70th Reaping [D7]

[Lulu]

On a grandiose platform in the Capitol, President Snow stood between two large glass bowls - each twelve times larger than the vessels that bore the names during regular reapings. The 70th Hunger Games, being a quell, were a special occasion: each tribute would be reaped regardless of their district.

This meant that Snow would be drawing each of the twenty-four names personally, and the single reaping would be broadcast to each district, where the twelve-to-eighteen were gathered as usual.

A cold, haughty smile spread across his face as he stepped up to the podium. "It is time," he said, addressing the entire anxious nation, "to select twenty-four tributes to represent their chosen districts in the 70th Hunger Games. Let us begin the Reaping!"

---

OOC- RPing is allowed. If you wish to volunteer, let the tribute post first either accepting or stepping down from their place for volunteers, and then post. If the tribute doesn't reply by Tuesday, June 2nd, a staff member will post saying that volunteering is open. Please do not post until you see this staff message. Volunteering is first-come, first-serve, with the exception of characters who have threaded with the tribute who has stepped down, who will receive precedence within a three-hour window.

Tributes, please do not make your acceptance or denial of your spot in character; instead, please leave an ooc note at the end of your post stating whether they accept or are stepping down for volunteers.

Also, and this is really important: If you have been selected as a tribute and plan on going into the arena, we HIGHLY SUGGEST you take some RP Tutoring lessons ASAP. It doesn't matter what level RPer you are; everyone can use a little help. RPing a tribute is a privilege; if you're not going to put the time and effort into making your posts the best they can be then you can count yourself among the dead.. It's not a requirement, but please please please just consider the lessons. They'll help even the most advanced RPer.

[Lulu]

President Snow carefully selected a strip of paper from one of the glass bowls that flanked him. He cleared his throat and locked eyes with the camera as he unfolded the slip. "Asher Rainer" he announced, enunciating each syllable with cold precision, "from District Seven."

[Lulu]

President Snow carefully selected a strip of paper from one of the glass bowls that flanked him. He cleared his throat and locked eyes with the camera as he unfolded the slip. "Rowan Combe," he announced, enunciating each syllable with cold precision, "from District Seven."

[Lulu]

President Snow carefully selected a strip of paper from one of the glass bowls that flanked him. He cleared his throat and locked eyes with the camera as he unfolded the slip. "Devilian Tasmane" he announced, enunciating each syllable with cold precision, "from District Seven."

[Lulu]

President Snow carefully selected a strip of paper from one of the glass bowls that flanked him. He cleared his throat and locked eyes with the camera as he unfolded the slip. "Stella Summit" he announced, enunciating each syllable with cold precision, "from District Seven."

[Avalon]

Stella Summit

"I don't think you knew what you were getting yourself into."


The delightful smell of flowers that had been freshly picked and drizzled with water was always my favorite among others. The strong aroma filled my delicate nostrils, seeping deep into my airways, and I swore it would trigger even the slightest 'thing' in my head. It truly sent me into a dreamy state of sorts, one that transported me back to the Garden of Eden I had always dreamed about as a little one. Running through the thornless roses, lilies, and much more, it felt like a paradise come true. This fantasy world that expanded throughout my endless mind was one of the very few things that became a reality. The flower fields that grew in the shelter of the greenhouse, and soil beyond, of my great aunts shop reminded me of a imperfect version of my fantasies. And I didn't mind the imperfection, simply because everything that is perfect is bland and boring.


I was always one to hang onto curiosity for my dear life, as though if I released the grip I'd fall to my sudden death. People always say , "Curiosity killed the cat." and perhaps in some senses that was true, but I wasn't a cat, nor an I a wild, immoral animal or beast like the tributes you see in the Games. However, one side of me couldn't fully agree with the other, seeing as my wandering curiosity resulted in the loss of my precious arm, only to be replaced with a clockwork prosthetic, one that did wonders in my bland everyday life.


My prosthetic arm was always a reminder to me, of how life used to be. Never being the one to open up to others, bothering them with explanations to their "how?", "when?" and, "what happened?". Hell, I didn't even bother in giving them something so simple as the time of the day. In personal opinion, people are driven by their strong sense of curiosity, not sympathy nor actually "caring". And while I can accept the fact that I am wrong a percent of the time, this was proven to me in my earlier years of life.

"Pay no mind to her, she's just going back to her room. Right Stella?"

"Yes, daddy."


I was scared. No. I was terrified. Scared of even my own shadow, I was always so vulnerable and set between the blazing crossfires of a war. A nasty, cold war that raged on and dwelled deep in the barricade of layers that my father so heavily protected. He always hated it, and when he would feel it growing gradually he would do what he could to simmer it down to nothing. Sending a lethal peace offering to both sides that were feuding ever so vigorously against one another, his efforts were successful. They died down and the person I once knew went down with it, and while the hostile soldiers of war died in his head for the time being, they weren't completely gone. Only to have emerged to the surface they seemingly possessed over his body, resulting in a savage of a human being that turned their defenses on an innocent child. Me.


While the floral shop and my great aunt needed me on this important day, the Reapings beckoned me. It was as though this year the call was stronger than the previous one's, but I couldn't exactly explain why. One year ago to this very day I was standing here, hoping, praying that my name wouldn't get reaped from the bunch that were shuffled together in the glass bowl. One year ago. 365 days prior is where two District Seven tributes were reaped and taken from their very own District, as well as 22 others. It was last year that Margaret DuBois, the female tribute from District Seven, got reaped into the games, and with valiant efforts made it to the finale. She was someone I looked up to throughout her time in the games, and while some would say I don't have a reason to, I admired her persistence. Unfortunately she didn't make it past the final 2, succumbing to her injuries received. I always wondered, though, how did she feel when her name was called?


"Stella Summit, from District Seven."


The echoing sound of my very own name slipping off from the malicious tongue of the most despised man in Panem. It was enough to hurdle me back into reality and out of my own thoughts, as I didn't even manage to hear the names of the three other unfortunates that stood upon the stage. I knew the odds weren't exactly in my favor, I could feel it in my gut when leaving my house the morning of this dreadful day. I had to keep my composure, upholding the fact that I have been through a lot, and this will not hinder my very being. I remained speechless and my face painted with one solid shade of stoic. I grasped tightly at the little diary I had brought with me, it was full of mostly blank pages, some holding precious doodles and drawings. Though on one page of the diary was an array of flowers that varied in sizes, all kept on a page near the middle, where the heart and strongest part laid.


                     [Stella accepts her place as District 7 Female Tribute]

credit to nat of adoxography.

[Asher Rainer d7m {Royal}]

Something beautiful

ASHER RAINER

                           or something free?    

TAG: WORDS: 819. NOTES: asher accepts his position as tribute for d7

It had been a long day.  Asher had just woke up at 4 AM, when Eric had been knocking on his door. Asher's first thought was that he was late for work- until he bluntly remembered that today was not a normal workday- it was the Quell's Reaping. Still, he woke up, and threw his work clothes on. Asher stepped outside in the light rain, pattering slightly against their tough clothing.

Eric gave Asher a grin. "In celebration for this being our second to last Reaping together, let's go make some extra profit in the woods. Cut down a tree or two, get some money to spend. Sound good?"

Asher nods, already thinking of what he would spend his extra money on. Probably Zach and Jeremy. Today was Zach's first reaping after all, and he was quite nervous, even though Asher assured him he only had 1 slip in there, and a single slip among thousands and thousands in Panem, the chances that he would be reaped is slim.

Eric passed an ax to Asher. "Let's get moving. The woods are about an hour away, before anyone wakes up, we'll be done and over and be ready to go to the Reaping."

Within the hour, they were in the part of the forest that wasn't scheduled to be cut in another six months, and they knew it. It also means that nothing would disturb them, and it would be easy to cut down a tree here. No restrictions, no useless safety measurements holding up their time.

Asher was the one to scale the tree, hacking at the thick pine wood with his large iron ax. Eric held onto the large thick rope below, the one that is attached to Asher's waist, it suspended him in the tree. Soon the tree fell, and him and Eric got to work at hacking at it, soon making it complete bits of wood.

Asher, when he did this, actually could think clearly, and not of the Games or the Quell, or how Seven could get most of all of the tributes, and how he could possibly be in the Games with Eric or even Zach. He didn't want to think of that- not at all. And working took his mind off of it.

Soon, Asher and Eric had finished the tree, they loaded as much as they could onto their backs, and began their way back towards Seven. They walk into town, which is now bustling with activity, mother's preparing their children for the Reaping, clothing them nicely, and the like. Other's are wondering the streets with friends, as if it was a happy occasion.

This made Asher sick. He hated that people celebrated the event. Celebrating the death of 23 teenagers, and the one victor. Why was this happy?

Eric and Asher immediately went to the market, selling the firewood, and getting just enough for a nice dinner for the combination of Asher's and Eric's families, who were also pretty close. Asher pocketed a little money for Zach, after the Reaping, to make Zach feel better about the Reaping.

But it was time- and before Eric and Asher could find their families, they were there, in the middle of the Reaping, being signed in. Eric and Asher were naturally thrown in the crowd by each other, and before they could search for their families, the air filled with the noise of static, and Asher looked up to see the screen, and just as the static went out, President Snow appeared.

Even Eric, the rebellious and fearless as he was, was holding his breath in anticipation. The first names were called out, from different districts.

The entire District Square was void of noise, with the exception of Snow himself. And as Snow pulled out the next card, everyone collectively gasped...

"Asher Rainer, from District Seven."

"NO!" A scream came before Asher recognized his own name. His father. Eric gasped as well, his voice cracking.

"Asher... it's you."

Asher was suddenly very aware of the situation- the fact that he was now a tribute in the Games, and he was leaving Zach and Jeremy and his father and Eric behind, all of them. And he was going to have to kill other people. He wasn't a murderer... was he? Could he even bring himself to do that?

He soon realized it didn't matter if  he could or not- the Capitol needed someone to reap, and Asher filled that position quite well. Eric whispered in his ear a single sentence, and Asher walked up, accepting his fate. As he looked at the district, he spotted his father with Jeremiah and Zachariah, with their own Mom, and all of them were crying.

Asher had caused this. Made them cry because they cared about him. He had to make them happy- that was always his goal- to make people happier. And the only way to do that was... win.

The sentence Eric whispered in his ear now ringed clearly.

"Don't let them down, Asher. Win."

OOC: Asher Rainer Accepts His Position As D7 Tribute

ⒶⓀⒾ

[Deleted]

S U E  T A T E

There's a giant in a bed half his size, wrapped in yellowing, faded bedsheets, littered with time holes and tarnished with the lies he tells.

Faded, faded, those faded bedsheets that wrap around his body and bones, they scrape against dusty floorboards with every rise and fall of his chest.

Rise. Breath. Fall. Breath.

Two living, breathing, bodies reside in a house that has been nestled in the hands of soul crushing time for far too long. One body is old and rigid, with a suit of wrinkles and sags wrapped around fragile bones. Years ago her memories had made the tragic choice to age and wither faster than that of her body, and with her lost youth came a lost mind, fleeting memories disappearing

one by one

Until her brain housed nearly nothing.

Nothing, nothing, his dreams are those of the nothingness of his lies. A body built upon the web of stories and tales that have been spun from his lips, spat into the faces of those that spoke to him. Toss, turn, with every shift of position the floorboards beneath creak and squeal.

They threaten to bend snap break beneath the lies that make their home on his shoulders.

The sun rises slowly, desperately consuming the darkness that had swallowed the land hours before. It's starvation is it's sin, because as it swallows more and more of the night and its rays become brighter and brighter,

its movements become slower and slower. Until finally, it stops.

Sue Tate did not wake up when the sun's rays stabbed through his eyelids. He did not wake up when his eyes shot open, nor did he wake when his feet pressed down against the floorboards and the creaks impaled his eardrums. One two three splashes of water on his face from a cracked sink, the rusted through faucet distorting his reflection just enough so that it was noticeable. 

He did not wake up when he assisted his grandmother to the bathroom, when her question of "Who are you?" reached his ears, and he did not wake up one finger curled over the other as the buttons stitched into his shirt snapped into place. 

One breath, two breath, three blinks of the eye later and his fingers are wrapped around the metal doorknob, cracks and streaks running up and down the wooden door upon which it lays. 

He did not wake up, even when his eyes followed broken shadows all the way down the door until they rested on the metal of the doorknob. The metal and all it's rust, it stretched his face like rubber, twisted and turned his features until they were almost, almost unrecognizable. 

Especially his mouth.

Flesh, blood, they roam the streets in packs, hands intertwined with hands as assurances of being okay and relaxing are made. Sue Tate was not woken up by the crying baby, nestled between his mother's arms and her lips that kissed his forehead. He did not awaken when the girl who's footsteps kicked pebble after pebble down the dirt road in front of him, when her breathing became faster and faster, and her eyes wavered and her knees snapped and she was on the ground.

Even when he stopped next to her, one hand on her back as he watched the tears sprint down her cheeks, splattering the ground with stains of anxiety and stress. She said she had one, two, 

"Three. My two younger sisters, and my brother." 

And even though he was not awake, his lips cracked into some form of a distorted smile. 

"They'll be fine. Trust me." 

She thanks him and, across the way, a spider spins a web that it cannot handle. 

The quell twist of these Games had sent a certain wave of paranoia and angst throughout the district, even more so than a normal games. And even though he'd been afraid for those few split seconds after President Snow announced the twist, and even though his fingers had trembled and those thoughts had raced through his head of the what if's,

countless lies assurances in his own mind had made him perfectly confident that it would be alright. 

One, two screens sit above the escorts head, President Snow's fingers moving ever so slightly as his hands rest over the bowls. 

Each name not from their district is a collective sigh of relief, breaths and single line murmurs making their way across the lines before they cease completely. 

"Asher Rainer." Seven. One.

There's a collective gasp as a boy makes his way to the stage. And his words come rushing back to him, pounding against the edge of his skull. "They'll-" 

"Rowan Combe." Seven. Two. 

"be-" 

"Devilian Tasmane." Seven. 

Three.

"fine." 

Sue Tate had not woken up by the sounds of floorboards snapping, by the sound of the running water, by the questions of his grandmother. His slumber was not broken by the sounds of crying babies, or by the sounds of a broken girl.

That is, until that broken girl, with fragments that had been taped back together just moments earlier, fell to her knees for the second time that day, with Sue's assuring handprint still visible. 

A spider falls through it's own web, and the web that Sue had been standing on slowly, slowly snapped beneath his feet, the lies he'd told pressing down onto his shoulders, onto his being. 

Devilian Tasmane was supposed to end up fine, that is what he'd told his sister, with a lying hand resting on her back in comfort. Desperate hands struggle to hold up the lies he'd told, and the same lips that had cracked into some distorted smile crack open again. 

"I volunteer!" 

Gasps, murmurs, there's one two three people that turn to stare at him, eyes wide with shock. 

His steps, one after the other. They become more and more forced, more and more labored, and just like the sun as it eats up the night he becomes slower and slower.

Until he stops, a creaky floorboard of the stage whining beneath his right foot. They ask his name, and in the one two three moments of his answer he takes a second to look around.

Devilian Tasmane was going to be fine, that was clear.

He swears, the fish bowl on the screen above him is distorting his face, his mouth.

Across the way, a spider builds a stronger, thicker web for itself.

"Sue-Sue Tate." 

{Devilian Tasmane does not accept his position}


{Sue Tate volunteers as District Seven male}

[✨ zozo.]

ROWAN COMBE

[presto] ARE YOU THERE? OR ARE YOU JUST A DECOY DREAM IN MY HEAD AM I HOME, OR AM I SIMPLY TUMBLING ALL ALONE? [/presto]

Naturally, I don't sleep the night before the reaping.

My teeth taste of coffee and nervous chatter. The latter meets me at the District Square and I, bewildered and somehow functioning on three hours of sleep acquired two nights ago, silently fall into place. Everyone passes in a blur and I pretend that they are trees towering around me and that I am not wearing shoes on a cracked pavement but bare soles on dewy woodland floors and my only form of company is my shadow. Perhaps I am dreaming. Honestly, I can't tell any more. Gavin is nowhere to be seen - that's usually a bad sign.

Time shifts. We assemble. I've been here a hundred times both in dreams and reality. I still wear red regardless.

"Rowan Combe!"

I've head this before. It echoes through my dreams.

Wake up.

Wake up Rowan.

I don't wake up. I do what I always do: run from the devils trying to catch me. But I must be dreaming because I cannot run, I am frozen in place and there is a pounding in my head that erupts so suddenly and sounds an awful lot like footsteps. And then I realise that they are my footsteps and I cannot stop them from moving me closer and closer towards the stage, weaving through the masses as a bright red blur in a darkened crowd. I keep going because the monsters must be behind me and if I stop I am sure I will collapse and fall into their snatching grasp.

I shouldn't - but I look over my shoulder behind me. There is nothing there but sorrow and sadness, sympathetic faces and a soft cry from the crowds. Gran.

I turn away.

Wake up Rowan.

I face the stage and the eyes of the true monster in this nightmare. President Snow looks right through me, I swear it, and dips his hand into his glass bowl of devastation and pulls another soul into his deathtrap. Another Gavin. Another me.

I wish he was here, but he's not. He's dead. They killed him.

"I volunteer!"

No, I have to remind myself. He killed himself the moment he screamed that aloud. Some poor fool meets his same fate, saving another with a family to go home to and damning himself to a family of the dead.

"I could be your family, Gavin."

Family aren't supposed to leave you behind.

Not your father.

Not your mother.

Not Gavin.

(I can't wake up.)

I could be your family.

I could be your family.

Family means forever.

So does death.

{ooc: rowan accepts}

♠