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katniss by ~kirachel

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Drawn by Nathan

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apriki:

God Katniss now is not the time

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They ate, walked, and even spoke together. So when one was Reaped, the other volunteered. in the Games, they worked together, until every other tribute was dead. Instead of one betraying the other, like the audience expected, they drew straws.The boy lost, and his sister went home, to a District...

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Fanart of Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire.  (Click through to deviantART version.)

I finished my first real drawing of the year!  Going home for the holidays, I was stuck in airport for eight hours, and I finished reading the first book of The Hunger Games, and I knew I just had to draw Katniss. I love how she’s strong, intelligent and admirable, but still obviously flawed - and that she actually changes through the story. 

No spoilers, please! The other two books are still unopened in my office! Katniss belongs to Suzanne Collins.

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Concept images for “The Hunger Games.” Showing a more artistic feel to the movie posters. Showing the rebellion side of the book and film.     

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RP - Beneath the Caps

I had serious doubts as to whether I should go to Tex’s meeting.  Attending would be indistinguishable from actually doing something to overthrow the Capitol.  I would never again be the same person, the risk quotient of my life would be forever greater.  Part of me, the part who wanted to rebel against the Capitol, reminds me that I have already been to one of these meetings.  I have been the featured speaker.  What would be the difference in attending a regular meeting? 

I finally decided to go.  In the end the only one I have to live for is myself.  I am fairly certain Caesar could make it on his own.  The Hunger Games have been my catalyst.  Watching my peers die for no reason other than the advancement of the Capitol disgusts me.  It’s citizens live their lavish life and the districts are kept in fear of the government’s power.   Every time a tribute walks through a wood I am afraid I will see my weapons being used against them.  That fear, the fear of being a party to these games, is what guides my feet back to the path in the woods.

Caesar, as always is romping through the trees and brush.  Occasionally he bursts onto the path, looks for me, and tears back into the wood.  I know we are close when he returns to the path deliberately and does not leave it.  He walks directly in front of me now, nose to the air and head following every movement in the trees.   I almost laugh at the protective stance the large dog has taken.  I am confident that no one out here would be intending to harm me. 

That changes when the hair on Caesars back starts to stand up.  (In any other situation, this would be humorous considering the sheer weight of his fur.)  He growls, low and quiet, as he stares at a single spot ahead.  He stops ahead of me and I stay behind him.  I see rustling in the trees and Caesar takes off for the spot.  I am rooted in place as Doom steps out of the woods, looking at me and smiling.  Not a moment later he is on the ground with Caesar standing on top of him.

“Are you sure this isn’t a bear?  He sure weighs as much as a bear!  Get ‘em offa me!”

Caesar is doing his best to stand on Doom while turning circles and sniffing.  Just like when he is trying to get comfortable before bed.  I cannot help but laugh at the scene the two are causing. 

“Caesar, come!” I shout through the laughter and the dog immediately listens.  To add insult to injury he attempts to jump off of Doom, causing the poor man to lose his breath once more.

“I really don’t think that dog likes me.”

“Of course not, you like to jump out of the woods and you expect us to believe your name is really Doom.”

“I guess sneaking around on an animal of his size is asking for some sort of repercussion.  But Doom is really my name.  No jokes there.” 

“Sure it is.  And I bet your last name is something like Gloom or Death.”

I continued to flirt, shocking even myself, so I didn’t notice when we came upon a small structure in the woods.  There was no clearing around it which allowed it to be hidden from the sky as well as the ground.  The trees were particularly thick, but to help with camouflage plants had been encouraged to grow on the flat roof of the building.  I imagine that from the air one can’t tell the difference between the roof and the forest floor.   But the building was too small to be a gathering place of any more than 5 people, at least comfortably, and I was again afraid.  Had this all been a ruse?  Were there Peacekeepers inside waiting to arrest me? 

There weren’t any people inside, so my great relief, but I still had questions.  The small building was situated inside as a house.  There was a bed and a small kitchen.  By first glance a completely innocuous looking abode. 

“Where is everyone?  I thought this was some sort of meeting?” 

“You don’t think we’d just hope no one stumbled upon our clubhouse in the woods do you?”

With that Doom closed the door behind me and pointed to the rug we were standing on.  Underneath appeared to be the same flooring as the rest of the building, but with a little fidgeting he was able to produce a handle.  Underneath the door was a tunnel for as long as I could see.  This wasn’t very far as there were absolutely no lights down there.  He chuckled and pointed to the cabinet under the wash basin.  There I found a box full of candles and matches.  The owner of the cabin would be expected to have these things.  I grabbed two and a pack of matched and walked back to the door under the door.  Caesar was pacing around the entrance with a worried expression.

“You ready for this Fie?”

“I am.  We get to bring Caesar right?  I don’t want to leave him here alone.”

“Sure, he shouldn’t have any problem getting to where we’re going.” 

We walked in the dark tunnel for several minutes.  The tunnel was not some spur of the moment project.  The floor was worn smooth and the walls were very straight.  Eventually we rounded a bend where there was light coming from a series of bulbs. 

“And now the impressive part.  This used to be an old mine way back before the Capitol was even a thought in one of Snow’s great grandparents’ heads.  I stumbled upon it a few years ago as a kid and started exploring it.  When I got involved in the resistance it seemed like the perfect place to hold meetings.  Those cars there will take us to the meeting hall.”

We climbed into the train cars, obviously meant to haul rock and not people.  We laughed as Caesar put his paws up on the edge but was unable to get himself into the car.  Doom got out, and with great effort, was able to push the large dog into the cart.  He jumped in after and then we started to move.

“I’ve never taken the cars with so much weight,  hopefully things don’t get too scary.”  Doom smirked at Caesar has he scratched behind the beasts ears.

The tracks wove up and down for a while, trying to gain speed and momentum, which our weight was happy to oblige.   In no time at all we came to a halt in the back of a large room.  There were people everywhere.  Doom explained that the mine had tunnels spanning all over the mountain, and that there were many entrances from the surface level.  All of the paths to the meeting room that weren’t dangerous had a building at the entrance similar to the one we had come through.  Someone lived in each of the houses to ensure the secrecy of the tunnel.  Each entrance was different and unknown to anyone other than the small group of people who used it to come to meetings.  Doom knew of each entrance, but he was the only one.  A great mixture of chairs had been collected over the years.  Old metal folding chairs and hand-made wooden ones were mixed in with chairs obviously swiped from the factories and labs.  There was an old mining machine at the front of the room with stairs leading to it low, flat back.  It appeared to be some sort of stage for which the preside of the meetings to stand. 

Tex saw us from across the room and easily raised her voice above the ruckus to call to us.  A few people glanced at her, but seeing who it was seemed to excuse the loud noise.  In minutes we had found our seats.  Tex to my right, Doom to my left, and Caesar laying at my feet.  I mostly listened to my two friends chat while waiting for the meeting to begin.  In moments I would become an official rebel, attempting to overthrow the Capitol.  

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The Hunger Games trailer in Lego form. XD

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OOC Not Giving Up

I've never done this RP thing, or ARG, or anything else "fangirly".  Not really.  And frankly, I'm having way too much fun with it to stop now.  The reason it's been so slow is that between work and being sick I haven't done a lot of anything lately.  But no fear.  I'm working on some new ideas and I'm heading back to the story soon.  I was disappointed with Panem October from the beginning.  While I didn't have anything to compare it to, I knew that it wasn't giving me near enough to do.  My favorite things were writing Fie's story and meeting others from around the districts here.  

Now my biggest dream would be for someone to give us a rough timeline to work off of, so we can all interact better.

Also, any tips for a new RP-er?  What do I need to know?

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My story was posted!  I'm so proud!

She cried every moment she was outside the training room, and whimpered when she was there. The other tributes and Gamemakers thought her only strength was going to be getting killed.

Her long brown hair was always tied back with bows, placed into braids and pigtails by her stylists, who...

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PO - Nightmare

Life is a lot like the Caps.  One moment you are high on the mountain enjoying the view, and the next you are alone in the valley darkened by the shadow of the mountain.  I woke up this morning back in the valley.  I dreamt of the Games last night.  The two tributes from my district were walking through the woods.  They were dehydrated and could barely walk in a straight line.  The pain of thirst was evident in their every movement.  After a time they stumbled upon a small lake in a clearing.  Their thirst clouded their judgment and they ran blindly to the lake.  How I did not recognize my surroundings I do not know, but I was oblivious.  The two drank till they were drunk with relief.  Even when their minds had cleared to tell them they were too exposed, their bloated stomachs kept them from moving on.  That is when it happened.  From the North side of the lake a small fire erupts.  It grows rapidly and consumes all the reeds surrounding that side of the lake.  The same side of the lake that the tributes are resting on. 

  Exactly as if it was designed that way, the tributes take off for the woods at the southern side of the lake.  My mind finally starts to reconcile itself with its surroundings, but I still remain stuck in the dream.  They dart in and out of the trees, movingly quickly due to adrenaline and the cool burst of the water in their stomachs.  The fire consistently misses the running children as if someone is driving them farther into the woods.  Then I see him.  He sits staring at a screen.  The smirk on his lips matches the curl of his black beard.  He controls the fire and laughs every time he singes one of the tributes.  They have started to slow, the adrenaline no longer powerful enough to overcome their fatigue.  Seneca Crane keeps getting closer and closer to his prey.  He is purposefully missing them, enjoying the chase, enjoying the drama.  But his weapons are nearing their end and he must take action now or let the tributes survive this test.  Crane looks away from his monitors, to me, and smiles as he fires the blast the hits the tributes.  They fall to the ground, struggling to rid themselves of the heat but failing, just as I designed it.  The flames quickly spread to encompass their entire bodies, the sounds they make are haunting.  Crane looks again to me,

“Good Job Schim, good job.”

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RP - James

Arriving back in the Caps was like drinking from a fresh stream after days of dehydration.  The reaping seemed days away.  I walked back up the hill to home and was met half-way by my bear of a dog.  Caesar always shocks strangers.  I suppose it is strange to see an animal his size be so friendly.  After a bit of playing we resumed our walk uphill.  He found a stick and he played fetch for a while.  Scaring people even more with his slobbery mouth and joyous barks.  Before I had realized it I had walked the several miles back home. 

At first I did not notice the package on the table.  It blended well with the rest of the house, plain brown paper, adorned only by a small white flower.  I may have avoided it all together if Caesar had not drawn my attention to it.  I was meandering around the kitchen deciding whether I had an appetite or not when Caesar acted out of character and grabbed something off of the table.  He dropped it quickly on command and I finally noticed the package.  Inside the paper wrapping was a leather bound book that was well worn.  Books are rare around the district, especially one that is not a product of the Capitol, and this one obviously pre-dated it.  The pages were as thin and light as tissue paper; thin as though they were made that way originally, not just worn down over time.  At some point in its life the pages had a shinny edge, but that color was left only near the binding and tops of the pages, where fingers had touched it least.  Notches climbed down the outer edges of the pages like a staircase.  I could not tell if they were original or well worn into the pages by use. Before I could examine it further a note fell out.  Clearly written in Tex’s erratic handwriting, the message was short and vague. 

“Fie!  Don’t take the book too seriously.  Just a little piece of the past I thought you might like.  Hope to see you soon.  Honor the district.  You know where to start.”

The note was not signed, it would be too great a risk to be caught “owning” this book.  Not to mention the fact that a more insightful Peacekeeper could probably have figured out the real message.  But I did not know where to start.  I made myself a cup of broth from herbs I had collected and dried (I cannot stomach the coffee I have attempted to brew myself) and retired with the book to my bedroom.  I flipped through the pages.  The book was organized into chapters that seemed to be named after people.  Every chapter was divided and organized by numbers.  Each paragraph and sentence were numbered as if the book was used often for reference.  The few passages I read did not stir any memory and I found myself still ignorant of “where to start.”    I began to read the book from the beginning, but quickly grew tired of it.  I did not find anything about my district there.  I examined the first page for a clue, but still did not find anything.  Despite my logic, I flipped to the last page of the book.  There I found a faint, handwritten note.

  MRE28.7.4

 GDQ11.44.11

JHQ6.10.5

QXP9.2.10

KHE11.29.7

I am not completely sure of the safety of writing this note here, so I will not describe further the process I used after discovering the note.  I will say that my bear of a dog was extremely helpful, but only to a point. 

Sitting here with my new book and Tex’s message I can finally sleep.  This is by far the most constructive ending to a Reaping day I have ever encountered.  I almost forgot the Reaping was this morning.  Mere hours ago I was scared for my life because of the Capitol.  This evening I lay in bed with a book older than the Capitol and infinitely more powerful.  The power at my fingertips is just waiting to revealed I only need to receive the message.  This is a life changing day for me.  Not only do I have hope, but I am no longer alone.  

(OOC:  I am not getting religious on you guys.  Statistically, if there were a lot of books to survive the Capitol take over, the bible would be the most likely and prevalent.  Every person who receives the encoded message would need the same book to decode it, or it would have to be constantly translated and it would be hard to ensure consistency.  It should also be pretty easy to figure out the message, even if you aren't familiar with the text (I'm fairly certain Panem citizens wouldn't be).  What I'm trying to say, is that religion is NOT playing any part, it's just a text like any other book.  If anything, I can probably give us 21st century citizens some chuckles at it's expense.)

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Reaping Day

I have not heard any news from Tex; come to think of it I have not seen her.  Of course this is to be expected as the reaping was this weekend and she said she was working on the trains.  Jack still acts exactly the same around me; quiet, focused, a traditional, average Peacekeeper.  I have not discussed any of the events from the party with Tabi.  I reason that Tex and Jack have their motives for excluding her.  I have not seen Doom at all.  It is like he does not exist.  I do not dare ask others about him, but I have been looking and have not seen even a hair. 

 My first reaping from the sidelines was uneventful in the only way the reapings can be.  Two children are ripped from their families, their lives, and we all stand by.  We all watch and think to ourselves I am thankful it is not me.  We do not think about the Capitol that has done this to us, to these families.  We do not think about a way to stop it, only how we can survive it. 

 I woke up on reaping day acting as I have the last several years.  I bathed and dressed in my orange dress.  I piled my hair on top of my head in a bun and ate a few rolls.  I did not have much of an appetite, so I ended up feeding most of my breakfast to Caesar.  I had hours on the train ahead of me but nothing to do at home, so I headed to the station.  Although you are consumed with loneliness, you are never truly alone on Reaping Day.  It holds true for me as I walk outside and stumble into the flow of my fellow district citizens.  We are all dressed in our best, color fills the street.  We dress mostly in earth’s jewel tones, staying away from our uniform of black.  No one wears white, no one wants to be associated with the Peacekeepers, the Capitol, today. 

  The train is noisy and warm.  By the time we arrive in the Pale it will be sweltering, the windows barely open if they are operational, most are not.  Seats are given to the elderly and those of Reaping age.  Smaller children are in their parents’ arms or siblings’ laps.  I stand, clutching my letter from Seneca Crane in my pocket.  The letter that says I cannot be reaped.    I have not fully accepted that I am free from the lottery, so I hold the letter like it is my lifeblood. 

 We arrive in the pale in a fit of steam.  Steam from the train engines and from the compartments exhaling warm air violently into the cool atmosphere of District 3.  We walk the distance to the square in silence.  Even the smallest of children sense that it is a time to be quiet.  We arrive and our children are grouped into corrals by their age.  The youngest in the front, closest to the stage, where we all have to stare at them, know that one of these children can be Reaped.  Can suffer the Arena.

 I stand in the back surrounded by others without families, who are barely out of the running themselves.  We are young and the pain of standing in those corrals is still fresh.  We are the quietest of them all.  We are not anxiously standing in the coral, shuffling back and forth, fidgeting.  We are completely still.  We do not have children in front of us we are desperately trying to keep our eyes on.  Moving and swaying with each other in an effort to keep that connection of a line of sight.  We stare only at the stage, as if somehow our name might still find its way into that bowl and be pulled out.  Stare at the Capitol representative with his eccentric looks and unfamiliar accent and hope against hope that he does not say our name.

 He doesn’t.  They look to be 15 or 16, no different than the rest of us, except they are so scared you can see it from where we stand.  The boy tribute stands next to Beetee and Wiress.  He stares at them, afraid to ask his questions and hoping that he can somehow learn his answers just by standing there staring.  She does not take her eyes off of a spot in the crowd.  I cannot see who or where, but I imagine it is a loved one.  Someone she is sure she will never see again.

We young lonely ones stand together, watch the screens showing the other Reapings.  Putting in our time, feeling guilty despite all the relief we feel.  We fidget now, itching to get away from the screens, from the town square.  We see a few people go into the main building to say goodbye to their loved ones, our District Tributes.  The different regions of District 3 leave together.  The Station and Steam leave together first, manning their posts and managing the trains.  Nails are next, caught between wanting to leave this area and not wanting to go back to work, they walk as if they carry a heavy load.  We Caps citizens are next.  We do not have work today, so we walk with a purpose to the train station.

For the first time I can remember we are not silent on the ride back to our homes.  Whispers and murmurs surround me.  They are not happy.  They are messages of dissent, of unrest, of what needs to be done. 

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me, me, me!

OKAY EVERYBODY. We're making a census for Tributes (Hunger Games Fans) on Tumblr. We're going to try to count exactly how many Tributes are on Tumblr for 2011. All you have to do is reblog this if you are a Tribute.