changing targets {puppy}

[d9 kristof parks {ems}]

Ivar Hammerfell

His gaze dropped, eyes locked on the knives lying on the ground. Throwing was something he was good at. Something he wouldn't ruin. So many messes were made in such a few days, yet Ivar knew it wasn't the end. Remembering the words spoken in the justice building helped him slightly, but in all reality the crippled teen was alone. Nobody cared about him, nobody wanted to become friends, but why would someone become friends with the enemy? Why trust someone when the end goal was the same? He knew nothing of trust, yet he knew everything about being ridiculed.

A heavy sigh left his chest, as the lifted a knife into his hand. This was the easy route, and it was probably the only route he had the chance of surviving. He couldn't bring himself to send the sword straight through the back of the enemy. It was something Ivar thought of many times wondering if it was the right thing to do. During training he was taught to fight head on, but this brought him a huge disadvantage. Being a crippled really hurt his chances of winning, but he knew he could do it. His entire life has led up to this moment, and he wanted to prove people wrong. He wanted to show that he was more than the burden his parents made him out to be. Showing Sigurd that he was better than the name calling - Ivar was tired of being mocked.

This was the one chance he had to redeem himself of his many failures.

Downcast eyes locked on the target set far away, and he wanted to reach it. Throwing the weapon was easy from the distance. Bows and arrows might work as well offering further safety, but even that didn't matter. His lungs expand, and he took the biggest breath possible before launching the knife towards the target missing the bullseye by an inch or two. I can do better. He demanded the best of himself, and he wanted to prove it. He readied another knife. This time he would hit the target. He would succeed if it was the last thing he did.

[googlefont="Irish Grover:400"]

[pup]

eva hope

I sit on the ropes course, surveying the crowd of tributes around me. You would think that there would be less than 24 tributes, but supposing that the careers all got the chance they really wanted these games, tributes flooded into the games like flies onto the capitol's bittersweet honey.

I sigh, then there were also other idiots like me who stood up to the challenge to prove something or to get away from something. I'm still not quite sure on the reason to why I yelled the statement condemning myself to death on reaping day. The thoughts have been racing through my mind all the past few days, trying to compensate and find a reason for my actions.

Maybe I wanted to prove a point, telling the capitol that I know that no matter what, it doesn't matter whether or not I am reaped. They control our lives, and I needed to prove I know it.

Maybe I wanted to get away from the smoke filled clouds, the weary eyes, the burdened souls that inhabit district eight. Maybe I wanted to escape my boring job at a textile factory.

Maybe I wanted to escape from my sadness filled family or my brother who cannot let his fire burn out.

Maybe I wanted to be like Lily and Paige, set alight to my own fire, so that even if I die, I know I died by my choice, not the Capitol's.

My eyes scan the crowd of tributes, eyes locking on to someone I had very much wanted to talk to due to his unfortunate last name.

"Why do all careers just cluster around the knife throwing station?" My voice rings out around him, "Seriously, almost every career I have met so far have been at the knife throwing station." I grin at him as he readies his next knife.

Maybe he will recognize my last name, and my sister's one-eyed relationship with a relative of his in the the previous quell.

all the sib tribs :eyes:

d9 kristof parks {ems}

[d9 kristof parks {ems}]

Ivar Hammerfell

The knife exited his hand, but the words of another tribute standing around completely caught him off guard. His jaw clenched as he moved himself to the side, turning his gaze to the girl rudely interrupting him. Ivar didn't take kindly to people messing with his plans, and now he wasn't even sure what his plans were. Throwing knives had always been easy, yet this girl wondered why every career gathered around. This crippled teen was different from the other careers, and he wanted to prove that, but first he was left wondering how.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you it is rude to interrupt someone?" He asked raising an eyebrow as he lifted himself from the floor just a little. All the weight rest on his wrists. Bones popped and cracked, but it wasn't anything he wasn't used to. Out of all the tribute, Ivar wondered why this one had talked to him. She was just from eight, and in his eyes the district was worthless.

But she had a name, a last name shared with people from before. The corners of his lips twisted into a wicked grin slowly spreading from ear to ear as the words slid from his tongue, "Was Orion's friend the one who killed your sister?" Holding a chuckle back was harder than he imagined, so he let it fly. "And then the other girl in the next game who didn't even last a day?"

Somewhere deep inside he wondered if the girl would fall short just like many before.

"But to answer your question, why risk a sword when throwing is easier?"

[googlefont="Irish Grover:400"]