gold accents — phoenix sayer. [ speech ]

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

“Sire, it’s all in place.”

His secretary’s words chimed through the air. Phoenix nodded, and then waved a nonchalant hand to dismiss her. Her stilettos clicked away, leaving him in a graceful silence again, quiescence sprawled over the little cubicle they gave him for temporary lodging. The atmosphere tingled with nothing but empty atoms and his mere presence, which broke outward in ripples. The world was quiet here, but not for long.

Tenderly, he brushed away the little creases in his ashen attire, brushed away the crinkles and the folds that even a hot iron could not smooth out. From inside the portable, bronze mirror, his own reflection stared back in all its glory. Phoenix Sayer was not a narcissist. He did not worship the image underneath the glass and was not plagued by delusions of false grandeur.

However, he understood that the gold accents embroidered onto his collar was there to impress, and that the powders and the colors caked upon his face polished its features.

If one was headed to war, one must have the gear for it. The cotton attire was his silver armor, the cosmetics his war paint. The coarse parchment grasped within his fist, containing his speech, would serve as Phoenix Sayer’s falchion.

In the remaining minutes, he ran a careful finger through brown locks, tucking the astray hairs back into place whilst patting the others down.

Soon, a song disturbed the quietness – a song of his heart, coronaries anxiously singing aloud as minutes bled out into seconds, and seconds cascaded away. But, deep down, he knew there was nothing to dread about. He’s skinned this routine down to its very bones, memorized each minuscule detail that went into it, and rehearsed each word religiously.

An audience never truly startled a charmspeaker.

From the crossing of red velvet curtains ahead, someone asked for him. Phoenix rose to his feet, smoothed his attire one last time, and answered, striding onward into the limelight. Sunbeams and applause greeted him, the latter with an immediacy that he understood. He opened the folded letter, but the words it held had already been etched upon his skull.

“Greetings, citizens of Seven.” The microphone carried the four words onward. “Let me begin by thanking each and every one of you for the applause.”

Posture straightened even more, with his chest kept high. “I believe applause should be bestowed to those who has proven that they are worthy of it—not those who demands it forcefully, like most tyrants would. Today, I am not here make demands,” eyes ran across the faces, each one as blank as newly-made paper, “but I am here to prove and acquaint myself with each individual in this wonderful crowd. First and foremost, I am Phoenix Sayer. Twenty six. Brother. One of you. I would have included ‘Cousin’ into the assortment, but after Raven Sayer perished tragically in the 78th Hunger Games, fighting until the end for this district’s glory – and dying for it – that title was no longer acceptable.”

In technicality, Dove – Raven’s sister – was alive, and he had cousins still. However, technically did not mattered here. Nothing else did, except for hollow theatrics and hollow promises. This stage reeked of it. He had never met Raven Sayer, and perhaps, that made it an effortless task to exploit and use his name in utter vain.

“District Seven’s worst fear is a widespread forest fire, but metaphorically, as of right now, we are facing our fear. The whole district is, figuratively, ablaze with fame. We, and the children, cannot escape the Games’ terror but we can prepare them for its atrocities.

My first promise of the day, is to improve trade and working conditions in the district so that families are well-fed and protected from harsh summers and icy winters inside the warmth of their own homes.

So that malnutrition no longer contributes to the deaths of our tributes, and so that in the near future poverty does not rear its ugly head, ever again.”

In the momentary pause, the audience cheered. He wondered how many individuals flocked within it, were the Sayer household’s prized associates. They had a diverse ring of acquaintances – ranging from crooks, to fences. It upheld the lavish lifestyle which they were desperate addicts to.

“Next, is crime.” He eyed a few spectators, familiar faces. “The streets are riddled with it. A few days ago, I witnessed a man getting robbed in the light of day, a knife to his back. This,” Phoenix raised his knuckles, which held lilac skin that a painter had meticulously crafted. The Sayers weren’t crafted for violence, but to orchestrate it. “is what I did to help the poor man. But, fighting violence with violence is not what I am going to do. I will carefully oversee and make sure that the bravest and the most vigilant peacekeepers are stationed at Seven.

Each and every one of you deserves the luxury to sleep without paranoia, without the fear of rogues making a force entry into your properties.

Last but not least: the district. We are blessed with the finest gifts that Mother Nature has to offer – from emerald hills to quiet grooves. But, from time to time, there will be an excess of garbage and trash that overspills from the paper factories and the restaurants.

I want to make it my sole duty to rid the district of that, of the rubbish and the waste that tries to tarnish its beauty. I want to make the district work altogether in seamless unity – and that district includes me. I want to collaborate with each and every one of you in environmental, social, political, and any kind of matter or should it arise, problem.”

What laid in numbers, was strength and union. If he could get the crowd to unite on one goal, which was to hand him the ivied key to Seven, he would have to persuade them as a whole.

“The Sayers are camped out near the city hall. I will be there, to answer any concerns or worries you have, or to just have little talks. I am Phoenix Sayer, and I hope Seven wishes to make me its mayor.”