It's not as if Eva's bloodthirsty, at least, not in any way she'll admit. Admitting to bloodthirst doesn't do anyone any good - it isolates you, makes you the scary person at a party, the subject of lurid conversations and healthy distances rather than a participant. So Eva never lets on that what she and everyone else call repressed anger is, just a little bit, bloodthirst - it's unbecoming.
When she gets out of this Arena with her clothing saturated red, they'll call it survival. Wrath. Self-defese. Necessity. Revenge. But they won't call it what it is, and she's alright with that, because that allows her to delude herself just as badly.
She chose allies as much because she cared for them as for their weaknesses. It gives her an excuse to go out into the woods and justify any fellow Tribute she kills as a necessary evil. She's protecting herself, protecting a sick, heartbroken young woman she's taken under her wing. It's simple mathematics - take out another Tribute and get herself and Eponine one step closer to victory.
And it has nothing to do with the way she's forgetting what it felt like to rip a teenager's face off with her bare hands. That sometimes she hates that she's forgetting the most traumatic experience of her life. That sometimes she wants to remember so badly it's mistaken for need.
Her hair is braided to keep it out of her face, but stray locks twist and twine in the wet air. The humidity has made her look younger, almost, filling out the wrinkles of middle age with a little more doughiness. Her breathing is shallow with anticipation, her palm clammy and tight around her spear. It's a throwing spear, which she finds comedic give that they're in the jungle, and getting a clear shot is a pipe dream. The shiv she's made of the other spear's head is tucked into the back of her pants.
When Hawkeye gets near, she lunges forward from behind an overgrown plant with a feral snarl, thrusting the spear forward in an attempt to run his guts through.
Up for a near-death experience?
When she gets out of this Arena with her clothing saturated red, they'll call it survival. Wrath. Self-defese. Necessity. Revenge. But they won't call it what it is, and she's alright with that, because that allows her to delude herself just as badly.
She chose allies as much because she cared for them as for their weaknesses. It gives her an excuse to go out into the woods and justify any fellow Tribute she kills as a necessary evil. She's protecting herself, protecting a sick, heartbroken young woman she's taken under her wing. It's simple mathematics - take out another Tribute and get herself and Eponine one step closer to victory.
And it has nothing to do with the way she's forgetting what it felt like to rip a teenager's face off with her bare hands. That sometimes she hates that she's forgetting the most traumatic experience of her life. That sometimes she wants to remember so badly it's mistaken for need.
Her hair is braided to keep it out of her face, but stray locks twist and twine in the wet air. The humidity has made her look younger, almost, filling out the wrinkles of middle age with a little more doughiness. Her breathing is shallow with anticipation, her palm clammy and tight around her spear. It's a throwing spear, which she finds comedic give that they're in the jungle, and getting a clear shot is a pipe dream. The shiv she's made of the other spear's head is tucked into the back of her pants.
When Hawkeye gets near, she lunges forward from behind an overgrown plant with a feral snarl, thrusting the spear forward in an attempt to run his guts through.