally do. Now it's just the quick glance, a tiny shake of the head, and carrying on to what they were doing before. I'm convinced that they're secretly watching me,  trying to get the advantage of if we ever have to fight against each other. That's what I don't understand, that we have to fight against each other for 'training'. We should be in the arena, fighting for 'killing'. Isn't that what fighting is? To survive?

And now, that my shoes are on, is when I pick up the first blade and it's pair, very thin and light, I still don't throw it, but strap them to the soles of the shoes. What is the point of learning dancing, if you can't use it for everything I do? Like fighting. It's what my father says, "Use every advantage, no matter the cost." And using this is real unexpected, and is an advantage. I drag one of the human shaped targets towards me, and I enter a spin on the ball of my left foot, my right leg extended, the blade slicing straight through the target's chest. I smile, and call out, "Does anyone want to try and beat that?" And I wait for someone to try.

moon(stone)

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[moon(stone)]

I come to the training center every day. I didn't use to when I was younger. I was small and conspicuous with my tender rosy curls and my bad technique. But these days I come every single day, sometimes multiple times per day. I'm a fixture now, and no one seems to mind me.
Being a fixture, you tend to notice patterns in the training center. Like weather patterns. Groups come in and out. They train at the same station each time. They use different fighting styles founded on different fighting techniques. I know some of them will never be happy until they spill blood. Their skills with brute force are unparalleled, perhaps only by the tributes from Two.
When I was very small, just young enough to not be reaped, I joined the training center. One of the older girls took a liking to me and began to mentor me before she became too old to be reaped and started working at a factory across town. One of the first things she did was steal footage from old Hunger Games training. It was contraband, even though it had been shown on TV at the time. At key points, she paused the screen and told me to look at the combative and survival stations.
"Now it's your turn to guess," she said. "Which tribute is from which district?"
She pointed to a boy on the screen who was having trouble loading a bow. Minutes before he had smashed the dummy to the ground with pure strength.
"Seven," I said. "They load lumber. Not much detail work."
And her?
She pointed to a girl who was clearly undernourished braiding wire for a trap.
"Nine."
"Why not eleven?"
"Not tan enough from working in the fields."
"Why not three?"
"Not familiar with the electronic interface of the center."
"Good girl. You're smart for sure. Give you some weapon training, you'll be unstoppable."
"What kind of weapon training?"
"I think you'd work best with knives."
So I have done.
There is another girl at the knife center. I see her there periodically. Her movements are different than the rest. Martially, she is quite fluid. I note her poised posture, the stretch of her hamstrings, the sharp anger with which she moves. And with a powerful kick, she slices straight through the chest of a human-shaped target.
Her smile is salt-laced. Her pride is bitter. "Does anyone want to try and beat that?" she exclaims.
I want to say yes. I see every flaw in her kick. She is too high up on the ball of her feet. She is using the muscles a dancer uses to execute a spin. This will give her an advantage, but her weaknesses are dancer's weaknesses. I can exploit a dancer's weaknesses.
I see this as my opportunity to practice putting people in their place. When I get to the Games I'll need a high training score. This calls for something a little theatrical.
I don't say anything, but step forward. I look directly into her eyes. The people around me scoff and murmur. I can hear bets being whispered into life.
I take the knives. There are nine of them. Nine lives.
I start to throw. I throw one after the other in quick succession.
Knife number one lands on the back of the hand. It's for her fingers, her slender hand positions.
Knife number two lands in the ear. It's to stop her from hearing the music.
Knife number three lands on her throat. It's to stop her breathing along with the beat.
Knife number four lands in her stomach. It's to cure her of the butterflies and her stage fright.
Knives number five and six land in her knees. It's to bring her to the floor and cut open her pirouettes.
Knives seven and eight land in her ankles. It's to stop her from pointing her toes. Forever.
The ninth knife pins the human-sized target she destroyed back onto the wall.
People are standing there, shocked. I've done what I came for. I sheathe my own knives and calmly walk over to sword training. I could use a little help in that area.

[ghosty]

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TAWNY BLYTHE
RHYTHM IS A DANCER

[attr="class","next"]A girl walks beside me, a silent confirmation that she's come to challenge me. A grasp of knives,9 in all, and the girl starts to throw, an explosion of skill, and power as the knives arc into the target, One in the hand, two in the ear, three in the throat, four in the stomach, five and six in the knees, seven and eight in the ankle, and nine in the chest, sticking the dummy into the wall. The anger erupts from within my heart- she was targeting the body parts a dancer needs!- and off she walks, the looks of surprise upon everyone's face who watched the challenge unfold. And the pure hate upon my face. I relish it, and silently curse myself to what Heron would say when what I'm going to do when it filters through the centre.

I rip the knives off my feet, and grip them heavily in both hands. Using as much power I can muster, I throw the lithe daggers towards the target. I stare intently after them, and a smile of pure wickedness graft's itself onto my face, after the daggers land side-by-side, Into the dummies eyes. The only two places where a knife thrower needs. "Knife girl! Come back here!" Without waiting for a reply from the girl, I storm over towards her. I get behind her, and growl into her ear. "How dare you target parts of a dancer. I'd like to see you beat me in a fair sword fight, which I doubt you'll even try." I smirk to myself, and I carry on past her to the swordfighting station in front of me.

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[moon(stone)]

Oh dear. Now the dancer has been upset. She's certainly not hiding her anger. I pause and wonder if I went too far, if I should have stayed back and not challenged her. Well, I've started the fight and might as well own up to it. Only cowards tease and flee. She's not from anyone important, and she isn't anyone important. She's just trying to make a name for herself, a name she's already sullied.
The dancer pulls the knives off her feet and flings them with venom at the target. I understand who she is. She has the mindset of most Careers; arrogant, quick to rage. I doubt she would ever beat me in a fi-
The knives land in the eyes. It's as if she knows what I consider my greatest strength: my power of observation.
I have a split-second moment of panic. She's talented. With her ferocity and her obvious background in movement, she's a fearsome opponent. I sense a rematch in her mind.
I could take her in projectile weapons any day. Those two shots were mostly propelled by her ego. She's a dancer. Her legs are strong. She could probably outrun me or outmaneuver me. Her greatest weakness is her psyche.
"Knife girl!" she hisses, as if to prove my point. "Come back here!"
I don't answer her. I don't answer to anyone, especially my inferiors. I have gems in necklaces that are worth more than her corpse.
She bangs her way over to me in the least graceful way one possibly could. Her voice is a low growl.
"How dare you target parts of a dancer!" Oh, she's noticed. "I'd like to see you beat me in a fair sword fight, which I doubt you'll even try."
She wants my blood now. Swordfighting is not my strongest suit, and to challenge it is to challenge all the parts of myself I don't like. Her very back seems to mock me. I feel a huge surge of frustration. That's what she wants.
"Alright then," I say coolly. I walk over to the rack of swords. My hands are sweaty, and my heart is beating fast beneath my controlled exterior. "You want it to be fair. Would anyone here care to judge the fight?"
My first thoughts are WHAT AN IDIOT YOU ARE, ADAIRA. PLAYING RIGHT INTO HER HANDS.
My second thoughts are, CAN'T STOP NOW.

[ghosty]

[googlefont="Open Sans Condensed:300"]

TAWNY BLYTHE
RHYTHM IS A DANCER

[attr="class","next"]The heart in my chest begins to beat, after challenging towards a girl, no doubt who is talented, to a sword fight. I try and keep my face kept in that hard smirk, one that exudes pure confidence and nothing else. I'll be the one who'll predict a victory everytime, all because of that single smirk. The crowd in the training center gathers around the sword station, quiet murmurings of either condemnation, or pure excitement, of seeing two people duke it out until first blood. I swallow down the nerves, hoping that I don't lose, and embarrass myself more that being destroyed at a knife station.

And in the crowd, attempting to hide in the middle, is my brother, the look of his face, a mask of contempt, looking me straight in the eyes. A look that only says, 'What the fuck are you doing this time, Tawny? Haven't you embarrassed me enough already with your antics?!" I silently chuckle to myself, knowing the only reply I could give to that would be 'And you think that bothers me?' delivered with a chuckle. And the girl that was stupid enough to piss me off broke me from the thoughts of what to say to my brother. ""Alright then. You want it to be fair. Would anyone here care to judge the fight?"

I smile straight at her, and reply, "The first one to spill blood wins. One cut, end of the fight. Okay?" I don't know why I added the 'okay' at the end; it wasn't a question, it was a statement. And guess who steps forward to judge the fight; my goddamn brother. Walking past me, I hear him hiss, "What the fuck are you doing Tawny!" And I merely chuckle at that, just more than a snort of laughter. I turn to the sword rack, and spot a sword, extremely similar to the dual daggers I sported earlier. I grasp it within my hand, and the blade is as light as it could. Perfect for a dancer.

I pirouette on the ball of my left foot, back towards the girl, and smile again. "Pick your weapon, knife girl." And I get ready to show her what a dancer can do in a fight. 

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[moon(stone)]

"The first one to spill blood wins. One cut, end of the fight. Okay?"
I pledge to myself to escape without a scratch. My parents wouldn't look on me too kindly if I came home stained with blood.
A boy steps forward to judge the fight. I see his lips move, but I can't hear what he says. It's evident from his expression that they know each other, and he seems more than annoyed.
Dance girl is disdainful. She remains smirking, but I can see the fear escape from her eyes. It's time to show her that her fear is rational.
She pulls out a sword from the rack. I analyze its qualities. Light-looking, tapered blade quite like the daggers she was using earlier, a bit weak at the hilt. It reminds me of the times my parents have taken me to see ballets, stories woven into fluid movement, and the stylized parries of the false fights. She lifts up into a pirouette to start. "Pick your weapon, knife girl."
I remind myself that a sword blade is not the same as a knife blade. I search for the one I use most often. It is balanced, with a decent grip, a very steady, connected hilt, and a little movement. That is deadly in a knife, but required in a sword, where it becomes an extension of yourself.
In spite of myself, I bring it out of the rack with a loud, echoing swish. Why not show off? She's arrogant, prideful, contemptuous, and hates being reminded of her own stupidity. "Are you ready?" I say. Though I know I am, I doubt she is. "Excellent. Let's begin."
I get in the swordfighting stance I've learned. The only way I can win is to beat her at her own game. Deception. And with that, the fight begins.
I immediately take the offensive, swiping hard at her left and right. She counters my moves easily. I pull back. By now the fight has consumed me entirely. My focus is honed. I notice a flaw in her arms. They bend too much. Her power is all rooted in her wrist.
I've beaten kids bigger than her. Swordfighting psychology dictates the importance of overestimating your opponent. My strokes are powerful. I'm not getting out of here without putting up the best possible fight I can.

[ghosty]

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TAWNY BLYTHE
RHYTHM IS A DANCER

[attr="class","next"]An explosion of adrenaline rushes through my veins, simply from the utterance of 6 words. "Are we ready? Excellent. Let's begin." The sword that she picked was so her; strong looking, and very secure looking inside her hands, and with no doubt, she'd be effective at using it. Using it to try and hurt me. I'd considered trying and getting a quick strike, as soon as Heron said "Go," before she would even expect it, but it was her, not me, pushing the first second advantage. And the first strike darts left, my sword snatching through the air to deflect, all for the metal-on-metal ting! and for the sword to flick to the right. If I was against anyone else, the first thing that I would've done is kick up, hoping to surprise her, but instead, I hooked the blade in my arms around to deflect also.

It's almost a shock when the girl pulls back, leaving me to catch my breath. She's studying my weaknesses, of which, in my opinion, is only one, the arms. Not honed from hours pulling weights, only using them to retrieve balance, or to slap my brother for being an arse. Like now for instance, the shadow of a smirk within grasp of the features, a two finger salute towards me not pressing, and almost losing instantly. I can literally see the title if that happened. Tawny. The dancer who speaks big, and can do jack shit. And I can't let that happen. And in what seems like an age, I walk towards the girl, swinging my sword low towards her shin, leaning forward to reach, and take another step forward, twisting my body to try and reach the side of the body, cutting in at the last second, both attacks being block by the girl.

And all the while, all my mind is shouting, 'SHE SHOULDN'T BE THAT HARD TO BEAT!' I spin on my right foot, and the blade extended in my hands. I feel contact, of the blade upon something hard, and there is something else in the background, a sharp warmth on my skin, somewhere. Who'd won I have no idea, so I turn to my brother, and wait for him to tell the answer.

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[moon(stone)]

Steel flashes. The hot rhythm of the fight is in me now. This is the part I most enjoy. I hear the swords connect and I push to try and find an opening. My stance is sound. My fury is bubbling up like molten lava, rage slow to cool. I must win. I must get first blood.
Dance girl's skills are not entirelye worthless. She slashes towards me; my shin, my side. Too late. And too predictable. I spot an opening on her right, an unguarded hip. I swing down to catch it, and it hits as she is in mid-spin. As it moves in, the tip of her sword whirs toward my shoulder. I lean back, but not far enough. It cuts. First blood.
Whose blood? The wound in her side streams red, but I feel mine trickling down my shoulder. I was an idiot. An idiot. I walk in untouched, I walk out scathed. Hurt by a girl who likely will spend much of her life hopping about in a tutu and tiara to the chirpy tune of some saccharine numbskull. She turns around and faces her friend or lover or whatever, the judge of the fight.
"It was a tie," he says. He gives dance girl a pointed look. The people around us mutter and gasp.
It was a tie? It was a tie?! There is no such thing as a tie in the real world. The Hunger Games can't end in a tie. There is no such thing as two victors of the Hunger Games, and there will never be. Mistress sugar fairy here got cut first, I want to scream. Pretty little doll got cut first. She could never match me. And I am opening my mouth to fight the decision when I realize something.
Arrogance. The worst of the Career flaws. It's one thing to be in a tie, and another thing to insist that I must have won. I felt the sword connect as her blade caught my shoulder. When I had the knives, I let my skill do the talking. I told her in a fair way, with my ability answering her challenge. I will not bow to the crassness of this game. I never will.
I bow my head. "You are talented, dancer." I am not submitting. I am not conceding. There is no shame in recognizing someone for their deed. "I am Adaira Lynsen. That was impressive. If you need someone to spar with, or someone to back you, I will be here for you."
Everyone has already dispersed. "You can find me here most days. I expect I'll see you in school. Keep practicing, dancer," I say. "You're good with swords, and I've never seen anyone cut with a pirouette." With that, I leave her. I am going to find the video camera that the security guards use for the training center.
update: I found the camera. We cut at the same time. Even though I knew it, I can't help but feel a drizzle of annoyance.

[ghosty]

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TAWNY BLYTHE
RHYTHM IS A DANCER

[attr="class","next"]A glance from Heron told me the answer merely moments before he announced the result to the already dispersing crowd, and the girl next to me, a furious expression upon her face. "It was a tie." The crowd, almost disbelieving that a draw can happen in a fight of first blood. It was almost unheard of. The girl's face lightened a tad, and a slight bow emerged from her form. "You are talented, dancer. I am Adaira Lynsen. That was impressive. If you need someone to spar with, or someone to back you, I will be here for you." I'm shocked that someone in the training center doesn't try and murder you for making them look like a fail, and even to say congratulations is a rarity barely seen anymore. I nod back at her, and say, "Tawny Blythe. And if you were wondering who this," pointing to Heron, "is, he's my brother, Heron. Nice to meet you, Adaira. You ain't no slouch yourself, y'know?"

I go to turn away, and I hear from her, "You can find me here most days. I expect I'll see you in school. Keep practising, dancer. You're good with swords, and I've never seen anyone cut with a pirouette." And at that, she walks away, leaving me and Heron, in the middle of the training center, like nothing happened. I turn to him, and say with a smile, "That was most fun, hm?" And if looks could kill, my blood would've covered the floor by now, by the look he gave. "Never, ever, do that again if you still want me as a friend. Ever. I FELT LIKE A FOOL WATCHING THAT!" I laugh as he walks away, and I decide to walk back home, the day couldn't be better. It's always good to embarrass a brother, isn't it?

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