24 Tributes, 24 Tragedies, A Hunger Games Roleplay

[Shadsie]

Vashe, seeing Luke's distress, gently hugged him. "It's okay," she whispered. "I'm sure it's fake blood, like paint. It won't hurt us."


(I had an idea. I'd like if you want to, for people to suggest nicknames for their Tributes. It won't be anything they call themselves, but you can decide what the Capitol audience and other people start calling your characters. You know, how after their debut, Katniss was "The Girl on Fire" and how some characters started calling Peeta "Loverboy."

I'd like Vashe to become known as "The Butcherknife Angel" or something similar. I can't say for sure whether she'll like the name... it's nothing she'd call herself, but she may use it to her advantage. She had that thing she did with butcher knives in the training hall that might have served as stylist-inspiration, and if she's seen with fake knives in the chariot, it could work. As for Luke, Tatl, you can decide on whether he gets a nickname or not and what it is).

 

[TatlTails]

((I dunno, at most he'd probably jsut be called the Wolf Pup or something. I have no idea, didn't even think of titles like that.))

Luke leaned into Vashe's hug, but he didn't hug her back. He nodded in response to her words, but his expression still looked pretty upset. And he still didn't say anything.

 

[Shadsie]

(Vashe, not Val. Heh. Confusing my characters, are we? )

 

[TatlTails]

((DEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERP. Sorry, it's just been a while since I last posted here, got a bit confuzzled. I fixed it.))

 

[Shadsie]

(Pokes the rp).

 

[Blackkirby]

(omg can we please pick this back up 0-o)

 

[TatlTails]

((Nothing I can do, sorry.))

 

[Shadsie]

(I'm kind of waiting for Dr. Horrible. She's our designer. )

(Though, wait a minute? One of you has a Tribute from 8, right? I created a mentor from 8. He and she can interact).

 

[LittleGumball]

(Though, wait a minute? One of you has a Tribute from 8, right? I created a mentor from 8. He and she can interact).

((is that me? frick frack i'm sorry. Lez du thees. (yey for not knowing how to start c: )))

 

[Shadsie]

Pitcarin Woolworth, "exalted" Victor of District 8, wandered back to the District 8 floor. He was supposed to be there for dinner, before the stylist came in to do heaven knows what to his Tributes, but he'd been on the training floor, getting his head together with his archery practice. Of course, no weapons were allowed on the residential floors.

Hopefully, he had not missed desert. He sighed and plopped himself in a chair unceremoniously. He hadn't really gotten to know his kids yet. He always hesitated. Pitty took care of his kids, year after year, but all the undernourished and overworked Tributes from 8 tended to... well... die. He'd only won his Games by luck, though he told himself that he'd gotten by with some skill and cunning. He hated really getting to "know" the kids, though.... because the sooner he got to know them, the sooner he would lose them. He wanted to put off thinking about that for as long as possible.

 

[LittleGumball]

Cotton stared blankly at the adult that sat heavily at the table. Her stylist? Or mentor? No this one wasn't fabulous, not a stylist. Mentor. Why hadn't she seen him before? Probably because this one wasn't an involved mentor and she was staring out the window the entire ride. She couldn't stop staring for whatever reason. This one looked like he had given up trying to help his Tributes win. Great. She was definitely going to lose...

Her poor mother...

"Nice to finally meet you," she said dully. She thought the words in her head but somehow they came out of her mouth. Oops.

 

[Shadsie]

"C-Cotton, right?" Pitcarin asked. The boy-Tribute seemed to be lost reading a tablet on strategy or some such thing. The girl was the only one being friendly. However, she did seem to be kind of spacey, like she was in denial. It was one of the stages of grief, but he'd seen few hit it as hard as this kid seemed to be doing. He reached out a hand, calloused from his archery-hobby and, in fact, bleeding slightly from all his practice using the training hall after the Tributes had vacated it. He had a tendency to get lost in target-shooting so much that he didn't notice if he was hurting himself. Better than drinking or morphling, he supposed.

As he shook the girl's hand, he introduced himself. "I'm Mr. Woolworth. Pitcarin Woolworth, but you can call me Pitty if you'd like. The other Victors do. I'm sorry that I'm the only current living Victor of our District, so you're pretty much stuck with me. Us... garment workers really aren't cut out for the Games, I suppose, but I will do my best to see one of you home. Okay? I promise."

 

[LittleGumball]

"Frankly, Mr. Woolworth, I know I'm not going to win the Games, so you can just work on him," Cotton replied flatly. "I have zero skills and I'm not at all fit. You could put a snail in the Games and it'd do better than me. Please, don't waste your time on me."

 

[Shadsie]

The 30 year old man put a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Now don't be givin' up hope so soon, darlin'. I'm going to be working with both of you fair and equal, and that's that. Let me tell you about my Games. I was the last one I expected to win, too..."

He took a sip of water and began. "A lot of winning isn't about strength at all, it's about luck and doing the best with what you've got. When I got thrown into my arena, which was a dry, desert canyon, the only skill I had to my name was sewing. I wound up finding scraps of cloth here and there... skinning animals I wound up killing by luck - muttations, mostly, and that little tent I made saved me from heatstroke and the cold when the Gamemakers decided to drop some snow on us. Sure, I found a bow and some arrows and kind of taught myself how to use them, but I would have been dead if I hadn't made that stupid little tent. Others died from exposure all because they didn't have my "stupid little District 8 skill."

He continued.

"Getting sponsors will also see you through. I actually think I can get a lot with you - a cute little girl like you. Oh, especially if the stylist is a good one this year. Sometimes, after the Chariot Parade, people start giving you kids nicknames. A few of the Victors and staff have already started after seeing everyone in the training hall today. I think they're calling the District 10 insane-girl the 'Butcher Knife Angel.' Now, that's a strong nickname, if it catches fhar. -

(He'd said "fire" but it came out like "fhar").

"If the stylist does you up right... you might get an even better nickname. It's funny how something as simple as that can get people wantin' to sponsor you. I was the Shining Thread. You see, our stylist that year did us up in these robes that had glowing electric threads in them, to highlight the ways of District 8. Marla and I were the 'Shining Threads.' She was lost early in the Games, the poor girl. She wasn't killed by anyone, though. Poor Marla was sick when she came in and died of that - all natural.

I want to help you... you and your partner, both. I think you both have stories to tell that shouldn't end in a week's time. "

 

[LittleGumball]

Cotton was, surprisingly enough, moved by the story. Or, at least, something or other stirred inside her. Could've been the spicy food she'd accidentally eaten earlier but she wasn't completely sure. Either way this man was trying to give her hope.

She didn't want hope. She knew she was going to die and that was final. Giving her hope would only make the death she'd already accepted hurt. Cotton didn't like pain.

"Pardon me, sir, but I can't win. Really." She looked him straight in the eyes, mouth in a flat line. "I'm useless. You'd be better off focusing on him. I have never trained for anything in my life and now's not the time to start, because it would be a huge waste of air, space, and time." She offered a small, forced smile. "I want to go peacefully. Bleeding to death isn't peaceful, but a good arrow to the brain is. I don't want to be hurt, and I can't hurt anyone. And the sponsors? They won't love me. I have no sob story, no striking feature to make anyone like me. Face it, I'm already dead. I'm sorry, but I'm being honest."