The Hunger Games discussion

Roleplay your characters as they enter the Capitol! They should have a costume/outfit that shows what District they are and what the District specializes in. Usually we'd have their stylists do that for them but I feel like that might not work this time around.

Also, your character should be in a chariot with their District Partner (I'm not sure we have partners right now though).

(lol watch me delete this because I'm STILL NOT SATISFIED WITH IT)
(fucking writer's block being a bitch)
(I've had this WIP for literally three months)

Naja Ashlock stood with her head held high, regal and unmoving despite the chariot beneath her feet and the screaming crowds of the Capitol. She didn’t smile, didn’t wave, didn’t pose for them. No matter how good of an actress she was, no matter how manipulative, she would never bow to them. She would never stoop to their level.
It seemed that even the most foolish of them could sense the silence, the impassive mask, because the crowd hushed slightly as her chariot drew by them. There was awe in their faces - awe at the queen who stood before them.
No, more than a queen.
Naja’s russet eyes burned, lined with black wings, eyelids painted glimmering silver and eyeline studded with what appeared to be miniscule diamonds. Her browbone was shaded with metallic glitter as well, the shimmer blending into moon-pale skin. Her lips were coated with the same shade, like scintillating mercury.
Her face was cold, impassive, and fierce. Harsher than a spotlight.
Long tresses the color of midnight, cascaded down her back in a sleek sheet of glossy hair, straighter than the edge of a blade. The frontal locks of her hair had been twisted back to show off her devastating face, supporting the war-crown on her head. The twining metal across her brow swept into sharp, towering spires on either side of her head, giving her an otherworldly silhouette. Beneath the helm, dangling from each ear, was a miniature dagger - a sharp sliver of metal.
The gown she wore was just the same as her war-paint. Lethal, harsh and beautiful. The sleeveless structure rippled down her body, down long legs, into a close-fitting skirt and gleaming train. The entire thing was made of metal, formfitting and shaped to look like a gown of silver feathers.
It looked like liquid mercury, poured over her form and forged into armor.
A single silver plume curled around her bicep, as though peeled off the skirt and wrapped around her arm. Down that arm, hands extended into silver talons, fingers tipped with claws. The black cobra tattooed around her wrist was clearly visible.
Her amber ring was turned toward the inside of her palm, the silver band blending unnoticeably with the rest of her outfit.
And beneath it all, barely visible beneath the bottom edge of her gown, were metal boots of reflective chrome - the steel heels thin and sharp as stiletto daggers.
She could hear the whispers as she passed. The murmurs and the stares that followed.
Let them see what they think I am. Let them believe that I’m one of the Careers. Just for a little while.
Until she brought them all down.
She looked like a marble statue, a war-goddess come to life, dressed in armor and incandescence.
Flowers and silk and presents rained down around her, but nothing came close enough to touch - as though even the gifts of the Capitol were afraid to come near her.
They have good reason to be.
The cameras followed her. Illuminated her on the screens.
She looked nothing like what she’d become. Not at all like the hooded assassin in the shadows, blades gleaming in her sleeve and guns at her hips. Not at all like the crime lord, blackmailing officials and directing petty deals in crumbling warehouses. Nothing like the dark monster they’d made her. But at least she wasn’t a stupid little doll.
Everything about her shone, from her dark hair to the splendid gown. Everything glowed, reflecting back in a blaze of mercurial glory.
She was inhuman.
Dangerous.
Beautiful.
Terrifying.
Lethal.
She was all of those things at once, and yet they barely summed her up.
Nothing could sum up what was inside. The hatred, the pain and the destruction. The cool calculation mingled with burning rage. The crimes, the lawlessness, the manipulation. The stain the alleys had left on her. The death. The training. The love and broken glass, the settling dust. The lives she’d lost, the lives she’d taken, the hell that she would unleash on this place.
Not a bit of it showed.
No one could tell. No one could see beneath that cold, cold mask - not a flicker of rage, not a hint of any emotion. Ferocity, condescension, cruelty. That was all they could see. All she’d put on. Nothing in her face betrayed anything, any of the fury racing through her.
Their faces were awed, curious, intimidated - and hopeful, sickeningly hopeful.
She wondered if her parents were watching, wondered if they had left the miserable quarry village she’d spent the first few years of her life in. She wondered if they’d recognized their last name, seen a little bit of their child in her face when she was Reaped.
That child was dead now.
She still loved her parents, however little of them she remembered. They’d done their best for her. And she’d done their best for them. But she could barely love them back, barely had room in herself to consider whether or not they’d be ashamed of the monster their girl had become.
Reyanne Ashlock had had so many opportunities, so much promise - but somehow, Reyanne had become Naja, and Naja had ended up here.
Here, an assassin.
Here, a dealer from the shadows.
Here, broken and shattered.
Here, a glowing queen.
Here, in the Capitol.
This was the Capitol. Just like what she’d seen and heard and experienced.
Naja was their new favorite, their new champion. The next Career they would worship until inevitably, they turned against her. They would raise her up, make her their queen, and then they would tear her down again.
They’d done the same to Jules.
They’d done the same to Bryell.
So Naja didn’t wave, didn’t smile, didn’t pose. Only scanned the stands, scorching eyes taking in their dazzled faces - stunned and fawning beneath overdone makeup and ridiculous clothes. She let the roses and the handkerchiefs and the cheers drift down around her, falling. Falling like the first ashes of a volcano.
Arcana’s eyes peered out from her own, alert. She could manipulate them, make them see someone to root for. Make them play the Games for her. Just a little push. They were practically begging for it.
She could. But she’d hate to waste her effort on asinine lumps like them.
She would never smile for these people.
These people.
People who had watched Bryell die and hadn’t cared. People who had sentenced Jules to his fate.
People who had killed her, broken her over and over again.
So she would do the same to them.
One.
By.
One.
She would stride straight into the arena with weapons out.
She would destroy them all.
She would bring down the Capitol. Bring down the Games.
Bring it all down into rubble.
So many promises - so many things she’d promised Bryell and Jules. She would uphold those oaths she’d made. She couldn’t let them down again.
How ironic that this was how they’d died. This was what they’d trained for - and now by some twisted type of fate this was how she would rise.
Because she would rise.
She had no other choice.
It was almost a shame that the Capitol wouldn’t be there to see it...but then again, she didn’t care about pleasing them. Maybe she had once - no, she definitely had - but that girl was gone. Destroyed in the same arena she was about to enter.
Now, all that mattered was this.
They’d get their entertainment.
She’d get her revenge.

((well damn))
((why do you always make me jealous))

(ummmmmmm I have no idea how that works)

((SHAKHDJSKSKSKSJ DAMNNNNNN))

((Fxck seriously why are u so good

I might as well just give up now))