the makings of a tyrant,

an independent roleplay blog dedicated to CORIOLANUS SNOW from the hunger games franchise, as depicted in the ballad of songbirds and snakes.

set three to four years after the events of the ballad of songbirds and snakes. contains mentions of a major character death, as well as coriolanus’ self-important thought process (of course).

Coriolanus sat alone in the privacy of his carriage, gloved fingers resting on the polished armrest, his reflection fractured across the windowpane. The glass showed him as he preferred to be seen—composed, deliberate, crowned not by arrogance but inevitability. Twenty-three, and President: Panem’s youngest President. It had a fine symmetry to it, he thought. Youth softened the edges of tyranny. It made cruelty seem almost visionary. Though perhaps not in Twelve.

Coriolanus watched the district unfurl through the glass like an old scar—pale smoke rising from the skeletons of mines, houses crouched low against the ash, with people who moved with the slow resignation of those long accustomed to loss. Five years had gone by since he’d last seen it, but the view might have been frozen in time. The same weary horizon, the same lifeless pallor clinging to everything it touched.

The door at the far end of the carriage slid open with a soft hiss, breaking the quiet like a blade through silk. A young attendant stepped inside, posture stiff with the kind of nervous precision the Capitol bred into its servants. “Mr President,” he said, bowing his head just enough to show deference without trembling. “We’re here.”

His reflection lingered in the curved glass, fractured by the faint shimmer of the temperature controls embedded beneath it, the steady hum of the train engine a low, contented purr beneath the plush carpet. Coriolanus adjusted his cuffs as he rose, the white of his gloves immaculate against the crimson of his overcoat. “Well then,” The Capitol seal—gold and crimson—glinted at his collarbone, a sunburst pinned over his heart. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

The carriage door opened to a wash of cold air and coal dust. Coriolanus descended slowly, deliberate in each step, the soft crunch of cinders beneath his polished boots the only sound in a square too still for comfort. A small reception awaited him: the mayor, a handful of Peacekeepers, and a few civilians chosen for their cleanliness rather than their courage. They stood in a stiff line, expressions caught between terror and reverence. A thin-lipped woman held a bouquet of brittle winter flowers; their grayish petals trembled as she offered them.

“President Snow,” the Mayor began, as if testing the weight of the name on someone so young. “We are honoured—”

“Yes,” Coriolanus said mildly, taking the flowers with a gloved hand before passing them off to his attendant without a glance. “I suppose you should be.”

The Mayor’s mouth snapped shut, the syllables withering on his tongue. Coriolanus did not bother to watch the man struggle for composure. His gaze drifted to the civilians—three of them, all wearing Sunday-best clothes that only emphasised how threadbare they truly were. The woman who had offered the flowers clutched her empty hands, knuckles stark against the cold. The boy beside her, perhaps sixteen, tried to hold Coriolanus’ stare—a flicker of defiance that quickly collapsed into downcast obedience.

At least they know their place, he thought.

The wind cut through the station with a thin, keening whistle. Gray grit swirled around his boots, settling like dust on a tombstone. Coriolanus drew a breath, unbothered by the sting of coal in the air. “A modest welcome,” he said, surveying the platform. “Though I suppose in Twelve, modesty is the closest one gets to sincerity.”

The Mayor made a strangled sound that might have been an attempt at polite agreement. “We prepared what we could on short notice, Mr President.”

“Short notice?” Coriolanus arched a brow. “I announced this visit a week ago. Even District Twelve ought to be able to manage seven days without collapsing.”

Commander Harland, stationed at the mayor’s shoulder, cleared his throat. “Apologies, Sir, the district’s been stretched thin since—”

Coriolanus lifted one hand slightly. The gesture was small, but it sealed the man’s throat tighter than any order could. “Since ever,” he finished for him. “Twelve has been stretched thin since its inception. That’s hardly new information, or an excuse.” He let the mayor and commander sit with the implication, watching their composure thin under the weight of it. Twelve’s officials were transparent creatures—their tells, their fears, their failures all worn too close to the skin. It didn’t take much to expose the fractures. Though things had gotten worse in Twelve as of late.

Not in the dramatic, flame-and-rubble fashion of districts prone to rebellion, but in a quieter, more insidious way. The sort of decay that didn’t demand attention so much as seep into reports with numbers that dipped too sharply, or lingered in the tone of Peacekeeper memos that skirted the edge of alarm. Even the Capitol analysts, trained to find catastrophe in minor variances, had noted the shift. A shift born not of the mines, nor the weather, nor the district’s generational poverty. No—Twelve’s decline traced itself to something far less tangible and far more inconvenient. A kind of unrest rooted not in policy or circumstance, but in memory.

“Well then,” Coriolanus said lightly, as though requesting the day’s weather, “where’s the burial site?”

The mayor went still. Harland’s shoulders locked into a rigid line. He could feel the recoil ripple through the small reception like a sour note. Curious, he thought. What else did they imagine had brought the President of Panem to a district held together by ash and resignation? Tourism?

He’d been informed of the funeral proceedings almost immediately—though not formally. Not at first. The initial message had arrived folded into a routine dispatch, an afterthought buried between mine output tallies and Peacekeeper rotations: a local mourning, unusually attended. No names, no context. Just a single line noting a disruption.

The second report, sent hours later, had been less discreet. A gathering larger than anticipated. Songs—plural. Work stoppages. A crowd whose size no one seemed willing to write down exactly.

Only then had the name appeared. And with it, the reason the analysts had stopped pretending it was a minor event.

Lucy Gray Baird.

Coriolanus watched the mayor’s throat work around a half-formed reply, the hesitation laying him bare before a single word was spoken. “I… I didn’t think you’d want to know.” Ah. Did he believe it beneath him? A trivial disturbance not worth the President’s attention? Or did he think he couldn’t bear it? That the loss of the tribute he’d once tried to keep alive would touch him, leave a fissure where control ought to be?

How ridiculous.

The idea that he—the President—would be unsettled by a death in District Twelve was so absurd it bordered on insulting. As though his composure were something fragile, something these provincial fools had the power to disturb.

“I’d suggest staying within the boundaries of your district, Mayor. They are there for a reason,” he said, voice soft, almost conversational, but with the weight of a guillotine hidden behind it. Then he moved past the two, only to halt before the cluster of civilians and Peacekeepers.

He folded his hands behind his back, civility stretched thin over something sharp and dangerous. The civilians recoiled, stepping back as if the air itself had thickened, and the Peacekeepers shifted, aligning instinctively along the edges of his path.

Such was power. It bent bodies without touch, bent minds without words. The Mayor trailed behind him, head lowered, arms stiff, as if gravity itself had shifted to favour Coriolanus alone. And maybe it had. Snow lands on top, after all.

He walked past them, eyes sweeping over the square, ash spiralling around his boots. In the centre, framed by the skeletal remains of a market stall and the low, crouched houses, was a figure that drew every instinct to attention.

Coriolanus’ mind flickered back to the first time he’d laid eyes on Lucy Gray. Not as a tribute, but as the dark-haired girl from the Covey, commanding attention with a voice and presence far larger than a meagre stage in an old warehouse allowed. A few steps behind her, clutching the fiddle with hands too small for its length, was Clerk Carmine. Though he’d grown since then, he couldn’t quite tell how much with a peacekeeper towering over him.

He’d been strapped to a wooden whipping post, arms pulled taut above his head, his body marked with thin, angry welts that glistened faintly with fresh blood. His tunic was torn and darkened at the seams, and the ash from the ground clung to his hair and skin, giving him the appearance of having been dragged through the district itself.

How frustrating, he thought—not for the boy, but for the unwelcome tug of memory he brought with him. It irritated Coriolanus more than the sight of blood; that someone tied, however distantly, to Lucy Gray could still stir a part of him he had long since declared dead.

“Quite the welcome you’ve prepared for me, Mayor.”

The Mayor stiffened, hands tightening at his sides, as if the situation itself could be grasped and squeezed into some sensible explanation. His gaze darted briefly to the bound Clerk, then back to Coriolanus, uncertainty written in every line of his posture.

Of course, he could already guess what had happened. A Covey boy, a district still raw with mourning, a song sung where silence was expected, or a word spoken where gratitude was required. Twelve had always been a place where grief fermented into insolence, and insolence into punishment. It was practically tradition: the Peacekeepers enforcing order, the Mayor pretending it was justice, and the district pretending it wasn’t watching.

In the end, Commander Harland stepped forward, shoulders squared. “Sir,” he began, careful to keep his tone measured, “The Covey have been prohibited from performing at the Hob for years now. Out of consideration for the deceased, however, they were allowed a small farewell performance. A final song to mark the passing.” He paused, letting the words sink in, before continuing. “When he was confronted, he resisted. Aggressively. He refused orders and… insisted on continuing.”

Coriolanus’ gaze swept past the bound boy to the small cluster of Covey lingering at the edge of the square. To Barb Azure, whose grip on Tam Amber had tightened until her knuckles were pale, and to Tam Amber, whose lips were pressed together so hard they trembled, the corners of his mouth twitching in a ridiculous half-frown, half-grimace that made him look like a child trying not to whimper.

Oh.

The Covey found Tam Amber when he was just a baby. Somebody left him in a cardboard box on the side of the road, so he’s ours.

Coriolanus sighed, rubbing a hand over his temple as if warding off a creeping headache.

Right.

He let his hand fall from his temple, the faint throb behind his eyes pulsing in time with the quiet, miserable murmur of the square. Of course, it would be like this. Of course, it always was.

God, how he hated Twelve—not with fire or fury, but with the dull, persisting resentment one held for yearbook photos: a frozen, humiliating reminder of a version of himself he’d long outgrown and would spend a lifetime pretending never existed. Twelve was just that. A bad picture he’d been forced to pose for. One taken at the wrong angle, in the wrong light, with the wrong people standing far too close. A place capable of dredging up everything he would rather burn out of memory, just by continuing to exist.

And now, here it was again, dragging at his composure like a hand around his ankle, refusing to let him step entirely free of what he’d once been—or what he’d once allowed himself to feel.

He drew in a slow breath, steadying the irritation coiling through him. Enough of this—the spectacle, the noise, the sentimentality clinging to the edges of the scene like fog.

You seem like a good man, Coriolanus Snow.

“Release him,” Coriolanus said, each syllable clipped clean. “You’ve gotten in enough lashings, I think.”

Commander Harland hesitated though. Not for long, not enough for anyone else to comment on, but long enough for Coriolanus to feel it, to taste the flicker of doubt in the air, and that doubt—small as it was—needled him. It pricked straight through the veneer of authority he wore like armour, reminding him how quickly the chain of command could wobble when someone in charge lost their nerve.

“Commander,” he said, the word sharpened to a point—less an address than a warning—and with it, Harland’s hesitation broke. He barked an order, too sharp, too loud, trying to bury the evidence of doubt beneath volume. The iron clasps were unlatched with metallic clicks that echoed far too loudly in the brittle quiet. Clerk’s arms dropped, boneless for a moment, and he stumbled forward with a hiss of pain before catching himself on trembling knees.

Barb made a choked sound—the kind of swallowed sob born not of fear, but fury—and surged forward. The Covey reached him almost simultaneously, one circling to shield him from the Peacekeepers and the other holding him upright, brushing grit from his hair and cracked skin.

“Maybe you should call a medic.”

Ah.

Of course, Twelve probably didn’t have a proper doctor or the supplies to patch up something like this. A flicker of unease passed through him. He had assumed, yet again, in that easy way the Capitol allowed itself, that basic care existed everywhere. Here, it obviously did not. Expecting there to be would’ve been like telling them to conjure medicine out of soot and hunger—and the Districts, for all the Capitol demanded of them, had never been miracle workers.

“Or maybe put some ice on it.”

Barb’s hand tightened on Clerk’s shoulder, but there was no bite in her eyes now, only wariness.

And maybe the faintest glint of that dry, unimpressed scepticism she always used to look at him with.

What was he even doing, really? Trying to make small talk? Offering advice, as if his polished gloves and Capitol manners could somehow patch up what this place had worn down to its bones?

“I think there’s been enough gawking for one morning. Let’s not drag this spectacle out any longer.”

People began peeling away from the edges of the scene, one by one at first, then in clusters. Mothers tugging children by their sleeves, miners stepping back with the heavy-footed caution of men too used to punishment, Peacekeepers steering stragglers with the barest inclination of their rifles. The gawkers dispersed like smoke caught in an unexpected gust, and within moments, the crowd thinned into something sparse and uncomfortable: the Covey, a handful of Peacekeepers, and the Mayor, who looked as though he wanted very badly to sink into the ground.

Barb Azure had squared herself like a wall between Clerk and the rest of them, chin lifted in a challenge he had no interest in acknowledging.

“You should get him home.”

Barb’s gaze snapped to him, sharp as a flint strike. She didn’t thank him, though. Of course she didn’t. She never did. Not once in all the moments where gratitude might’ve been the decent, expected thing. Then again, what would the Covey know of decency?

He turned away before she could sharpen that glare into something verbal, boots whispering through the ash as he cut through the thinning remnants of the crowd. He didn’t look back. Not at Barb’s rigid shoulders, not at Tam’s anxious hover, not at the boy sagging between them like a broken instrument still stubbornly trying to hold a tune. Let them interpret his words however they please. Let them bristle or seethe or stew in their silent, provincial pride.

As if I care.

Behind him, he heard the soft, inevitable patter of footsteps as the Mayor fell into place like a shadow—dutiful, silent, and profoundly irritating in his need to hover.

“I think—“ He pivoted slightly, letting a hand sweep towards the open square, a thin smile curving his lips. “—I could use some… fresh air.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” The Mayor shifted then, stepping forward as if to fall in place beside him, prompting him to consider that, of all the miserable fates in Twelve, few could rival the one endured by his wife.

Coriolanus raised a hand, that polite smile of his still in place. “Alone, preferably.”

That made him stop right in his tracks, body going rigid in an awkward, startled freeze, like a dog who’d only just remembered the length of its leash. “Oh. But… alone, sir?” The Mayor’s eyes flicked toward the narrow path he was heading for, then back to Coriolanus, uncertainty written across every line of his face. “Are you sure?”

Though his concern pricked at Coriolanus—irritating in its fussing, its implication that he needed shepherding—it wasn’t entirely unreasonable, he supposed. The path stretched ahead like a thin ribbon of shadow, flanked by skeletal trees whose bare branches clawed at the gray sky. While it promised privacy, it also harboured the quiet menace of uneven ground, hidden roots, and the kind of dark that could conceal more than just poisonous snakes.

Nobody knows much of it except us Covey.

He let out a slow, measured breath, smoothing the faint hint of irritation from his expression before it could sour his smile. “I appreciate your concern,” he said, tone carefully neutral—neither warm nor dismissive, simply a statement of fact delivered with Presidential calm. “But I’ll manage.”

It would be fine.

Of course it would.

No one in District Twelve would dare lay a hand on him—not the Mayor, not the Peacekeepers, not the civilians cowering in their threadbare boots. The Covey certainly wouldn’t. Grief might make people reckless, but only a fool would mistake recklessness for suicidal ambition, and whatever else these people were, they weren’t stupid enough to attack the President of Panem with all the Peacekeepers patrolling the area.

And on the off chance someone was that foolish? On the off chance grief or sentiment or some misguided sense of justice pushed one of them into doing something catastrophically stupid?

Well.

They’d barely make it ten minutes down the path before Peacekeepers would come stomping after them on Harland’s command, hauling them back to the square in a flurry of barked orders and rough hands. The Mayor would likely panic the moment he was out of sight, imagining headlines and tribunals and the Capitol’s fury bearing down on him personally.

The thought was almost amusing.

“I’ll be perfectly fine,” Coriolanus added, more to himself than to the men behind him, and as he stepped onto the familiar path winding through the gray, silent woods, he was sure he would be... for the first ten minutes.

The air was colder in the woods; damper—a thin, metallic chill sinking into the seams of his coat as he followed the winding trail. The trees pressed close on either side, their branches hanging low like skeletal arms reaching for him. One of them dipped too near, scraping across the crown of his head and snagging briefly in the white of his hair. Some of them littered the path, their jagged ends catching on the fine fabric of his trousers, prodding and scraping with a persistence that felt almost vindictive.

And the bugs. God, the bugs.

You’d think a place so dependent on hunting for its survival would’ve found some way to be rid of these miserable insects by now, but no. They rose in tiny, frantic swarms each time his boots disturbed the ash-soft earth, drawn irresistibly to the stark white of his hair and the rich red of his coat like moths to a flame. Only these were smaller, uglier, and possessed of a suicidal determination to fling themselves at his face.

He should have just gone to the grave and been done with it instead of indulging in this ridiculous impulse to take a walk like some contemplative pilgrim. He might’ve been irritated, but at least he wouldn’t be marching through clouds of insects determined to make a meal of his patience. Though it would have been the same thing, wouldn't it? Only the insects would be larger, clumsier, buzzing and scuttling under the pretence of being human.

A low branch dipped toward him again—mocking him, he was certain of it—and he ducked just enough to avoid letting it claw his coat. His jaw tightened. “Fabulous,” he muttered under his breath, brushing stray needles from his shoulder. “Truly, a return worth writing about.”

The path sloped downward, the faintest suggestion of an incline pulling him toward the ravine that cut the woods in two. He recognised it in pieces: the warped bend of a tree trunk, the glint of a half-buried tin can left from some hunter’s meal long past, the subtle dip in the trail where Lucy Gray had once stepped wrong and nearly dragged him with her.

He turned his head slightly, letting his eyes sweep over the trees to his left. They parted just enough to reveal a sliver of something beyond the gray-brown tangle of roots and trunks. A lake. The lake. The air above it wavered in fragile, misty veils, and even from this distance, Coriolanus could sense the cold crawling toward him, seeping into the folds of his coat, touching the back of his neck with icy fingers.

He could hear it now; a soft, lilting sound, impossibly sweet, drifting through the mist like smoke curling from a dying fire.

Coriolanus.

It pressed against his chest, stole his breath in shallow, uneven pulls, echoing the uneven rhythm of his own hesitant steps.

Not far from its shore, half-hidden, stood a familiar shed, its weathered wood darkened by years of rain and neglect. The door was jammed, so he rammed his shoulder into it until it swung open, revealing a dim interior thick with dust and the faint tang of mildew. It was still just one room: floor, walls, and ceiling of cold, gray concrete, and a fireplace stuffed with the remnants of ashes long gone cold.

Except… they weren’t.

They were fresh.

Still holding their shape.