showboat sweetpea was the newest of shiny playthings, winning three years after haymitch. ( he knows her name is violet, how could he not with her victory tour posters all around ? ) brutus and onyx were fine. showboats in their own rights by being academy assholes ... but at least they didn't try to play unbearably nice with cappies. and it's that which makes her kind word leave an increasing bitterness on the very tongue he's been told to hold back as of late ; he's long since taken to the bottle though, who cares about the yammering of washed up, seam trash anyways ? ( snow apparently, but who can the bastard hold against abernathy now ? )

One could only hide behind a mask for so long, though, which was why after what felt like an eternity had trickled by, she had needed a moment, a split second to regroup, to rest and gather her bearings. The night was far from over, given that after the festivities were over, she was expected to entertain whomever had paid Snow the prettiest penny, and so, she needed to straighten herself out. This would be easier on her lonesome, but her fellow victor, Haymitch Abernathy, had slipped off to the gardens hours before the thought had even crossed her mind.

“It can be a bit overwhelming at times, yes,” she admitted, giving him an inch in order to ensure that he did not take a foot. “What’re you drinking, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“The morphling takes the edge off the pain,” she breathed, knowing that it was not enough. It would never be enough, but to give him anything more would be to put him in danger. That was why for now, they had to wait, to bide their time until the doctors were done assessing Peeta. “Today, hopefully. We’ve been urging the higher ups, but you know how they are. They refuse to be rushed.”

“You too, Annie,” Thalia responded, offering her a mild, made up smile. It was created, skillfully crafted, because everything about her surroundings made her stomach twist in displeasure. “No, I don’t believe we’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. You might’ve seen me in passing when you were in One, though. I’m a jeweler, so there've been times where I’ve worked closely with the district’s stylists.”

Lying wasn't exactly his forte, though. He knew he'd only dig himself a deeper hole would he make the attempt. So instead he grew silent, his gaze lowering to the subtle curve of the sheets now covering the items. How useless a move when she had already seen it.

Perhaps vulnerability was the way to go? Was there anything he would lose with that attempt? Except his dignity, maybe. "Look - people already tempt not to like me much, so I'd really appreciate it if you don't.." he paused momentarily, breathed, recomposing himself into a somewhat kinder tone. "..share this with anyone."

That was likely a mistake on Satin’s part, if the aversion of his gaze said anything. Something within him changed, irrevocably shifting, because he had unintentionally dug himself into a hole from which he could not jump out. The only way to free himself was to continue, to keep digging on the off chance that an escape would present itself.

“Woah, relax, Thirteen. I won’t tell anyone,” she replied, her tones even, sturdy as stone. “It’s none of my business or anyone else’s. Just don’t hide anything away that would require us to make it our business.”

Nikolai Lantsov Fashion: Royalty Edition

when: day sixty-three

who: violet & haymitch (@caardews)

arms are crossed, but lines on his face are harsher. from hair to toes, he's gray. just weeks ago, he had been held within the same bleak walls of the underground medical facilities. something about peeta mellark's cell-like room feels particularly cruel. not that anybody seems to care, not when he sprung feral at the girl. no, the mockingjay. between the schedule outlined dramatically on arm, he had split time between running between boy and girl as well as talking with the lady in their shared room. eyes are sunken from limited rest. and as much as abernathy finds an usual ease in complaining, he cannot find the words to do so now.

Ultimately, the alarm went off, letting all within Thirteen know that it was time to rise, to wake up and begin their daily duties. Her first duty of the day was to help out in the medical ward, where the once sunny boy known as Peeta Mellark was confined, caged up like an animal. It was with the memory of this sunniness that she lingered outside his cell, a sad, somber expression on her face.

“I requested this. It’s quite the change of pace, but they needed more hands after the victors were brought in,” she breathed, tearing her gaze away from the broken, battered boy to get a proper look at Haymitch. “And no. He’s on a morphling drip. It’s too risky giving him anything more . . . at least till the damage done to his brain has been wholly assessed.”

when: night before the quarter quell

who: thalia & annie (@caardews)

annie doesn't mean to stare. it's not right to. besides, she'd felt prying eyes in the city before, and felt the personal wave of anxiety wash over her like the saltwater ones back home. is the other woman from around here ? it's hard to tell. from features to attire, there's a grandness that rings of a capitolite. such a thing isn't the be all, end all. put cecelia whitvale or her fiancé in materials as striking as them, and there's an unfortunate, chameleon survival tactic that offers either minimal solace. thalia could be just the same.

The party had been immaculately planned, of that there was no doubt, but Thalia could not wholly enjoy it. Not when everywhere she turned, she was met with the sight of overconsumption. The Capitolites fed themselves, stuffing their mouths until the food threatened to rise back in their throats, to make a reappearance. To push this along, they took in a sweet, sugary pink drink that made them sick, thus allowing them to empty their stomachs so that they may continue eating. It was sickening, truly. How could they indulge themselves so when there were children in the districts starving?

It was this thought that lingered at the forefront of Thalia’s mind when heat prickled at her skin, letting her know that a set of eyes were staring, burning holes into her. Curiously, she turned and surveyed her surroundings, only to meet the crystal blue eyes of Annie Cresta. “Annie, right?” she asked, though she knew her name. It was hard not to when her face had been plastered all over the news a few short years ago. “I’m Thalia.”

His father had been moved to another wing to receive the care he recently needed. It didn't look like he would ever return. Which was sad, but also a relieve in a way. Caring was complicated; especially when the man who raised you considered you a stranger now and again.

Practical as ever, Satin knew what was expected of him. There was bound to be a shortage of beds if the refugees kept coming in at this rate so it was also up to him to share what he had. They didn't have to be friends, anyway. They just shared a room, that was all. And what was it really used for in his case? - just sleeping, mostly.

But then there had been a carelessness from his side. It happened once before with his father, but he had simply forgotten shortly after. He had left some items visible; didn't completely fold his covers the way he usually did. Items he wasn't supposed to have. Items no one was supposed to have. They were supposed to be in confiscation. He found some form of facilitation in the idea of her not knowing what should or should not be in confiscation. "It's uh.. personal items. And I would appreciate it if it remained a private matter." Satin cleared his throat.

Could he claim they were his mother's or were they too obviously from the Capitol..?

Little did anyone know that Thirteen had not been destroyed, razed to ash. No, quite the contrary, for during the Dark Days, those in charge of Thirteen had gained control of the government’s missiles and trained them on the interior, on the Capitol. Seeing that they had been backed into a corner, President Ravinstill had bowed his head and agreed to compromise. A series of long, obscure negotiations followed, negotiations that ultimately saw the Capitol destroying the surface of Thirteen. Its inhabitants had fled, though, going underground just before the barrage of force and fire rained down upon them. There, they had waited, had bidded their time . . . until now.

That was why Violet found herself deep beneath the ground of Thirteen, unpacking what little belongings she had left. Her newly christened roommate, Satin Toile, lingered, throwing a none too kind comment her way about the objects that had been laying atop his bed, items that should be sitting in confiscation. “No need to explain yourself,” she breathed, turning her attention back to her own things. “Though, you ought to find a better hiding place for the things you don’t want others to see.”

domitila had forgotten about the little rebel broadcast from the moment she woke up, jittery with excitement to get a look at the arena outfits and, by the time the tributes were already in the arena, and most of the capitol city was happily scattered around parties, it seemed that everyone else also had forgotten about that foolish intermission. the first few hours of the arena gave no intense bloodbath, but the excitement of the quell was still felt anyways, from that beautiful opening shot of the water-covered arena, to the rush for the tributes to find their way to the cornucopia to the pack already forming and, finally, to everything else the wedge-divided arena would still proportionate. compared to last year's dull forest themed arena, this one is true proof that quarter quells are still exciting, even if you put in old people that are but easy pickings.

while a not extraordinarily quiet sets on the arena, the same can not be said to the party domtila is currently prancing about. this one, hosted by a friend of her stepfather, is filled with fresh and familiar faces, both with pockets full of money and most with a quick instinct to gamble on the tribute that seems to be the most worth the dollar. thankfully, this is one of the moments she's in likeminds with her family, even if they do not make the effort to bump into another — truly, it's no matter, and, if anything, it's only for the best because that means that old creed will try to convert more people into seeing the value of betting on the tributes from two (she doesn't particularly care he has decided to send his money for ambrosia; this early in the games, gifts are usually shared between the pack, and domitila knows that even if the girl wasn't keen on sharing, thea would never send something that did not benefit their chosen tribute). 

while her family sways on one side, she tries the other but, sometimes, when she stops at someone, chatting up her tributes isn't even the point — she's not as desperate as some people from smaller tributes, after all. that is the case with several of the interesting people around, but she would be lying if she said that she wasn't often impressed by the districts. lottery ticket winners they are called, and, truly, there seems to be no better fortune for someone than to come to the capitol, all expenses covered, with the certainty that you will not go home in a casket. people from smaller districts have their charms, sometimes, but often, the ones who shine are truly their neighbors, from one and two. the pick from one is especially interesting this year: thalia maddox, sister to that distinctive career who had been picked at hand for the great purpose of making the games. word has it the maddox are fortunate in many ways, both in luck and in money, but domitila hasn't had the opportunity to take a closer look at the newcomer. 

an easy fix, she realizes now, catching a glimpse of the very woman. with a bright smile and an offer of a pretty cocktail, the stylist approaches. "thalia, right? does your brother's position make you unable to sponsor a tribute yourself?" a valid concern, which certainly would lead up for her asking about the tributes from one from a different perspective than that of ezra's. "oh, i'm intruding without even introducing myself. silly me! i'm domitila, stylist for district two. i've heard you're also in the area back home?"

And so, Thalia had set aside her reservations regarding the Capitol and all that it stood for, packed her bags, and boarded a train. Said train had carried her to the interior, where she had been met with exactly what she expected: a vibrant, vivacious city filled to the brim with blind twits. The very same twits that took two dozen district children and threw into an arena to fight to the death each and every year. As penance for the rebellion, the Capitolites claimed, having no choice but to believe that lest they open their eyes to the fact they had developed a taste for blood and violence. Perhaps it had started out that way, as a kind of retribution for the Capitol children who had been lost, but at one point, the Games had ceased being penance and became a show, a twisted form of entertainment.

Thalia knew better than to voice this, which was why at present, she flitted about a games party, taking to her new setting like a bird to flight. A sweet, summery smile slid onto her face, even as the rebel broadcast lingered at the forefront of her mind, threatening to lay down roots there. Violence and viscera played behind her eyes, whispering, When will it end — all of the death and bloodshed that has haunted us for lifetimes —

Dark eyes suddenly focused, landing upon the bright, bubbly young woman who approached her. “Ah, yes, that would be me. I’m Thalia Maddox, and it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she greeted, knowing in her bones that she, like so many others, might think those who hailed from the districts to be animals. They were not animals, though. They were people, just like those who hailed from the interior. Capitolites could deny this claim, could say that they were genetically superior all they liked, but Thalia knew better. If one was to cut into her hand, she would bleed the same ruby blood as Domitila. “And don’t worry, you’re not intruding at all. A face as friendly as yours is always a welcome sight. As for sponsoring a tribute myself, yes, gamemakers’ immediate family members aren’t allowed to become sponsors, but we can help the tributes in other ways.” A moment was spent admiring the designer’s dress, then, she nodded. “A similar field: jewelry. I’ve an eye for jewels, but fabrics . . . not so much. At least not as much as you. The pieces you designed for the Tributes Parade were stunning, really.”