#emberstask

[deezeeashfrost]

MEET THE EMBERS HIGH STAFF: ENVIRONMENTAL SCIENCE TEACHER, DEEZEE ASHFROST

Ashfrost is a name anyone at Embers High knows, for better or for worse. Chuck Ashfrost has worked as the head cook in the cafeteria for thirty years, bringing in fresh food from the family’s farm, and there’s been a steady stream of Ashfrosts coming through the school since him and his brother. Of the most recent batch, the name DeeZee Ashfrost is bound to conjure up the most sighs, but also the best stories. He was known at Embers High for being too loud in class, throwing parties on his family’s farm, and getting kicked off the football team for being too rough and not following directions. When he graduated, college was mostly the same, until an accident on the farm left him one arm short, serving as something of a wakeup call that he might be wasting some of his potential. After his initial recovery, he went back to school for environmental science, and got big into the activism scene. It wasn’t necessarily the plan to end up a high school teacher, but after one too many arrests at protests––all charges eventually dropped––his uncle Chuck suggested he come back to Embers High and pass some of his passion along to the next generation in a little less dangerous way, which he at first begrudgingly did, but now he kind of loves it, at least most of the time. His youngest brother, Bo, is currently a senior at Embers High, and wishes he could change his last name on the daily.

WHERE YOU CAN FIND HIM: Ranting and raving to any student who wants to listen, he has a weird little cult following of conspiracy theorist students who flock to his classroom like church during lunch. Making guest appearances at debate practice to have (friendly) arguments with Aldera. Bothering Pista in the shop, and in the gym. Shouting at his wrestlers to fight harder, and stop worrying about hurting each other.

WHAT’S IT LIKE IN CLASS: Absolutely wild, and fairly inconsistent. Some days are filled with busy work, and stupid by the textbook activities, while DeeZee sits at his desk with his feet kicked up. Others are full of passionate lectures with the best damn powerpoints you’ve ever laid your eyes on, engrossing facts, and real world anecdotes to back up his knowledge. And sometimes, it’s just full on conspiracy theories, and reasons why the government, and big corporations have positively fucked all life on the plant Earth over to earn money, no powerpoints, no textbooks, more like a weird performance art piece in the form of a forty-five minute rant. Usually entertaining, no matter what.

WHERE HE IS AFTER SCHOOL: At his parents’ farm, helping them out with the animals. Taking care of his many, many chickens in his backyard. Bothering Pista not at school, too. Shouting until his voice is gone at political rallies for environmental and animal rights. Partying hard, but not too hard, because hangovers are a bitch when you get into your thirties, he’s learned.

#( au: embers high. ) #( just another boy caught in the rye. ) #emberstask #HAPPY DEEZEE O N L Y

[silverostro]

MEET THE EMBERS HIGH STAFF: CHEMISTRY TEACHER, SILVER OSTRO

No one seems to know anything about Silver Ostro’s life before taking up the open chemistry teacher position, no one seems to know anything about what they do outside of school hours, and they like to keep it that way. Silver Ostro is content with their perfectly boring, and happy life. They didn’t necessarily plan on becoming a teacher, never truly seeing themself as someone who is very skilled at passing on knowledge when their own is so deep it feels impossible to explain sometimes, but the small, very quiet fortune they accidentally managed to amass after selling one of their formulas to a chemical firm just out of their masters degree gave them the flexibility they didn’t realize they wanted in life. After spending the better part of a decade working on personal projects, and perhaps accidentally accumulating a bit more wealth, even if they made a few massive mistakes they don’t like to talk about in the process, they finally decided to get their teaching license so that they could settle into something more stable. Stability is what they’ve always been seeking, after all. And an opening several years ago at the school a dear friend of theirs worked at was enough for them to develop something of a passion for shaping young minds suddenly...

WHERE YOU CAN FIND THEM: Grading papers and working on lesson plans in their classroom, avoiding the teacher’s lounge at all costs. Leaning against the circulation desk in the library, writing in their moleskin notebook, and exchanging knowing looks with the hot librarian. Turning the chemistry lab into a robotics lab in the afternoons whether any students show up to Robotics Club or not, to indulge in their own other interests.

WHAT’S IT LIKE IN THE CHEMISTRY LAB: Sterile and perfectly clean, everything in its place. Their classes are considered the most difficult in the science department, if not the school at large, but anyone who’s serious enough to pay attention leaves their classes in awe, with a brain full of good, good knowledge. A great deal of hands on learning with plenty of dangerous chemicals, and a cautionary tale in the form of their conspicuously missing index finger and the many wild, and never confirmed, rumors about how they might’ve lost it, all earning them the cheeky nickname of Heisenberg by students.

WHERE THEY ARE AFTER SCHOOL: In their office slash workroom at home programming and tinkering with electronics. Experimenting with wild and sometimes dangerous kitchen chemistry to make ridiculously fancy, modern dinners. Being disgustingly romantic with their partner, Robyn. Trying to keep the peace between their Sphynx cat, Iago, and Robyn’s dog, Othello, with their newly shared living arrangements.

#( au: embers high. ) #( for the heroes who quit too late. ) #emberstask #ur mysterious chem queer

[dcwnhardin]

MEET THE EMBERS HIGH STAFF: GUIDANCE COUNSELOR, DR. DAWN HARDIN

Way back when, most of Dawn Hardin’s classmates were surprised when he dropped his visual arts major in favor of psychology, after ending up with a full ride to art school from his high school painting portfolio. Anyone who knew him wasn’t surprised in the least, his parents having been more excited about making his artistic talent his career than he was. Ten years later, most of Dr. Dawn Hardin’s old colleagues were surprised when he closed his private practice only a few years after opening it to instead go and work as the guidance counselor at Embers High, but anyone who knew Dawn personally wasn’t surprised in the least. The adoption process is difficult, to say the least, for someone who’s single, no matter how successful, and the discouragement from dealing with the system unsuccessfully led him to search for fulfillment in other ways. There was no way not to notice that several of his teenage patients came from the same school, which formed the idea of finding a way to help more kids who needed the specific kind of support he’s always been an expert at providing. He didn’t realize so many of the adults around might need it, too, but his office door is always open to anyone who needs an ear, and a nice cup of tea.

WHERE YOU CAN FIND HIM: Guiding any and every student through teenage crises both academic and personal, doing the same for the staff, too, on the down low. Spending more time sketching between talking to students than doing the paperwork he needs to do. Sitting in the front row of football games enthusiastically pretending he understands the rules. Sewing and/or painting for the Drama Club, usually in the woodworking shop either way.

WHAT’S IT LIKE IN THE GUIDANCE COUNSELOR’S OFFICE: Cozy and comforting, more like a therapist’s office than a guidance counselor’s office, with lots of tissues, a seemingly endless supply of tea, and a fresh batch of whatever baked good Dawn’s been perfecting at home. The other most likely place to find students crying besides outside of gym class.

WHERE HE IS AFTER SCHOOL: Spending too much time thrifting for the Drama Club’s costumes. Volunteering his mental health services at the local shelter. Baking enough to feed an army, or painting barefoot on his porch. Cuddling on the couch with his cat, Vincent van Gogh, and only his cat, certainly not an infamous football coach he’s been known to be seen at Home Depot with or anything.

#( au: embers high. ) #( maybe this time i'll be lucky. ) #emberstask #just had to give dawn the doctorate he deserves fnkdsjf #HUGE TY TO NIK FOR ALL MY KIDS' GRAPHICS!!!!

[hovergrove]

WELCOME TO EMBERS HIGH....HUDSON OVERGROVE!

A scholarship student at the local college, Hudson came into school knowing they wanted to major in education. As a freshman, they spent last year volunteering in the kindergarten classroom at the local elementary school. This year, however, they’ve made the leap to high school, and though Hudson themself is a teenager who gets along better with adults, they truly underestimated just how—much a school full of teenagers can be. But it’s not all bad: they’ve got a crush, and a new interest in sign language.

WHERE YOU CAN FIND THEM: Their assigned position in Griffin’s classroom, hiding in Nurse Singe’s office when the teenagers get to be too much, helping out with any extracurricular that will have them (with special interest in Robotics Club 👀), really spending way too much time at Embers High for someone who works there part-time, unpaid, and has classes and homework of their own.

WHERE THEY ARE AFTER SCHOOL: Living in a run-down off-campus house with way too many roommates, babysitting for some extra cash, being a polite dinner guest at the house of any Embers High teacher that will save them from a night of ramen or dining hall french fries, not going to nearly enough frat parties for a college student.

#tried to work in some tidbits from some other chars hmu if i messed anything up! #modern au hudson gets some silly sunglasses #emberstask #au: embers high

[twigelphineson]

WELCOME TO EMBERS HIGH....TWIG ELPHINESON!

Twig Elphineson never meant to be a teacher. He grew up in the woods, with parents who taught him the basics of metal forging and woodworking and with a rotating door of foster siblings, but he always had his sights set on more. At first, he thought it’d be professional soccer, and he spent a few years after graduation toiling away in the minor minor leagues before realizing that wouldn’t happen for him. After that, he spent some time backpacking—read: partying—around the world until he ran out of money and his parents wouldn’t foot the bill anymore. He became a teacher after coming home: it wasn’t something he ever dreamed of, but it was the first steady job he had, and a long time later, he’s still doing it. Teaching students how to make lopsided birdhouses isn’t a full-time courseload, so he picks up a ton in the way of extracurriculars: coaching boys soccer, building sets for the school plays, assistant coaching for any sport that needs it in the spring. And if anything breaks around school, he’s also a passable handyman.

WHERE YOU CAN FIND HIM: Covered in sawdust in staff meetings, constantly forgetting to take off his protective eyewear when he’s not in his classroom, schmoozing the principal to try and get better equipment for his class (and not at all because he wants to use it himself).

WHAT IT’S LIKE IN HIS CLASS: Twig has one rule in class: Safety First. Some people think he’s stern, some people think he’s boring, but he’s not fucking around when it comes to teenagers and power tools. He’s also not trying to tell his students anything about his personal life. The soccer team knows him best, because he can’t keep his competitive side under wraps. Among them, he’s known best for his rivalries with other area coaches, and how colorfully he can curse when they lose.

WHERE HE IS AFTER SCHOOL: Working on his home forge/studio, selling custom furniture on Etsy, in an on-again, off-again relationship with Harbor Gazel that would be nobody’s business, if only a Mockingjay hadn’t seen them together in town and started a persistent rumor around school that it was Twig and Robyn.

#emberstask #au: embers high

[embersrpg]

𝐎𝐡, 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞...

Letters. They’re intimate. They’re special. Most importantly, they’re safe from lingering ears. Over the years, letters have become such a personal thing to express your concern and love from those who might not be so close to you.

What are those letters you’ve written? How much did you confess? Or do you whish you’d said more?

OOC INFORMATION FOUND BELOW

We’re starting it off simple yet gut wrenching. I believe someone mentioned this in the most recent feedback for so thank you! And on top of that, you guys had been saying you wanted more chance for flashback threads to solidify previous connections. While I would love that, it might be a while before I can provide that opportunity again. In the meantime, here’s a letters task!

It’s pretty straight forward, it’s just your character writing letters to those important to them. Could be NPCs, could be characters in-game. It’s all loosey-goosey.

This is 100% optional, and there is no dead-line required to finish it. I would just ask you challenge yourself to write letters for multiple characters, and use this as an opportunity to flesh out less developed connections. If you choose to do this, please don’t just write one letter for your closest connection (though we’d love to see it, please try and write in addition to that one)

QUICK INFO

Begin date: now

Date of completion: None

Required: No

Tag: emberstask

Please post in the ‘task’ channel on discord after posting

#emberstask #heheh #lmk if u have questions #i might have rushed this out a bit

[hcllisfm]

— love languages

click to enlarge

#emberstask #abt #again....... are we surprised??????? let this bisexy king pamper u #osa please call him back!

[virgobydcsign]

task 001 -- who do you love?  

The most obvious answer would be their mother, but she’s not the only one. Maybe not even the most prominent anymore. Many fit this category in a million tiny ways. They love the florist who remembers they like the pink daisies not the white; they love the boy they met on the street who said he liked their bracelets, they gave him one to prove it; they even love their father’s wife, in a way, for the honesty that comes with her dislike of them. But none of those are who come to mind when the question is asked. 

Tarra Flatleaf (capitol, formerly district seven)

A stalwart presence throughout their childhood, the avox Tarra is Virgo’s weakness. On the nights where their mother worked and they woke from a nightmare, he would bring hot chocolate and stand guard by the door until their fear subsided. Though there seemed to be a revolving door of staff in their youth, Tarra was the one constant. Virgo assumed for a long while that he was as much their mother’s favourite as their own.

As Virgo grew, so did their curiosity. They’d never given much thought to how or why Tarra came to be in their service, having an avox around was nothing unusual in the circles they ran with. He rarely showed them a face that wasn’t a happy one. Only once in their memory can Virgo remember a real switch. 

They were ten, and watching the coverage of the 65th Games. Virgo hid behind a cushion while the girl onscreen did her brutal work. A strange, guttural noise startled them. When they looked up they saw Tarra, stricken, the bright light of the screen reflecting twin tracks of wetness down his cheeks. Instinctively they wanted to call their mother, because she’d know what to do. Fire him, or worse, and Virgo knew that but didn’t really understand. They were young, and easily distracted. The sound of a canon from the screen was enough that they forgot in an instant and flipped to annoyance that they’d missed the action.

Eight years on and Tarra was still with them. Virgo was older, braver, determined to solve a problem whose consequences eluded them. They’d always thought it unfair that for everything they’d said to Tarra, they’d never heard a word back. So they took a notebook, a pen, and their patience, and got to work. Simple notes at first, left under their pillow in the morning. It was a few weeks before they tried prompting Tarra to write in response and another month before they got their wish. Slowly but surely, they began to learn the story behind the silence. 

Taking a cue from their closest friend, Virgo has never told a soul.

#emberstask #this is VAGUE okay

[hcrdcreeks]

TASK ONE  :  Slate Hardcreek & Love

A man given no love.

Slate was raised by parents who only sought to have a champion. They raised him with brutal tongues, and brutal fingertips. And the moment they had had their victor, their work was done, and their song was left behind.

Slate, who spent his first couple years showering in victory in District Two, with no parents, and still rather a child, being that he won at age thirteen, left him open to anyone coming along, and taking advantage of him.

Thankfully, however, Terra Ivornary came in rather quickly to make sure that didn’t happen.

A thirteen year old, alone in a large house in Victor’s Villiage. Sure, there were other victors, but what had they wanted to do with a kid? High on the validation of victory. No, Terra was the baker from inside of town. She brought a cake by two weeks after he’d moved into his new home, and congratulated him on his win.

She was about ten years younger than his parents, but still, her maternal spirit didn’t vanish. Once she saw the state of Slate’s teenage boy-home, she knew she needed to step in. And in years since, she kept herself busy by bouncing back and forth between bakery and his home, checking to make sure the boy kept himself in good shape. She left treats, showed him how to cook a couple basic, yet delicious meals on his own. He knew how to heat up beans as means of survival, but Mother and Father never cared much to teach him the skills of making good food.

Terra has always been around. While kind to Slate, she is not soft by any means. She’s proud of what Slate brought to his District, being his victory, and she never hesitated to kick him into shape when the feelings of grief washed over him. No, Terra was his strength for many years.

As he grew, so did the children she had herself. Rod and Kouza were her two sons that Slate first detested. They weren’t born and bred victors like he was, so why should he bother with investing time and energy into them? Only time proved that Rod and Kouza were... fun. In his late teens, he let himself indulge from time to time in the recklessness of being a young man.

But both Rod and Kouza had responsibilities that weren’t bringing victory to their district. And it wasn’t long before both had worked to take over the bakery.

Slate, himself, got invested in becoming a career trainer and full-time mentor. It brought him away from those he became close to in those years after his victory. Not to mention, the Capitol wanted his help from time to time, and all three, Terra, Rod, and Kouza, always told him that the Capitol came first. The didn’t mind scraping their time with him when he could.

He respects all three of them. Now, Terra has retired and spends her time helping to raise Rod and Kouza’s children, while her sons run the bakery. Still, though, when Slate manages to stop by, the woman will get up and bake Slate his favorite cake. The feeling of having her around being more comfortable than being alone, sometimes.

While Slate might not recognize the familial love he’s gotten from the Ivornary family, he knows that had they not made their appearance in his life, he would be a far less interesting and digestible man.

#emberstask #◦ ❛ 𝖘 𝖑 𝖆 𝖙 𝖊 ━━ ⌜task⌟

[ovcrlookcd]

TASK ONE   :   WHO DO YOU LOVE ?

Above all else, family is the most important thing to you. If you didn’t have family, you’d have nothing. You make damn sure to remind yourself of that every single day.

TILSEE CLEARMARK

No one has ever loved and cared for you the way your mother has, and you’re pretty certain no one else ever will. You’re determined to give back what she’s given to you all these years a hundredfold, perhaps even more than that, but it’s difficult to know where to begin when she’s been with you, caring for you, loving you since the day she’d brought you into this world herself. There’s too much to make up for: quiet mornings over breakfast, meaningful no matter how modest the portions, afternoons of study and learning, evenings of her voice singing you gently to sleep, her support, her protection, her guidance, her sacrifices, both hidden and known to you. You wish you could return even half of what you’d borrowed from her time and her energy, but somehow, cleaning up around the house at the end of a long work day, or picking up after the things she’s left behind to take care of your father, or getting up early to make breakfast for everyone before they’re even awake don’t seem like they could ever be enough. It isn’t fair either that your love for her has gotten her nothing but a place in the Quarter Quell.

RYE CLEARMARK

tw: addiction

It’s hard for you to even consider him because you don’t like thinking about him at all, but he’s just as much a part of your family as your mother is. You’re hesitant to call it love because it doesn’t seem right for what your relationship is. He was never home for a good part of it, and then halfway through, an accident chains him home, and still he doesn’t talk to you. It’s harder now with his depression, worse now with the morphling too, so difficult not to feel like there’s a stranger in the house every time you return from your grueling work with the trains and see him sitting, almost unresponsive, in his wheelchair beside the window. When he looks at you, he barely recognizes you, and maybe if you didn’t care so much, it wouldn’t hurt you. But you do, and it does, far more than you could possibly explain.

QUILL PLAINBROOK ( deceased )

tw: death, blood, murder

It’s only fair that he’s mentioned here. He doesn’t take as much space in your mind anymore like he used to, when his death was still fresh, and you kept seeing his dead body in your nightmares, twitching, bleeding, pupils blown and mouth half open, spear standing upright through his chest, but that doesn’t change anything in the past the two of you had shared. You hadn’t considered it then, because you hadn’t known, and the word would’ve been foreign to you at the time too, young as you were, but you had loved Quill, hadn’t you? In a way that was hard to explain, a way that couldn’t be encapsulated by the word friend alone. What you’d had was pure and real and good, and maybe if you could have had things your way, you’d have spent the rest of your life with him and your family, but the Capitol had taken all that away using a single slip of paper with his name on it. 

@embersrpg​

#loves his fam and his dead bff #das it #. / a life to scrutinize — tasks #. / i put my dreams away — about #emberstask

[silverostro]

EMBERS TASK // LETTERS​

sent and unsent letters to: @othcrhalf, @honimoore, @ncllysnge, @swannscngs, @sinksand, @digitalrcge, @dawnhardn, @blythefm, @hovergrove

we put down in writing what is happening in our minds once it’s on the paper we feel better, we feel better it’s like some kind of clarity when the letter’s done and signed

to robyn, sent before the 74th hunger games 

Robyn,

I know how much you hate the very thought of receiving a letter, yet alone writing a response, but unfortunately you’ve humored me enough that it’s habit to think of you when I sit to write. Old-fashioned, perhaps, but also safer. And there’s something about the act that brings honesty that’s more difficult to offer face to face, or over telecom even, if you’ll forgive a moment of vulnerability.

This letter is out of character, to be completely honest. I apologize that you won’t find the usual ranting and raving about my work, or any of the indifference that I know you adore so much from me. I’m certain you’ll miss it this once, but I promise we’ll be back to normal soon enough. If it helps, you’re welcome to include a few comments speculating on what will surely be another silver monstrosity I’m forced into for this year’s Games. Bacchus is hard at work as we speak, unfortunately.

But I digress.

Something about this year feels different. I know you understand that well, in a way that even I can’t fathom, and wish I had some way to ease. I’ve found myself considering this unease, this restlessness, and it took me far too long to realize what it is, selfishly, in my case.

I’ve never liked celebrating my birthday. The first birthday I still have memories of is my eighteenth; it was only a few days after I woke as a victor, all of my other memories distorted or gone. Ironic, isn’t it? A birthday I had been convinced a week earlier that I wouldn’t live to see, a thought I had made peace with the moment my name was drawn from that bowl, fate sealed, the first I still have memories of now. 

I’ve been wrong more often than I would admit to most anyone else, but just this once I’ll admit it to you, Robyn.

This year’s birthday is...strange. They’re always strange, but they’re easy to overlook. In the wake of victories that are rarely Three’s, it’s easy to slip into the background. But I haven’t been able to stop my thoughts from lingering on how strange it is to be here at all. Forty. Horrifying, isn’t that? I should be pleased. I should be grateful to have lasted so long when I believed I wouldn’t live to see eighteen. And yet, in the quiet moments of the night, when it’s more difficult to fill the blank spaces in my life with work, such simply human needs as sleep making it impossible not to reflect. (Yes, even I need sleep, sometimes.) I can’t help but feel I haven’t done nearly what I should have with all of these unexpected years, though. Does that make sense?

I look around around my workroom, my home, the quiet almost eerie, if I wasn’t so used to it after so many years, and I realize that I’ve spent so much time in my own bruised mind, that I’m a little more than alone. Used to something no one should be used to. A circumstance of my own making. There aren’t many memories left of my parents, but the few I have, I remember the way they told me it was better to keep my head down, keep a distance from the world for my own safety. In the absence of their guidance, anyone’s guidance, I took those words to heart, and I did them well. But I have no one to blame but myself. I thought I wanted this, I thought distance would benefit me, but now? I’m not so certain it does. 

I can only assume that your own birthday is something a little strange now, too. And I’m sorry for that. But I’m glad you’re still here.

All this to say, perhaps when I’m back in the Capitol, we could celebrate. Nothing wild, I’m much too old for that now, but... a drink or two? I think we could both use the distraction.

I’ll only accept your RSVP in writing...

Yours, Silver

to perri, sent shortly after the 66th hunger games

Perri,

A call would probably be easier, I’m well aware, but I can’t shake this paranoia lately, and the very real feeling that the static might crowd my mind and cause me to forget all I have to say, if I don’t put pen to paper. I know you understand.

I’d rather not give anyone a reason to keep a closer eye on me, or Three than they already have.

But it feels strange, not to be alone in victory any longer. 

I should be grateful that for the first time one of the children put in my care against my will survived, but I’ve found it difficult to feel that way. Of course, I’m glad that she survived––I wish desperately she wasn’t the first in my years of mentoring to do so––but from what I’ve seen already of how the Capitol is going to treat her, this outcome feels just as horrible, in an entirely different way. I know I shouldn’t think like that. It’s cruel, and perhaps it’s selfish, too, in a way, because in survival there’s guilt. She didn’t survive because of anything I did; I haven’t made a real effort beyond the bare minimum since my first few years mentoring. I’m certain she realized that I thought she wouldn’t make it out of that arena. 

Now there’s a reminder of my failures standing by my side. Now we’ll have to stand there together and watch children die year after year.

It’s not the same, but there are twisted parallels here that I have no desire to accept, but have somehow only fully realized now that Three has another victor. Parenthood and mentorship. Sometimes both as unwanted, and unasked for as the other. I don’t know how you do it, how you do both, when either alone is hard enough. This feeling of responsibility for another’s well being is terrifying. And I feel an immense amount of guilt for not allowing myself to see it that way until this year.

Could I have helped any of the others survive if I had tried harder? Would that have been dooming them to an even worse fate, if I did?

Am I cruel, for thinking this way? I can’t even tell anymore. It’s been too long, I have no sense of what’s normal any longer, if I did at all even before my own victory. 

I’ll see you soon enough. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to go on a Victory Tour, I’m not sure I remember how it’s done. But I’m glad for the excuse to see you and Sage. Perhaps I can convince our watchers to let us have dinner with you. I have a feeling you would get along well with Digit, she reminds me a little of you when we first met all those years ago. Perhaps you can give her understanding that I haven’t been able to find yet.

Give Sage my love, as always. And I suppose you can have some of it for yourself, too.

Yours, Silver

to nelly, sent after the 70th hunger games

Dear Nelly, 

You mentioned your newest set of stationary the last time we ran into each other, so I thought I might give you an excuse to test it out, in case you’re not waiting on any other replies at the moment. (Although I’m certain you have much more interesting letters waiting for you than mine.)

I hope you’re doing as well as anyone can, in between Games. I realized, as I sat down to begin this letter, that I’m not actually entirely certain what the life of an escort is like outside of the little I hear from ours. In fact, it’s rare that I see much of the Capitol at all outside of the bustle of the Games, usually sequestered in a windowless room in some high rise to do work when I am asked to come in during the off season.

Do you spend your time planning for whatever might come during the next Games, or are you allowed a few months of rest from responsibility? It says something that I can’t tell if the idea of rest sounds appealing or horrifying. Only I suppose it’s hard for me to imagine what life in the Capitol must be like, or even just a life without my days filled with work, no room to think of much else.

Although, that’s not quite true, is it? I’ve found enough time without work to write. Oh, and I apologize if this is utterly illegible. Years of making notes only for myself or my assistants’ interpretation has led to rather awful handwriting. Perhaps you can offer me some pointers, that seems like the sort of thing you would be an expert at, perfect handwriting.

Anyway, I could go on about what I’m currently working on, but I won’t bore you with those details, when I’ve done enough rambling as it is. 

It seems that work is going to bring me to the Capitol for a few days in a week or two, perhaps I’ll see you at one of the parties they inevitably ask me to attend while there. The possibility of a friendly face at one of those events is always something to look forward to, at least.

In the meantime, take care of yourself, Nelly, you deserve a break.

Warmly, Silver

to swann, sent before the 72nd hunger games

Swann,

I hope I’m not being too presumptuous in writing to you. I know there’s no need for a letter, a call, at the very most, would have sufficed, if not simply a silent acknowledgement the next time we both find ourselves forced to attend a Capitol celebration. But something compelled me to do so anyway. 

Perhaps it’s because understanding is such a rarity, even among the unfortunate many of us who have been put through what we’ve faced.

I know I wasn’t in any state to offer the appropriate gratitude at that party. This is something that I’ve dealt with for years, but it rarely becomes so bad so publicly. I hope you know that I would do my best to offer you the same understanding you gave me, if our positions were ever reversed. I’m not so certain I would be able do so with as much compassion and grace as you, but we all have our strengths. Mine clearly not being my memory.

Trust isn’t an easy thing to give, but the risk was worth it, in this case. Still, if you could keep the...severity of my situation quiet, I would be very grateful. Flaws, weaknesses are too dangerous for those in our position, I know you’ve seen that firsthand as well. 

Which I suppose is why I’m all the more grateful for your help in remembering. That’s all I really wanted to say, I appreciated the reminder you gave me, and the humanity you showed. It’s all very easy to forget, sometimes.

There’s no need to write back.

Sincerely,  Silver Ostro

to aven, unsent, written several years after desmond’s death

Aven,

I’ve been thinking about Thalia a great deal lately. And when I think of Thalia, I can’t help but think of you, as well, of course.

It’s not rare to see her face in nightmares, to see her body. I relive those last few moments of my Games over and over again more nights than not, slowed down, sped up, in excruciating detail each time. 

I try to remind myself of what she was like before, but it’s been harder lately to remember those few good moments in the arena with her, when both of us were safe, when she showed me care it felt like I hadn’t been given in years. 

It’s selfish, but I wish we could talk about her, like we used to. I want to hear your stories about what she was like back in Five, before the Games took her, about how the two of you got along. It was always easier to see her smile in my mind, instead of her death, right after you talked about her with me.

But that’s not fair of me to wish for, is it?

I know you blame me in some ways for what happened, and I accept that. I know what I create is used for, I know how dangerous it all is, even those things that would be harmless in less cruel hands than those of the Capitol, and yet I still do so anyway. 

I have more blood on my hands that most victors, all without ever laying a finger on anyone.

Sometimes, I wonder if Thalia would have survived, if she hadn’t made the mistake of showing me kindness, and if everyone might have been better for that. I have a suspicion you know that feeling well yourself.

But there’s no use in speculation. We survived, and we continue to survive only because of the choices we’ve made. Choices that have hurt others we care for deeply. Perhaps that’s why it’s so easy to blame each other, to stay at odds, because we’ve both made those choices, and they’ve caused immeasurable pain. 

It’s not easy to look into a mirror.

I could apologize to you, but nothing I can say will undo what I’ve been apart of, and what I’ve caused with my selfish desire to live, despite this not feeling terribly like life at all. So instead I’ll just say that I understand, even if you don’t want me to. And perhaps that’s as far as we can hope to get just now.

- Silver

dawn, unsent, written several years ago after oversharing then pulling away lmao

Dawn,

I owe you an explanation. In fact, I owe you much more than that, but I’ve never had such an easy time with admitting I’ve been wrong, expressing vulnerability, so all that I can offer just now is an explanation, as a start.

You might have guessed that I’m not used to talking openly when it comes to things more emotional. In the absence of many memories of my own childhood, I have to simply assume from what I’ve been told that this has always been the case, something that I learned early on from my parents, who were both more content to hole themselves up surrounded by electronics and blueprints, rather than face the world. Logic reigned in our home, from what I’ve heard, and the little I do remember now. There was never much sharing of emotions, and that was that.

After my Games, I suppose I took that to the extreme. But it’s easier to swallow it all down, bury it deep, when facing it might break you in ways that you’re not sure you could come back from.

This is my overly formal way of saying I’m shit at anything emotional. And when I’m faced with just that, it’s instinct to do exactly the opposite.

I’m self aware enough to know this is an instinct I need to break. And I’m self aware enough to admit that it’s not always as helpful as I like to believe it is, and that it’s possible, despite so much pain, to live through it with gentleness. You’re proof of that.

In our conversations, you opened my eyes to that possibility, something that I would have scoffed at if I had been told before witnessing it firsthand. At first, it was simple curiosity, you baffle me. I can hardly fathom how someone can be put through the cruelty and pain that you have, and still show such kindness for everyone.

You made me want to try, though. I don’t understand why you’re so intent on trying with me. That’s not something that happens often, I don’t give anyone a reason to want to try with me. And yet you shared, and somehow it compelled me to do the same.

And that was terrifying.

It’s not a good explanation––it’s one that I could use for each and every one of my actions in honesty––but it’s cowardice that made me run from that honesty. But perhaps it’s a start to admit that at all. 

Next time, if there is a next time, I’ll try to do better.

- Silver

to blythe, unsent, written after the president’s party, kept in one of their notebooks

B.B.,

I needed to set our understanding in writing, for my own sake. Supremely ironic, isn’t it, that writing is less dangerous than words spoken. I’ve helped make sure of that, unfortunately, and so from the moment I left the arena I found myself clinging to the act of putting thought to paper for safety, I think.

But that’s neither here, nor there.

That hug you shocked me with during the party at the president’s mansion is something I’m considering. It was a surprise, but also a reminder of how much someone can say with something so simple. I’ve forgotten in my years spent with my head down, doing as the Capitol says, that simple can be powerful. An agreement sealed in that gesture, trust, perhaps. It left me speechless, unbalanced, but not in a negative way. 

Before then, I can’t remember the last time I hugged anyone, isn’t that depressing?

Physical touch, any form of it at all, is such a rarity now that I hardly know how to react to it. I’ve spent so much of my life making certain I was beyond any such attachment that I’ve left myself thoroughly alone, when it counts. Strange, then perhaps, that I’m realizing how deeply I desire just that. I’ve been alone for a long time, I’ve kept myself alone for a long time. I’m tired of that.

(Maybe I’m presumptuous to think you understand that feeling well.)

Perfect timing, this strange little agreement of ours. 

I’m well aware I’m not easy to trust, and I shouldn’t be. I’ve spent the past twenty-two years working for the very people who caused us all so much pain, helping them take lives, and keep us in line. It’s something I have to earn. Something I plan to earn, right along side the penance and control I so desperately seek. The risk you’re taking is not lost on me, and I’m grateful for it. 

I’m going to do everything I can not to disappoint you, or any of the dozens of others I’ve already disappointed with my actions. I promise you that.

- S.O.

to digit, unfinished, written after the quarter quell announcement, kept with other letters

Digit,

If this letter ever makes its way to you, you’ll have to forgive the archaic form it’s taken, but I know you’re just as aware as I am that nothing spoken out loud is safe, and anyway, I’m not so certain I could put my thoughts into words if I tried, face to face.

That’s always been part of the problem, after all, hasn’t it?

We’ve agreed to try, but that’s much easier said than done after years of doing the opposite, years keeping as much distance as possible, despite the Capitol forcing us together. 

There’s no need to beat around the bush anymore. You deserve candor in a way I’ve rarely offered, something I’m trying to learn to do better at, but still is a foreign concept in honesty.

I’m sorry. That’s the base of it. 

You deserve more than just a simple apology, after everything that I have done, and even more so for the things I haven’t, but I’ve never been particularly good at this sort of thing. And I don’t expect your forgiveness, or anyone else’s for that matter. You, of all people, have every right and every reason not to offer it. What have I offered you, after all? Certainly nothing to inspire trust or faith.

My goal here is to do the opposite now. You’ll be a better judge than I am of if I’m succeeding in those attempts or not––and I’m certain you’ll have no trouble telling me bluntly if I am not––but as we’ve said, there’s little to do but try.  

My fear is that I might not have a chance to get far enough to make a difference, and my hope is that you might be willing to keep trying in my stead if that happens. It’s a great deal to ask of someone I’ve given every reason not to trust me, but I trust you. Oddly enough, I’ve always trusted you, even if I’ve done nothing to show it. Almost laughable, how in forcing us together, the Capitol might have created its own problems by forcing me to care.

Because I do, despite what I’ve shown.

But I hope it’s not to late to admit that.

to hudson, unfinished, written after the quarter quell announcement, kept with other letters

Hudson,

This is a rather morbid letter, the sort of just in case I’d rather not consider, but with so much uncertainty, precautions need to be in place if things go wrong. 

Firstly, I knew your parents, or rather, knew of them, when they were still in Three. And you deserve to know why you ended up where you are, too, I believe, whether they want to admit it, or not. 

A well-kept secret in Three. We make the technology, and thus, as I mentioned during our brief conversation on the train, it’s more difficult for them to keep it from us. We’re as advanced as the Capitol in our own way, if not more so, if only covertly. There’s a thriving...market, as I’m certain there is in every district, numbered high or low. There are needs that aren’t met by strictly by the book, and there are those who are willing to bridge that gap, in various ways, for various reasons.

It’s a situation that we all have considered before, in various ways, a situation some of us have lived out, unfortunately. There’s the heroic thought, that if we were put in a position in which keeping quiet would doom us, but save others, we would holdfast. But the reality is not so simple. 

I could never blame anyone for breaking under that pressure, under that desire to keep their own life, yet alone those of their family, safe. I know many who have done the same thing. In honesty, I’ve done just that, although not in such an outright way.

It’s preferable to take the lighter punishment, rather than something much worse in the name those you hardly know, isn’t it?

Is it?

I’m not so sure it is. I only wish I could offer some sort of reassurance that none of us will end up in a position like that again.

Which brings me to my second point. You’re intelligent enough that I believe you might have read between the lines during our last conversation. Personal projects that are not actually so personal. And I need someone to know that, several people to know that, in case something happens and I can’t see them through. 

Communication, what we spoke about, sharing information between all of us, instead of trying to win this fight alone. But also weapons, for the inevitable. It’s all coded in my notebooks, and the blueprints are hidden away, but I think between Digit, and you, certainly you might be able to interpret enough of them to glean something useful. Enough that I might make it easier for you to help fix things. Or at least I hope so. 

If not, I’m certain that you’re intelligent enough to come up with your own solution to this problem. Find a way to fix things, just as you mentioned to me you enjoy doing.

#emberstask #( cyber stockholm syndrome. ) #( robyn. ) #( perri. ) #( nelly. ) #( swann. ) #( aven. ) #( digit. ) #( dawn. ) #( blythe. ) #( hudson. ) #i miiiiight write more of these once i'm back tbh #but wanted to get these out b4 i head into the wilderness!!

[dcwnhardin]

task one: who do you love? // @embersrpg

As a teenager, a friend, Emerald Underhill, joked once that Dawn seemed to be a little bit in love with everyone he met. Then the thought made him blush madly, but roll his eyes, shrug it off saying showing people the care they deserve doesn’t mean being in love with them.

Now, though, Dawn thinks they might have been onto something, because love comes in so many different forms. 

Sometimes it’s slow and soft, like an early morning spent wrapped in warm blankets, the smell of fresh coffee drifting in from the kitchen, made just how he likes it by careful hands. Sometimes it’s fast and painful, like glass shattering against walls, threats turned to sobs, holding on tight, so tight, to keep someone else from breaking into a million pieces. Sometimes it’s quiet, blink and you’d miss it, a touch on the back, a memory recalled in passing conversation, being seen, being heard.

It’s not so much being in love with everyone, but knowing, having seen how cruel the world is, that most people deserve a sort of love, dozens of different forms waiting for the right one to be offered.

He’s always felt inclined to offer it, even to those who insist they don’t want any part of it.

Dawn loves his mother still, even though she’s gone. He loves his parents, even though he’s not sure if they love him quite in the way they should. He loves Blythe, as if she’s his daughter. He loves Twig, like he’s a long-lost brother, even reunited in such awful circumstances. He’s loved every single tribute they’ve had. He loves his prep team, he loves his few close friends. Even now, he still loves Io, and he loves the children they never had together. Maybe he loves someone else, too, maybe he’s not quite sure how to put it into words yet, heart still a little raw from that kind of love lost years ago. But he loves him, he’s pretty sure of that.

He does love Emerald, funnily enough. Even when he was first adjusting to life in the Capitol, a strange child added to their class, an oddity, better to gawk at and whisper about than actually approach, Emerald seemed to love him, too.

First, the sort of schoolyard love of children sharing lunches, drawing pictures of each other––Dawn still likes to joke that they have the first Dawn Hardin original, which might not hold much weight to anyone else but the two of them, but it’s always been meaningful, it’s always made Emerald laugh, and that’s what matters.

For a while there, it was teenage love, desperate and passionate, like neither of them would survive without the other––which Dawn still thinks is true, although perhaps in a bit more meaningful way for them than time spent fumbling around kissing. Secrets shared that no one else knew, pinky swears, and actions defended, they fought to bring him into the inside, because it was important to them, and he cared so deeply.

A different sort, when Dawn was offered a position as a stylist, and Emerald was not, despite being much more talented in his eyes. He blames it on his parents, because he knows it’s their doing, they must have paid the right people to see their vision for him realized, and he realizes it’s a different kind of love when Emerald understands instead of blaming him.

Best friends seems so trivial a description for what the two share, when it’s always been so much more.

It evolves over and over again throughout the years, but it never lessens. It’s there in happiness, in joy and laughter, it’s there in pain, in deep grief and loss that Emerald can hardly fathom but tries so hard offer support in. They’re the one to help him through the loss of Io, they’re the one who he first tells about the second loss, a future ripped from him before he could even try.  

It’s something special to have a love that lasts, even as it changes and reshapes to what they both need over and over again. He’s always tried to be solid for others, but it’s nice to have something solid of his own to hold onto, too, as the world shifts around them over and over again.

#emberstask #( lowkey no pressure. ) #tldr: everyone he loves everyone

[givcnup]

TASK ONE   :   WHO DO YOU LOVE ?

Losing your father at three years old didn’t make as much of a mark on you as it probably should have. You never really knew Morrel Cripes anyway; he wasn’t home most of the time, so when he stopped coming back, you barely even noticed it. No one could blame you for not missing him when you had a mother and a little brother to concern yourself with. But once or twice you have found yourself imagining what it would’ve felt like to have a dad. Of course, since your victory, you haven’t really had much of anything in terms of family anymore, but hypothetically, just hypothetically, if you were to have a father, you would want him to be just like Buck.

• • •   BUCK MILDWATER — A FUNNY OLD MAN FROM THE HOB ( @embersrpg​ )

Buck Mildwater isn’t exactly the best person for the job, if you’ve got to be honest. The man’s a little bit of an asshole, and a little bit of a ding-a-ling, and it’s hard to imagine him staying put and having a proper, functioning family. He’s got a stall in The Hob selling a whole bunch of contraband from the other Districts ( sometimes, he tells you he’s got shit from the Capitol, and maybe he does, but part of you hopes he doesn’t, really; something like that could be too dangerous, although you’d never tell him that out loud ), which is the whole reason why you got to know him in the first place.

Before the Games, he was just some funny old man from The Hob. It’s the black market, and technically, nothing in it is really all that legal to begin with, but his wares had seemed extra illegal to you then, so you avoided him. After the Games, though... that was a different story. Having just lost your entire family, you’d turned to other substances to numb the pain. Buck Mildwater’s secret stashes of smuggled alcohol were there for you when you needed them most, and in many ways, so was Buck himself.

You’ve cracked open several cold ones over the course of your friendship, and he’s always been a listening ear to you. He reprimands you sometimes, smacks you well and good on the back often, and yells at you when he feels like you need an earful, but the two of you always end up laughing it off in the end. Other than Nelly ( and you’re just about ready to revoke the privilege from that one ), Buck’s the only person allowed inside your dumpster of a house in the Victors’ Village. Unlike Nelly, he never minds the mess, never tells you to clean up — though he has told you to ‘take a goddamned bath’ a couple of times in the past — and never, ever forces you to change or make an effort to fix yourself. 

He’s fine with you the way you are, and though you’d never say it, you want to think it’s a sign of pure and genuine care.

#tw alcohol #. / these tired old bones — about #. / under scrutiny — tasks #emberstask #PLEASE DONT KILL THIS OLD COOT IM LOVE HIM

[favathornewood]

task one // who do you love?

a tale of two sisters

It was Ferrous, your late father, that named her Wren in the hopes that she too would trill among the trees, but she would never grow to enjoy the woods. In fact, she's be quite useless at hunting. Sometimes you think it was best that your father passed before he had the chance to turn his disappointment in resentment.

For the most part people are kind to your sister, but rare is the occasion that they actually tried to understand her. Because she is small for her age (twelve now -- twelve already? My how time flies!) and different than the others most avoid her. Others pity her. the Thornewood family grew to find this particularly favorable. They never turned down anything that was gifted to them. With little to no income, they survived on the kindness of others and Fava's natural ability out there in the forest. And Tesserae.

It bothers you how often Wren finds herself alone. You see yourself in her in that way only you chose loneliness.

//

An Excerpt.

A gifted artist, Wren sits in her room with colors that she was never given access to before. Her eyes are wide as thin fingers trail over the surface of variously sized canvases. After a long moment, she turns her head towards Fava, her eyes swimming with the question that she asks shortly after. Are you sure?

Fava nods in response, "yes."

Wren's reaction is unexpected. Instead of clasping her hands beneath her chin and sighing at the upgrade to her favorite hobby, she deflates. Her shoulders round foreward and Fava swears she spies a quivering lip. Why? This is everything she ever dreamed of. She has an endless wealth of supplies. Sighing, Fava joins her sister on the floor and leans forward to tap her on the shoulder. Decisive fingers match her words. What is it?

I don't deserve this.

Fava's lips part, but the words get stuck in her throat. She doesn't know how to respond. In this moment, she wishes that Hudson were there to take over. They would know what to say, how to console her sister's secondary survivor's guilt. She swallows hard as her eyes search Wren's. They're brimming with tears now. She's fighting hard to not let them spill over.

She's never been good with words, but actions come easy. Without additional thought, she reaches over to pull her sister in her lap. Wren latches on, her face buried in Fava's neck. They lose track of time like that. Who knows how long they sit there?

When Fava feels comfortable enough to look at her sister again, she is surprised to find that her own cheeks are peppered with moisture. You do deserve this, she signs, you deserve to be a kid. She fought hard to give Wren the childhood that she couldn't have. There is immense relief in knowing that she will never be among the woods, to be prey for the predators that would follow in her footsteps.

#emberstask #tasks.

[blythefm]

Blythe swore she hated every single person living in the Capitol. She wasted no time showing her distaste and unfiltered hatred towards them. It was one of those known things about the victor. Except, that wasn’t exactly the truth.

She doesn’t even know her name, doubts she will ever find out. Blythe has no true interest in this woman besides admiring her from afar. And she hates her. So. Fucking Much. She doesn’t know her, but she knows she hates her. Damn her from looking so much like her. Even from afar, Blythe can easily tell she has the same blue eyes she once came to worship. And it kills her. 

They’ve never talked. Blythe has made sure this woman will never be able to come close to her. As hateful as she is, Capitol Idiots still feel the need to get close to her, to wrap their slimy arms around her and pull her close before Blythe frees herself with a sift kick and a sneer. That woman has tried this though, which Blythe is incredibly thankful for since she doesn’t know what she will do if she is forced to look into her eyes. 

Every party, she is there. Blythe might not know who she is, but she knows she must be someone important, which only makes her disgust towards herself grow. Even if this infatuation, or whatever it should be called, is purely physical given how much she looks like her dead lover, Blythe feels absolutely sick whenever she finds herself daydreaming about her. 

It’s simple, really. Her fingers brushing her hair, or grazing her skin and memorizing every curve of her body. Cue her dinner ending on the floor. 

It’s not really love. It’s longing. Whatever this is, it’s just the result of her crazed desperation. Maybe one day she will be strong enough to stop projecting her feelings on that woman she is using as a vessel. 

But, for now, she will keep staring, sighing, and swallowing her tears at every soiree before drowning these cursed feelings with whatever liqueur is at her reach.

#emberstask #does this even COUNT but ngl i feel like i'm cheating lmfaooooo #emberstaskone

[diosefm]

— love languages

click to enlarge

#emberstask #abt #are we surprised this woman is touch starved