#writeblr hunger games

[whgmasterofceremonies]

Round 22?

Yes, I am somewhat not super stressed out at the moment, and I somehow believe that I will have enough time to actually write and make this happen if everyone else would like it! Which really means, I'd love to have another round of the WHG, if there is interest!

Reminder of the basics: you submit your precious blorbos and I put them through the Brant Steele Hunger Games Simulator to see who survives to the end! There are different options, with relationships and changes I can make to events. So, it's up to you! We can do a classic WHG, with a classic Hunger Games and death, or we could do a different arena theme, a different event entirely where the characters don't even canonically die, or something else! I'll be making a poll at the end of this post to see what you are interested in!

This is just to gauge interest, and if there is interest, I will make a post to ask for submissions! Please do not submit characters at this time! And maybe another poll for more specific ideas and themes. Please reblog to show your interest or to boost!

[forthesanityofstorytellers]

WHG Prompt 5 - Air of Authority

Lyra leans back on some social training from home and can't believe it actually works.

Taglist: @concealeddarkness13 @maple-writes @pied-piper-of-hamlet @pen-of-roses @ratracechronicler 

--------------

She was left alone for most of the rest of the ride, ducking into a room that seemed to be for her and pulling out the other bits of food she’d managed to steal. Only when she was alone did she feel a tiny hint of regret that she was doing this alone.

Oh well. Jake and Hansel only wanted to get back home. Not help. She had to convince them to help out here. This time she was only restricted by what she wanted to do. Nothing else.

Well…nothing else that couldn’t be overcome. She still had to abide by the rules enough so that she didn’t stand out…which meant she probably shouldn’t have threatened the citizen in the foul suit or broken the screen. But he was begging to be knocked down a peg and out here, there was no one to tell her how high-borns were supposed to behave.

She finally finished what she’d swiped from various tables and was trying to decide the best way to get her hands on some materials enough to make a bow when she felt the train come to a stop. She peeked out only to find a pair of guards outside where she was, ready to take her on. But this was how it was supposed to go, right? Train ride, out to the almighty Capitol, put on display, listen to someone drone on with the lies of how this is honorable, then to a…what was it…a training room, she thought. That was where she’d be able to approach the others or listen from a distance. That was where she really wanted to get to.

So she let herself get practically pulled this way and that, down hallways and past windows and more screens, plopped in a chair, a small group of others surrounding her.

She snarled and snapped when they tried to remove her bandana, the team hesitating and looking around. “I have this on for a reason,” she growled at them. “Trust me, taking it off works against any sort of beautification process.” She hadn’t managed to fend them off last time…and after a moment of consideration, it seemed she wouldn’t be able to fend them off this time either as someone grabbed it from behind and practically snipped it off her head. The rest came with equal precision, her jacket pulled off before she could really react.

She grunted at the sudden silence, the weird chattering monkeys looking at each other and then their leader, who was eyeing her up and down. Lifting her head, Lyra cleared her throat and flexed her wings for a moment, the fluttering noise filling the room as she worked them before letting them down once more.

“Stop gawking,” she demanded of them. “You have a job to do. Do it.”

That seemed to snap them back into action, the group chittering and chatting amongst themselves. The head of the group glanced at what he’d prepared and back at Lyra, her training giving her the authoritative air of the highbloods and, with it, the instinctual space afforded to one of a high standing. While they chatted among themselves and began to buzz around her, trying to work her looks into the costume, she stood as still and commanding as she had been trained to do.

“No,” she said, slapping at one of their hands when they went to put the costume on her. “That won’t work. That fabric doesn’t work with my skin tone; are you blind?! Get something that works with me, not against me, or do you not know your own occupation?”

The action almost seemed to take them offguard, which was odd. Surely they had tributes that didn’t willfully stand here and get stripped bear every single time? Either way, she grabbed at the costume and snatched it from their hands. “Go on. Get your betters. Let them try to handle me with grace and dignity you don’t seem to be able to afford.”

After another moment of conferring with each other, the reluctantly left the room. Left her alone.

They really shouldn’t have.

Lyra ripped the stupid costume into ribbons, tying each one to her horns to make them look like a prop, then taking the bits that were whole and creating a loosely-fitting cape that could hide her wings but would shudder as she flapped them to create a sort of wave of the fabric. She the shirt and pants she borrowed, ripping up the seams to create a skirt that had slits but would still go down to her ankles, the colors almost muted compared to the costume but seemed to work in her favor. She grabbed a few of the colored brushes and went over herself once to add some shades or highlights, make it look like the team had done their  job, and then took some of the brushes and snapped the ends off for a tipped point. She managed to hide those in her skirt before a door opened and she spun, head up again as she strode towards the opening.

“Finally,” she huffed. “I thought I would have to wait around here all day.”

She was a highborn. She knew how to perform, how to get the respect her position deserved…and it appeared that the training worked even when she wasn’t home. She was taken by the guards – peacekeepers, she was pretty sure she heard someone call them – to something pulled by giant beats that snorted and pawed. At first her mind thought they were Kamare clan, giants that could take the form similar to these creatures. Her eyes lit up at first before she realized they had flat heads and were smaller than the two-skinned ones from her home system…plus the Kamare wouldn’t allow themselves to be worked like this.

The sight caused a small pang of a longing for home, something she didn’t experience often. She shook her head and glanced at the other tributes, reminded herself why she’d come. She took her place next to the other tribute and did her best to ignore the sounds coming from nearby, the loud cheers and jeers from those watching.

She remembered this from last time too. The noise was too much then. It would be the same now. At least this time she was prepared. She flattened her ears to her head and prepared herself to be thrust out in front of everyone, concentrating on the images and names she’d gathered from the images of the Reaping. She had an idea of who she could start with, who looked like they might have needed a friend out here. Who looked like they wanted to escape. Who looked like they’d be able to help her figure out how to break this place and cause as much chaos as possible when doing it.

[concealeddarkness13]

WHG 21 Prompt 5 - Chess

Content warning for explicit sexual dialogue and suggestive themes. About 1,500 words. Tagging: @ratracechronicler, @maple-writes, @pen-of-roses, @drabbleitout, and @grailfish!

Even though I had been to the ridiculous parties in the past few months, the stylist team still found things to poke and prod and rip out. They hadn’t sedated me yet, which was probably on purpose so I would have to experience all the embarrassment and pain. I just gritted my teeth (I had went back to dull teeth and no tail or scales) and stayed quiet. It would soon be over, and I wouldn’t even be able to get uncomfortable over the ridiculous outfit they’d have me wear.

The team told me that the stylist would come in soon, and they left me alone, with just a towel for cover. I wrapped it tightly around me when the door opened, but I frowned when I saw who it was. The fucking escort! The one who had looked at me and seemed to know me! He was still covered in glitter, making me want to gag at the garishness of it all. Great. I was doomed.

He smiled and bowed at me with a flourish. “Yes, it is I, the mysterious stranger from the party all those months ago. It is so good to see you again, little dragon.”

I blinked, recognizing what he was talking about, but still entirely confused. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He blinked and stood up straight, before muttering something I didn’t catch. “I guess your mentor didn’t tell you that I would be your stylist?”

I blinked again. “No?”

He sighed dramatically. “Then I’ll need to start again. Goodbye.” He actually left the fucking room just to walk back in a few seconds later, smirking. “If you remember the party where you so gloriously bit that bastard’s cock off, I met you there first, and we talked. I hope you will forgive me for not doing what we had agreed would help you recognize me, but that would be unfortunate with how they left you for me.”

Conor. He was the whole reason I even had the courage to hurt Ashont that night. My cheeks burned as I imagined just kissing him here and now. “I…they sedated me after that, so I wasn’t able to look for you. I’m sorry.”

His smile got sharper, more dangerous. “They should be the ones who are sorry, little dragon. Punishing you for fighting against your own abuser. But I suppose little can be expected of them anyway.” He sighed and walked further away, towards a wardrobe. Which at least meant he didn’t notice how I embarrassingly leaned towards him as he moved away, as if he had a gravitational pull. “The stylist you originally had was going to put you in a ridiculous outfit that would have just shown off your body. No flair whatsoever. So, I decided to…intervene.” He looked back at me with a smile that showed off his fangs, and my cheeks burned worse. “I was thinking more of a theme, if you would be inclined to at least trust me in this.”

Anything would be better than being constantly sexualized. I nodded. “I trust you. In more than this. You—” You were the reason I held onto hope. Knowing that someone wanted to help, that there were people who cared, while being surrounded by indifferent Capitol citizens, saved me. I know I can’t really trust anyone, but still, I absolutely trust you. How the fuck could I say that to him? It sounded like a declaration of love.

He tilted his head. “Not recommended, when it comes to me.” He chuckled and opened the wardrobe, pulling out a red suit that glittered in the light and had a pattern that looked like scales. He turned back to me and handed it over. “Please change into this. I need to get some accessories that the Capitol did not provide.” He waved and left, and I scrambled to get changed, not wanting to sit around in that fucking towel anymore.

The suit fit well, but I changed so quickly that I had to wait for a while before he finally showed up again. He was carrying bottles and makeup and smiling conspiratorially. He didn’t explain though, just setting down the stuff and opening the wardrobe again, pulling out a crimson cape and a set of dragon wings that looked realistic.

I stared as he helped put both the cape and the wings on. “Could you remain partially transformed, with your tail, scales, and fangs?” I nodded, letting my tail, scales, and fangs appear, and he smiled wider. “Good girl.”

Fuck. My tail wagged, and I couldn’t stop it as Conor went and grabbed the stuff he came in with. “Sit down, please. I will apply your makeup and fix your hair.”

I did so, intentionally sitting on my tail to stop it from wagging. He set up an area in front of me, and my cheeks burned as I finally remembered how gorgeous he was. “The wings move, letting you stretch them out to show off to the crowd more, if you would like that. I have an idea to make your hair look red and firey in the light. Is that suitable to you?” I nodded, drowning in his eyes. He could ask anything of me, and I would agree. He nodded, his smile turning into a smirk. “I’ll take care of you afterwards so you will not have to worry about any leftover glitter from your costume.” I squirmed at his low voice and how he looked me up and down. Couldn’t he just take me right now if he was gonna be so flirty?

And then he just left me there in my horniness. He walked away from the palpable sexual tension and grabbed one of the bottles and shook it. “Make sure to cover your eyes,” he purred. Fuck, he totally knew.

I couldn’t help but squirm again as I covered my eyes and he sprayed the hair product all over my hair, carefully running his hands through it probably to make sure the product distributed all through it. Once he was done with that, he caressed my cheek. “Now, for the makeup. Try to relax, little dragon.”

Oh fucking hell, it was like he was using the flirts I had had to use on others right back on me. And as I kept my eyes closed but did move my hands away and he started working, he was so gentle. I was so used to people being rough, demanding so much from me, and instead, he was quiet and calm. It was…so nice. I really could relax and not worry about whether he would hurt me or not. I didn’t understand, but I trusted him.

It took a lot longer than I expected, but when he said he was done, I opened my eyes and stared at the mirror. My hair still only looked like a shiny green in this light, but my face. The makeup looked like I had glittering red scales covering my face and down my neck, with black makeup framing my eyes. I…I looked gorgeous. And not in the objectifying way, in the way that I would want to look.

I blinked and looked over at Conor, tears blurring my vision. “Th-thank you.” I tried to duck my head to hide the tears, but he held my chin up, wiping my eyes with a cloth.

He chuckled. “Wouldn’t want to mess up all my hard work now, would you? It is almost time, so it’s time to go. I’ll see you afterwards, little dragon.” He bowed.

I nodded and headed out, being careful to not hit the wings on anything. People stared as I walked past, but that didn’t make me feel uncomfortable for once. No one bothered me, they just let me walk onto my chariot on my own. And I just realized that I hadn’t received the sedation I was supposed to get. Was my stylist supposed to sedate me?

Even better that it had been Conor then. Maybe…maybe I wouldn’t have to be sedated again. And I could show them why they should fear me.

But not today. I just stayed happily aware as the chariots started moving, and as the audience screamed, I did stretch my wings out and glared at the crowd. When I saw myself on the screens out of the corner of my eyes, I looked dangerous, and my hair…

My hair practically glowed red with how shiny it looked. It matched the color of my clothes and makeup scales, and I made sure to smile to show off my fangs, and the crowd screamed more. I flipped them off and tried to block them out as I just kept that dangerous image of myself in my head. I wasn’t showing off for them. I was showing off for myself, to prove to myself that I was powerful despite what the Capitol did to me.

I ignored the president’s speech, and when the chariots left the area and stopped, Conor was waiting for me. He grinned and held out his hand to help me off the chariot. I refused his hand, getting down on my own, but once I was on solid ground, I did take his outstretched hand.

His smile turned into a smirk. “Let’s get you taken care of, little dragon.”

[pen-of-roses]

WHG 20-Prompts 1&2-Din

WHG tag list: @ratracechronicler, @maple-writes, @concealeddarkness13 @drabbleitout, @grailfish, @forthesanityofsome, and @pied-piper-of-hamlet (let me know if you want to be added)

The plan had been to get through District Twelve and lay low while continuing her research. If they were lucky, maybe they could even make it to the remains of Thirteen to see what was hiding out there and if it had anything to do with the Veyrit and other gods of the world. Unlikely, but presumably not impossible. At the very least the ruins might hold something about before the war and shed light on where Safirel’s body was being kept.

Instead, they hadn’t even made it past District Eight.

Blythe’s boots came running into view. “My Lady, we need ta go now.” She sounded out of breath.

“Not yet,” she forced out past gritted teeth as the heat flared in her veins, gold overtaking her hand pressed against the wounds the Peacekeepers had inflicted on the man.

“Just a little more,” Safirel said. “Let me.”

The gold flooded her vision for the moment he took over. His presence was quickly becoming a familiar comfort, like a heavy blanket left in the sun, that wrapped around her and left her blissfully floating.

But just as quickly, it was gone, and she fell forward, gasping for breath and her body returning to normal, if a little colder.

Hands caught her, guiding her to the ground safely, Blythe’s most likely, given the string of curses she said in her native tongue, though the face she wore was still unfamiliar. “Ya shouldn’t have pushed that far again.”

She waved her off, even as the world was still spinning just a little too much. “Is he fully healed now?”

Sighing, she left her side and checked the man, Silk or something like that, over. “He’ll live, though he’s still out cold. Again, ya shouldn’t have done that. They know we’re here, Din.”

“You know I couldn’t have left him like that after he took that beating for us.”

Her brows knitted, but she dropped the point. After all, Blythe likely would’ve done the same thing if she could, just after Din was safe somewhere else.

Yelling broke out outside, unintelligible for the moment, but there was little doubt who it was.

“Damn it all! They were suppose ta take the bait!”

“Back door,” she wheezed, struggling to her feet.

In an instant, Blythe had an arm around her waist and was moving them both towards potential freedom. The house was small and easily navigable, but that was also a downfall. Even as she managed to get the back one open, she could hear the front door being crashed in.

“Search the house!”

“Sir, what about him?”

“Kill him.”

“No!” She yelled, and crumpled, coughing and gasping.

“My Lady, are you okay?” The concern and pain in her voice tore at her.

They were after her, not Blythe. 

“Blythe, run.”

“What? No, I’m not leaving ya!”

“That’s an order.” The words weren’t entirely hers, but the connection to Safirel was too distant for him to take complete control now, and her sentiment remained the same. “They won’t kill me. And I can’t lose you.”

Blythe set her jaw. “Sometimes, I really hate ya.” But she was running anyway and shifting her appearance already as the footfalls and voices got closer.

When they finally came into view, she glared up at them from the ground. They had the audacity to level their guns at her, what an empty threat. 

One of them pulled her to her feet and held her hands behind her back.

“Are you the real Najdinel,” Haven stepped forward, though his face was covered by the Peacekeepers uniform. “Or her little bitch?”

She spit on him in answer.

He struck her across the face.

Even as she tasted blood though, she tilted her head up and raised a haughty eyebrow, affecting the familiar air of authority. 

“We have means of proving it regardless, and whichever one you are, we’ll find the other soon enough.”

“You won’t touch her,” she growled.

“You have no authority here.”

“And you can’t kill me.”

Most likely they would take her back to the temples. They had contingency plans to prevent that, even though security would be tighter than before.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, girl. The beynlerya don’t have too much faith in your status as their prophetess anymore.”

Her heart sped up.

That was obvious before she’d even set the fire and attempted to fake her death. But they couldn’t disprove she wasn’t either. Not when no else had ever come forward or been found and she held the marks.

Still, she kept that off her face.

“So go ahead then, if you are going to.”

“We have other plans for you. The Capitol wants you in the Games. See if it sparks anything when you’re fighting for your life, or to make an example of liars and traitors if it doesn’t.”

That…had not been any of their plans.

“I don’t qualify, I’m not from the Districts.”

He actually laughed, as did several others. “Since when do you think that’s mattered to them? They have complete control here. You are powerless.”

“You won’t be able to contain me.”

“Then we’ll kill others in your place. But if you play nice, like a well trained girl, we’ll let your traitor of a friend go free.”

Blythe.

There was no way they would catch her if she was on her own and hiding. But she would come back for Din.

They were probably lying.

She couldn’t pass it up if they weren’t though.

“Swear on your blood and the Veyrit that’s true.”

“I swear.”

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes.

“We can’t trust them,” she thought.

“No. But we can use this too. Twist it against them. Another chance at revenge,” Safirel answered back, flashes of the bloody knife and fire replaying. “We’re more powerful than they are, Najdinel. And they’re about to give us free training and access to a live audience.”

Opening her eyes, she nodded, the heat settling into her veins but not appearing visibly. “Fine. Take me to the Reaping. But touch her, and I’ll kill you all.”

- - - - -

They dressed her up for it. Nothing dramatic, a simple white dress and gold ribbons through her dark hair and to hide the horns, but pretty enough. Enough to easily blend into the crowd unnoticed, knowing she wouldn’t run with Blythe’s life on the line.

Apparently, they didn’t want it yet known who she was. Even her name had been kept secret, so it getting called wouldn’t blow the cover either.

That big reveal would be for the Games themselves. They had always loved a spectacle outside of the temple, and the beynleyra had left her to the overly puffed up peacocks until she could prove herself.

Fat chance of that of course.

The magic may have finally ignited in her veins, but until Safirel was free and by her side, there was no way she was going to be caged by them again.

Plans would just have to be…adjusted.

The first name was called, not hers surprisingly, but a small child’s by the looks of things. She almost stepped forward to volunteer in her place, but someone else beat her to it. Family? Friends? It didn’t really matter, she seemed more determined and capable than a literal child.

The next name was her own though, and she took the stage with her head held high and the polite smile she’d perfected practically from birth, shaking off assistance from the Peacekeepers. She ignored the overly eager escort making a show of asking questions.

Being in the Games had been the deal. That did not mean she would start playing them now.

At the edges of the crowd, she watched someone’s hair shift from brown to blonde and grow slightly taller, before slipping away towards the train.

[grailfish]

WHG 20: The Big Day + The Reaping

CW for mentions of fantasy substance abuse and character being unable to trust their own memory and perception (is there a more concise way to say that), dead naming

Tag list: @concealeddarkness13​ @ratracechronicler​ @maple-writes​ @pen-of-roses​ @forthesanityofsome​ @pied-piper-of-hamlet​ 

Razz 

Razz is starting to lose track of how many times they've woken up like this, sweat drenching their back but blood cold as ice as the memory of their old, dead name being called out rings in their ears. One moment they're on the stage with thousands of stone faces and flashing lights staring back at them, and the next they're back in bed, three days before the Reaping is even set to take place.

Razz remembers watching the 20th annual Hunger Games in full from the comfort and safety of the streets. It's one of the few times of year they don't get chased out of the square and cursed as a dirty rotten Razer for the offense of being visible. The Games even had an exciting twist this year when one of the tributes staged an escape attempt, managing to get a handful of the others out with her. 

District 2 was in shambles when that happened, security tripling overnight and enforcers executing anyone who looked at them wrong, but Razz still managed to find enjoyment in that little bit of "fuck you" that the escaped tributes managed to stir up. People even left Razz alone after that, afraid that standing too close to anyone "shady" would end them up on the whipping stand.

But apparently none of that actually happened. Because just when Razz thought that things were looking up again, they woke up. There was tension in the air, and everyone was mumbling again about the upcoming reaping. Three days before the 20th Games. That was where the loop started

Razz's mom used to say they had a very vivid imagination. In time the adjective changed from vivid to active, active to disruptive, disruptive to delusional. There were hours, sometimes days, that seemed to go on repeat. Going to school felt like a joke when the lessons would replay over and over. Razz learned to keep their mouth shut when the teachers said the same sentence twice, because apparently no one else in the room had heard it the first time.

They were given a digital watch, one that displayed the date next to the time, at 10 years old. They'd missed the bus to school five times in the same month, thinking that it was already the weekend, and their parents were at their wit’s end. Razz hated that present, feeling like it was just another way that they showed how much they didn't believe whatever was happening to Razz was real. Instead there were murmurings of how they'd caught the "family crazy," just like their great uncle. Murmurings that they were cursed.

That same watch blinks up at them now, reminding them that they can never trust their own perception, that time is never on their side.

The cruelest part of their repeating nightmare is that their name gets called first, every single time. The first time the 20th Games happened, they hadn't even been a tribute. Now it was as though they were bound by fate. There was still the hope that things would return to normal and everything would be back to how it was supposed to be. That Razz could go back to their corner of the slums, wasting away on their own time and not at the whims of a bunch of Capitol snobs. But that hope was shattered every time. 

Instead there were gasps and snickers from the captive audience as they took in the bags under Razz's eyes, the needle marks in their arms that they didn't bother hiding anymore. Many of the onlookers must have been disappointed to see such a scrawny tribute for District 2, but just as many were relieved to see one more Razer taken off of the streets and delivered to their rightful place in the ground. Razz never even hears the second tribute's name being called with all of the blood pounding in their ears. The terror at the prospect of being sent into the arena to die fights with the terror of reliving it all over as they wake up again, and again, and again. Three days before the Reaping. Never early, never late.

They'd started trying to keep tally on the brick wall next to them at some point, but it was hard to remember how many marks they had the last time when it all gets erased on every loop back. Was it thirty now? Or maybe it was higher. This time, they don't even bother to count. The only thing they're certain of is that it won't be the last time.

Yuen 

There are very few things in life that cannot be controlled. It’s just a matter of figuring out the right triggers. There’s a saying that the beat of a butterfly's wing can set off a storm on the other side of the world. Yuen has found that the flash of a smile paired with the glint of a knife produces far more immediate results. 

The Reaping for the 20th annual Hunger Games is set to happen in 3 days. This afternoon, the names of the eligible will be finalized on a list, printed and cut into thousands of slips of paper. After an influx of issues with "career" tributes committing acts of violence in the weeks leading up to the Reaping, the volunteer system had been suspended until further notice. This is inconvenient for Yuen, who had decided after watching the 20th Hunger Games the first time that he wanted in. 

He writes a tally mark in his notebook, making 38, then snaps his fingers. By now it is nearing 2AM, and he will need an early start if he wants to make it in time to run into the official Name Randomizer on her morning coffee run. He's already done what he could to make sure that his name is entered as many times as is reasonable without being counted as an error, but only a limited number of names will actually be selected and prepared for the ceremonial drawing.

Yuen is awake a minute before his alarm goes off, a habit he's been unable to kick since grade school. The sun hasn't quite risen past the horizon yet, but the cafe is a far walk away from where he's been squatting. Even in District 2, having the money to go to a cafe every morning is a bit of a luxury, so he needs to make an effort to appear high enough status not to be kicked out immediately.

Although Yuen himself comes from an esteemed family, they do their best not to appear as such and risk garnering excess attention. They didn't spend extravagantly, didn't live in the nicest houses or dress in the finest clothes, but they never struggled to get by, and never feared that they might.

Of course, as the Gifted one of the family, Yuen was always treated differently. Coddled, sometimes, patronized moreso, and so he chose to go off on his own the moment he was old enough to leave. He'd always had ambitions that far exceeded what could be contained under his mother's rooftop. 

He had taken an apprenticeship under a craftsman, although he did a shit job of ever arriving on time or learning anything about the craft. Old man Ason was just as annoyed as he was charmed by Yuen's particular mixture of eclectic and bastard, so he hadn't kicked him to the streets just yet and paid him enough that he wouldn't have to go limping back home for bread and board.

The cafe is quiet when Yuen arrives, except for the official at the register chatting up the woman behind the counter who doesn't appear to have slept the previous night. It's no surprise, with the Reaping so close, and if the cashier hasn't been under a rock all this time, she probably knows that the official in front of her is in charge of the name selection for the Reaping. Must be a dreadful job, having to make small talk while serving the person who may very well be stacking the deck with your name in it.

As the official receives her order and starts to turn around, Yuen smacks right into her shoulder, making her spill her drink all over the front of her dress.

"Watch where you're going, lady," Yuen grunts as he shoulders his way to the counter.

The official sputters, "You watch it, you little punk."

Yuen rolls his eyes at her and looks at the cashier, whose expression has changed from exhausted to horrified. "I-I'll get you a new one, on the house," she says, though Yuen knows that it'll likely be coming out of her paycheck. She's filling another cup with shaky hands as Yuen watches her with eyes like a hawk, impatient. "Be right with you, sir."

"I'll have a double shot espresso," Yuen says instead of waiting. "Name for the order is Yuen. Y-U-E-N." He then slaps down the money for the order and turns around to take a seat nearby. He added a little extra for the trouble of dealing with his bullshit first thing in the morning. There isn't a lot of room to be nice when he has an objective to fulfill, but he's not out to make more enemies than he needs to.

The official's eyes follow him back to his table as she waits for her drink. Somewhere, a butterfly flaps its wings as the winds of a storm brew up above District 2. Now he just has to hope she's angry enough to reroll the abbreviated tribute list until his name appears as many times as possible. Yuen isn't a very common name. He's certain that she'll be looking.

There isn't much else to be done until the Reaping, so he prepared to pass the time quietly, having already planned his next moves since the first time he started the time loops. Even with the ability to manipulate time, some events are random no matter how high the odds are stacked, and his luck had been particularly bad this time (or good, depending on the perspective. Any normal person would be ecstatic to go 38 Reapings back to back and not have their name called.)

There has been one consistency that surprises him, though, as if Father Time herself had already decided the fate of Raphael Legato. That was the name of the first tribute, the one who was always called ever since Yuen first reset the timeline. Somehow, after 38 times, their name was always drawn first. The odds were astronomical, of all the tens of thousands of names in the drawing, for them to even be called two times. Much less three. Much less thirty. They hadn't even been a participant to the 20th Hunger Games before. Yuen was almost jealous of their, by all accounts, unbelievably bad luck.

When the day of the Reaping arrives, the district is buzzing. This used to be a celebrated time, during the days of the career tributes. It gave the weak a sense of safety, the strong a sense of competition and pride, maintained the peace within the district for the rest of the year. Now, with that practice gone and the volunteers eliminated along with the age limit, they got a taste of what it must have felt like in the lower districts for all these years. 

The population of the district is large, so there are multiple stages set out in key locations of each area, with the Center Square the most crowded. Only the middle holds the Capitol representative and the name jars, though the remaining stages are all prepared and linked with speakers so everyone can still see and hear what’s going on. There are cameras everywhere, eyes and machines scouring the streets, rousing and assembling anyone who may try to hide from the Reaping.

Yuen has made his way to the middle of the crowd at the centermost stage, eagerly awaiting the start. He keeps his expression blank, but his veins are buzzing. It's time to see if his efforts will finally pay off, or if he's in for another reset.

As the woman from the Capitol crosses the stage, a shadow gathers behind her in the mid-morning light. It stretches far past where it ought to, and as it grows all of the doubt in Yuen’s mind disappears. From the shadow a figure rises, towering behind the Capitol woman but entirely unnoticed by anyone else watching. The figure wears a wide-brimmed hat and a pinstripe blazer and skirt that drapes all the way to the ground. Her face is beautiful, eyes like spring and lips like summer, but Yuen sees the way her body ages as it stretches away from her head. Her fingers are nothing more than skin stretched over bone, and though her legs are covered, Yuen knows that her feet more closely resemble a swirling of dust than any human shape. Father Time has arrived.

As though controlling a puppet, her spidery fingers follow the Capitol woman's hand into the first drawing, unsurprisingly drawing out the name of the first tribute, Raphael Legato. As she is followed to the second drawing, Father Time locates Yuen's face in the crowd and locks eyes with him. Her voice can't be louder than a whisper, but Yuen still hears it clearly.

"You're a stubborn one. I'll give you that."

Yuen's name is called. Father Time vanishes.

He makes his way up onto the stage, almost unable to believe that it's finally happened. After so many tries, Father Time has let him infiltrate the 20th Hunger Games. Now the real fun can begin.

He shakes hands with Raphael while cameras flash and the Capitol woman forces the audience into a roar of applause. Raphael's hand is cold and damp and the color has completely drained from their face. They can't seem to stop staring at the space behind the Capitol woman, where her shadow lies a perfectly reasonable distance from her feet. They separate, and Raphael doesn't even seem to blink.

This never happens. They normally appear afraid, horrified, even gaunt. But never so haunted. What changed this time? The only difference was that Yuen's name was called. That and the presence of Father Time. But there was no way. The only people who can actually perceive her form are those with her Gifts. Unless…?

No, it's impossible. There is only ever one Gifted allowed to exist at a time. If there were someone else with power over time, Yuen would have noticed by now. He glances down to see the needle marks on Raphael's arm. Raze user. Yuen's little butterfly effect must have just given them a bad trip. That’s the best explanation.

There isn't any more time to think before they're ushered away to the government building and prepared for visitation. He decides if it's any cause to worry, he can think about it another time.

[the-overanalyst]

it's always so fascinating and heartbreaking when a character in a story is simultaneously idolized and abused. a chosen prophet destined for martyrdom. a child prodigy forced to grow up too fast. a powerful warrior raised as nothing but a weapon. there's just something so uniquely messed up about singing someone's praises whilst destroying them.

[arspoeticamaia]

the duality of man

[liketwoswansinbalance]

In the modern publishing landscape, these days, I think like we do not have many (if any) point-of-view characters with low social motivation for whatever reason.

Sure, there are lots of characters with social anxiety or other perceived or legitimate foibles to overcome, there are many YA villain origin stories, and there are many unpalatable, traditionally "unlikable" men in classics, but disregarding those, who else do we have?

Can the state of openly being alone (and content) rarely be presented as morally-neutral or as the end result of a narrative? Must it always be that either being alone is the starting point, so there's room for "personal growth," or that being alone is seen as "undesirable" and/or an indication that the person alone has a "problem" or something otherwise wrong with them, like a deficit or moral failing that in some kind of karmic way gives them "what they deserve," which is being alone and discontent with it?

Characters with society anxiety, any differences in communication, or other reasons that interfere with forging connections "don't count" because they may still be motivated. Traits such as these only stand in the way of gaining relationships, as plot obstacles. They aren't intrinsically tied to indifference or to low motivation. So, these characters clearly are not experiencing a lack of interest. And they are not the ones rejecting others. Thus, they "don't count" as far as the archetype that I'm looking for goes.

Characters who undergo villain arcs or otherwise negative arcs may want to maintain their relationships or gain them, so some examples are immediately disqualified (hence not having low social motivation), even if they are the type of character most likely to alienate themselves by a story's end, conflicting with what they wanted.

(Unfortunately, Coriolanus Snow, who is quite close to the type of protagonist I'm searching for "doesn't count" because he has some drive to keep people in his life.

Rafal Mistral partially "counts," and is satisfying as a character, but also doesn't count because he temporarily makes "friends" or allies, depending on how you look at his exploits. Yet, despite all this, not having friends isn't exactly framed as a morally-neutral state either, so he is also disqualified by the end. Basically, he does have low social motivation, but his narrative lacks the conditions that would make the natural consequences of that low motivation play out for themselves. He is always surrounded by people, even if he hates every last one of them.

And, generally speaking, the usual, moody-broody, "misunderstood" YA love-interests very easily "don't count" because they have a desire to get closer to their object of affection.

Even Katniss Everdeen, an overall good person, who usually views herself as "unlikable," befriends others, originally for pragmatic, survival purposes. However, she does start with low social motivation, so that's something in her favor.

And yes, I'm aware that we need other people in this world—I would just like to see someone prove that supposed truth wrong once. And perhaps succeed in their world, if that's not too much to ask for.)

Also, are there any instances of characters who progressively alienate themselves from others, in which that progression is not inherently seen as negative? Like, what about non-corrupt misanthropes? Are there few of those in literature? (Maybe—Eleanor Oliphant from literary fiction counts, but something about that book did not appeal me and I didn't finish it.)

Classics guys sort of "count," but I haven't really seen examples of any comparable protagonists today since many authors and readers write and look for "relatability" in blank slate everyman figures oftentimes.

(I'm not done with Crime and Punishment yet, but Raskolnikov is very tentatively looking like a safe bet for a character who may end up alone and who may not be completely malcontent over such a fate, even if I'm expecting tragedy. I'm that not far along, but I also wouldn't mind it too greatly if he died, I suppose.

And even Sherlock Holmes has Watson as his constant, even if he's notoriously asocial! So he "doesn't count" either.

Carol from Main Street also comes close, but still ultimately desires approval from others.

Maybe no one is truly immune to humanity and I should give up on this notion?)

How many pov characters out there are 1) apathetic toward the masses and 2a) either alienate themselves as the plot progresses or 2b) do not make any friends? (I will allow them making friends and consequently losing them though because that still ends in net zero!)

Indeed, this "gap" in protagonists I've been running into lately, especially with coming-of-age arcs and protagonists whose arc is some form of "getting out of their shell," is: why do we (almost?) never see protagonists who just flat-out don't progress in terms of connecting with fellow humans?

Wouldn't having even a handful of those types be reflective of reality? (We as a society are more disconnected than ever, to be fair, despite constantly having access to one another via technology.)

Or I would completely understand it, if it were narratively impractical to have a plot in which a protagonist makes zero friends. Maybe, it's a near-unwritable form for a story?

So, my question is: does anyone have book recommendations, which present a character whose end goal is not to make friends or forge connections (any other ambitions or motivations are fine) and whose state of being friendless both lasts and is regarded as morally-neutral or as not outright evil? Any genre is fine. High fantasy is preferable. I am stumped.

(I also wouldn't mind recommendations of books in which the protagonist is vilified due to being alone, even if that is not my primary query here.)

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word List: Katniss

Assuagement - lessening the intensity of (something that pains or distresses)

Bister - a yellowish-brown to dark brown pigment used in art

Cinereous - resembling or consisting of ashes

Empiric - one who relies on practical experience

Evenhandedness - fairness

Ex aequo et bono - according to what is equitable and good

Ferae naturae - wild by nature; not usually tamed

Fulvous - of a dull brownish yellow; tawny

Heartsome - giving spirit or vigor

Ingle - a fire in a fireplace

Inweave - interweave, interlace

Lily-white - white as a lily; pure

Lynx-eyed - sharp-sighted

Oppugnation - opposition

Percipient - discerning

Pleach - interlace, plait

Rectitudinous - characterized by moral integrity

Restiveness - quality of stubbornly resisting control

Syllogism - a subtle, specious, or crafty argument; deductive reasoning

Travail - a physical or mental exertion

More: Word Lists

[physalian]

Take A Risk and Don’t Write a Chosen One

This trope stands the test of time for some very good reasons: Audience wish-fulfillment as they live vicariously through the hero, automatic plot-induced agency for your protagonist, and automatic legitimate reasons for your protagonist to join the whirlwind adventure of the day.

I like chosen ones. We all have our favorite famous chosen ones and I’m not here to say the concept of a chosen one is bad at all.

However.

Those “automatic” windfalls that come pre-packaged with the trope can lead to the author taking shortcuts, or not thinking they have to put in more effort to write a compelling character, because they’re the “chosen one,” what more do you need?

Not writing your protagonist as commanded by the powers that be to participate in the plot forces you to get creative with why they’re here, what they want, and how they entrench themselves in the story. And most importantly, if the gods haven’t chosen them to act, they must now choose themselves to act.

—

I have never read Harry Potter and after its author-who-shan’t-be-named flushed her reputation down the toilet, I never will. I’ve seen the movies, they’re ok. I have no nostalgia-driven love for this franchise, and most of that comes from watching Harry be an incredibly boring protagonist.

Book readers correct me, but Harry is the poster child of “only exists so the audience can live vicariously” with generic heroic traits and nonexistent or at least unimportant side quirks and distinguishing hobbies, interests, or personality tics. He’s “brave” and “courageous” and “determined”... as most child protagonists of children’s books should be. He has zero flaws that come back to bite him in the ass. He acts the way he’s supposed to, not the way he should want to, as an independent being.

He’s the least interesting character in this entire cast, and I can’t stand Movie Ron. Ron, Hermione, Neville, or Draco would have made much more compelling protagonists and so much of this relies on the “Harry is important because the plot demands it” crutch.

Why is he the chosen one? Because his birthday happened at the right time of year? What is the story trying to say about the dichotomy between him and Voldemort? What about his personality, his wizard-societal stances on the many faux pas in this series, or the choices he makes, that makes him the chosen one? Why should I care?

You know who’s a great chosen one? Percy Jackson. Why? Because he understands the screwed up world he lives in on page 1. Being a demigod isn’t everything he ever dreamed and despite what Disney + wants you to believe, he’s got a crap bio dad who’s as disappointing in book one as Percy expects him to be.

He’s not even the chosen one by the end of the original series, and what a fantastic twist that was.

An infamously self-chosen protagonist has her own iconic hero quote: "I volunteer as tribute". Katniss is a nobody. She's not the evil president's daughter, she's not the child of a famously martyred revolutionary, she's just a girl who refuses to bow down to the reaping, refuses to let her sister get slaughtered, and volunteers for a death match that historically sees anyone living to survive another year cowering in relief. Yeah, she has some convenient skills in her archery and survival knowledge, but those matter because her district is starving, she learned through necessity.

Every second of her story, Katniss is fighting for her right to exist, and she only becomes a "chosen one" dragged around by the powers that be when she becomes marketable to the grand scheming of the actual revolutionaries, when, before, she didn't care about politics, she just wanted to save her sister. She matters because she chose compassion in a world where survival demands only serving yourself.

—

It’s so, so easy to start planning your book and make your cool fantasy world and figure out how your protagonist fits into it. So easy to say “well they’re the long-lost princess and the only heir to the throne” or “this magic amulet from her great great aunt is the key to saving the world” or “she’s the villain’s secret love child and the only one who can stop him because blood magic” or “this vague prophecy picked this little desert slave boy to bring balance to the Force”.

None of these stories are at fault for writing chosen ones.

But push yourself to let go of that crutch and come up with other reasons for why your hero is the hero. Usually this character has been isekai'd into magical-fantasy-land or magical-hidden-fantasy-urban-underbelly and you can still write that character.

Refusing to make them the chosen one demands one thing first and foremost: How is this outsider going to fight for their place to exist here? What do they bring to the table with their hobbies or interests or unique skillset that happens to be mighty applicable and useful in this new world? What is it about their personality that draws these strangers in? What do they want from this new world, and what are they willing to do to get it?

This choice demands you give your hero agency (though whether you give into those demands is up to you).

More importantly: I think it gives your audience agency, as they still live vicariously through their hero. Sure, lots of kids have lost their parents and live in horrid conditions like a cupboard under the stairs, but none of us will ever be “chosen” by omniscient wizard prophets. Harry would have immediately been a more compelling protagonist to me if he’d stumbled upon magical shenaniganry and fought for his place as some forgotten nobody mudblood.

Harry would have shown us his courage, instead of the story insisting he has it, we promise, just don’t think too hard about it.

Stop giving me characters who accept their destiny because God said so. Give me characters who fight tooth and nail for a destiny they discover on their own and I’ll root for them to succeed even more than someone compelled by force. Not everyone can be a chosen one, but everyone *can* choose themselves and decide to act.

—

With that said, I have an announcement! I have a new book in the works bereft of a prophecy-ordained hero. It’s time I put all my sagely writing wisdom to the test in a shiny published paperback myself. If you’ve learned anything from my blog in your writing journey, please subscribe for updates on the upcoming novel!

[demigoddessqueens]

the president will see you now

Just some bit of headcanons of each of the love languages for the morally dubious president in the making.

pairing - corionalus snow x reader

Gift giving - gifts are both calculated motivations but it becomes a display of what he can “do” for you, what there is for you if you stayed with him

Physical touch - touch is a way for Corio to keep you near him, to show that you are his, but it’s become a reassuring motive to Snow that you’re close to him

Words of affirmation - sugary sweet promises that sound like shallow words that cement themselves as reaffirmations over the years as he starts to believe himself over time

Quality time - in the rare moments, you see a gentle side of Coriolanus that hyper focuses on you alone, all the power and influence that sheds away

Acts of service - these are done to show what he’s good for, what Snow can do for you, and what there can be more of if you stay/remain with him

[whgmasterofceremonies]

Writeblr Hunger Games Round 21

It's happening! Get ready for the Ultimate Chosen One Challenge!

Reminder of the Basics: Writers submit their characters as potential candidates and then I put them in the Brant Steele Hunger Games Simulator and share the results. In the meantime, the writers can write and share stories (from giant text posts to just a couple of sentences) about their characters being in the Games!

Note: characters’ canonical powers, strengths, abilities, disabilities, and weaknesses will not be taken into account by the simulator. Every outcome is random and everyone has an equal chance for victory or disaster.

How we’ll do things this time: each writer who wants to participate can submit up to three original characters, preferably ones whom they assign "Chosen One" status to for any given reason, they would like to see fight in the Arena. Please reblog this post only or else send this blog an ask/message with your characters’ information.

In your submissions, please include your characters’:

Name (what you would like to see them repeated as over and over in the simulation)

Pronouns

A little bit of background as to why they're the Chosen One (just your favorite, fated by prophecy, turns out to be a hero...)

Rather than having a standard round with deaths, we will tweak the arena events to things like "Character X and Y are forced into an obstacle course. X wins but is injured" or "Character Z faces holograms of their worst fears. They surrender and leave the Arena" until one champion is left standing!

Timeline:

Submissions begin today

Writing prompts will be posted later this week

Submissions close Friday, December 22

Initial Reaping with list of characters is posted Saturday, December 23. Please let me know if I've misspelled anything, you'd like to make adjustments, etc.

Official Reaping will be posted probably next Wednesday, December 27

The Games begin the day after that, with one in-Arena day posted per real-world day

This is likely going to be a very short round, but let me know if you'd rather it be drawn out longer--or if you have any other questions!

Tagging those who were interested: @duskforged, @pen-of-roses, @waltzshouldbewriting, @forthesanityofstorytellers, @concealeddarkness13, @maple-writes, @ratracechronicler

[forthesanityofstorytellers]

Train Ride - Lyra

Tagging @concealeddarkness13 @ratracechronicler, @maple-writes, @pen-of-roses, @drabbleitout, @clocksandchaos, @knmartinshouldbewriting

--------------------------------------

Lyra stared around the train. She’d seen things like it before, of course, but it always fascinated her. They didn’t have anything like it back home. They just flew and swam and walked. So it was always a curiosity when she got to see one of these things, let alone ride in one of them.

She wandered, completely ignoring whoever-it-was that was trying to talk to her. Despite the curiosities that surely abounded on the train, she had a mission. She made it look like she was simply wandering, staring up at the ceiling and glancing out the windows as the train moved. She spotted screens and paused, watching what was on them. Pictures that moved instead of words. They had words too, but the words didn’t go anywhere. Just stayed on the screen.

She tightened the strip of fabric covering her head out of a slight nervous habit as faces flashed on the screens. She was looking for two in particular…ah. There was one. The blacksmith got called. Good. And…and…she huffed a little, glancing around and spotting a table full of odd food. She considered it before turning back to the screens. Gotta watch and see if the rouge was here too.

Her question was answered quickly, a wide smile crossing her face. Both of them were here. Good. And the rouge was in the next District after hers, it seemed, so he would be here shortly. Her smile widened. Good. She’d have support when she told them she wanted to blow this place up from the inside out, the thought giving her a wider and wider grin.

She turned as someone came in, giving a wave and saying they were a mentor. Asked if she wanted them to go over anything about the games, but she waved them off in favor of food, gathering what she could fit on a plate and then some. The escort looked disgusted, but she stuck her tongue out and asked about rooms, following directions and taking her food with her.

Once alone, she set out the extra two plates she’d taken and began to distribute the food in even portions. Jake liked soft but filling baked goods, simple jam, dried meats. Those kinds of things. Hansel, on the other hand, tended to go for sweeter things; deserts, sweet steamed dumplings, tender meat with sauces. She preferred things easy on her stomach, but couldn’t help the odd bit of sweetbread or dipping sauce, sometimes together. Plus she had made an oath to sample the food of every single place she visited. Try everything at least once.

By the time she had her first visitor, she’d already gone back for cups and drinks, swiping a pot of tea and a bottle of what looked like blood but…they called it wine? She thought. She wasn’t sure. Her bottle didn’t look nearly as bad, a sort of amber liquid that sloshed around and made funny sounds. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it smelled good. She was pouring out the tea when the door opened, and in walked the grizzled blacksmith, looking old despite being young. Ish. She thought.

Elkish aged differently to others as well. The moons and the suns traveled differently, so the revolutions were counted differently as well. She grinned at him and motioned to the plate.

“Food?”

He raised an eyebrow. “We’re trapped in a land that’s not our own with limited ways out on a train that’s leading us to a death march. And you...what? Want to have a picnic?”

She grinned wider. “I hunt better on a halfway stomach. Too full and I’m too slow. Too empty and I’m too feral. And I know you well enough to know what you’re like when you don’t eat.”

“Lyra. I’m fine.”

“So the single muffin you ate while you were fussing is enough, is it?”

He gave her a flat stare and she lessened her wide grin into a simple smile. “We can do more while we have energy. Eat. And we’ll talk while we wait for Hansel.”

He grunted, but sat down and pulled a plate towards him, the one with simpler foods that she’d made for him. She twisted a little, glancing around. “You think I can…?” She motioned to the cloth covering her antlers. “There’s no cameras in here.”

“That you know of.”

She huffed. “If you thought there were cameras in here you wouldn’t have given me that guff about being from somewhere else.” She reached up and undid the knot, pulling the cloth free and letting out a groan of satisfaction as her forehead and eartips were allowed to breathe. Shook out her hair a little and grabbed the cup of some sauce, began drinking it.

“So. Are you going to now tell me we can’t wait until the games start to escape?”

He grunted again. Sounded like a ‘yes but I know that tone and will wait for you to start in on whatever you’re thinking’ kind of grunt.

She grinned and leaned forward. “Because I think we should stay long enough to destroy the Capitol and everything inside of it.”

He stared at her. “Lyra. We’re only here because I let you talk me into fooling around with portals. What could possibly make you think I’d listen to you about this? I just want to go home.”

Her grin fell a little. She glanced around as the train bumped and jostled things a little before leaning forward. Putting her sauce cup down. “Children. Children, Jake. I know you. You have an entire underground network devoted to helping kids get away from bad situations. I saw it. I helped with it. It’s got to be eating you. Doesn’t it? Aren’t you that kind of a creature? Or is there something I’m missing about your whole secret operation?”

He grunted and looked down at his food. Chewed slowly. Swallowed. Finally looked up at her. “Tell you what. Hansel has the magic to power the portals. If he wants to stay, then we’ll stay. But only long enough, and no longer. If he wants to get home to his son, then we go. Deal?”

She tilted her head. Chewed on her lip a little before nodding. “Fine. Deal.”

Was she lying? Probably. The two of them could get home if they wanted. She wanted to stay. And if the Elders back home couldn’t make her stay home, the blacksmith and the rouge couldn’t make her go home. It wasn’t even her home they were going to, just reversing the process to get back to where the three of them had come from.

She grinned and ate a little more, Jake giving her a look as he ate. She did her best to calm, but her shirt was itchy and her wings had been pressed against her back for too long. She wondered how long it would take before Hansel got here and agreed with her.

[concealeddarkness13]

WHG 21 Prompt 4 - Chess

About 1,200 words! Tagging: @ratracechronicler, @maple-writes, @pen-of-roses, @drabbleitout, and @grailfish!

I knew enough about the Games to know I wanted to hide from my mentor. They’d talk about how I could win and tell me all about the Games, and that wasn’t important. I didn’t want to hear lies about how I could win. The Capitol wasn’t going to let me win, and anyway, I didn’t want to deal with someone staring at me, asking me to transform into a dragon, all of it. I was so fucking tired of everyone’s eyes on me.

So, I grabbed a plate of food and a bottle of alcohol and slipped away to the farthest car I could get to. Aeflin liked just injecting nutrients into me instead of feeding me, so I only really got to eat when I was at the Capitol, and even then, I barely had time to myself to eat. This would be different.

I made sure to eat slowly. I had already learned my lesson before when I had eaten too quickly and too much at one of the first parties I went to, and I had been sick the whole night. Luckily, Ashont hadn’t singled me out yet, or it might have been an even more hellish night.

I did actually get to finish my damn food and part of the bottle before someone showed up. I looked up and immediately transformed into my dragon form (about the size of a cat, with black scales, a flat head like an axolotl, and pink ruffles around my face) since it was more comfortable to be in around strangers, and it meant that I had an excuse to not answer questions. I growled at him, but he just sat down next to me and watched me with thoughtful eyes.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I just wanted to introduce myself. My name is Killian, and I am your mentor for this Games.” Oh brilliant. I made sure to grumble my protest, but he just chuckled. “Don’t worry. I know what the Capitol is planning for you. Believe it or not, I have been paying attention to what the Capitol has been doing, have even been to a few of their parties myself. I have an idea of a plan, and it might just surprise you.”

He watched me carefully, and his stare didn’t make my skin crawl like everyone else’s stares did. I chirped to let him know to keep going, but he just chuckled again. “I’d prefer for you to be in human form when we chat though, if that’s okay with you. Then I’ll know if you’re actually listening.”

I grumbled again but finally transformed back human, but I did make sure to keep my scales, tail, and fangs, so I didn’t look fully human. I smiled at him to make sure to show off my fangs as my tail lashed in annoyance. “There, I’m listening.”

He didn’t look bothered at all by what was clearly a threat. How the fuck did he survive his own Games? He leaned forward, his expression growing serious. “I know how the Capitol has treated you and how they will treat you if you leave on their terms. And I know of Aeflin. I believe you met my partner at the party where you last dealt with Ashont, and I wanted to reiterate that there are people who do actually care about you. I knew your parents, so that is why I have kept my eyes on you, and I believe you have ended up in a place they would have never wanted you to be.”

I knew where he was going with this, and I gritted my teeth and looked away from him before he could see the tears that blurred my vision. My parents had been gone for so long that I didn’t even remember what they looked like. “I have nowhere else to go. And anyway, I have to…” I had to make Aeflin proud. She made me into this.

“I have a place you can stay that’s safe. Safe from the Capitol and from Aeflin. Please, Ezra, I’m concerned with how the Capitol and Aeflin have been treating you. I can’t…I can’t force you to take this, and I would never dream of doing so. All I can do is plead with you. You don’t have to stay with people who just use and abuse you. I just ask you to think about it.”

I couldn’t look at him. I started shaking as I finally covered my ears. It was too much. Aeflin had expectations of me, and she only hurt me to make me stronger. The Capitol liked the entertainment I could provide, so of course they would use me for that. I hated the pain and abuse, but it was worth it to become what Aeflin wanted me to be. I had to make her proud. I just wanted to hear her say it. She had to say it. I was going to complete her task.

I shook my head. “Stop. I…I can’t.” I twitched and transformed back into my dragon form, curling up as small as I could and hiding my face from him. I couldn’t…this was all I knew. This was all that was safe. I couldn’t trust a stranger, that I would have any safe place.

Killian nodded. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Please, just think about this.” He stood up and left me alone. I covered my face with my feet, one of them a prosthetic version of a dragon’s foot, and covered myself in my wings until I finally got my emotions under control.

*

That night, after everyone else had fallen asleep, I snuck over to the food car, where the tv was as well. Checking out the other people who were chosen would be good, so I sat down and kept the volume as quiet as I could as I started the reviews of the Reapings. It wasn’t like Aeflin really let me sleep anyway, so I wasn’t used to sleeping so much.

The other chosen ones were impressive, and I hoped they would have a chance to win. But then I got to District 6’s Reaping, and I couldn’t help but stare.

His name was Safirel Beynleyra, and there was a glow about him. He even had golden light dancing on his hands. Like a Celestial. He had to be the one Aeflin wanted me to find. Why else would she give me this mission now, when I had been in the Capitol so many times before? He had to be the one Aeflin wanted me to capture. Now I just had to get close to him and make him trust me. He wouldn’t know I was here for him. Publicly, I was here as punishment. And it wasn’t public knowledge that I was hunting Celestials. He wouldn’t know. I’d be safe. This time, I had the chance to not even have to fight him. I just had to deceive him and capture him when he wasn’t expecting it.

I smiled a little, showing off my fangs. He wouldn’t suspect a thing. I knew how to feed someone’s ego enough to get them to let their guard down. Aeflin would be proud of me.

[pen-of-roses]

WHG 20-Prompt 5-Silver

WHG tag list: @ratracechronicler, @maple-writes, @concealeddarkness13 @drabbleitout, @grailfish, @forthesanityofsome, and @pied-piper-of-hamlet (let me know if you want to be added)

(Prompt 4 was combined between Din and Silver so read that before this if you missed it)

Under threat of being dragged out by the Peacekeepers, they’d emerged from their hiding spot after most of the search party had disappeared to another car.

And regretted immediately as the cacophony threatened to drag them under the instant they set foot off the train. 

It’d be easy to slip away again. The Peacekeepers were trained, but for brutality and instilling fear, not for the survival that had been pressed into them. Their armor had a weakness at the neck. While the helmets protected their faces, they also created blindspots. One of their current guards was favoring a shoulder, easy to exploit. These were just more monsters, and human ones at that, so they could be beaten and pushed past just like—like—

The weight in their hand, taste of copper in their mouth, and battlecries of the long fallen slipped away with the memory and whatever nightmares they’d fought before. Probably for the better.

Besides, they’d gotten this far. Being alone in the heart of this abyssal damned place would probably be worse than the rigid rules prior to the Games. Not to mention they didn’t quite know what would happen to the District if its tribute fled prior to the Games.

So instead they bit their cheek and sat when prompted.

From there, the taste of copper became real as the true challenge of self control began as a group of people began to argue over them, about them, touch them, manipulate them however they wanted. 

Their clothes were stripped, and discarded. clothes that had been borrowed from their family and mended by hand over the months. They managed to not break each finger of the hand that had done it.

Forced into a sweet smelling bath and scrubbed raw, the hot water was so similar to the heat from the vision from the train. That did result in a dislocated shoulder and a blackeye. Technically two, but theirs healed before they were dry. 

A comb was taken to their hair, for it’s apparently Capitol-esque appearance, but also condemned for the tangled state of it, and the bone white horns underneath it. They forced down more gold-tinted memories of other hands doing the same and a voice in their ear.

The only benefit was no one was talking to them, and they weren’t expected to speak.

Wrapped in a towel and left to wait, they were hyper aware of every footstep outside the door, of every chant of magic in the air, of the sickly sweet perfume clinging to their skin, of the way all the metal shined in just the right light to look golden rather than silver, of where the camera was and how best to avoid it.

“Well, you certainly look more human than the animal the other’s described.” Someone said as he walked into the room and hung a bag off the door.

They bared their teeth, aware they were stained with blood from their cheek and signed “You’re the animals to me.”

“Oh so you can speak,” he signed back, and they blinked, rather taken aback as the strange man sat. “Perfect, that’ll make this so much easier on me. I’m your stylist for these wonderful things the Capitol calls Games. In short, my job is to make you look good so the lovely and ever gracious people out there will help keep you alive, if you wish them to. Or don’t, if that’s more to your liking. I’ll enjoy the show either way.” Crossing his arms, he sat back, raising one blonde eyebrow in challenge.

They squinted at him. He looked Capitol-esque alright, with a suit that looked almost like it was made of flowers, though the shape of them was unlike any they had seen. Calla had said the Capitol liked to genetically modify stuff, so maybe they were based off that. Or complete and inaccurate fabrications. His hair was covered with glitter, and purple makeup adorned his face in the same garish way they’d seen on the escorts and Capitolites. Yet he also seemed off. With his cocky smile, raised eyebrow, and head cocked, it seemed like he was sizing them up and judging.

Magic thrummed all around them, but whether he was the source of any was difficult to tell with all the different sounds.

Maybe not all of the Capitolites were as empty-headed and blind as the escort had made it seem. They would have to be more careful and observant.

“You didn’t give a name,” they signed.

“Nor did you, if you recall. Now, I have very little interest in wasting any more of our precious time, so if you’re willing, let’s get on with getting this over with.”

Reluctantly, they nodded. 

Time passed too slowly after that, but the stylist kept the others from handling them too roughly this time around, even giving them privacy while they changed.

In the end, they were left in front of a mirror, focusing on the intricacy of the bark-like texture of the suit, and the leaves and flowers that had been woven into their hair. Pointedly, they did not look at the makeup that had been done, couldn’t risk seeing that face. But the rest, they felt comfortable saying was almost…nice. Wildly inaccurate and overdone. But nice.

Some of the “wood” even covered their ears so when they walked out, the noise wasn’t completely overwhelming. And looking at the other outfits, they’d probably have to thank the stylist if they saw him again. 

Of course, whatever odd reprieve that had been couldn’t last terribly long as the chariots began. Two tributes raced off on the horses, which drew most of the crowd’s attention. But not all of it. 

There were eyes watching them again, too many, and no place to hide or shrink away from it. Even with the padding, the noise from their cheering was too loud. Several of the other tributes were screaming of powerful magic, and that pull from earlier was back, threatening to drown them in the gold.

Overhead, someone spoke of peace and tradition

Behind their eyes, a voice whispered of safety and love and power over destiny.

A cruel smile watched above.

A kind smile flickered in and out of existence and the air smelled of blood.

[dollycxre]

GUYS.

I don't know how many times this needs to be parroted before it makes its mark but— PUTTING ANY SORT OF DESCRIPTION OR NAME TO THE 'READER' IN YOUR FIC/STORY DOES NOT MAKE IT AN X READER STORY, IT MAKES IT AN X OC STORY.

Putting a name to the reader that's not an alias they use for disguise? It's an x OC story.

Describing their complexion/eye colour/skin/body type/height in any way that's not related to the powers you may have given them? It's an x OC story.

"oh but I don't like y/n or (reader)-" TOO BAD. Either tag it as an x OC story and move on, make the characters in the story refer to them by terms of endearment or JUST DONT WRITE AN X READER STORY!! The whole point of x Reader stories are so that the reader, no matter what race, complexion, name, etc, can imagine themselves in a world they love. The most description that's acceptable is the GENDER. And that's if you mention their gender in the tags.

And yes, we get it, you're afraid of not getting any interaction on your x OC or x your sona/self-insert story but don't mislead readers who actually want to integrate themselves in the story! There will always be people willing to read x OC stories, whether because they're aroace or they want the character to be happy or whatever. And the same thing goes for making characters siblings to the reader. If a Japanese character is a biological sibling to the reader, then it's automatically assuming that the reader is Japanese and hence, NOT AN X READER! The only race changing acceptable is for fictional races.

So for the love of God, do not keep putting x OC stories in the x reader tags. It's really starting to irk the communities you write for (or atleast, me anyway.)