[D12] The Reaping

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

The escort of the district stepped out onto the stage, a smile plastered across his face as he stared into the cameras that surrounded it. It was time once again to choose two children to compete in the Hunger Games, and it was his job to do so.

"It is time," he said as he stood over the impatient people of the District, "To once again send two of our own children to the Capitol to compete in the Hunger Games. Let us begin the Reaping!"

He did not look to see the reaction of his district before reaching into the glass ball that held the names of the female children. "Ladies first," he announced, pulling out a slip of paper. He unfolded it and read out to the crowd, " Cassia Oretio!" He then reached into the other ball. "Cedric Lane!"

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 7th, a staff member will post saying that volunteering is open. Please do not post until you see this staff message. FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE.

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.

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

P  E  T  R  A
























V I P O I N T E

Closed eyes and spinning with a cherished kitten in my arms. Dawn to dusk, feeling the serene summer air and just twirling. Carefree and separate from the worries of life, no strings attached in moments like these—because these special moments are the true definition of what it means to live.

Impermanence loomed, of course, and every time I looked into my little cat's eyes, I was reminded of this. But each time, there was a new sense of light and beauty which made me love her even more. Always getting more and more curious—thinking about her thoughts, her emotions and her history.

Her tale was a ripped letter and the few pieces I had were soaking wet and simply would never fit together. Stray cat: dulling eyes and duller fur. Stiffness in her step from age but a sense of delicacy eclipsed her negative traits. I didn't care about age back then—it was just a number, but I was quickly reminded why dancing with a cat would end up with a broken image of reality.

The cat died.

Perfect paintings of Eden's garden were torn. Shadows appeared between the fragments and death came. It crept and stared at the happy, preying on the naivety of those who never thought twice about the end of life. A reminder that hits like a bullet to the head.

No blood from this, no death this time—but from the wound seeps realisation. Coupled with understanding, it burns away the mist created by childish hope.

I would have given anything to have my past optimism.

The root of this evil: the cat. My cat; my cat with nine lives which were wasted by her elderly innocence. I promised to train, to care and to love but best efforts were not received well when faced with death—for he merely danced before us.

I could not protect her from her own curiosity. Upon reflection: she was her own worst enemy. Tangled within a crying district and venturing dangerously close to breaking point until eventually, I had to kiss goodbye her final life.

Repetition of the simple words, "there is no grace in restraint" only armed me with a single needle and thread to stitch my wounds. A failed attempt, really, but these were words drilled into me from a young age by a vegetable grandmother and a mother who echoed her.

"There is no grace in restraint." I told myself, and for once, I listened.

Knees pushed up into my chest were lowered, and red eyes slowly turned to normal. New stone promises were forged from the remnants of before to maintain this new demeanour at all costs. A pledge to start each day with a grateful heart, a vow to accept nothing is perfect and look past the imperfections to brighter things.

Death is inevitable.

It's essential to understand that now—it's Reaping Day.

x x x 

This silence is a poison. It is a void in which my thoughts are laid bare. The foundations of all my morals are collected in this stillness.

And in this stillness: there is no air to aid the leaves as they take flight, no clouds journeying through the sky, no rain or snow plummeting from above. I am placed into a world of white noise in which I can only hear the sound of my own pulse. An internal countdown looming from my core, I can sense it with each inhalation of my own breath. And my own breath—it fades and dies after escaping my mouth.

Stars could fall from above and the moon could stop shining, but they would be paid no attention from the nervous wrecks which stand in the summer blaze. But this is not loneliness; I sense no pain, for it is solitude I am lost in.

Stuck within an ominous tranquility, I am my only company.

Floods of memories breach metaphorical barriers in my mind. I replay seeing my brothers for the first time, I taste the first meal I'd ever cooked, the security of my Mother's arms, the solace I find in the little cat I once owned, carelessness and the feeling of being carefree, daisy chains and mud baths and cabbage soup and—

—there's so little here and such a big world to discover.

"Cassia Oretio!" calls the escort.

Silence becomes glass shards on the ground, and I tread carefully to avoid the pieces, but I tremble with thoughts of discovering the unknown. Intricacies of the Capitol invite me through the alluring gates of Hell, and I do not flinch when I enter.

"I volunteer!"

For a moment, it seems like I have conquered the unconquerable. The impossible made possible by the delivery of two words, my own two words. I am the master of my own fate, and half a smile creeps onto my face to show my satisfaction.

But quickly, it disappears like soaring embers from a roaring fire.

I glance down slowly and notice I must have put a foot wrong and stood over silence's remnants because now, there's blood on my feet and there are no embraces to get lost in, no kittens to spin with and nowhere to run. I become a victim of my own curiosity.

Nothing will be able to save me from the regret I begin to fall into. I can sense it's strength with each pace towards the stage. One step and I'm losing my balance, another and there are stars in my eyes—a third and there are a thousand eyes on me, crawling over every imperfection I swore not to care about.

I'd taught myself about this, I'd taught myself about the inevitability of death and how it's presence should not be feared. I'd learnt not to care about the distant wanderings of my curious little cat—I promised that I'd keep my new self separate from the old, for better and never for worse.

Gentle whisperings are no longer my cure. Immunity never served a sinner, and I was no longer a saint. These emotions are stronger than a storm; Goliath is sure to emerge victorious after this battle, but still I clutch at straws and find myself holding my breath with a face like a blank canvas.

My fall begins: the bridges built with myself burn inside.

I'd taught myself that playing with fire gets you burned, but why didn't I learn?

I'd taught myself that curiosity killed the cat, but why didn't I learn?

Curiosity killed the cat and now—I'm next.

{ cassia oretio steps down as d12f }
{ petra vipointe volunteers as tribute }

[chelsey]

[googlefont="Playfair Display:400"]cedric lane

wear my sorrow like a crown

Cedric Lane never believed in ghosts.

Born and bred in the darkest and dampest parts of Twelve, he never really believed in much. People like him don’t get that luxury. Dreams are like myths - made for fools. And, maybe Cedric Lane is a lot of things, but he ain’t no fool.

He’s a street rat. A pretty little boy, clad in a skin tight leather jacket and masked behind a pair of black sunglasses on a daily basis. Here he comes now, strutting down those shit-stained streets of his shit-stained corner of the Universe like he owns the place. Maybe, in this particular corner, he does. “Sing me a song, Lane,” Jany the Hooker croons to him from the street’s curb during her smoke break. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, today, Jany,” Cedric croons back, and Jany coughs a smoker’s cough in response. “Good luck to your grandson,” Cedric greets ol’ Mrs. Patz as he turns the corner. “And to you,” she huffs back, teary eyed, before blowing her nose into a blackened rag. “I’ll tell your story to the world for you, one day,” the town psychic declares once he’s almost reached the town square. “And maybe they’ll listen,” Cedric replies with an eyebrow raised and his head cocked to the side. He leaves her in the dust of his strut, and she flits through her stack of tarot cards for answers, muttering “Interesting, interesting,” under her breath all the while.

Fools. Street rats. It’s a small world, with even smaller, overlapping circles.

Cedric Lane has never believed in ghosts. When he was younger, the dark never lured out monsters from his closet or from under his bed. You can’t be scared of the dark when it’s all you’ve ever known.

Maybe that was the problem. By the time Astrid burned out, darkness wasn’t all he’d ever known.

She was a pretty little thing, too. Jany hated her; ol’ Mrs. Patz tried to set her up with her grandson; and the town psychic always tsked and muttered something about the number 15 whenever she passed by. And Cedric? He loved her.

He was the street rat, and she was the fool who loved him back.

It’s been three years, now, though, and they do say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. They were young, so were they really in love? Maybe, afterwards, it wasn’t love so much as it was wanting something he could no longer have. A girl with short, platinum hair bumps into his shoulder at the Town Square and his heart leaps into his throat. She would’ve been 18 years old, today, he thinks to himself.

Cedric Lane has never believed in ghosts, even when he wanted to. Even when trying to find meaning in the meaningless - like an anonymous shadow at her funeral or a familiar smile in a dream - only led to fruitless treasure hunts and a life still lacking magic and the paranormal. Even then, he couldn’t believe in ghosts.

That’s why it surprises him when he feels those phantom lips, the familiar brush of her kiss across his cheekbones, as soon as the name “Cedric Lane” rings across the Town Square. As if she were wishing him good luck. As if she were telling him she’d see him soon.

cedric accepts