star and sunflower | { griffin / dars } blitz

[umber vivuus 12a 🥀 [dars]]

[atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(https://i.imgur.com/7sHyA00.png); border: 050403 solid 0px; width: 266px; padding: 5 5 5 5px; border-radius: 10px 10px 10px 10px;]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; border: 050403 solid 0px; width: 330px; padding: 5 5 5 5px; border-radius: 10px 10px 10px 10px;] m y r c e l l a h u d s o n . Her nature told her to take careful steps. Tread carefully, she thought, as if you'll have to flee at any moment. But she was determined to outrun herself, to reinvent herself as someone who could win. Oftentimes, victors were decided long before the finale. There was nothing that could make her think differently. It was strange, how fan favorites always managed to make it through when they were squaring off against the others, wasn't it? No matter if the person they were facing had been training for that moment all their life. No matter if they wanted to live just as badly. All that mattered was that they seemed easy enough to control afterward, and Myrcella wanted to survive. Being the girl who ran would never give her that. She kept her arms at her sides, walking slowly as if taking in every inch of the elite Training Center that had been afforded to them. Her eyes caught on a particular pretty boy trying and abjectly failing to shoot a bow. She smiled knowingly. Once upon a time, she'd been little more than the beginnings of a flower, petals sprouting out of her and roots unmoving. "Aim a bit higher than where you actually want the arrow to go. Arrows arch." she said politely. She stepped in closer to get a better look, readjusting his fingers on the drawstring. "By the way, if you try to use this against me later, I'll kill you."

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

[atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(https://i.imgur.com/4g21N0f.png); border: 050403 solid 0px; width: 266px; padding: 5 5 5 5px; border-radius: 10px 10px 10px 10px;]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; border: 050403 solid 0px; width: 330px; padding: 5 5 5 5px; border-radius: 10px 10px 10px 10px;] f r a n c i s c o b l o o m . He is not scared. That is the primal thought Francisco stresses to etch onto his head – saying the words over and over, a ceaseless mantra, a blood promise to his own self. He is not scared. If the time comes for death, he’ll let the wildflowers laced to his lungs splinter his chest blood-red with their dark thorns. And when glory presents itself, he would gladly wear that crown of rotten vines and thickets despite his heart’s protest. Denali’s words break into echoes and ricochet, ‘No one is any better or worse than anyone else in there.’ A heart does not belong to a flower – the latter grows despite the concrete, despite the storms, and despite itself. It grows, with flourish and cruelty. This is his chronicle of growth. The training center lay spread before him, like a dream or a night terror. Some of the stations’ elements, such as the green foliage in the plants corner and the synthetic waves in the sea corner, belong to dreams whilst others, such as the silver of swords attached to the weaponry’s walls and the traps that conjure deadly spikes with the tap of a foot, arise from nightmares. And, he is enchanted by both, eyes glistening with wonder and intrigue. The bow fits seamlessly into his feeble hands, but it’s too light and too reckless, a creation meant for those with quick reflexes to accompany it – which Francisco’s glacial ones envy. He releases the bowstring and scoffs as the arrow embeds itself to the floor, inches away from the spiral target. As if noticing his indignation, a voice beckons from behind. Eyes dance over to the girl and the crescent moon of his ivory-whites beam as a sort of greeting to her. She's all gold and silver, even beneath the hideous fluorescence. This girl, Francisco muses, carries the polished trademarks of a successful victor. The elegance, the violence. Francisco is no rival.  “Aim a bit higher than where you actually want the arrow to go. Arrows arch.” He gives a polite nod, devouring the advice. His knack lies in his natural aptitude to heed instructions wholeheartedly. Francisco’s about to release his grasp when the girl’s words are uttered – and, suddenly, his posture is rattled with laughter, the kind that hums as raw and as sweet as wild berries. “Trust me, it’ll be a miracle if I actually manage to kill anything.” The words have the cadence of a jest, though Francisco knows it’s the cruel truth and no humor. He strains ardently for her to not have noticed that. The drawstring hums a melody as the arrow soars ahead, its metal kissing the red target’s chest. Blood erupts like from an old fountain that Francisco has cast most of his wish coins into, and it's miracle, it's a miracle.

[umber vivuus 12a 🥀 [dars]]

[atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(https://i.imgur.com/7sHyA00.png); border: 050403 solid 0px; width: 266px; padding: 5 5 5 5px; border-radius: 10px 10px 10px 10px;]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; border: 050403 solid 0px; width: 330px; padding: 5 5 5 5px; border-radius: 10px 10px 10px 10px;] m y r c e l l a h u d s o n . His arrow flew and she felt the secondhand rush of it; the thrill of watching it sail in a clean line, the hollow sound of it landing in a target. Myrcella had fallen in love with every step of it sometime years ago. The certainty that came with each arrow of her life, her bow beating like a heart, an extension of her. "Trust me, it’ll be a miracle if I actually manage to kill anything." Good, she thought at first, golden eyes settling on him for a moment, sizing him up. Tall, but not tall enough. Thin but likely not in-shape. And the kindness in his eyes; she'd seen people die for that alone a hundred times over. "Careful," she said, reaching up to brush the wrinkles out of his shirt with her hand, "You'll kill yourself if you think like that." Not that she cared. She wasn't supposed to; she didn't. And she was acutely aware that his charm could've been an act. She was also aware that secrets could've lurked beneath those curls, lies may very well have pooled into those dimples one too many times before. And that easy smile, the one that came without even asking, may have harbored fangs she just couldn't see yet. He could've been a monster. He could've been a killer. He could've been a boy. He could've just been afraid: a bleeding heart doomed to, some day very soon, stop beating within his chest. This was the option she wanted to believe was true; it was easier. She wouldn't let herself rule out any other possibilities, but she would keep this one locked up within her. "Is there anyone you love?" Of course there was. She let him ponder this for only a moment before she continued. "If you can't do it for yourself, think of them," she said; her gaze was unbreakable, locked and loaded and staring him down all the way into his soul. She had trouble understanding the words, even as she said them, but it was something that had been repeated throughout her years in training: if not for you, for them. She wanted to fight for herself first, so she never needed that reassurance. She was a hawk; he was a songbird. At the end of the day, either one of them could've found themselves trapped in a cage. "Think of how hurt they'd be if you died." Without breaking eye contact, she placed another arrow in his hands. "Aim. Fire. Survive."

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

[atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(https://i.imgur.com/4g21N0f.png); border: 050403 solid 0px; width: 266px; padding: 5 5 5 5px; border-radius: 10px 10px 10px 10px;]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; border: 050403 solid 0px; width: 330px; padding: 5 5 5 5px; border-radius: 10px 10px 10px 10px;] f r a n c i s c o b l o o m . “Is there anyone you love?” Love had a clear countenance in Francis’s head: the sun burnt, freckled, radiant face of Mia Bloom, his mother. But, with a small bitterness, he recalls her death, how they buried her in a casket lined with ivory lilies – each one a symbol of loss and purity. She looked so serene with her hands on the breastbone, a spring goddess captured in a winter slumber. The cheeks that had been hollowed out by disease were plump and red again, as if death had cleansed her anew like autumn does to the forests. But unlike the forests, she was gone forever. Francis’s eyes flicker over the girl. “Yes. I love myself.” There is a delicateness to her that should not be disregarded, like rose petals with a thicket of dark thorns hidden beneath. But, submerge yourself in those gold-rimmed eyes and you’d never crawl back out to the surface again. As he keeps his curious gaze on the girl, he acknowledges her own too – scrutinizing him. Francis stretches his backbone out until he no longer can, wanting to appear as ascendant as soft creature can be. He could translate the dialects of a heavy gaze and as of right now, the girl’s piercing citrines and Francis’s unyielding browns scream: do not underestimate me. Fingers clasp around the stem of the arrow she offered and Francisco discovers his posture, more lithely this time around. “Aim.” He sees the target at the periphery of his vision, red like pomegranate. Red as he envisages his heart to be – and he wishes to make a gaping hole in it. “Fire.” She has one of those voices, clarion and restorative, that could soothe even an exhausted army to continue marching onward, towards the dark fog of war. Francisco could feel the tension collecting at his fingertips like gunpowder – and the fiery combination of her timbre and words is the spark he needs. “Survive.” He wants to. Despite the raucous protest of his heart, he wants to survive this. “Think of how hurt they'd be if you died.” No, he breathes in, think of how hurt I’d be if I died. This is his chronicle of growth. These are the groundwork of his cruelty, this weightless arrow with this mysterious girl beside him under the hungry fluorescents. “Would you tell me your name if I hit the target? That’s a pretty fair bargain.” What he’d meant to say is: Can I use you as an aid to the memory? Will you be the witness to my cruelty? “I am Francisco Bloom, district five.” Birth names sound too mundane to Francis, too earthly, an annoyance to learn. But, he would keep this girl’s name close to the heart. The smile at the edges of his mouth is devoured by a thin line, the muscles there no longer indolent or loose. He releases the bowstring – it hums – the arrow rushes – eyes follow – heartbeats turn feverish – and it kisses one of the fluorescents above them, dissolving its radiance to a shower of glass with a sharp crack. Francisco lets himself chuckle as the world becomes iridescent with glass splinters ahead of them, even if it lasts for mere seconds.