#FISNLYL

[thefirstmockingjay]

@rimeoverreason

“Did you love me, Coriolanus?” She barely needs to speak for her words to resound in the trees. The echo reaching Coriolanus and continuing its journey through the trees- through the Mockingjays. Their words are not accurate, these birds cannot mimick human word, but they sure awfully sound like her. This is where, hopefully, Coriolanus will realize that the whole forest is covered in an ankle deep layer of snow. It was June. The heat that had been radiating from the train station had been extreme, and locals were doing all they can to stay cool. Yet here he was. Feet covered in snow. With a ghost girl staring right at him with dark, thick eyes. “Is that why? Or was it because you know your truth. And where it stands.”

Her words make no sense, twisting and turning. She cannot speak right. As he begins toward her, Lucy Gray Baird cannot help but drag her feet through the snow towards him. Oh, how alone she’s been these last few years, waiting in this snow riddled forest for his return. Oh how time has melted her mind and turned it into a putty that she’s molded, to fit him, to fit the woods that encompass her home.

As he approaches closer, her haunting figure changes, and she begins to look fresh again, new again, a gust of winter air seems to lift the black off her fingers, freshening them and bringing her to life. Soon, they stand inches from each other. You could swear, her perfume of lavender and patchouli oil was still radiating gently from the crooks of her neck, and her hair. Her hair was still gently slick with the rain. A hand goes to his chest, and gentle brown eyes look up into his.

“Or did you come because you know the birds know. And you’ve come to settle it once and for all. Have you, Coriolanus Snow? Or have you come to love me once again like you did those years ago. Did you finally make a choice?” Her words are harsh, despite how gorgeous and beautiful she is cleansed in moonlight reflected by the pact snow on the ground. Her other hand is holding her skirt, close, as if she’s going to fly away again at the first site of disapproval. It’s clear Coriolanus needs to be careful with his words, ‘for the siren is trying to lure him into her trap.

TW: detailed talk of extreme frostbite/rotting flesh.

The harsh whistling tune of the Mockingjays was the only sound resounding in the forest. It’s trees silencing the worlds sound around them. Be still, for there is strange music in the air. The cold nipping bite of an approaching snowstorm was biting him, like a vicious snake wanting a taste. The birds continued, some flittering down to peak at the man made of ice. Some of them spurred past his head- as if mocking the bullets he tossed their way. Their whistles merely get louder the further he goes down the path.

Lucy Gray Baird is sitting amongst the trees. Eyes staring. Dark and full and round- they land on the blonde and perfectly poised man below. He came. He truly came. She supposed that even after all this time- he could not refuse her voice. Her sirens call. Luring him deeper into the forest. The air is still, cold and unmoving- it’s stiff like cornstarched fabric. The whistles of the birds seem to turn more and more human, and the forest seems to get tighter and tighter as if the trees were attempting to constrict him like a boa snake strangling it’s pray.

She flitters, walking above him with curious eyes, feet leaping from branch to branch, like a curious bird following along. She didn’t plan out this far- what exactly she was going to do now that he was in her sights. She just knows that he needed to feel that ice cold rage that she felt. He needed to have a lesson well learned. He needed to feel the ice cold air sinking down to his lungs. He needed to feel how dark and scary the world was. He has been speaking, to himself, this whole time. As if he can feel her. Good for him, she’s right there. Soon, the songbird lands, as if apparating in front of him ten feet down the road.

Her form is a stark sight. She hasn’t aged a day. Her clothes remain the same from that fateful day. The white shirt has become tattered and torn and dirty- ice clinging to its stitches. Her dress is the same way, looking unmoving despite the wind blowing the leaves around her. Her hair is perfect, somehow. It’s her face, however. And her hands and arms and neck. That prove that something is terribly, horribly wrong. Her fingers look spindly, as if the meat on them has left, and in return all that remains is charred with frostbite, black tips moving to blueish-purple bruise. Her face sunken, her eyes were encompassed by dark circles that seemed to sink on forever. Her inner lips were tinged black, blue lining it as if it was fancy makeup. She was rotting, her colors dark and faded and purples and blacks of disgusting rot. Her face was not the same beautiful torch of light he once knew. His choices have ensured that she would never be that young and beautiful again. Those dark- sunken- eyes. They stare into him. Glazed.

“why did you come here. Do you know what you’ve done?”

She even sounds like a bird. Hoarse, like her voice is nothing but a Jabberjays recording being played back to him. As if she has succumbed to her true form. A songbird. Destined to call to whoever can hear in the forest. Hoping that somebody hears the call of the siren, Lucy Gray Baird.

[suiana]

ok after wuthering waves Has been sitting on my phone for over a week I FISNLYL downloaded the in-game stuff! We all cheer in unison

YIPPEE

[an1chovies]

IM FISNLYL EOGHTEEN HSV

[starlanner]

july 15th csnt come fast enougg