#* . ⊹ 𝘪'𝘮 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪 𝘥𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 › writing.

[ofbloodshed]

clove’s victory tour : she’s dressed as a warrior at every stop, always clad in chain mail and gold, sharp edges to match her sharp blades and cold metals to match her cold exterior. the only way the capitol can market her is by playing on how much of a ruthless fighter she is, treated like a lion in a cage for their entertainment. she’s not particularly well - liked in the districts beyond her own, but she’s feared. fear is all she’ll ever be known for.

[ofbloodshed]

being seen is foreign to her. beyond cato, there's nobody who cares enough to dig deeper, to peer beyond the rage that she wears like a perfectly - tailored suit. muscles are tense, shoulders drawn up defensively, and when she misses her target ( even if only by mere centimeters ), a frustrated grunt slips past tight - pressed lips.

minerva sees her. minerva knows her. clove loathes the realization, wants to shy away from it and turn her nose up at it.

❝ barely, ❞ she retorts defiantly, as is her nature, ❝ still good enough to knock you dead. ❞ the ' you ' is rhetorical, of course. maybe. rolling her shoulders back, the young trainee allows a sharp breath to slip through her nose. it seems inescapable now, answering her question; clove feels her perceptive gaze burning holes into the side of her skull.

gradually, begrudgingly, steely eyes find the other's own. for a millisecond, steel subsides and she looks like the little girl she doesn't know she is. ❝ the reaping, ❞ she speaks up, swallowing past the lump lodged in her throat, ❝ it's getting closer. i know i'm a shoe - in and the spot's mine, but . . . ❞ she wants it. of course she does. it's all she knows how to want. that's why she can't explain this feeling that creeps up on her every now and again.

❝ nothing. ❞ clearing her throat, she gives her head an abrupt shake, turning her attention back to her target. ❝ drop it. ❞

@ofbloodshed: ❛  is this what you wanted to see?  ❜ for minerva!

❛  OBJECTIVELY?  YEAH.  ❜  minerva  says  it  with  a  shrug,  arms  crossed  as  she  watches  clove  intently.  the  words  are  positive  but  there's  a  little  frown  tugging  the  corner  of  her  lip  down,  one  she  knows  won't  go  unnoticed  by  clove,  because  she's  perceptive.  observant.  it's  half  the  reason  minnie  fought  tooth  and  nail  to  train  her.

well,  also  because  she  remembers  clove  when  she  was  eight  and  mean  and  tried  beating  ares  up  'cause  he  was  an  asshole,  and  it  warms  minnie's  heart. 

❛  your  aim's  off.  ❜  she  says  for  clarification,  head  tilting  when  she  looks  at  the  target,  ❛  you  okay  today?  your  aim's  never  off.  ❜  she  helped  make  damn  sure  of  it.

[ofbloodshed]

the fanfare is excessive. her head throbs with the beginnings of a cruel migraine that knocks relentlessly against her skull. it's been a year since her games, and here sixteen year old clove is, being dropped right back into another arena. winning isn't all it's talked up to be, and she instead finds herself suffering the fate of a hamster on a wheel . . .

round and round she goes, no end in sight that isn't bloody. but if anyone understands that, it's a fellow victor. arms are sealed tight over her chest, and despite having a year of experience under her belt, she still trips gracelessly over the ridiculous gold dress she's been shoved into. the calm, gentle breeze greets flushed cheeks with kindness.

icy eyes settle upon a figure standing by the edge of the rooftop balcony, head falling in a curious incline. ❝ i know you, ❞ she speaks up over the whoops and hollers below, the laughter and glee at their expense, ❝ the golden boy. figured you'd be schmoozing it up with some sponsors. ❞

when clove steps closer, she does so with calculated hesitance. she's seen his games. she knows he's more than just a pretty face. nobody is a friend this time around; careers don't stick together. the glue that held them in an alliance last year consisting of the capitol's lies and tall tales is moot. now there's only anger, and she's well - acquainted with anger.

@4thdistrict LIKED FOR A STARTER!

[ofbloodshed]

pretty is something clove has never felt. nor does she want to ( or so she's been hardwired to think ), inherently despising the feeling of lavish fabrics clinging to her skin and the ache that flashy shoes bring to her feet. she was trained for this, too, spending numerous days devoted to balancing books atop her head and practicing her smile in the mirror.

suffice to say, this was the one area wherein clove was far from a star pupil. fingers smooth along coral pink frills, nose scrunching in a clear display of distaste that she doesn't bother to hide. pausing by her waist, hands curl around the fabric and tug defiantly, as if she's hoping that she can rip the stupid dress off of her in one swift go.

an avox watches in the corner of the room with pity in their eyes, but she pays them no mind. instead, when she lifts her head, the career spins to face her stylist. ❝ i hate it, ❞ she begins bluntly, knuckles turning white from how tightly she grips at the garment, ❝ it's flashy and bright and uncomfortable. i look like i belong in a circus, not in an arena. ❞

❝ i've trained my whole life for this, ❞ she begins after taking a sharp breath, eyes narrowing, ❝ and now you're going to ruin it for me by making me look like a bimbo. ❞ out of the corner of her eye, she spots a pair of scissors. fingers twitch at the thought of wrapping around the blade and plunging it deep within the neck of her stupid stylist.

stupid stylist. stupid dress. stupid, stupid, stupid.

@stylisch LIKED FOR A STARTER!

[ofbloodshed]

the training room is bustling with tributes, some more motivated than others to actually take advantage of the time allotted to them to advance or show off their prowess. for the careers, it might as well be a social hour. they strut around like peacocks displaying their feathers, vibrant greens and blues replaced by a thirst for blood and frightening feats of strength. they observe every other tribute carefully, stalking around the facility like lions circling poor gazelles.

reaching out, clove wraps her fingers around a shimmering silver bow and plucks it out of reach. fingers bump with those of the girl on fire herself, a satisfied and undeniably smug smile stretching across her face that never quite reaches cold eyes. outstretching the bow, she dangles it like one might dangle a carrot before a rabbit.

❝ oh, ❞ she shifts her gaze between the weapon and the tribute, ❝ sorry. did you want this, twelve? ❞ the bow is half her size, but she still manages to give it a little twirl in hand. ❝ what are you going to do with it? miss a target by a mile? ❞ a snicker adorns her taunt, and the career tribute presses the bow against the floor, draping her arm across the width of it.

❝ that's cute. ❞ the compliment is laced with sarcasm, fingers drumming against metal. ❝ i've heard a lot about you, fire girl. but not a whole lot from you. shy? ❞

@mckngsong LIKED FOR A STARTER!

[ofbloodshed]

eyes glance around the training center, his acceptance into the career alliance still shaky as he walks over to her. ‘ good thing there’s always plenty of knives in the arena. ’

she doesn't trust outsiders. to her, anyone beyond cato is a stranger and a threat by default. how he's making friends with such effortless ease is beyond her, but she pays no mind to the distant giggling that she knows belongs to glimmer. they've been going back and forth the entire time that the tributes have been tentatively flocking around the training center, marvel awkwardly lingering on the outskirts of schoolboy and schoolgirl flirtation and pretending he's in on the joke.

not her. clove doesn't enjoy putting on masks. instead, she busies herself with her trusty knives, befriending each one only to hurl it straight at a target with precision far beyond her years. she's just let one fly when footsteps near closer. the muscles in her jaw flutter, teeth clenched, shoulders drawn tense.

❝ what? ❞ she asks in response to the remark, not quite recognizing it as a valiant attempt to start a conversation. when she spins on her heel to face the boy from twelve, she's quick to plaster a sour scowl on her face. arms fold tight across her chest. brows quirk in a clear display of irritation.

how cute. is he trying to latch onto her side? clearly there's no disrupting whatever cato and glimmer have going on, and marvel is about as useful as a rock. maybe this lover boy isn't as dense as she inherently knows each tribute from his district to be year after year. gradually, the corners of her lips twitch, fighting to form some semblance of a smirk.

❝ oh. i get it, ❞ the young tribute hums, sharp gaze giving the blond boy a pointed once - over, ❝ perfect for hurling straight at those love birds, right? not that you'd understand. ❞ what with his supposed infatuation with his district partner. speaking of . . . ❝ shouldn't you be chasing after the fire girl like the lost little puppy dog you are? what are you doing cozying up to me? ❞

[ofbloodshed]

fingers graze tentatively across silky fabric, dark eyes drinking in the embroidered rose sketched so delicately across a snow white napkin. it does, of course, accompany the ridiculously lavish and overly loud decorations overflowing in the temporary home that she and cato have been introduced to. she doesn't want to marvel at any of it; it's flashy and hollow, intended to distract the tributes from what's to come.

and yet . . . the little girl in clove does marvel. her mentor's words meet her ears like a distant echo, head submerged beneath wealthy waters of pretentious pastels. fingertips trace along the rose's pattern, lingering on a thorn and pressing down as if expecting it to prick her. the disappointment that she's met with when soft edges kiss her skin is inevitable.

❝ i don't need your help, ❞ she speaks up rather abruptly, though her gaze doesn't once travel from that stupid napkin, ❝ and i'm sure cato doesn't need your partner's help either. ❞ she's more than sure, actually. she knows cato like the back of her hand. but she doesn't bother to display excessive arrogance; that's best saved for the cameras.

when her eyes do lift, the young tribute finds herself eyeing razor sharp teeth. head tilts inquisitively to one side. ❝ how did it feel? ❞ she questions quietly, fingertip pressing down harder on the elusive thorn beneath it. ❝ actually killing someone, ❞ she elaborates, ❝ was it nice? ❞

nice is a strange adjective to use when describing such brutality. but clove has been hardwired to crave nothing more.

@sacrificus LIKED FOR A STARTER!

[ofbloodshed]

❛ you can yell at me later. just let me help you. ❜ (from peeta!)

teeth are clamped. the muscles in her jaw flutter. dirt - stained fingers are curled tightly around her forearm, breaths drawn sharply through her nose. skin burns, intense pin - pricks traveling across skin courtesy of a tracker jacker sting.

in the midst of the chaos, of the careers swatting frantically at the buzzing bees, she managed to sustain a sting or two. she was certain that cato did too, but he was too hellbent on sucking it up in solitude to show it. glimmer laid dead under that abandoned tree, looking less like a dazzling diamond and more like a monster. there was no doubt in her mind that cato was rattled. marvel, too.

and so here clove is, stuck with the lover boy himself by their established camp at the cornucopia. she slumps against a crate, head tilted back, eyes set on the clear sky above. of course he wants to help. peeta has been playing the role of the charming, benevolent boy with expert ease from the very start.

well, she doesn't buy it. lips curl to form a sardonic smile. ❝ help? ❞ she asks, swallowing back a groan. beneath her fingers, tender flesh throbs in tune with the beat of her heart. ❝ the only thing you could possibly do to help, lover boy, is snap that pathetic fire girl's neck. but you won't do that, right? ❞

❝ you may be able to win over a morsel of cato's trust, and marvel may be too stupid to know otherwise, ❞ she straightens, head dropping so that she locks eyes with the blond boy, ❝ but i see you. all of you. ❞

[ofbloodshed]

this is the part of her training that she utterly despised. she prefers knives to heels, bruised knuckles to extravagant dresses, adrenaline rushes to glitter. onstage, the young tribute stares down the pompous audience before her with cold eyes that somehow hold an alluring edge to them. she smiles, but there's no hint of sweetness behind it. her words drip with venom rather than sugar. she watches people squirm uncomfortably in their seats and revels in it.

backstage, however . . . she wobbles. she trips over the tricky fabric of a dress she wants to claw right off. she boasts the inexperience of a little girl, and she watches bitterly as glimmer practices the exact opposite. lips curl downwards into a sour scowl, sharp eyes following the blonde as she twirls, as she curtsies, as she enamors the audience with her radiant grin and flirtatious commentary.

❝ you look like your entire district simultaneously decided to throw up all over you, ❞ she snarls when all is said and done and they're left to lazily watch every other tribute's forgettable interview, arms folded firmly across her chest. she sways unsteadily on high heels, brows quirking. ❝ cheap. did you have fun selling out? ❞ her tone is airy, head falling at an incline that conveys faux innocence and inquiry.

this is what clove does best. she's not here to make friends or seduce the masses. no, she's here to play with her food before devouring it whole.

@glimmuhr liked for a STARTER!