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maytheoddshq · 9 months

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Cress Meadowforge (she/her). Trainer. District One. Twenty-five. Anya Taylor-Joy. UPDATED BIO.

TWs: sexual assault, drugs/addiction, forced medical procedures, burn mentions, violence

Cress is a Queen of the Night. More aptly, a night-blooming cereus: a cacti flower that only blooms once a year, for a single night. For most of the year, she remains tightly coiled, spikes bristled for any who might venture too close. No amount of tending to can coax her from her shell, from the armor she has built to protect herself from the world outside. And then, in the most unlikely moment, when all the world lets down its guard, she blossoms.

A rare few will see this - see her - but that is all it takes.

Born to wealthy jewelers Fleur and Myron Meadowforge in the heart of District One, Cressida understood that certain heirlooms held invaluable merit, regardless of their beauty. It was the artistry and craftsmanship that mattered. She viewed the Games in much the same way: a wretched masterpiece without compare. She watched each one in horrid appreciation, the way someone admires the truly macabre, knowing that one day, she would have the honor of bearing this beautiful burden too.

And when she did, she realized there was nothing beautiful about it.

Cressida volunteered for the 120th Hunger Games, her eyes bright and hungry. She had trained for this for years beside the other Careers, all sharpening their teeth against the others, smiling cruelly the way an animal warned its prey the end was near. Her skills were her charm, her air of innocence, and her beauty – at least, that’s what her mentors instructed her to portray. They painted her as something desirable and riveting to sponsors and a sincere ally and advocate to the other tributes, and it was a spotless, hollow facade.

They’d called it Clima Cladis – the climate of disaster – and Cressida remembered thinking that she wouldn’t have to kill anyone, that doing so would actually be a mercy compared to what the environment was doing to them. It’s the seasons, the commenters had gasped, and they had been close. It had been the seasons, but not like she’d ever known: summer so hot it seared and melted flesh from the bone; winter so cold that, had they survived, it would have been without noses, or fingers, or toes; and spring, with its torrential downpour that flooded the arena and mutts that emerged from hibernation ravenous and cruel. Only the fall had been a reprieve, and they craved it each rapid cycle – emerging from their hiding places in search of supplies, and sustenance, and sponsorships.

She won by killing the entirety of the Career pack first, framing another district for the slaughter before positioning herself as a helpless fawn in need of companionship – a sheep who had been forced along with the wolves. One by one, Cressida won the others’ favor – their trust and affection – until they lost their lives to her hand in turn. The pair from Eight. They took her poison willingly, thinking it was medicine. The boy from Six, who held her down in the burning sun. She broke his legs, let him fry in the summer heat, listened to his screams from the mouth of a cave. In the end, Cressida didn’t even have to kill the last tribute: Lila. She – under the impression that they were in love – killed herself to let Cressida win, throwing herself from the top of the mountain that they had been forced up in the finale. She secured her place in arena history as having one of the highest kill counts out of any victors. Cressida’s Games were heralded not as one of startling might or breath-taking violence, but of operatic melodrama – of unparalleled manipulation and cunning.

Cressida had dazzled Panem in the arena, but she found the price of victorhood immeasurably steep. The Head Gamemaker, Eugene Pharmakos, found her astonishing, a cunning creature of unparalleled beauty. She was invited to meet him the night before her victory tour – an encounter that irreparably altered her life. Despite the efforts of her mentors, Domitia and Dahlia, Cressida was commodified for Capitolite consumption. Drugged with morphling and sleeping syrup, she spent her victory tour in a stupor, given uppers to keep her cognizant enough to perform at each designated stop. Exploited for the amusement and entertainment of the elite, Cressida realized that she was now District One’s finest luxury export. She was eighteen.

The life of a victor further dehumanized her, stripping her of agency she had fought – and won – to reclaim. Had she not done as they asked? Was she not entitled now to a life of spoils – of peace, at least? Scarred on nearly a fourth of her body, Cressida begged the Capitol to heal her, to graft her skin and remove the burn marks. They agreed, put her under, sent her into surgery. But the Capitol saw the scars as salacious, desirable in their morbidity – the price of victorhood. One Cressida couldn’t afford to override. Instead, she was given cosmetic surgery. Her buccal fat removed, her facial symmetry increased, her lips injected with fillers, her body altered. When she awoke, Cressida wept for a week.

Still, it was easy to feign contentedness under such a continued stupor, still weaning her way off of the sleeping syrup and morphling. She knew already how to behave, so much so that she began to exist as though automated: to angle the right way, to recite her words carefully, to enrapture and entice. Nothing about Cressida felt real anymore, and while she’d never been angrier or more miserable, she’d also never been more popular.

When given the chance, Cressida returned to the Tower as quickly as possible, eager for a task that allowed her to channel her rage. She took up training, committed to giving tributes a chance beyond their perceived or initial physical capabilities. She held no allegiance to a particular district; her politics defied regional boundary-lines, and her willingness to sidestep ethical boundaries made her an ideal saboteur with intimate access to tributes, mentors, and sponsors alike. Another Gamemaker, Lex Sterling, saw promise in this, and Cressida once again had a purpose.

Shedding her expensive skin, she left her old self behind – that angry girl from One, so vulnerable – and crafted Cress instead. Cress was composed. Cress was unshakeable. Cress did whatever she wanted. Cress existed only to indulge: to have, and to command, and to destroy. She began spying for Lex, and in turn, he offered his protection and his assistance in her pursuit of revenge against all those that had harmed her, including Head Gamemaker Pharmakos. Cress made things happen, or made things go away – it didn’t matter. It was all the same. She was biding her time. Building connections. Indebting. For years, it carried on this way, and Cress distanced herself from the before. Now and then were lifetimes away.

At times, she became so far removed from the past that Cress considered herself less a victor of One and more a victor of District Zero, a secret society and social club run in the catacombs beneath the Capitol, fueled by the same hyper-advanced technology and medicine that was used in the arenas. Here, she could operate within a familiar landscape, only now, with greater agency. Here, she could chase a high on her own accord, partial to the shimmering purple of ether. Here, she could explore the macabre in peace. Cress was a starlet of the upper-class elite, an heiress to the diamond mines owned by her family, and now the patron saint of the Capitol's underground social scene. At last, she had everything she ever wanted.

Until Cress met Slate Skylar during the 132nd Games and realized that – perhaps – there was more in the world than she ever bargained for. The pair began as sparring partners, training together in the Tower each night during the Games cycle. However, one evening, after Slate failed to show, Cress found him on the Twelfth Floor, surrounded by anti-Capitol propaganda: his rebel zine, TH3 T0MMYKN0CK3R. But Cress, despite her pro-Games perspective and her societal standing, was intrigued, drawn to the truth of Panem, desperate to understand the world beyond what they were shown on TV screens. With a shifting perspective, Cress found herself at Slate’s side: training, bantering, working on the zine. Perhaps it was inevitable. Only a boy raised in ashes could love something burnt. But Cress and Slate – two feral creatures, afraid of being trapped, suspicious of the world – found each other, and for once, the world did not hurt.

It was too good to be true. Too good to last. And a year later, during the off-cycle following the 133rd Victor’s Ball, Cress received a tip from Lex: Peacekeepers were coming to raid the apartment she and Slate shared. They were coming to arrest him. Cress and Slate attempted to burn the evidence, turning the complex into an inferno. But as Cress slipped through the window onto the fire escape, Slate locked it behind her. She watched as he turned back, continuing to shovel items into the blaze. She watched as the Peacekeepers arrested him, dragging him away. Cress was transported to a safe house on the outskirts of the city, where she was treated for smoke inhalation and her burn wounds while she and Lex worked to clear her name.

It was also where she took a test, alone, sitting on the floor of the bathroom. One that came back positive. Cress was pregnant. Her whole world had changed overnight.

Eventually, when Slate resurfaced in a Capitol prison, she was able to leverage her connections to curate a brief goodbye. During the visit, grasping each other between metal bars, Cress broke the news. He told her to choose for herself, to keep it or not. Slate was to be executed. It was no longer his to help decide. He would never know the child, never be more than a story Cress and Hestia told. The Peacekeeper said time was up. Cress wanted to die.

She went to Twelve, where she stayed with Hestia Ember. Under her protection and guidance, Cress learned how to care for the child she would bring into this world alone. They waited for months for word on Slate’s execution, his fate left undecided, dragging on – painfully – further and further. When it was time for Reaping Day, Cress returned home to One. She was still a victor, still eligible. It was her duty to stand on stage and look strong, proud. But as she walked to the Reaping stage, Cress’ phone buzzed with a news notification: Slate, the infamous rebel also known as Meta Morphic, had been Reaped as a tribute from Twelve. She stumbled out onto the stage, stunned, only to hear a familiar voice ring out. Her youngest sister, Callisto, with her hand held high in the crowd. I volunteer. Once again, in an instant, Cress’ world came crashing down.

Strengths: charming, eloquent, strategic, clever, warm

Weaknesses: manipulative, vengeful, materialistic, hedonistic

PENNED BY: LENA

#thg rpg #thg rp #hunger games rpg #hunger games rp #oc rpg #accepted #cress

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