05

Jun

17
-RAISES HAND-

-RAISES HAND-

(originally from getreapedooc)

20

May

2

Happy Birthday to the best district partner ever!!!


15

May

9
(originally from aleks-ethon)

14

May

6

theoddsareeverinyourfavor:

Panem’s favorite part of the year is upon us, the Hunger Games! This year is the 71st annual Hunger Games and is sure to be unforgettable! From Reaping Day until the final interview with the Victor we will be keeping you in the loop every step of the way! A young boy and young girl between the ages of 12 and 18 will be chosen from each of the 12 districts to be a tribute, or a player in the game. Each of the tributes will be presented, trained with the help of a mentor, and interviewed. After the preliminary routines, the 24 tributes will enter the Capitol’s arena and fight until one remains. Are you ready for the Hunger Games?

Auditions are officially open!  We are taking applications and we will start accepting them later on this week!  Submit yours now!!!

Role Play  ||  Overview  ||  Open Characters  ||  Audition Now  ||  Questions

(via naimacreek)


14

May

1

theoddsareeverinyourfavor:

Panem’s favorite part of the year is upon us, the Hunger Games! This year is the 71st annual Hunger Games and is sure to be unforgettable! From Reaping Day until the final interview with the Victor we will be keeping you in the loop every step of the way! A young boy and young girl between the ages of 12 and 18 will be chosen from each of the 12 districts to be a tribute, or a player in the game. Each of the tributes will be presented, trained with the help of a mentor, and interviewed. After the preliminary routines, the 24 tributes will enter the Capitol’s arena and fight until one remains. Are you ready for the Hunger Games?

Auditions are officially open!  We are taking applications and we will start accepting them later on this week!  Submit yours now!!!

Role Play  ||  Overview  ||  Open Characters  ||  Audition Now  ||  Questions


19

Apr

4

18

Apr

14
Quickly Parish’s vision was engulfed by blackness. There was nothing. He was nothing. Nothing to the millions of people watching. Nothing to the Gamemakers who were already planning the next great event for the tortured tributes. Nothing to the older boy who had just shot a spear through the boy. Nothing.
Then there was a sound. “I’m sorry.” Not a cannon, a voice. “I’m sorry.” An apology. “I’m sorry.” Not nothing, something. “I’m sorry.”
Parish gave a final ragged breathe. The boy from District 12, the boy with the grin, died.
A cannon sounded.

Quickly Parish’s vision was engulfed by blackness. There was nothing. He was nothing. Nothing to the millions of people watching. Nothing to the Gamemakers who were already planning the next great event for the tortured tributes. Nothing to the older boy who had just shot a spear through the boy. Nothing.

Then there was a sound. “I’m sorry.” Not a cannon, a voice. “I’m sorry.” An apology. “I’m sorry.” Not nothing, something. “I’m sorry.”

Parish gave a final ragged breathe. The boy from District 12, the boy with the grin, died.

A cannon sounded.

(originally from nothingbuthp)
Parish:(Not nothing. something.

18

Apr

6

aleks-ethon:

Aleks observed the boy, absorbing his features as strongly as he could into the pair of his own blue eyes. He had to be young, maybe thirteen or fourteen if Aleks had to guess. And by the looks of it as well, he held a strong sense of innocence; face not dulled with wrinkles, skin not sunken in with worry, brow not creased in frustration. In an odd way, Parish reminded Aleks of Allie; coated with youth. That alone was a scary conclusion to reach considering the fact that the tension that stood between the tributes wasn’t enlightening. It was as dark as the cloud the tightened around the arena.

Aleks had to give Parish credit. He lasted this long. The games hadn’t gotten to him and with the appearance of a trench, Aleks knew he was smart. The career didn’t say anything, hearing his words and letting them settle in his mind. Parish hadn’t succumbed to the biggest trap of the game makers and that was losing ones’ self. Aleks could hear it just by the conviction of his voice, the realization that he knew that his time was probably near and it would be Aleks’ fault. But its what Aleks deserved, right? He had to repent for everything that been caused by his actions, each fickle event that ripped another apart. Unfortunately, this was the only therapy that was provided for him.

Retreating, Aleks had now created a larger distance between the two, his spine pressed against the stump of a tree. Inhaling a breath, which was a mixture of water and chilled air, Aleks propelled himself forward. His knees bent, frame crouched low as he leaped over the deepened gap in the soil. There was a thud as his feet collided with the ground; both Aleks and Parish now on the same side of the obstacle that had once been in their path. His hand immediately reached for his spear which had been fastened around the curve of his back with some vines. He retrieved the item with ease, palm clutching it tightly as he felt the wood brush along his skin.

“Try you will,” Aleks muttered, oceanic irises morphing from that of a crystal sheer to a darkened sky. He wanted to be the monster that raged inside of him, end Parish’s chance at winning so that one of his friends could potentially return home, but Aleks had to weigh the decision of his actions now. He would be killing someone who had not attacked him, not even made the slightest hint to do so. This was going to be like the tribute from district eleven except this time, Aleks was fully aware of it. Guilt at its finest.

Tapping into the devilish piece of his soul, Aleks lunged for Parish, spear raised, aiming for a spot that would bring him a quick kill, the neck. “I’m sorry,” Aleks whispered, genuine pain in his speech.


The two boys were still.  It was a long moment of silence.  Parish gripped the handle of the shovel tightly.  His knuckles were bright white and his face was pale.  He was scared. 

The Career moved.  He was moving backwards.  Parish relaxed for a moment, Aleks was leaving.  Aleks was going to spare him.  But the young boy was wrong, so wrong.  Aleks advanced again.  This time the monster was in his eyes.  The boy was reaching towards his back.  A spear.  The Career gripped a spear.  A self-crafted spear.  It was so much better made than the ones Parish had made with Ella.  Parish stood still.  He wouldn’t show weakness now.

The shovel suddenly felt heavy in his hand.  An idea, a desperate, crazy, hopeless idea struck Parish.  He threw the shovel, as hard as he could, towards the Career.  It wasn’t going to hurt Aleks much, but it might leave a bruise or scratch.  His face broke into a final grin as the shovel struck the Career.

And then there was pain.  The spear tore through the young boy’s skin.  It ripped his body.  The force pushed him backwards.  Parish was pinned.   Pinned to the tree that only hours ago he had sat under for comfort.  There wasn’t comfort now.  There was only pain.

Blood oozed.  It soaked him more than the rain.  The blood was warm. So warm in contrast with cold rain water dripping down his skin, the boy’s cold hands. It was a foreign concept to Parish. He had always associate blood and death with the cold. All his life he had grown up in the Seam seeing people starve and freeze to death during the winter. The idea that death could be warm had not occurred to him. But there the young boy was, wrapped in the warmth of his own blood.  The blood that pour from his open neck.

Time slowed.  Faces pasted through Parish’s mind.  His mother and father. Rhyn, Sonny, Rowan, and Flora, his siblings.  Lulu, the pretty member of his prep team.  Ella Mae.  Rhiannon and Calloway.  The boy from District 10.  Parish remembered the boy’s final request.  Parish had failed.  Quickly Parish’s vision was engulfed by blackness.  There was nothing.  He was nothing.  Nothing to the millions of people watching.  Nothing to the Gamemakers who were already planning the next great event for the tortured tributes.  Nothing to the older boy who had just shot a spear through the boy.  Nothing.

Then there was a sound.  "I’m sorry."  Not a cannon, a voice.  "I’m sorry."  An apology.  "I’m sorry."  Not nothing, something.  "I’m sorry."

Parish gave a final ragged breathe.  The boy from District 12, the boy with the grin, died.

A cannon sounded.

(originally from aleks-ethon)
paraaleks

18

Apr

6

aleks-ethon:

Eight days; that’s how long it had been since Aleks was thrown from the justice building into the arena where his life would be decided by the game makers and the tributes with a will to emerge in one piece. In that span of time, Aleks had changed, been plagued with a moral disaster that burdened his already heavy shoulders. Sixteen tributes had perished; four under his belt. It was truly narrowing down; the remainders being those with actual skill or a hell of amount of luck. But for the majority, the weak had been eliminated and Aleks knew that whomever he had to fight next wouldn’t be easy. Hope was forming, seeping in and blossoming. If the contestants had made it this far, they could go home and that itself, was sheer motivation to provoke the act of survival.

Rain still poured down; trees being nourished back to color with greened leaves, soil becoming pools of slushy mud, the rivers roaring with a ferocious current, threatening to overflow its banks at any moment. Aleks knew that his supplies couldn’t be left on the ground of his camp for much longer because having them washed away would guarantee not only his, but Cora’s and Ace’s death in the process. They needed the weapons, the tent, the excess jackets. All were necessities in keeping their hearts beating before the odds struck upon them with a firm slap.

The career tugged at the collar of his jacket, snuggling the material close to his body so that no rain would seep upon his bare torso. The sheet of water had already licked at Aleks clothes, making them stick like glue to his flesh. It was uncomfortable, but the pros, such as having something to drink and an ability to stay clean, slashed down the cons. In an odd way, the weather pattern had been cleansing.

As Aleks continued his pace, searching for tree roots and berries to bring back to where he resided, he came to a sudden halt as he experienced the tips of his boots to be dipping forward. His pupils dilated in shock; a deep and long trench blocking his path. The amount of effort put into such a tactic was commendable, but alas with this discovery, Aleks knew that someone was near. And unfortunately, he was not in the mood to handle obstacles or tributes that can easily be cast aside if it meant that someone he cared about could win. Time was ticking; such a precise and tangible item taken for granted.

Aleks searched the land, finding a young boy with a shovel grasped firmly in his palms working on his homemade moat. He cracked his knuckles, each pop being formed to alert the figure of his presence. “I must say I’m impressed,” Aleks began, his voice almost as cold as the temperature that had lingered in the atmosphere only twenty four hours ago. “But you should know that all good things must come to an end especially in such a frantic moment such as this.”


The idea had struck Parish some time after the anthem had played and the faces lit up the sky.  The boy’s face, the boy from District 10, lit up the sky.  So had many other faces.   He needed some way to protect himself from the rain.  He no longer had any shelter, the rain and river had washed away the campsite he had with Ella.  He had to start anew.

So he had.  Parish had hung his backpack from a low branch on the tree.  He pulled the shovel out of his backpack and put it together.  The rain was heavy, underneath his jacket his thin shirt clung to his skin.  It was different than the cold that had plagued the arena for so long.  It wasn’t necessarily welcomed though.  The rain could be almost worse than the cold, Parish noted as rain plastered his hair to his face.  The ground was slippery, making movement difficult.  Parish slipped and slided as he moved around the small clearing, mapping out his next move.  If this was where he was to set up a campsite he would need to find a way to keep somewhat dry.

The ground was fairly easy to dig into.  Soft and wet, but mud flew up in his face every time he lifted the shovel.  It was hard work, but eventually a trench began to form.  When the perimeter was done, Parish looked around at his work.  It was already beginning to drain the rain away.  Water soaked into the muddy ground of the trench.  The mud caked the young boy’s shoes.  The rain soaked him through to the bone.  Parish dug his shovel into the ground once more, pulling the mud away from the earth.

Then he heard a noise.  There was a boy, an older, bigger boy, standing at the edge of Parish’s campsite.  They young boy’s eyes widened, his mind ran over plans of escape.  It was too late, the older boy was too close.  Parish couldn’t do anything now.  Running, his main defense, was useless.  He stood still, mud streaked across his cheek and his eyes locked with the older boy.  A shiver when down Parish’s spine, maybe from the rain dripping down his neck, maybe from the knowledge of what this meeting was leading too.

"I know that," Parish finally said.  His life in District 12 had come to an end.  His time with Capitol food had come to an end.  His alliance with Ella Mae had come to an end.  The boy from 10’s life had come to an end.  Parish looked at the boy, he was older, stronger, and a Career.  Aleks.  Parish wanted to laugh.  That boy had surely been fed all his life, had warm clothing and a nice bed.  Parish doubted that anything good had ever ended for him.  Even being Reaped was an honor to the boy from District 2.  "I figure that out a while ago.  But when this is over, they’ll know I tried."

(originally from aleks-ethon)
day 8aleks

15

Apr

0

Parish ran.  His body burned.  Pain shot up through his legs.  He ached.  He could feel sweat dripping down his face and neck, making his shirt stick to his back.  It was so cold, so very cold but his body felt so hot.  His body was tired, yearning for rest, but he kept running, he kept going, he kept running.  He had to.  Parish couldn’t stop.  He had no choice.  Run, run, run.  Faster, faster, faster.  Run.

Parish couldn’t hear anything.  He couldn’t hear the sound of his feet hitting the ground with each step.  He couldn’t hear the crunch of leaves beneath his feet.  He couldn’t hear the pounding of his heart deep within his chest.  It was only silence.  A deafening silences that left his head spinning.  Or maybe there was silence because his head was spinning so fast. 

Everything in front of him was a blur of a gross brown color.  All of the trees surrounding him, passing him as ran.  Specks of green stood out, but only for seconds at a time.  It was overwhelming him, surrounding him, encasing him.  It was the arena.  There was no way out.  No way out.

And suddenly he collapsed.  Parish fell to the ground with a small thud; he was too small to make much noise.  He felt his body shutter.  He was shaking.  He pushed his hands against the ground, trying to hold himself up.  Then he was hit by a vial stench.  It burned his nostrils.  He looked around, searching for the source of the obnoxious smell.  He looked down and was startled to find he was kneeling next to a pile of his own vomit.  Parish pushed himself backwards, away from the vomit as if it was the body he had just left on the ground.  His back against a tree and he stopped, unable to move any more.

Parish looked down at his hands.  They were shaking, but he wouldn’t have noticed had he not looked at them.  He wouldn’t have noticed anything.  The skin on his hands was dry and cracked and bright pink.  But they were clean.  Parish saw no blood on them.  They were pale and pink as ever.  Not the deep crimson color that signified the end of another’s life.

But there should be blood on them.  He had just killed someone.  He had just dropped tree branch on someone’s head.  Why wasn’t he covered in blood?  He should be.  He should be.  He should be soaked.  He should be dripping.  He should leave footsteps as he ran.

It was wrong.  It was all wrong.

He sat back, pulling his knees to his chest and burying his head in his arms.  He wanted to cry.  He wanted to sit back and sob.  To release everything.  He couldn’t.  Crying now was basically guaranteeing his death.  No one wanted to see a weak tribute, not this late in the games.  No one wanted to see a tribute show remorse for the life they just took.  The Gamemakers would kill him in a second if they thought he was acting against their standards.

This didn’t stop the tears from forming.  His eyes burned and Parish buried his head deeper in his arms.  The moisture from his tears didn’t soak through his jacket, but the warmth felt burning in contrast to the cold from the air around him.  His tears flowed quietly.  The redness of his eyes could easily be explained away by his lack of sleep.  Anyone watching wouldn’t know he was crying.  This provided a small comfort, maybe sponsors would still look at him.

Eventually the tears stopped.  Parish knew he needed to keep going.   He couldn’t stop yet.  He was so close to the end of the games.  He was so close to going home.

Besides him there was a bag.  A green backpack that had been the dead boy’s.  His hands still shaking, Parish reached out to the bag and began rumaging through it.  Rope, flint, steel, a shovel, some sort of bomb, and, best of all, a knife.  A small flame of hope came to him. 

Then it began to rain.



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