Among The Trees (Open)

[Commander Lex]

Dahlias hand bled and her arms ached. The scar on her thigh chaffed and burned against her pants. Yet she kept chopping. She knew she would regret it but her anger had no outlet.
Chop
She cussed fiercely as she worked.
Chop
Today had been... Angering... She didn't know how else to describe it. Her younger brother had broken her latest woodwork, a beautiful chair designed with ornate trees and plants. He'd jumped on it in her absence, and it had broken. It has pinched his fingers in the process, so of course Dahlia had gotten in trouble.
He'd just a baby. He doesn't know any better. Her mom had said.
You're almost grown, you should know better than to leave your work around the house.
Chop
She heard the cracking of branches behind her but didn't bother to look. Whoever was behind her would think her mad I
When they saw her
let them think what they want.
Chop
I don't give a-

[Prenten]

Reaver's day had come to an end. Almost, anyways.

---

The late-afternoon sun was setting on District Seven, he could tell, although just barely through the thick, green canopy of the forest. Clicking his axe back onto his belt, Reaver began to make his way back to the main path leading into the city square. Most of his crew-mates had headed off already, and many hadn't gone as deep into the brush as Reaver, leaving him unusually alone in the silence.

"But that's where you find the good stuff," he always thought to himself. The thick, hefty trees that would make your payment a little nicer at the month's end. Sure, it took a little more time and effort, but hey, if it pays the bills right?

But the silence seemed unnatural, despite his surroundings, making him anxious. He hated being out here alone. The quiet was unbearable. He toyed with the rubber hilt of his axe in an effort to calm himself. The synthetic material felt familiar and safe in his hands; it had formed to his grip, comfortable and true. He could feel grains of rubber separating from the base, collecting on his skin. He rolled the sticky pieces into a small ball in between his fingers as he walked and flicked it against a nearby tree. It bounced once, hard, against the bark and rebounded into the grass.

"I have to quit that," he muttered to himself. The last thing he needed was to pay for a new handle. Months of use had worn it in where his index finger and thumb supported the blade with each swing. If he held it at just the wrong angle, a strike would send vibrations up his arm, rattling him to the core. Reaver couldn't afford a new axe - or hilt, for that matter. Either way, this one was his axe, with sentimental value. The sharp black weapon had belonged to Reaver's father before him. The edge was silver, the paint worn away from use and glinted brightly in the fading sunlight. Reaver was loathe to give it up at the gates to the District. But it was part of his punishment for his bout of fisticuffs with that peacekeeper a few years back.

"No weapons on Panem property for three years," he mumbled, mocking the judge's voice in a nasally, irritating voice. He hated that asshole. He hated most government employees.

Reaver'd long reached the path back to the District, trudging along, deep in thought. But this session of thought was broken by the sound of metal striking wood. Somebody was attacking a tree. "This late?", Reaver thought. The sun, now visible on the clear-cut roadway, was sinking quickly. Reaver moved farther down the line and a figure appeared on his left. It was a girl with short black hair. She was hacking wildly at a stout but young oak tree near the gates of the District. As he approached, he could see a peacekeeper standing by, observing (or supervising, depending on how you feel about it) the girl. She was swearing with each swing, almost screaming. Reaver raised an eyebrow. The peacekeeper shrugged.

"Christ..." Reaver thought aloud. He'd hate to be whatever pissed this chick off. Although it might've been the tree. He stepped closer, cautiously. He didn't feel like losing a limb to some nutcase on drugs with an axe. A branch, loose from a felled tree snapped loudly under his feet.

"Damnit."

He looked to the peacekeeper. The asshole was smiling. Reaver could see it through his helmet. "Dick." he thought. He moved on step closer, stopping several feet short of the girl.

"Hey - are you... are you okay? It's getting kind of late," Reaver half-shouted. He maintained his distance and again played with his own axe's hilt.

---

He really did not feel like losing a limb today.

[Commander Lex]

Dahlia stopped chopping and turned at the sound of his voice. She had scarce noticed the peacekeeper, they were always there, and as long as she was working they left her alone.
I'm just fine.
She answered, her words brimming with sarcasm. It was starting to get dark, and she wondered what this guy was doing out here. and by the way he looked at her, he seemed to think she was crazy. She turned and kept chopping, blood now dropping onto her axe as she swung. She figured her hair was wild, and her eyes to match. But despite how crazy everyone would think her, this was better than how her father had taken out his anger.
Chop
She hit the tree at the wrong angle and it vibrated and jarred her arm. She let out another stream of creative words.