a view from the {trees} // tris [euley]

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

We wouldn't be seen dead here in the day
I guess you're lucky that it's dark now
And if I like it then we'll stay
Impress the empress, take a shot now

-

As the commencement of the Games inches nearer, like a lilac horizon glacially coloring itself orange, Raven indulges in the Capitol’s luxuries with open arms—whether it’s a taste of strange honey or gold-skinned blokes with the glow in their mouths. Dancing with other ghosts, playing Truth or Dare in the dark like they’re children again.

(They are children.)

The posterity of a doomed bloodline, cursed since birth and born to die for the Capitol’s entertainment. Carrying the sins of ancient ghosts who once staged bravery and attempted to rebel against Ripred. A series of unfortunate events that ultimately led to ultra-violence and these Games.

(It’s a cycle of blood and broken bones.)

But, wolfing down sweet rolls and inspecting devices he doesn’t see in Seven don’t prove to be much of a distraction. He did it for a day and he’s already desultory with the cuisines—and taken aback by these mechanized gears.

A forest prince of Seven. Branches for arms, saplings for fingers and an ivied heart coiling somewhere within his wooden trunk—he’s an element of nature. And, nature always takes itself back, like wildflowers sprouting up the cracks of a pavement.

Delicate strides carry him into the training station but a green heart that longs for home takes him to the climbing practice station where synthetic trees lie with their overgrowing leaves and shrubbery.

One hand sink into a branch and he uses the momentum to haul himself up. In a split moment, Raven’s legs are dangling down a lengthy branch that withstands his overall mass. At least, when he’s enshrouded by the greenery of it, the tree doesn’t seem so artificial. But, there’s no undertones of sap in the smell that comes from it—no woodland birds in the empty intervals between the branches.

A rustle of leaves draws him back to the training center and its fluorescents.

At a height below him, is Two and an array of silver threads cascading down her back like an avalanche. He’s seen her before—a volunteer. Yet, he can’t seem to reemerge the name—only her taciturn countenance. “If you climb like that, the possible outcomes are a twisted ankle or broken ribs or a tribute dropping on you.” It’s a failure of an attempt at humor.

To lighten the statement, Raven flashes his pearly whites to a grinning extent.

-

We got the glow in our mouths
White teeth teens are out
White teeth teens are up for it