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whgmasterofceremonies · 3 months
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Writeblr Hunger Games Round 21
It's happening! Get ready for the Ultimate Chosen One Challenge!
Reminder of the Basics: Writers submit their characters as potential candidates and then I put them in the Brant Steele Hunger Games Simulator and share the results. In the meantime, the writers can write and share stories (from giant text posts to just a couple of sentences) about their characters being in the Games!
Note: characters’ canonical powers, strengths, abilities, disabilities, and weaknesses will not be taken into account by the simulator. Every outcome is random and everyone has an equal chance for victory or disaster.
How we’ll do things this time: each writer who wants to participate can submit up to three original characters, preferably ones whom they assign "Chosen One" status to for any given reason, they would like to see fight in the Arena. Please reblog this post only or else send this blog an ask/message with your characters’ information.
In your submissions, please include your characters’:
Name (what you would like to see them repeated as over and over in the simulation)
Pronouns
A little bit of background as to why they're the Chosen One (just your favorite, fated by prophecy, turns out to be a hero...)
Rather than having a standard round with deaths, we will tweak the arena events to things like "Character X and Y are forced into an obstacle course. X wins but is injured" or "Character Z faces holograms of their worst fears. They surrender and leave the Arena" until one champion is left standing!
Timeline:
Submissions begin today
Writing prompts will be posted later this week
Submissions close Friday, December 22
Initial Reaping with list of characters is posted Saturday, December 23. Please let me know if I've misspelled anything, you'd like to make adjustments, etc.
Official Reaping will be posted probably next Wednesday, December 27
The Games begin the day after that, with one in-Arena day posted per real-world day
This is likely going to be a very short round, but let me know if you'd rather it be drawn out longer--or if you have any other questions!
Tagging those who were interested: @duskforged, @pen-of-roses, @waltzshouldbewriting, @forthesanityofstorytellers, @concealeddarkness13, @maple-writes, @ratracechronicler
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WHG Prompt 5 - Air of Authority
Lyra leans back on some social training from home and can't believe it actually works.
Taglist: @concealeddarkness13 @maple-writes @pied-piper-of-hamlet @pen-of-roses @ratracechronicler 
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She was left alone for most of the rest of the ride, ducking into a room that seemed to be for her and pulling out the other bits of food she’d managed to steal. Only when she was alone did she feel a tiny hint of regret that she was doing this alone.
Oh well. Jake and Hansel only wanted to get back home. Not help. She had to convince them to help out here. This time she was only restricted by what she wanted to do. Nothing else.
Well…nothing else that couldn’t be overcome. She still had to abide by the rules enough so that she didn’t stand out…which meant she probably shouldn’t have threatened the citizen in the foul suit or broken the screen. But he was begging to be knocked down a peg and out here, there was no one to tell her how high-borns were supposed to behave.
She finally finished what she’d swiped from various tables and was trying to decide the best way to get her hands on some materials enough to make a bow when she felt the train come to a stop. She peeked out only to find a pair of guards outside where she was, ready to take her on. But this was how it was supposed to go, right? Train ride, out to the almighty Capitol, put on display, listen to someone drone on with the lies of how this is honorable, then to a…what was it…a training room, she thought. That was where she’d be able to approach the others or listen from a distance. That was where she really wanted to get to.
So she let herself get practically pulled this way and that, down hallways and past windows and more screens, plopped in a chair, a small group of others surrounding her.
She snarled and snapped when they tried to remove her bandana, the team hesitating and looking around. “I have this on for a reason,” she growled at them. “Trust me, taking it off works against any sort of beautification process.” She hadn’t managed to fend them off last time…and after a moment of consideration, it seemed she wouldn’t be able to fend them off this time either as someone grabbed it from behind and practically snipped it off her head. The rest came with equal precision, her jacket pulled off before she could really react.
She grunted at the sudden silence, the weird chattering monkeys looking at each other and then their leader, who was eyeing her up and down. Lifting her head, Lyra cleared her throat and flexed her wings for a moment, the fluttering noise filling the room as she worked them before letting them down once more.
“Stop gawking,” she demanded of them. “You have a job to do. Do it.”
That seemed to snap them back into action, the group chittering and chatting amongst themselves. The head of the group glanced at what he’d prepared and back at Lyra, her training giving her the authoritative air of the highbloods and, with it, the instinctual space afforded to one of a high standing. While they chatted among themselves and began to buzz around her, trying to work her looks into the costume, she stood as still and commanding as she had been trained to do.
“No,” she said, slapping at one of their hands when they went to put the costume on her. “That won’t work. That fabric doesn’t work with my skin tone; are you blind?! Get something that works with me, not against me, or do you not know your own occupation?”
The action almost seemed to take them offguard, which was odd. Surely they had tributes that didn’t willfully stand here and get stripped bear every single time? Either way, she grabbed at the costume and snatched it from their hands. “Go on. Get your betters. Let them try to handle me with grace and dignity you don’t seem to be able to afford.”
After another moment of conferring with each other, the reluctantly left the room. Left her alone.
They really shouldn’t have.
Lyra ripped the stupid costume into ribbons, tying each one to her horns to make them look like a prop, then taking the bits that were whole and creating a loosely-fitting cape that could hide her wings but would shudder as she flapped them to create a sort of wave of the fabric. She the shirt and pants she borrowed, ripping up the seams to create a skirt that had slits but would still go down to her ankles, the colors almost muted compared to the costume but seemed to work in her favor. She grabbed a few of the colored brushes and went over herself once to add some shades or highlights, make it look like the team had done their  job, and then took some of the brushes and snapped the ends off for a tipped point. She managed to hide those in her skirt before a door opened and she spun, head up again as she strode towards the opening.
“Finally,” she huffed. “I thought I would have to wait around here all day.”
She was a highborn. She knew how to perform, how to get the respect her position deserved…and it appeared that the training worked even when she wasn’t home. She was taken by the guards – peacekeepers, she was pretty sure she heard someone call them – to something pulled by giant beats that snorted and pawed. At first her mind thought they were Kamare clan, giants that could take the form similar to these creatures. Her eyes lit up at first before she realized they had flat heads and were smaller than the two-skinned ones from her home system…plus the Kamare wouldn’t allow themselves to be worked like this.
The sight caused a small pang of a longing for home, something she didn’t experience often. She shook her head and glanced at the other tributes, reminded herself why she’d come. She took her place next to the other tribute and did her best to ignore the sounds coming from nearby, the loud cheers and jeers from those watching.
She remembered this from last time too. The noise was too much then. It would be the same now. At least this time she was prepared. She flattened her ears to her head and prepared herself to be thrust out in front of everyone, concentrating on the images and names she’d gathered from the images of the Reaping. She had an idea of who she could start with, who looked like they might have needed a friend out here. Who looked like they wanted to escape. Who looked like they’d be able to help her figure out how to break this place and cause as much chaos as possible when doing it.
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concealeddarkness13 · 3 months
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WHG 21 Prompt 5 - Chess
Content warning for explicit sexual dialogue and suggestive themes. About 1,500 words. Tagging: @ratracechronicler, @maple-writes, @pen-of-roses, @drabbleitout, and @grailfish!
Even though I had been to the ridiculous parties in the past few months, the stylist team still found things to poke and prod and rip out. They hadn’t sedated me yet, which was probably on purpose so I would have to experience all the embarrassment and pain. I just gritted my teeth (I had went back to dull teeth and no tail or scales) and stayed quiet. It would soon be over, and I wouldn’t even be able to get uncomfortable over the ridiculous outfit they’d have me wear.
The team told me that the stylist would come in soon, and they left me alone, with just a towel for cover. I wrapped it tightly around me when the door opened, but I frowned when I saw who it was. The fucking escort! The one who had looked at me and seemed to know me! He was still covered in glitter, making me want to gag at the garishness of it all. Great. I was doomed.
He smiled and bowed at me with a flourish. “Yes, it is I, the mysterious stranger from the party all those months ago. It is so good to see you again, little dragon.”
I blinked, recognizing what he was talking about, but still entirely confused. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
He blinked and stood up straight, before muttering something I didn’t catch. “I guess your mentor didn’t tell you that I would be your stylist?”
I blinked again. “No?”
He sighed dramatically. “Then I’ll need to start again. Goodbye.” He actually left the fucking room just to walk back in a few seconds later, smirking. “If you remember the party where you so gloriously bit that bastard’s cock off, I met you there first, and we talked. I hope you will forgive me for not doing what we had agreed would help you recognize me, but that would be unfortunate with how they left you for me.”
Conor. He was the whole reason I even had the courage to hurt Ashont that night. My cheeks burned as I imagined just kissing him here and now. “I…they sedated me after that, so I wasn’t able to look for you. I’m sorry.”
His smile got sharper, more dangerous. “They should be the ones who are sorry, little dragon. Punishing you for fighting against your own abuser. But I suppose little can be expected of them anyway.” He sighed and walked further away, towards a wardrobe. Which at least meant he didn’t notice how I embarrassingly leaned towards him as he moved away, as if he had a gravitational pull. “The stylist you originally had was going to put you in a ridiculous outfit that would have just shown off your body. No flair whatsoever. So, I decided to…intervene.” He looked back at me with a smile that showed off his fangs, and my cheeks burned worse. “I was thinking more of a theme, if you would be inclined to at least trust me in this.”
Anything would be better than being constantly sexualized. I nodded. “I trust you. In more than this. You—” You were the reason I held onto hope. Knowing that someone wanted to help, that there were people who cared, while being surrounded by indifferent Capitol citizens, saved me. I know I can’t really trust anyone, but still, I absolutely trust you. How the fuck could I say that to him? It sounded like a declaration of love.
He tilted his head. “Not recommended, when it comes to me.” He chuckled and opened the wardrobe, pulling out a red suit that glittered in the light and had a pattern that looked like scales. He turned back to me and handed it over. “Please change into this. I need to get some accessories that the Capitol did not provide.” He waved and left, and I scrambled to get changed, not wanting to sit around in that fucking towel anymore.
The suit fit well, but I changed so quickly that I had to wait for a while before he finally showed up again. He was carrying bottles and makeup and smiling conspiratorially. He didn’t explain though, just setting down the stuff and opening the wardrobe again, pulling out a crimson cape and a set of dragon wings that looked realistic.
I stared as he helped put both the cape and the wings on. “Could you remain partially transformed, with your tail, scales, and fangs?” I nodded, letting my tail, scales, and fangs appear, and he smiled wider. “Good girl.”
Fuck. My tail wagged, and I couldn’t stop it as Conor went and grabbed the stuff he came in with. “Sit down, please. I will apply your makeup and fix your hair.”
I did so, intentionally sitting on my tail to stop it from wagging. He set up an area in front of me, and my cheeks burned as I finally remembered how gorgeous he was. “The wings move, letting you stretch them out to show off to the crowd more, if you would like that. I have an idea to make your hair look red and firey in the light. Is that suitable to you?” I nodded, drowning in his eyes. He could ask anything of me, and I would agree. He nodded, his smile turning into a smirk. “I’ll take care of you afterwards so you will not have to worry about any leftover glitter from your costume.” I squirmed at his low voice and how he looked me up and down. Couldn’t he just take me right now if he was gonna be so flirty?
And then he just left me there in my horniness. He walked away from the palpable sexual tension and grabbed one of the bottles and shook it. “Make sure to cover your eyes,” he purred. Fuck, he totally knew.
I couldn’t help but squirm again as I covered my eyes and he sprayed the hair product all over my hair, carefully running his hands through it probably to make sure the product distributed all through it. Once he was done with that, he caressed my cheek. “Now, for the makeup. Try to relax, little dragon.”
Oh fucking hell, it was like he was using the flirts I had had to use on others right back on me. And as I kept my eyes closed but did move my hands away and he started working, he was so gentle. I was so used to people being rough, demanding so much from me, and instead, he was quiet and calm. It was…so nice. I really could relax and not worry about whether he would hurt me or not. I didn’t understand, but I trusted him.
It took a lot longer than I expected, but when he said he was done, I opened my eyes and stared at the mirror. My hair still only looked like a shiny green in this light, but my face. The makeup looked like I had glittering red scales covering my face and down my neck, with black makeup framing my eyes. I…I looked gorgeous. And not in the objectifying way, in the way that I would want to look.
I blinked and looked over at Conor, tears blurring my vision. “Th-thank you.” I tried to duck my head to hide the tears, but he held my chin up, wiping my eyes with a cloth.
He chuckled. “Wouldn’t want to mess up all my hard work now, would you? It is almost time, so it’s time to go. I’ll see you afterwards, little dragon.” He bowed.
I nodded and headed out, being careful to not hit the wings on anything. People stared as I walked past, but that didn’t make me feel uncomfortable for once. No one bothered me, they just let me walk onto my chariot on my own. And I just realized that I hadn’t received the sedation I was supposed to get. Was my stylist supposed to sedate me?
Even better that it had been Conor then. Maybe…maybe I wouldn’t have to be sedated again. And I could show them why they should fear me.
But not today. I just stayed happily aware as the chariots started moving, and as the audience screamed, I did stretch my wings out and glared at the crowd. When I saw myself on the screens out of the corner of my eyes, I looked dangerous, and my hair…
My hair practically glowed red with how shiny it looked. It matched the color of my clothes and makeup scales, and I made sure to smile to show off my fangs, and the crowd screamed more. I flipped them off and tried to block them out as I just kept that dangerous image of myself in my head. I wasn’t showing off for them. I was showing off for myself, to prove to myself that I was powerful despite what the Capitol did to me.
I ignored the president’s speech, and when the chariots left the area and stopped, Conor was waiting for me. He grinned and held out his hand to help me off the chariot. I refused his hand, getting down on my own, but once I was on solid ground, I did take his outstretched hand.
His smile turned into a smirk. “Let’s get you taken care of, little dragon.”
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pen-of-roses · 10 months
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WHG 20-Prompts 1&2-Din
WHG tag list: @ratracechronicler, @maple-writes, @concealeddarkness13 @drabbleitout, @grailfish, @forthesanityofsome, and @pied-piper-of-hamlet (let me know if you want to be added)
The plan had been to get through District Twelve and lay low while continuing her research. If they were lucky, maybe they could even make it to the remains of Thirteen to see what was hiding out there and if it had anything to do with the Veyrit and other gods of the world. Unlikely, but presumably not impossible. At the very least the ruins might hold something about before the war and shed light on where Safirel’s body was being kept.
Instead, they hadn’t even made it past District Eight.
Blythe’s boots came running into view. “My Lady, we need ta go now.” She sounded out of breath.
“Not yet,” she forced out past gritted teeth as the heat flared in her veins, gold overtaking her hand pressed against the wounds the Peacekeepers had inflicted on the man.
“Just a little more,” Safirel said. “Let me.”
The gold flooded her vision for the moment he took over. His presence was quickly becoming a familiar comfort, like a heavy blanket left in the sun, that wrapped around her and left her blissfully floating.
But just as quickly, it was gone, and she fell forward, gasping for breath and her body returning to normal, if a little colder.
Hands caught her, guiding her to the ground safely, Blythe’s most likely, given the string of curses she said in her native tongue, though the face she wore was still unfamiliar. “Ya shouldn’t have pushed that far again.”
She waved her off, even as the world was still spinning just a little too much. “Is he fully healed now?”
Sighing, she left her side and checked the man, Silk or something like that, over. “He’ll live, though he’s still out cold. Again, ya shouldn’t have done that. They know we’re here, Din.”
“You know I couldn’t have left him like that after he took that beating for us.”
Her brows knitted, but she dropped the point. After all, Blythe likely would’ve done the same thing if she could, just after Din was safe somewhere else.
Yelling broke out outside, unintelligible for the moment, but there was little doubt who it was.
“Damn it all! They were suppose ta take the bait!”
“Back door,” she wheezed, struggling to her feet.
In an instant, Blythe had an arm around her waist and was moving them both towards potential freedom. The house was small and easily navigable, but that was also a downfall. Even as she managed to get the back one open, she could hear the front door being crashed in.
“Search the house!”
“Sir, what about him?”
“Kill him.”
“No!” She yelled, and crumpled, coughing and gasping.
“My Lady, are you okay?” The concern and pain in her voice tore at her.
They were after her, not Blythe. 
“Blythe, run.”
“What? No, I’m not leaving ya!”
“That’s an order.” The words weren’t entirely hers, but the connection to Safirel was too distant for him to take complete control now, and her sentiment remained the same. “They won’t kill me. And I can’t lose you.”
Blythe set her jaw. “Sometimes, I really hate ya.” But she was running anyway and shifting her appearance already as the footfalls and voices got closer.
When they finally came into view, she glared up at them from the ground. They had the audacity to level their guns at her, what an empty threat. 
One of them pulled her to her feet and held her hands behind her back.
“Are you the real Najdinel,” Haven stepped forward, though his face was covered by the Peacekeepers uniform. “Or her little bitch?”
She spit on him in answer.
He struck her across the face.
Even as she tasted blood though, she tilted her head up and raised a haughty eyebrow, affecting the familiar air of authority. 
“We have means of proving it regardless, and whichever one you are, we’ll find the other soon enough.”
“You won’t touch her,” she growled.
“You have no authority here.”
“And you can’t kill me.”
Most likely they would take her back to the temples. They had contingency plans to prevent that, even though security would be tighter than before.
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, girl. The beynlerya don’t have too much faith in your status as their prophetess anymore.”
Her heart sped up.
That was obvious before she’d even set the fire and attempted to fake her death. But they couldn’t disprove she wasn’t either. Not when no else had ever come forward or been found and she held the marks.
Still, she kept that off her face.
“So go ahead then, if you are going to.”
“We have other plans for you. The Capitol wants you in the Games. See if it sparks anything when you’re fighting for your life, or to make an example of liars and traitors if it doesn’t.”
That…had not been any of their plans.
“I don’t qualify, I’m not from the Districts.”
He actually laughed, as did several others. “Since when do you think that’s mattered to them? They have complete control here. You are powerless.”
“You won’t be able to contain me.”
“Then we’ll kill others in your place. But if you play nice, like a well trained girl, we’ll let your traitor of a friend go free.”
Blythe.
There was no way they would catch her if she was on her own and hiding. But she would come back for Din.
They were probably lying.
She couldn’t pass it up if they weren’t though.
“Swear on your blood and the Veyrit that’s true.”
“I swear.”
Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes.
“We can’t trust them,” she thought.
“No. But we can use this too. Twist it against them. Another chance at revenge,” Safirel answered back, flashes of the bloody knife and fire replaying. “We’re more powerful than they are, Najdinel. And they’re about to give us free training and access to a live audience.”
Opening her eyes, she nodded, the heat settling into her veins but not appearing visibly. “Fine. Take me to the Reaping. But touch her, and I’ll kill you all.”
- - - - -
They dressed her up for it. Nothing dramatic, a simple white dress and gold ribbons through her dark hair and to hide the horns, but pretty enough. Enough to easily blend into the crowd unnoticed, knowing she wouldn’t run with Blythe’s life on the line.
Apparently, they didn’t want it yet known who she was. Even her name had been kept secret, so it getting called wouldn’t blow the cover either.
That big reveal would be for the Games themselves. They had always loved a spectacle outside of the temple, and the beynleyra had left her to the overly puffed up peacocks until she could prove herself.
Fat chance of that of course.
The magic may have finally ignited in her veins, but until Safirel was free and by her side, there was no way she was going to be caged by them again.
Plans would just have to be…adjusted.
The first name was called, not hers surprisingly, but a small child’s by the looks of things. She almost stepped forward to volunteer in her place, but someone else beat her to it. Family? Friends? It didn’t really matter, she seemed more determined and capable than a literal child.
The next name was her own though, and she took the stage with her head held high and the polite smile she’d perfected practically from birth, shaking off assistance from the Peacekeepers. She ignored the overly eager escort making a show of asking questions.
Being in the Games had been the deal. That did not mean she would start playing them now.
At the edges of the crowd, she watched someone’s hair shift from brown to blonde and grow slightly taller, before slipping away towards the train.
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grailfish · 9 months
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WHG 20: The Big Day + The Reaping
CW for mentions of fantasy substance abuse and character being unable to trust their own memory and perception (is there a more concise way to say that), dead naming
Tag list: @concealeddarkness13​ @ratracechronicler​ @maple-writes​ @pen-of-roses​ @forthesanityofsome​ @pied-piper-of-hamlet​ 
Razz 
Razz is starting to lose track of how many times they've woken up like this, sweat drenching their back but blood cold as ice as the memory of their old, dead name being called out rings in their ears. One moment they're on the stage with thousands of stone faces and flashing lights staring back at them, and the next they're back in bed, three days before the Reaping is even set to take place.
Razz remembers watching the 20th annual Hunger Games in full from the comfort and safety of the streets. It's one of the few times of year they don't get chased out of the square and cursed as a dirty rotten Razer for the offense of being visible. The Games even had an exciting twist this year when one of the tributes staged an escape attempt, managing to get a handful of the others out with her. 
District 2 was in shambles when that happened, security tripling overnight and enforcers executing anyone who looked at them wrong, but Razz still managed to find enjoyment in that little bit of "fuck you" that the escaped tributes managed to stir up. People even left Razz alone after that, afraid that standing too close to anyone "shady" would end them up on the whipping stand.
But apparently none of that actually happened. Because just when Razz thought that things were looking up again, they woke up. There was tension in the air, and everyone was mumbling again about the upcoming reaping. Three days before the 20th Games. That was where the loop started
Razz's mom used to say they had a very vivid imagination. In time the adjective changed from vivid to active, active to disruptive, disruptive to delusional. There were hours, sometimes days, that seemed to go on repeat. Going to school felt like a joke when the lessons would replay over and over. Razz learned to keep their mouth shut when the teachers said the same sentence twice, because apparently no one else in the room had heard it the first time.
They were given a digital watch, one that displayed the date next to the time, at 10 years old. They'd missed the bus to school five times in the same month, thinking that it was already the weekend, and their parents were at their wit’s end. Razz hated that present, feeling like it was just another way that they showed how much they didn't believe whatever was happening to Razz was real. Instead there were murmurings of how they'd caught the "family crazy," just like their great uncle. Murmurings that they were cursed.
That same watch blinks up at them now, reminding them that they can never trust their own perception, that time is never on their side.
The cruelest part of their repeating nightmare is that their name gets called first, every single time. The first time the 20th Games happened, they hadn't even been a tribute. Now it was as though they were bound by fate. There was still the hope that things would return to normal and everything would be back to how it was supposed to be. That Razz could go back to their corner of the slums, wasting away on their own time and not at the whims of a bunch of Capitol snobs. But that hope was shattered every time. 
Instead there were gasps and snickers from the captive audience as they took in the bags under Razz's eyes, the needle marks in their arms that they didn't bother hiding anymore. Many of the onlookers must have been disappointed to see such a scrawny tribute for District 2, but just as many were relieved to see one more Razer taken off of the streets and delivered to their rightful place in the ground. Razz never even hears the second tribute's name being called with all of the blood pounding in their ears. The terror at the prospect of being sent into the arena to die fights with the terror of reliving it all over as they wake up again, and again, and again. Three days before the Reaping. Never early, never late.
They'd started trying to keep tally on the brick wall next to them at some point, but it was hard to remember how many marks they had the last time when it all gets erased on every loop back. Was it thirty now? Or maybe it was higher. This time, they don't even bother to count. The only thing they're certain of is that it won't be the last time.
Yuen 
There are very few things in life that cannot be controlled. It’s just a matter of figuring out the right triggers. There’s a saying that the beat of a butterfly's wing can set off a storm on the other side of the world. Yuen has found that the flash of a smile paired with the glint of a knife produces far more immediate results. 
The Reaping for the 20th annual Hunger Games is set to happen in 3 days. This afternoon, the names of the eligible will be finalized on a list, printed and cut into thousands of slips of paper. After an influx of issues with "career" tributes committing acts of violence in the weeks leading up to the Reaping, the volunteer system had been suspended until further notice. This is inconvenient for Yuen, who had decided after watching the 20th Hunger Games the first time that he wanted in. 
He writes a tally mark in his notebook, making 38, then snaps his fingers. By now it is nearing 2AM, and he will need an early start if he wants to make it in time to run into the official Name Randomizer on her morning coffee run. He's already done what he could to make sure that his name is entered as many times as is reasonable without being counted as an error, but only a limited number of names will actually be selected and prepared for the ceremonial drawing.
Yuen is awake a minute before his alarm goes off, a habit he's been unable to kick since grade school. The sun hasn't quite risen past the horizon yet, but the cafe is a far walk away from where he's been squatting. Even in District 2, having the money to go to a cafe every morning is a bit of a luxury, so he needs to make an effort to appear high enough status not to be kicked out immediately.
Although Yuen himself comes from an esteemed family, they do their best not to appear as such and risk garnering excess attention. They didn't spend extravagantly, didn't live in the nicest houses or dress in the finest clothes, but they never struggled to get by, and never feared that they might.
Of course, as the Gifted one of the family, Yuen was always treated differently. Coddled, sometimes, patronized moreso, and so he chose to go off on his own the moment he was old enough to leave. He'd always had ambitions that far exceeded what could be contained under his mother's rooftop. 
He had taken an apprenticeship under a craftsman, although he did a shit job of ever arriving on time or learning anything about the craft. Old man Ason was just as annoyed as he was charmed by Yuen's particular mixture of eclectic and bastard, so he hadn't kicked him to the streets just yet and paid him enough that he wouldn't have to go limping back home for bread and board.
The cafe is quiet when Yuen arrives, except for the official at the register chatting up the woman behind the counter who doesn't appear to have slept the previous night. It's no surprise, with the Reaping so close, and if the cashier hasn't been under a rock all this time, she probably knows that the official in front of her is in charge of the name selection for the Reaping. Must be a dreadful job, having to make small talk while serving the person who may very well be stacking the deck with your name in it.
As the official receives her order and starts to turn around, Yuen smacks right into her shoulder, making her spill her drink all over the front of her dress.
"Watch where you're going, lady," Yuen grunts as he shoulders his way to the counter.
The official sputters, "You watch it, you little punk."
Yuen rolls his eyes at her and looks at the cashier, whose expression has changed from exhausted to horrified. "I-I'll get you a new one, on the house," she says, though Yuen knows that it'll likely be coming out of her paycheck. She's filling another cup with shaky hands as Yuen watches her with eyes like a hawk, impatient. "Be right with you, sir."
"I'll have a double shot espresso," Yuen says instead of waiting. "Name for the order is Yuen. Y-U-E-N." He then slaps down the money for the order and turns around to take a seat nearby. He added a little extra for the trouble of dealing with his bullshit first thing in the morning. There isn't a lot of room to be nice when he has an objective to fulfill, but he's not out to make more enemies than he needs to.
The official's eyes follow him back to his table as she waits for her drink. Somewhere, a butterfly flaps its wings as the winds of a storm brew up above District 2. Now he just has to hope she's angry enough to reroll the abbreviated tribute list until his name appears as many times as possible. Yuen isn't a very common name. He's certain that she'll be looking.
There isn't much else to be done until the Reaping, so he prepared to pass the time quietly, having already planned his next moves since the first time he started the time loops. Even with the ability to manipulate time, some events are random no matter how high the odds are stacked, and his luck had been particularly bad this time (or good, depending on the perspective. Any normal person would be ecstatic to go 38 Reapings back to back and not have their name called.)
There has been one consistency that surprises him, though, as if Father Time herself had already decided the fate of Raphael Legato. That was the name of the first tribute, the one who was always called ever since Yuen first reset the timeline. Somehow, after 38 times, their name was always drawn first. The odds were astronomical, of all the tens of thousands of names in the drawing, for them to even be called two times. Much less three. Much less thirty. They hadn't even been a participant to the 20th Hunger Games before. Yuen was almost jealous of their, by all accounts, unbelievably bad luck.
When the day of the Reaping arrives, the district is buzzing. This used to be a celebrated time, during the days of the career tributes. It gave the weak a sense of safety, the strong a sense of competition and pride, maintained the peace within the district for the rest of the year. Now, with that practice gone and the volunteers eliminated along with the age limit, they got a taste of what it must have felt like in the lower districts for all these years. 
The population of the district is large, so there are multiple stages set out in key locations of each area, with the Center Square the most crowded. Only the middle holds the Capitol representative and the name jars, though the remaining stages are all prepared and linked with speakers so everyone can still see and hear what’s going on. There are cameras everywhere, eyes and machines scouring the streets, rousing and assembling anyone who may try to hide from the Reaping.
Yuen has made his way to the middle of the crowd at the centermost stage, eagerly awaiting the start. He keeps his expression blank, but his veins are buzzing. It's time to see if his efforts will finally pay off, or if he's in for another reset.
As the woman from the Capitol crosses the stage, a shadow gathers behind her in the mid-morning light. It stretches far past where it ought to, and as it grows all of the doubt in Yuen’s mind disappears. From the shadow a figure rises, towering behind the Capitol woman but entirely unnoticed by anyone else watching. The figure wears a wide-brimmed hat and a pinstripe blazer and skirt that drapes all the way to the ground. Her face is beautiful, eyes like spring and lips like summer, but Yuen sees the way her body ages as it stretches away from her head. Her fingers are nothing more than skin stretched over bone, and though her legs are covered, Yuen knows that her feet more closely resemble a swirling of dust than any human shape. Father Time has arrived.
As though controlling a puppet, her spidery fingers follow the Capitol woman's hand into the first drawing, unsurprisingly drawing out the name of the first tribute, Raphael Legato. As she is followed to the second drawing, Father Time locates Yuen's face in the crowd and locks eyes with him. Her voice can't be louder than a whisper, but Yuen still hears it clearly.
"You're a stubborn one. I'll give you that."
Yuen's name is called. Father Time vanishes.
He makes his way up onto the stage, almost unable to believe that it's finally happened. After so many tries, Father Time has let him infiltrate the 20th Hunger Games. Now the real fun can begin.
He shakes hands with Raphael while cameras flash and the Capitol woman forces the audience into a roar of applause. Raphael's hand is cold and damp and the color has completely drained from their face. They can't seem to stop staring at the space behind the Capitol woman, where her shadow lies a perfectly reasonable distance from her feet. They separate, and Raphael doesn't even seem to blink.
This never happens. They normally appear afraid, horrified, even gaunt. But never so haunted. What changed this time? The only difference was that Yuen's name was called. That and the presence of Father Time. But there was no way. The only people who can actually perceive her form are those with her Gifts. Unless…?
No, it's impossible. There is only ever one Gifted allowed to exist at a time. If there were someone else with power over time, Yuen would have noticed by now. He glances down to see the needle marks on Raphael's arm. Raze user. Yuen's little butterfly effect must have just given them a bad trip. That’s the best explanation.
There isn't any more time to think before they're ushered away to the government building and prepared for visitation. He decides if it's any cause to worry, he can think about it another time.
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onmywaytobe · 2 years
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WHG 18 - Prompts
I'm combining all the prompts into one post, since I just wrote basic summaries for each. Hopefully this helps you get an idea of the kind of character Amethyst is and will help you include her in your scenes if you're so inclined! Tagging @whgmasterofceremonies, @ratracechronicler, @drabbleitout, @maple-writes, @pen-of-roses (sorry if I missed anyone)
The Big Day
Amethyst spends the morning primping, putting on makeup and bickering with her sisters over who gets to wear the best dress. She insists that since she's the only one still eligible for the Reaping, she gets to be the prettiest, and they give in. She's looking forward to the chance to show off how good she looks to her classmates. There is an undercurrent of nerves, but the odds are in her favor, so she probably won't be chosen. She focuses on curling her hair instead.
The Reaping
When her name is called, Amethyst is offended at the silence that follows. She thought at least one person would volunteer for her. When she has no other choice, she heads to the stage, waving and smiling through the pain. It figures that she'd be chosen and have to go through this alone. This is just proof that she can't count on anyone but herself.
The Last Visit
The only people who come to visit out of love are Amethyst's sisters. Her parents, long since separated, come one at a time out of obligation. They hug her and cry crocodile tears. Amethyst knows that her parents won't miss her. The two friends she hasn't managed to drive away over the years also come by, but Amethyst treats them coldly. They didn't volunteer. They don't really care about her.
The Train Ride
On the train, Amethyst ignores her fellow tribute. She doesn't trust older men. She chats with the Capitol representative, complimenting her style, already trying to make allies. When the mentors insist that she eats to keep her strength up, she piles a plate with food that she barely touches, too busy talking, already formulating a plan to get sponsors. She monopolizes the mentors' time, keeping their attention on her as much as she can. She knows she'll need their help.
Chariots
Dressed to the nines in her lumber-themed outfit, Amethyst is delighted to be getting the attention she deserves. She knows the crowd is cheering to watch her die, but they're cheering her nonetheless. She beams, soaking it in.
Training
Finally, Amethyst gets to meet the other tributes. She spends her time sizing them up, talking to everyone she can to get in their good graces. She compliments size, strength, painting abilities, anything that anyone seems good at that might be an asset in the arena. Not to brag, but most of them like her already. She doesn't trust any of them, but she's sure they will help her. Noble people are so eager to do the right thing.
Her mentor suggests that she do some training herself, so she checks out a couple of stations. Fire, she can create with magic. Being from District 7, she can already use an axe. She runs through a few useful spells in her head and scans the poison station for any plants she might be able to use in potions, but that's it. She's already met people who could help her with just about anything, as long as she asks nicely.
For the judges, she throws a few axes. She doesn't get a bulls-eye, but there was a glare from the lights that distracted her. She also casts a spell to make weights lighter and tosses them around, but the judges notice and remind her that powers are not allowed in the arena. Amethyst scores a 4 and tells her mentors that the judging was rigged.
The Interview
Once again, Amethyst gets dolled up to look presentable for the Capitol. Her stylists picked something that emphasizes how small she is, making her look helpless enough that the audience will feel bad for her but not so helpless that she doesn't look like she stands a chance of winning. She tells a sob story about how her father abandoned her when she was young and how she's been on her own for the last few years, making sure to emphasize how resourceful and plucky she is, never giving up when the going gets tough. Caesar Flickerman is in sympathetic tears by the end of it. The crowd loves an underdog, and there's something about her that they want to believe in.
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demigoddessqueens · 4 months
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the president will see you now
Just some bit of headcanons of each of the love languages for the morally dubious president in the making.
pairing - corionalus snow x reader
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Gift giving - gifts are both calculated motivations but it becomes a display of what he can “do” for you, what there is for you if you stayed with him
Physical touch - touch is a way for Corio to keep you near him, to show that you are his, but it’s become a reassuring motive to Snow that you’re close to him
Words of affirmation - sugary sweet promises that sound like shallow words that cement themselves as reaffirmations over the years as he starts to believe himself over time
Quality time - in the rare moments, you see a gentle side of Coriolanus that hyper focuses on you alone, all the power and influence that sheds away
Acts of service - these are done to show what he’s good for, what Snow can do for you, and what there can be more of if you stay/remain with him
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You know what's really ironic when it comes to Coriolanus Snow? It's the fact that according to The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, he garners attention and approval and finally mentorship under Dr. Gaul by pushing the idea of balancing humanity and spectacle in the hunger games. Make the tributes human enough to get attention and get people invested in the games. But make them spectacle enough that people don't look deep enough to question the games themselves. Make the competition human enough that people will pick sides and pour money. But make it spectacle enough that they don't protest their side losing.
It's the idea that paves his rise to power. But it's also the same thing that brings about his downfall. The spectacle of the hunger games gave a front and center platform to a naive but defiant girl from District Twelve to become the face of a revolution and the ultimate weapon against him. The measured humanity that he urged into the games got people to trust her word, trust her very image in ways that Snow had never anticipated. The balanced wielding of humanity and spectacle that Lucy Gray used to win her games is what Katniss used to end them, both enabled by Snow.
And here's the final kicker- the reason his brutally brilliant plan failed him in the end was because of the one thing Snow never took seriously enough to consider. The Districts. Snow had keen insight into how the people of the Capitol worked and thought. It allowed him to manipulate many of them. But he dismissed the role of the districts as inconsequential in the larger play of things. As long as they were kept suppressed, it didn't matter. And that's where his oversight cost him. He didn't consider the effects of the same humanity and spectacle when perceived by the districts. He didn't see how he was giving them the spark they were always looking for until the match had already been lit. The girl was already on fire. The Capitol was already burning. The snow was already melting.
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red-the-dragon-writes · 11 months
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Fellow writers who come up with wild and/or complicated as hell worldbuilding! Share some of your highlights!
I'll go first:
Two major systems of currency that dramatically increase and decrease in value across the continent in direct conjunction with which particular major country is closer;
Magical person-eating eels who have their own entire society underneath a particular city that never becomes relevant because they think everyone else is frustrating and terrible, who have exactly one (1) ambassador to interface with the outside world but who decided that everyone else was (still) frustrating and terrible and now works as an assassin for hire instead of doing that and just sends the occasional trade good back home with their stipend;
Pseudo-electricity that works by summoning spirits from outside of the world to come hang out in your batteries
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physalian · 9 days
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Take A Risk and Don’t Write a Chosen One
This trope stands the test of time for some very good reasons: Audience wish-fulfillment as they live vicariously through the hero, automatic plot-induced agency for your protagonist, and automatic legitimate reasons for your protagonist to join the whirlwind adventure of the day.
I like chosen ones. We all have our favorite famous chosen ones and I’m not here to say the concept of a chosen one is bad at all.
However.
Those “automatic” windfalls that come pre-packaged with the trope can lead to the author taking shortcuts, or not thinking they have to put in more effort to write a compelling character, because they’re the “chosen one,” what more do you need?
Not writing your protagonist as commanded by the powers that be to participate in the plot forces you to get creative with why they’re here, what they want, and how they entrench themselves in the story. And most importantly, if the gods haven’t chosen them to act, they must now choose themselves to act.
I have never read Harry Potter and after its author-who-shan’t-be-named flushed her reputation down the toilet, I never will. I’ve seen the movies, they’re ok. I have no nostalgia-driven love for this franchise, and most of that comes from watching Harry be an incredibly boring protagonist.
Book readers correct me, but Harry is the poster child of “only exists so the audience can live vicariously” with generic heroic traits and nonexistent or at least unimportant side quirks and distinguishing hobbies, interests, or personality tics. He’s “brave” and “courageous” and “determined”... as most child protagonists of children’s books should be. He has zero flaws that come back to bite him in the ass. He acts the way he’s supposed to, not the way he should want to, as an independent being.
He’s the least interesting character in this entire cast, and I can’t stand Movie Ron. Ron, Hermione, Neville, or Draco would have made much more compelling protagonists and so much of this relies on the “Harry is important because the plot demands it” crutch.
Why is he the chosen one? Because his birthday happened at the right time of year? What is the story trying to say about the dichotomy between him and Voldemort? What about his personality, his wizard-societal stances on the many faux pas in this series, or the choices he makes, that makes him the chosen one? Why should I care?
You know who’s a great chosen one? Percy Jackson. Why? Because he understands the screwed up world he lives in on page 1. Being a demigod isn’t everything he ever dreamed and despite what Disney + wants you to believe, he’s got a crap bio dad who’s as disappointing in book one as Percy expects him to be.
He’s not even the chosen one by the end of the original series, and what a fantastic twist that was.
An infamously self-chosen protagonist has her own iconic hero quote: "I volunteer as tribute". Katniss is a nobody. She's not the evil president's daughter, she's not the child of a famously martyred revolutionary, she's just a girl who refuses to bow down to the reaping, refuses to let her sister get slaughtered, and volunteers for a death match that historically sees anyone living to survive another year cowering in relief. Yeah, she has some convenient skills in her archery and survival knowledge, but those matter because her district is starving, she learned through necessity.
Every second of her story, Katniss is fighting for her right to exist, and she only becomes a "chosen one" dragged around by the powers that be when she becomes marketable to the grand scheming of the actual revolutionaries, when, before, she didn't care about politics, she just wanted to save her sister. She matters because she chose compassion in a world where survival demands only serving yourself.
It’s so, so easy to start planning your book and make your cool fantasy world and figure out how your protagonist fits into it. So easy to say “well they’re the long-lost princess and the only heir to the throne” or “this magic amulet from her great great aunt is the key to saving the world” or “she’s the villain’s secret love child and the only one who can stop him because blood magic” or “this vague prophecy picked this little desert slave boy to bring balance to the Force”.
None of these stories are at fault for writing chosen ones.
But push yourself to let go of that crutch and come up with other reasons for why your hero is the hero. Usually this character has been isekai'd into magical-fantasy-land or magical-hidden-fantasy-urban-underbelly and you can still write that character.
Refusing to make them the chosen one demands one thing first and foremost: How is this outsider going to fight for their place to exist here? What do they bring to the table with their hobbies or interests or unique skillset that happens to be mighty applicable and useful in this new world? What is it about their personality that draws these strangers in? What do they want from this new world, and what are they willing to do to get it?
This choice demands you give your hero agency (though whether you give into those demands is up to you).
More importantly: I think it gives your audience agency, as they still live vicariously through their hero. Sure, lots of kids have lost their parents and live in horrid conditions like a cupboard under the stairs, but none of us will ever be “chosen” by omniscient wizard prophets. Harry would have immediately been a more compelling protagonist to me if he’d stumbled upon magical shenaniganry and fought for his place as some forgotten nobody mudblood.
Harry would have shown us his courage, instead of the story insisting he has it, we promise, just don’t think too hard about it.
Stop giving me characters who accept their destiny because God said so. Give me characters who fight tooth and nail for a destiny they discover on their own and I’ll root for them to succeed even more than someone compelled by force. Not everyone can be a chosen one, but everyone *can* choose themselves and decide to act.
With that said, I have an announcement! I have a new book in the works bereft of a prophecy-ordained hero. It’s time I put all my sagely writing wisdom to the test in a shiny published paperback myself. If you’ve learned anything from my blog in your writing journey, please subscribe for updates on the upcoming novel!
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whgmasterofceremonies · 3 months
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Round 21?
Ignore the fluttering of pages as I dust off my notes to check whether the number is right...yes, 21!
Attention, writers! Are you tired of That Character living in your head rent-free? Alternatively, are the people of That Character's world or immediate surroundings tired of them living in their heads rent-free? Are ya ready to make them pay their dues by chucking them into a Hunger Games simulator and seeing who wins, with optional Hunger Games AU writing prompts along the way?
That’s right! We are NOT dead, so if a few people are interested, it's time for another round of the Writeblr Hunger Games! For those who don't know, the basic format for the WHG is that writers submit their original characters as potential candidates. Then I put them in the Brant Steele Hunger Games Simulator and share the results of them fighting each other to the death.
This round's going to look a little different. Instead of random characters strictly fighting for their lives, you would choose your most special someones to compete in the True Chosen One Challenge. Whether your character has a canonical destiny, a headcanoned prophecy, or just way too much of your brainspace, this competition will force them to face their fate. Whoever rises to the top shall win the title of True Chosen One! (Chosen by the simulator algorithm, anyway.)
This post is just for y'all to let me know if you're interested, share the news with anyone you think might be interested, and let me know any thoughts or suggestions you have. If more than a few people are willing to at least throw a character into the ring (no writing necessary), then I'll soon tag interested folks with a post with more explanation on how to submit a character and what happens from there.
This is intended to be a somewhat more lighthearted, faster-paced WHG round, so there's no expectation of intense participation if this time of the year gets hectic.
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WHG - The Reaping
This one is for Lyra, a character I'm still trying to figure out. She's District 7 with @knmartinshouldbewriting's Lian Ngo and @addisons-damn-dialogue's Jia Li.
Lyra's...not from around here, lol.
Tagging @concealeddarkness13 @ratracechronicler, @maple-writes, @pen-of-roses, @drabbleitout, @clocksandchaos, @knmartinshouldbewriting
lmk additions or subtractions 😁
Following the crowd was always the best way to get a grip on what was happening, in Lyra’s experience. She stood head and shoulders taller than the rest, but told them her name and age, lied and relied on her youngish appearance to fall in step, as she’d been doing since she got here. She was just glad this district had something familiar, the trees surrounding the area similar to home if not quite the same.
She listened to the speech, standing among the others and craned her neck around. Tried to see if the other two were in the crowd either waiting for names to be called or watching the potential tributes. But neither the grizzled blacksmith nor the white-haired rouge seemed to be here with her. Not that she’d seen any evidence of them in this place, despite her attempts to scout outside the boundaries.
She really should have been fooling around with the portal magic, but she couldn’t help herself. She was an explorer, and despite the warnings from the elders, had been portal-hopping since the days she had been running from her duties as princess. Once she got here she’d played the part to the best of her ability and covered up her ears, something she learned after her first disastrous trip out to a different planet that was far too hot and had an issue with pointy-eareds. She’d also learned how to wrap her small budding antlers, lying about having a skin condition around her forehead and pretending that the bumps were a part of it.
People that weren’t from home seemed to have an issue wrapping their head around that, too. Then again, not everyone from the Elkish tribes had antlers, so that was a little easier for her to understand.
Listen listen, she told herself. Try to act as scared as the rest of them seemed to be.
There was some speech about how a long time ago there had been some disastrous issue and now children were lined up and sacrificed to the games. Well. That’s how she understood it, anyway. This ‘Capitol’ really seemed like it should be knocked down a peg or two, but looking around it didn’t seem like there were a whole lot that agreed with her. Either that or they were better at hiding it. That had been foreign to her as well. At home they were free to speak as they wished, from the fliers to the swimmers.
Stop it stop it stop it. Listen. Look. The blacksmith worked out the magic to get here, the rouge provided the magic to hop. She’d tried to provide the destination and had missed. Horribly. She needed to find the other two in order to get back. Or get out. Or just…get.
The rules of the contest were read out. 24 go in, and only one goes out. That sounded unfair. Especially since it sounded like if you didn’t win, it was because you were dead. It reminded her of the hunting games they used to play on her world, only instead of being the hunter she was the prey.
She smiled. It also sounded like the ‘Capitol’ was used to this prey simply accepting the idea of being chased and killed was a part of reality. And one of the worst enemies to a hunter was complacency of spirit.
Maybe she wouldn’t just be called. Maybe she’d volunteer right off the gate. Get in. Blow the system all to hell. Then find her companions and leave. That sounded just as fun.
The first name was called, and the males shuffled as one of their number seemed to be the one picked out. At least, she thought that was the term. Genders, as they called them, were weird. She’d elected to be female when they asked because it had sounded right, but she still wasn’t quite sure what the difference was. There certainly wasn't much of a difference back home.
At any rate, she only let it sit for a heartbeat before her hand shot up and she cried out, “I volunteer as tribute!!”
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concealeddarkness13 · 3 months
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WHG 21 Prompt 4 - Chess
About 1,200 words! Tagging: @ratracechronicler, @maple-writes, @pen-of-roses, @drabbleitout, and @grailfish!
I knew enough about the Games to know I wanted to hide from my mentor. They’d talk about how I could win and tell me all about the Games, and that wasn’t important. I didn’t want to hear lies about how I could win. The Capitol wasn’t going to let me win, and anyway, I didn’t want to deal with someone staring at me, asking me to transform into a dragon, all of it. I was so fucking tired of everyone’s eyes on me.
So, I grabbed a plate of food and a bottle of alcohol and slipped away to the farthest car I could get to. Aeflin liked just injecting nutrients into me instead of feeding me, so I only really got to eat when I was at the Capitol, and even then, I barely had time to myself to eat. This would be different.
I made sure to eat slowly. I had already learned my lesson before when I had eaten too quickly and too much at one of the first parties I went to, and I had been sick the whole night. Luckily, Ashont hadn’t singled me out yet, or it might have been an even more hellish night.
I did actually get to finish my damn food and part of the bottle before someone showed up. I looked up and immediately transformed into my dragon form (about the size of a cat, with black scales, a flat head like an axolotl, and pink ruffles around my face) since it was more comfortable to be in around strangers, and it meant that I had an excuse to not answer questions. I growled at him, but he just sat down next to me and watched me with thoughtful eyes.
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I just wanted to introduce myself. My name is Killian, and I am your mentor for this Games.” Oh brilliant. I made sure to grumble my protest, but he just chuckled. “Don’t worry. I know what the Capitol is planning for you. Believe it or not, I have been paying attention to what the Capitol has been doing, have even been to a few of their parties myself. I have an idea of a plan, and it might just surprise you.”
He watched me carefully, and his stare didn’t make my skin crawl like everyone else’s stares did. I chirped to let him know to keep going, but he just chuckled again. “I’d prefer for you to be in human form when we chat though, if that’s okay with you. Then I’ll know if you’re actually listening.”
I grumbled again but finally transformed back human, but I did make sure to keep my scales, tail, and fangs, so I didn’t look fully human. I smiled at him to make sure to show off my fangs as my tail lashed in annoyance. “There, I’m listening.”
He didn’t look bothered at all by what was clearly a threat. How the fuck did he survive his own Games? He leaned forward, his expression growing serious. “I know how the Capitol has treated you and how they will treat you if you leave on their terms. And I know of Aeflin. I believe you met my partner at the party where you last dealt with Ashont, and I wanted to reiterate that there are people who do actually care about you. I knew your parents, so that is why I have kept my eyes on you, and I believe you have ended up in a place they would have never wanted you to be.”
I knew where he was going with this, and I gritted my teeth and looked away from him before he could see the tears that blurred my vision. My parents had been gone for so long that I didn’t even remember what they looked like. “I have nowhere else to go. And anyway, I have to…” I had to make Aeflin proud. She made me into this.
“I have a place you can stay that’s safe. Safe from the Capitol and from Aeflin. Please, Ezra, I’m concerned with how the Capitol and Aeflin have been treating you. I can’t…I can’t force you to take this, and I would never dream of doing so. All I can do is plead with you. You don’t have to stay with people who just use and abuse you. I just ask you to think about it.”
I couldn’t look at him. I started shaking as I finally covered my ears. It was too much. Aeflin had expectations of me, and she only hurt me to make me stronger. The Capitol liked the entertainment I could provide, so of course they would use me for that. I hated the pain and abuse, but it was worth it to become what Aeflin wanted me to be. I had to make her proud. I just wanted to hear her say it. She had to say it. I was going to complete her task.
I shook my head. “Stop. I…I can’t.” I twitched and transformed back into my dragon form, curling up as small as I could and hiding my face from him. I couldn’t…this was all I knew. This was all that was safe. I couldn’t trust a stranger, that I would have any safe place.
Killian nodded. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Please, just think about this.” He stood up and left me alone. I covered my face with my feet, one of them a prosthetic version of a dragon’s foot, and covered myself in my wings until I finally got my emotions under control.
*
That night, after everyone else had fallen asleep, I snuck over to the food car, where the tv was as well. Checking out the other people who were chosen would be good, so I sat down and kept the volume as quiet as I could as I started the reviews of the Reapings. It wasn’t like Aeflin really let me sleep anyway, so I wasn’t used to sleeping so much.
The other chosen ones were impressive, and I hoped they would have a chance to win. But then I got to District 6’s Reaping, and I couldn’t help but stare.
His name was Safirel Beynleyra, and there was a glow about him. He even had golden light dancing on his hands. Like a Celestial. He had to be the one Aeflin wanted me to find. Why else would she give me this mission now, when I had been in the Capitol so many times before? He had to be the one Aeflin wanted me to capture. Now I just had to get close to him and make him trust me. He wouldn’t know I was here for him. Publicly, I was here as punishment. And it wasn’t public knowledge that I was hunting Celestials. He wouldn’t know. I’d be safe. This time, I had the chance to not even have to fight him. I just had to deceive him and capture him when he wasn’t expecting it.
I smiled a little, showing off my fangs. He wouldn’t suspect a thing. I knew how to feed someone’s ego enough to get them to let their guard down. Aeflin would be proud of me.
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pen-of-roses · 9 months
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WHG 20-Prompt 5-Silver
WHG tag list: @ratracechronicler, @maple-writes, @concealeddarkness13 @drabbleitout, @grailfish, @forthesanityofsome, and @pied-piper-of-hamlet (let me know if you want to be added)
(Prompt 4 was combined between Din and Silver so read that before this if you missed it)
Under threat of being dragged out by the Peacekeepers, they’d emerged from their hiding spot after most of the search party had disappeared to another car.
And regretted immediately as the cacophony threatened to drag them under the instant they set foot off the train. 
It’d be easy to slip away again. The Peacekeepers were trained, but for brutality and instilling fear, not for the survival that had been pressed into them. Their armor had a weakness at the neck. While the helmets protected their faces, they also created blindspots. One of their current guards was favoring a shoulder, easy to exploit. These were just more monsters, and human ones at that, so they could be beaten and pushed past just like—like—
The weight in their hand, taste of copper in their mouth, and battlecries of the long fallen slipped away with the memory and whatever nightmares they’d fought before. Probably for the better.
Besides, they’d gotten this far. Being alone in the heart of this abyssal damned place would probably be worse than the rigid rules prior to the Games. Not to mention they didn’t quite know what would happen to the District if its tribute fled prior to the Games.
So instead they bit their cheek and sat when prompted.
From there, the taste of copper became real as the true challenge of self control began as a group of people began to argue over them, about them, touch them, manipulate them however they wanted. 
Their clothes were stripped, and discarded. clothes that had been borrowed from their family and mended by hand over the months. They managed to not break each finger of the hand that had done it.
Forced into a sweet smelling bath and scrubbed raw, the hot water was so similar to the heat from the vision from the train. That did result in a dislocated shoulder and a blackeye. Technically two, but theirs healed before they were dry. 
A comb was taken to their hair, for it’s apparently Capitol-esque appearance, but also condemned for the tangled state of it, and the bone white horns underneath it. They forced down more gold-tinted memories of other hands doing the same and a voice in their ear.
The only benefit was no one was talking to them, and they weren’t expected to speak.
Wrapped in a towel and left to wait, they were hyper aware of every footstep outside the door, of every chant of magic in the air, of the sickly sweet perfume clinging to their skin, of the way all the metal shined in just the right light to look golden rather than silver, of where the camera was and how best to avoid it.
“Well, you certainly look more human than the animal the other’s described.” Someone said as he walked into the room and hung a bag off the door.
They bared their teeth, aware they were stained with blood from their cheek and signed “You’re the animals to me.”
“Oh so you can speak,” he signed back, and they blinked, rather taken aback as the strange man sat. “Perfect, that’ll make this so much easier on me. I’m your stylist for these wonderful things the Capitol calls Games. In short, my job is to make you look good so the lovely and ever gracious people out there will help keep you alive, if you wish them to. Or don’t, if that’s more to your liking. I’ll enjoy the show either way.” Crossing his arms, he sat back, raising one blonde eyebrow in challenge.
They squinted at him. He looked Capitol-esque alright, with a suit that looked almost like it was made of flowers, though the shape of them was unlike any they had seen. Calla had said the Capitol liked to genetically modify stuff, so maybe they were based off that. Or complete and inaccurate fabrications. His hair was covered with glitter, and purple makeup adorned his face in the same garish way they’d seen on the escorts and Capitolites. Yet he also seemed off. With his cocky smile, raised eyebrow, and head cocked, it seemed like he was sizing them up and judging.
Magic thrummed all around them, but whether he was the source of any was difficult to tell with all the different sounds.
Maybe not all of the Capitolites were as empty-headed and blind as the escort had made it seem. They would have to be more careful and observant.
“You didn’t give a name,” they signed.
“Nor did you, if you recall. Now, I have very little interest in wasting any more of our precious time, so if you’re willing, let’s get on with getting this over with.”
Reluctantly, they nodded. 
Time passed too slowly after that, but the stylist kept the others from handling them too roughly this time around, even giving them privacy while they changed.
In the end, they were left in front of a mirror, focusing on the intricacy of the bark-like texture of the suit, and the leaves and flowers that had been woven into their hair. Pointedly, they did not look at the makeup that had been done, couldn’t risk seeing that face. But the rest, they felt comfortable saying was almost…nice. Wildly inaccurate and overdone. But nice.
Some of the “wood” even covered their ears so when they walked out, the noise wasn’t completely overwhelming. And looking at the other outfits, they’d probably have to thank the stylist if they saw him again. 
Of course, whatever odd reprieve that had been couldn’t last terribly long as the chariots began. Two tributes raced off on the horses, which drew most of the crowd’s attention. But not all of it. 
There were eyes watching them again, too many, and no place to hide or shrink away from it. Even with the padding, the noise from their cheering was too loud. Several of the other tributes were screaming of powerful magic, and that pull from earlier was back, threatening to drown them in the gold.
Overhead, someone spoke of peace and tradition
Behind their eyes, a voice whispered of safety and love and power over destiny.
A cruel smile watched above.
A kind smile flickered in and out of existence and the air smelled of blood.
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sentfromwolves · 4 days
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Hey furriends! ( •̀ ω •́ )y Are you a writer, an artist, maybe even both? Do you dabble in other crafts, or are you just interested in meeting other creators of all sorts? Maybe even playing games, or running your ocs through hunger game sims with others for kicks? If so, consider joining CLAWMARK!
This server is an 18+ creative crossroads discord server for creators of all kinds to get together and have fun chatting all things craft, characters, worldbuilding, plot suffering, yarn tangling, you name it! We're a chill space for creators to meet new friends and have a place to talk about their projects, but also just have fun together and have a safe haven to vibe in.
◈—« SOME QUICK HOUSEKEEPING »
◆ — This discord is 18+ only! You will be removed if you are found to be a minor. Please respect this rule, and do not join if you are not 18+. ◆ — All creators of all skill levels are welcome! While we are primarily writer-focused, this server is specifically for tons of different creators to get together and talk about their original works and also hang out. ◆ — All activity levels are welcome! We'll do semi-regular activity checks just to make sure the server is still serving people who are actively interested in being there, but even if you're only able to pop in once in awhile, that's totally fine!
Please note that this is a pretty experimental server, with the hopes of growing and refining the space as time goes on. While I'm not planning on making it events-focused, I'm not opposed to running events either if we gain enough members to warrant it!
If all of this sounds good to you,✨ feel free to follow this link to join! ✨(๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ We look forward to having you!
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candlelightkissess · 8 months
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The sea sings a song
To remind her where home is
But salty air stings
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