#anyway i did it

[dinosauring130]

just did something big and scary (literally just asked one of my friends if she wanted to hang out with me)

[unamused-kookaburra]

Me watching a doctor take off the dressing I just replaced on my patients leg after the last doctor took it off

[rebellicnrising]

zoe robins . cis female . she/her ➶ I RECOGNISE THAT FACE ! that’s AMARANTH , the TWENTY SEVEN year old UNDERCOVER MEDIC from DISTRICT ELEVEN. they’ve been in the capitol around SIX MONTHS , long enough to gain a reputation for being so GENTLE & ALOOF . they’re so lucky getting to live in the tribute center for the duration of the games! ( character IS part of the uprising )

BASIC INFORMATION

full name: amaranth nicknames: mara age: twenty-seven birthday: september 21 zodiac: virgo district: eleven gender: cis female pronouns: she / her orientation: bisexual profession: harvester, healer, rebel, undercover medic

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

face claim: zoë robins hair color: black hair style: braided, long- reaches down to the small of her back when not gathered up eye color: brown height: 5'8" scars: a thin scar on her left cheek from a fall as a child, an entry/exit scar on her right shoulder from a bullet

RELATIONSHIPS

father: taurus ( deceased ) mother: evangeline siblings: rue ( older sister, deceased ); osmanthus ( older sibling ), oleander ( youngest sibling ), two younger siblings significant other: tba

EXTRA

mbti: infp-a ( the mediator ) temperament: melancholic moral alignment: true neutral primary vice: pride primary virtue: charity element: earth

BACKSTORY

TW: sibling death, gun violence

ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴍʏ ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛ: ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀᴇ ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴀʀᴋꜱ

your mother carried you and your sibling together-- they against her heart while you grew under it and once you made you entrance into this world ( silent almost long enough for concern before letting that thin cry erupt from small lips and your parents breathed a sigh of relief ), you took the place against her heart while he rested against her back, the heat of the sun beating against the tops of your heads while she worked in the fields you would take your first steps in. sometimes the heartbeat would change- your father tying your sling against his barrel chest so your mother could rest or the fluttering rabbit heart of your big sister who patted your back with a hand that was still soft and round with her own baby fat as she held you against her chest, seeking shelter from the heat of the day under a shady tree -- but each beat of those hearts echoed with love. it takes a village to raise a child- much less three under the age of five- and you learn to be lulled to comfort by the sounds of your neighbors hearts as they lend their own arms and chests to carry you and your siblings as the days grow longer, the sounds of their voices whispering soft lullabies to keep you quiet and still. you wouldn't realize for many years just how little your family had but one thing that there was always abundance of was love-- you were raised on love, cradled by community.

oz learns to walk before you and little legs almost immediately start running after rue while you are still curled against those hearts and when your legs are finally strong enough to hold you and carry you up and down the rows of fruits and vegetables, you never venture far from your mother's skirts. another baby takes your place against her heart and then another. and then another-- and all at once, you're too big to be carried, too big to be held and lulled to sleep by the sounds of a heartbeat. too big to be carried but too small to follow after rue and oz as they scramble up to the tops of trees-- they try to teach you how to find the knots where your toes can grip, the branches that would support your weight and drag you upward-- but you're barely off the ground before fear paralyzes you and you scream out of fear. you don't stop screaming until your father's hands come to pluck you from the tree as easily as he would a low hanging apple.

he tells you to keep your feet on the ground and you cry, wailing about being left behind; rue and oz could flit from tree to tree as easily as the birds in the air but you-- you were planted deep in the earth, afraid to let yourself stray too far from the dirt that covers bare feet. some people were air- like oz and rue- and others were water- like your mother-- you were earth, planted and rooted. your father tells you that he's also earth and there's a peace in knowing that you share that with him; both of you planted with your feet firmly on the ground, firm and unmoving as mountains for the family that you love. and when oz and rue slip out like whispers of wind in the night to the fields, you stand watch beside the small and dingy window, large eyes waiting for them to come back on those feet guided by the air that whisked them one way or another-- always waiting for them to come back home.

ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏʟᴅ-ʏᴏᴜʀ-ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ, ʟᴇᴛ ʟᴏᴏꜱᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ-- ᴡᴇ ʙᴜʀɴ ᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟᴠᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴀꜱʜᴇꜱ

you're only seven when rue's name is called, holding your younger siblings hands almost too tight to keep them from trying to run after her, seeing your mothers hands biting into oz's shoulders to keep them from doing the same. you think you understand- you know that the names that are called on This Day are faces that leave the district-- and they never come back. you haven't watched the games before-- not really, not with any sort of attention that would tell you what is really happening on the screen-- you're just a child whose attention was always occupied with games that rue invented and there's a sinking feeling that this year, there would be no distracting stories or games to keep you from seeing what is played on the large screens. ( an even more sinking feeling that maybe you would have to come up with the games this year for the littles and knowing that you were never as creative as rue. ) you want to ask your father what it Means but there's a look on his face while your mother sobs that has the question shriveling on your tongue.

the littles can only pay so much attention- you understand, it wasn't so long ago that you were five and four and three-- and your mom and dad can't peel their eyes away from the screen. neither can oz. you try to keep them occupied, telling them the stories that rue has told you- imaginary tales she spun from the thin air that she seemed to be able to walk on- and playing games with the rocks and dirt around the feet of those who stand frozen, focused on the screens. there are times when you tug on oz's shirt, asking them to tell you what's happening-- and you act as if you have any idea what they mean when they answer you. there's a part of your mind that doesn't want to understand, that wants to reject the idea that rue would be among those that didn't come back-- and for a moment when they tell you about how rue has found a friend in the bigger girl from twelve, there's this thought that maybe she won't be. after all, you've seen it from the time you were born: none of us can do it alone; everyone needed someone. and when your eyes lift to the screen, your youngest sibling curled in your lap sleeping, you see the same sort of warmth and light in katniss' eyes that you've seen in rue's when she looks at you-- the same light you know is reflected in your eyes when you look at the littles. it soothes your heart a little; rue has found someone in That Place that loves her and you feel like maybe that chance of her coming home is greater than most would think.

you would think-- until your mother screams and your head snaps up from where you've got the littles gathered in the dirt at their feet, listening to another rue story that falls silent on your tongue at the image of your sister with red blooming against her stomach. you're not too young to understand death and it hits you in the same place- grief like a wound, ripped open by the image of your sister falling back into the arms of the girl from twelve who loved her and the sound of your mother screaming- and your hands are reaching for the littles, gathering them close to you like a mother hen as tears trace lines in the dirt on your cheeks. you huddle them around your mother, holding the skirt at her waist as you cry, pressing the littles' faces against your shoulders or tucking them against your mother's legs-- they shouldn't see, you don't want them to see ( you're not even sure if they fully understand or if they're just crying because everyone is ).

you're certain your mother will never stop crying-- her wails have quieted but the tears keep falling; your father's eyes are dry but the look in his face is not that of the earthy man you've always seen yourself reflected in. he almost smolders as he stands with his back and eyes straight and when hands start to lift in that silent salute, his almost shoots up and that fire in his face blazes. it all happens so quickly- the way he pulls from oz, from your family, charging like a bull down the aisle and your mother's panicked voice is telling you and oz to get the babies as chaos erupts. you gather oleander in your arms and reach for a small hand, shouting at oz to come on-- because you can see that same fire burning in his face and it scares you to death.

you lose your sister and your father in the same night.

ʟɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ ꜰɪʀᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ, ʀɪᴠᴇʀ ᴊᴀɢɢᴇᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ꜱᴄᴀʀ ᴡᴇ ʙᴜʀɴ ᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟᴠᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴀꜱʜᴇꜱ-- ᴀɴᴅ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴜʙʙʟᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛꜱ

a year later, you think you'll lose oz too; you're not sure if your mother can handle another loss. the district healer comes by every day with fresh bandages and poultices made from the wild plants that grow on the outskirts of the fields and you're fascinated. you hover when they visit, wide eyes taking in each step and questions falling from your mouth, a mind eager to learn. their hands guide yours, bringing bundles of wild medicine and they teach you their names, their uses and how they work together in different ways to help heal and as that hole in oz's side begins to heal- with the healer's and your aid- there's a feeling of accomplishment and a small fire lit in your own heart-- a passion. something that you could look at and see the good and help that it makes.

your days are spent in the fields, trying to pick up where rue and your father left off-- there are still mouths to feed and your mother is only one person now; she tells you and oz that she's lucky to have such strong children. you play second mother to your younger siblings, directing and guiding them when exhaustion sweeps over your mother-- you fight with oz when they continues to sneak out like the wind at night, particularly when it looks like one of those younger siblings might try and follow them in the way they had followed rue. you're a mother hen trying like hell to keep your chicks gathered under your skirts, safe from the storms in the district that brew like low hanging clouds filled with lightning or the predators that lurk just outside the door, ready with sharp teeth and bullets. your father is dead and now it's up to you- that earthen daughter, built from clay and rooted in the ground- to be the rock for your family; no one gave you this duty but yourself.

your nights are spent in the healer's home, learning the tricks of their trade. you learn how to create tea blends that ease headaches or muscle pains, poultices and salves that pull out the sting of the sun or an insect bite, how to set and bind broken bones. as those storms outside the doors continue to brew and those predators grow more bold, you learn how to dig out bullets-- how to prepare the dead for burial. it's something you throw in oz's face, tears standing in your eyes, when they try to sneak out-- how long before you're cleaning out another bullet hole in them? how long before you're washing and wrapping their body in linen to be buried? would they do that to their younger siblings who have already had to bury a father and a sister? would they do that to your mother? to you?

time goes on and you and oz stand in those crowds, waiting for names to be called and then your once-littles. the healer grows older and so do you and the time spent in the fields is exchanged for the cool of the healer's hut, surrounded by hanging herbs and flowers or walking across the district to whoever might need a healer's touch, a basket on your arm filled with natural medicines and hands that have learned the body and how to mend. you bring babies into the world and ease the pain of the elderly before they slip out of it. you soothe stings and burns and broken bones and sicknesses that whip through sections of the district like wildfire-- and you learn that a healer's price is higher than most can afford and you meet their needs with mercy, demanding nothing in return but accepting whatever blessings they give freely. you find yourself caught in that storm whether you want to be or not. you never ask for forgiveness from oz for your harsh words and your anger at being caught in the same storm- of being in the eye of it; you only reach for their hand to let them know that they won't have to walk through it alone.

until the day they have to-- your anger at them being caught, of their face being known as part of the eye of that storm and how it would bring those predators to your door, is smothered by the fear for their safety-- of the heartbreak of knowing you can't go with them. not when your littles still have to stand in the crowds on reaping day, not when your mother stands strong in the face of losing yet another child. you're the rock after all, the one who stands firm and unmoving. your mother sends them with food and water; you send them with medicine and your love and a promise: that once the danger of losing those younger siblings to the hunger games passes that you would join them in thirteen. oz would carve the way and you'd follow that path with the rest of your family.

you never hear from them again-- you don't know if it means they reached thirteen safely or not.

& ɪᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ, ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴏᴍᴇɴ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ, ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ

years continue to pass and you mark the passing of time by those reaping days, breathing sigh after sigh of relief when they pass and your siblings are passed over by that angel of death. you devote yourself to that important work of a healer and the storm that continues to grow in district eleven, passing messages in tea bags and salves from those who couldn't move with the same freedom as a healer whose business takes them to all corners of a district. you watch those younger siblings and how they follow in the path carved by oz and your heart damn near stops when you realize it but the anger you had with oz has tempered over time to concern-- to worry. oh, how you worry about them.

you fall in love-- you don't expect it to happen and for a long while, you tell yourself there's no time for such things. but the two of you are caught in that same storm and before you know it, you're swept up in it and it's their hand that you reach for in the eye. you don't forget that promise to oz but for a while you pretend it isn't there-- you wonder if it's a promise even worth keeping, if they are even alive to still hold you to it. there are new promises whispered, foreheads pressed together and hearts that beat together with legs tangled; there are new dreams imagined and for once, you think maybe you understand the fire in oz's and your father's eyes because your beloved's fire sparks your own and it burns in your chest-- a love for rebellion, for a life with them without fear, for children that won't die on a large screen like your sister had.

there's a fire-- a real one, set by that rebel storm-- to train cars loaded down with the bounty of eleven bound for the capitol. the fire is set but before that storm can move, the peacekeepers are there with guns that mow them down; that riddle the bodies of those freedom fighters and you, who were waiting in the grass for trouble, go barreling forward the moment you see them hit by the biting bullets only to be caught in the hold of a peacekeeper. he drags you away from the fray, hand over your mouth and presses you against a tree and there's a fear in your heart when his hand goes for his belt, only for him to press a small handgun in your hands along with a small disc that he whispers quickly is full of information for the rebels-- for thirteen. he tells you that you have to be the one to take it to them, tells you to shoot him to make it look like you overpowered him ( because who knows better than a healer which places will heal or harm ); he tells you what paths to take and which to avoid-- wishes he could give you a map but that you have to run. there's no time to go back to your home, no time to tell your mother or your siblings goodbye-- no time to check on that beloved who had fallen, never knowing if they died in the dirt or not.

you aim for his knee, the gunshot lost in the chaos-- and you run.

ʙᴜᴛ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ

it takes you nearly two months to make it to thirteen, following the directions the peacekeeper gave you- fully expecting it to be a trap. the journey isn't easy- it's longer than you expect to get from eleven to a place that isn't supposed to exist anymore- but is made easier when you run across others who are fleeing towards that same dream of freedom. it doesn't matter that you all hail from different districts or that your stories are so vastly different-- you're all pilgrims trying to reach that promised land and when you stumble upon it's ruins, there's a moment where hope almost fails. to think you have come all this way only to find a graveyard-- of course there was no district thirteen. movement from the rubble has your gun lifting, finger pulling the trigger and then pain explodes in your shoulder as you fall back into the arms of companions who scream out words that sound muffled: sanctuary! sanctuary! the gun falls from your hands as you're lifted into arms and the pain in your arm becomes too great and you fall to darkness.

when you wake, you think you must still be dreaming because it's real. district thirteen, hidden under the ruins of former glory and might, and you fish the disc from your side, pressing it into the palm of a healer who attends to your shoulder. time passes; you heal. time passes; you become another one of those healers in the white uniforms, treating those who have grown in the underground and those who fought like hell ( like you ) to find it. time passes; you train. you never find oz and after months of speaking to anyone who will give you the time to ask about them- to give detailed descriptions of your sibling, the scars on their body, the way their mouth turns up when they smile- you finally stop asking. oz never made it to thirteen and you're told death would be a kinder ending to imagine for them. you try to get news of eleven- of your mother and the littles who are now grown; you never learn much.

five years pass and you're approached with a mission-- to be sent to the capitol along with others to pose as a medic, infiltrating the tribute center and act as support for those who have been deep undercover as the clock ticks down on district thirteen making their move. it's been six months since you arrived in the capitol under the cover of night, set up in an apartment paid for by those who allied themselves with rebels with papers and credentials that make you a different person. for now, your job is to wait but the closer the games come, the more anxious you are for action-- you won't move until that signal is given but once it is? you'll let that fire consume you in the same way it consumed your father and your sibling.

if you're going to burn, you might as well burn bright.

TFLDR + EXTRAS

the third of rue's siblings, born after oz

the lil momma hen of the siblings like def Acts like the Oldest even if she isn't

started becoming interested in healing after oz got shot and followed that passion to apprentice w d11's healer and eventually sort of took their place

at first was very against oz being involved with the rebellion but as a healer she ended up sort dragged into it whether she wanted to be or not and really just. got over it.

swore to oz that she would go to thirteen after the rest of their siblings were old enough not to be reaped

ended up falling in love with another rebel from 11 and almost doesn't keep that promise but when a plot to burn train cars full of produce for the capitol goes awry, she's pulled by a peacekeeper (secretly allied w d13) who helps her escape

meets up with some folks who are also trying to get to thirteen and ends up getting shot when they get there bc she's got that happy trigger finger and tbh she shot first

stays as a healer/medic in 13 for some time and trains to be a soldier when she realizes oz never made it to 13

gets picked to go undercover in the capitol as a medic to act as support for those who are also there-- has been in the capitol for about 6 months as 'mara'

CONNECTIONS

D11 CONTACTS-- people from the homeplace that would know her as the former healer of the district, people she grew up with, whatever-- just the home folk

LOST LOVE-- okay so,,,,,,, mara doesn't know whether her lover survived the clash at the trainyard or not. i think it could be. inchresting if maybe they did and they find each other after five years.

REBEL PEACEKEEPER-- ok so mara wouldn't have gotten out of d11 or to 13 safely without the help of this peacekeeper. they dont have to be currently assigned to d11 but would've been at least 5 years ago.

DONT BE SUSPICIOUS-- would love some non rebels who are squinting p hard at her bc lbr she Plays at being a capitolite medic but there's something Distinctly District about her and maybe her storylines slip from time to time and don't quite add up.

literally anything yall know the drill

[dorkydiaz]

Why does texting my brother literally give me max anxiety like he’s literally my BROTHER arguably one of the people I’m closest to

[longsightmyth]

People are so stupid about snakes. If there's a little black racer chilling outside just leave it alone, you don't have to kill it, it's probably dealing with all your pests for you, jesus christ

[tearosepedall]

EDIT : THIS IS A MEME DO NOT TAKE IT SERIOUSLY (and seriously just don’t be Rude????? Like wtf lol)

[hinamie]

trick or treat!

[captainsaltypear]

IS ANYONE ELSE GONNA TALK ABOUT THIS OR

[chalkrub]

autumnal chill....featuring the girl

[crustaceousfaggot]

No nuance allowed. Put your nuance in the tags, I just want a yes or no answer

[cryptocism]

"just as I did, in 1983."

you'd never know my favourite parts of the show are the fucked up insane bits when my first instinct is to draw the cheesiest thing imaginable

[ciderjacks]

contracts written in blood

+

[verflares]

just how long is forever? // not long enough, with you

pssst. check this out on inprnt :]

[blueskittlesart]

Open your eyes...

[hawberries]

canaries with my favourite b99 bit

[egophiliac]

bring back zooterkins, the best 17th-century swear word

I don't normally do Just Characters Swearing, but. ...this kind of wrote itself and then wouldn't leave my head. it comes from both a piece of character-writing advice that has always stuck with me, and also my conviction that Leona is 1000% funnier as a character if his dialogue has to stay G-rated. let Kalim say fuck, but don't let Leona say bastard.

(I'm sorry)