Panem Events (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
etcircenses) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2015-11-30 05:03 pm
etcircenses) wrote in thearena2015-11-30 05:03 pm
Entry tags:
Deep in the meadow, under the willow...
Who| All those on the liberation mission and all those being made to fight against them.
What| The liberation of District 12.
Where| District 12.
When| This week.
Warnings/Notes| War, violence, death. Please warn for more in headers.
It doesn't take long to get to District 12, the closest district to the rebel district. It's one of the smallest districts, and you only know you reach it when rolling hills grow and grow until they become large, fertile green mountains. The environment looks green and lush, beautiful, really--That is, until you reach the part of the District where people actually live. The weather is chillier than the Capitol, though the wind bares the worst of it. Anyone planning on spending any time outside should definitely get a coat.
The town is smaller than any of the others, and more worn down. Everything seems to have a thin layer of cole settled over it, no matter how much cleaning is done. The center of the town isn't too shabby, and there are a few things that stand new and shining--A metal whipping post and stocks. The latter occasionally has an unfortunate person in it, though most people have learned to buckle down and accept the new rules.
In the merchant part of town, there's some signs of wildlife, knobby trees and green enough yards. The merchants used to ply their trades here, though for now, everything's locked down. As you get farther, it gets shabbier, poorer. Into the Seam, where the poorest of the poor live. Here, the houses are barely more than shacks. Trees grow wild, and what animal life exists is quick to run from any humans, no doubt having survived at least one attempt by the people of the Seam to capture them for the supper pot.
One thing in common with all the sections of the District is a feeling of hopelessness. The mood is dour, as heavy and permanent as the cole dust that seeps into everything. The only sign of anything even resembling any rebellion is a few chalk scratchings on the sides of abandoned buildings, a few zodiac symbols--Anyone who knows the trolls can recognize the symbols of Karkat, Terezi, Psiioniic, and even the Initiate. That, and the grand pictures of Sam Wilson and Joan Watson, and the bold words stating NOT ALONE and WE ALL DESERVE BETTER.
The war continues, and in the back of everyone's mind is a familiar phrase; may the odds be ever in your favor.
What| The liberation of District 12.
Where| District 12.
When| This week.
Warnings/Notes| War, violence, death. Please warn for more in headers.
It doesn't take long to get to District 12, the closest district to the rebel district. It's one of the smallest districts, and you only know you reach it when rolling hills grow and grow until they become large, fertile green mountains. The environment looks green and lush, beautiful, really--That is, until you reach the part of the District where people actually live. The weather is chillier than the Capitol, though the wind bares the worst of it. Anyone planning on spending any time outside should definitely get a coat.
The town is smaller than any of the others, and more worn down. Everything seems to have a thin layer of cole settled over it, no matter how much cleaning is done. The center of the town isn't too shabby, and there are a few things that stand new and shining--A metal whipping post and stocks. The latter occasionally has an unfortunate person in it, though most people have learned to buckle down and accept the new rules.
In the merchant part of town, there's some signs of wildlife, knobby trees and green enough yards. The merchants used to ply their trades here, though for now, everything's locked down. As you get farther, it gets shabbier, poorer. Into the Seam, where the poorest of the poor live. Here, the houses are barely more than shacks. Trees grow wild, and what animal life exists is quick to run from any humans, no doubt having survived at least one attempt by the people of the Seam to capture them for the supper pot.
One thing in common with all the sections of the District is a feeling of hopelessness. The mood is dour, as heavy and permanent as the cole dust that seeps into everything. The only sign of anything even resembling any rebellion is a few chalk scratchings on the sides of abandoned buildings, a few zodiac symbols--Anyone who knows the trolls can recognize the symbols of Karkat, Terezi, Psiioniic, and even the Initiate. That, and the grand pictures of Sam Wilson and Joan Watson, and the bold words stating NOT ALONE and WE ALL DESERVE BETTER.
The war continues, and in the back of everyone's mind is a familiar phrase; may the odds be ever in your favor.
no subject
That focus nearly breaks when he tries to move her. A jolt of pain shoots through her chest and she gasps, choking on the blood already leaking into her lungs. A whimper follows after, despair finally settling into her thoughts. She doesn't want this. Why is this happening? She wants to scream, but they're both lacking what they need to do so. Tears spring to her eyes. It isn't fair. Her life had stretched out in front of her, so full of promise that it took her breath away to think on it--and now it was being snatched away from her.
"I'm scared," she whispers to him. She doesn't notice the way that her grip on his arm has weakened, or the way that her eyelids droop. "Please... I want..." Him. This world. To live. She doesn't know how to finish that plea. Too many things swirl together in her fading thoughts, and she feels too sluggish to catch any of them.
no subject
But she's so weak. Teal is all made for the leaking of her, going as to flee before it can be stopped forever. He can feel her pulse like its his own but it's soft, so slow, and its halting brings all things to break. She promised. They made a promise.
Her words make him gasp. They make all in his head as to ring and fizzle out. I know, I'm here, I'm with you, he thinks. But what his mouth forms all worldless again is stay, please stay. She can have all those things if she only stays.
His hand goes to touch her face. If she goes, they will never have each other again. If she goes, she's gone. He's gone. For what happens to one happens to the other. This he was promised also. Even as he sees the future spread on and on ahead, he knows well that it's possible to die and still carry on.
no subject
She remembers the Race Arena. She had been stabbed through the stomach in that one, but he found her. Just like he did now. He carried her to the finish line, at the cost of his own life. She remembers turning around in that last moment and smelling a flash of green come down around him.
Green like the paint that they used in the training center. Greens and purples and blues and reds... There were so many colors, and she loved them all. She loved the way that he blended them and the emotion found in their depths. It was breath-taking and inspiring all in one. She remember the paint fight--her and Initiate and Signless. The way they laughed, even amid his makeshift Carnival.
She remembers his laugh the best, and the way that he would smile at her. She remembers winding braids into his hair, tucking them around a crown of flowers. Her chest had been so full back then, she thought she would burst. She could have kissed him right there. She should have. Then maybe she would have had more time together with him.
He mouths words at her, and all she manages to catch is the word stay. Such a simple word, and yet it's defined so much of their time together. She remembers the first time she said that to him. She hadn't expected the look on his face to be so surprised. Did she ever ask him why? She doesn't remember if she did or not, and suddenly she wants to know, even if she distantly knows that there's no time for him to tell her. Even so, the words that come to her are different.
"Pity you," she tries to say, but she's not sure if the words make it past her lips. She doesn't hear the sound of her own voice, and she's too tired to try again. Her grip on him loosens completely. Darkness folds over her like a wave, sweeping her consciousness away.
She exhales, but there's no inhale that follows this time. Her chest is still and silent; her eyes remain half-lidded, staring blindly out at the world that she tried to cling to. Blood still coats her front and back, but the pace of the flow has slowed considerably. It only oozes now, creeping slowly across the fabric of her shirt without any force behind it.
no subject
He ain't know if he imagines it, the way her words wind around him, lifting him. Choking him. A beautiful noose, the most perfect of punishment. Justice for all his sins.
He does not die with dignity. He does not die with grace. It's a slow drawn out death, one that will go for two thousand years and two thousand more, dragging on, until the final mercy ain't even fucking noticed no more.
This is how he pays; weeping for his rebel matesprit, dead and gone from him in the break of war. At least he'd had the mercy of hiring and executioner. What's he to do? What's he to do but be that motherfucking executioner...