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atasteofeuphoria

Suffice it to say, February was ecstatic over the Quarter Quell. To be back into the arena, pitted against all different sorts; she’s been nearly bouncing with excitement since the announcement.

She didn’t care about the revolt. She had no opinion on it. February didn’t bother herself with that kind of stuff. Her mind didn’t work on that level. All she cared about was painting the arena red with the blood of friends and enemies alike. Everyone was equal on her spectrum, all just fleshy sacks to be ripped open eventually. Donations to sate her never ending chaos.

While her faction was not part of the resistance, and she was allowed home, she didn’t bother. Her own faction had long since shunned her. When she was a tribute, her district partner was a love of the district. So, the fact that she mutilated him in the beginning of the games, well it was frowned upon. The Capitol was quite the opposite. The colorful fairies loved her.

Most of her time was spent training. She should probably be waiting for her tributes, prepping them– but what was that point? She’d end up killing them most likely. This time, she did take a glance at the roster, listened to the rumors. She might be absolutely insane, but she wasn’t an idiot. She needed to see what she was up against. Many familiar names crossed her mind.

Daniel too. A name she remembered, one that brought a world of excitement on top of everything. She wondered vaguely if she had the talent to turn his innards into a masterpiece. A Flower maybe. That’d be romantic.

Her mind was ablaze with ideas as she continuously left notches into a training peg. Her lips were twisted as she swung– t i n k t i n k Every hit she imagined flesh being torn under her blade.

But eyes were on her. She could feel it. Eyes were always on her, in her head, at her back. They seared holes into the back of her skull.

“I KNOW.” She whined, responding to a non-existent barrage of voices in her head.

She dropped the knife and stepped back, panting heavily. Slowly, she turned to look at the source of the gaze. A familiar face. Her fractured mind left her wondering who that face belonged to, even though she’s previously thought the name. Ghosts of the lives she’s taken always haunted her. Following her, driving her to make more blood.

Making her exit, she strode straight to the man, eyes scanning over him. Dilated pupils soaked him in. As she got close enough a slender hand reached up to stroke along his cheek, fingers gently grazing over the scruff. Familiar. Her hand continue onto the path, down to his neck.

Her expression contorted as she gripped tightly onto his throat and shoved him back against the wall he was leaning against. “Dead. Why don’t you ever stay dead?”

She was confusing insanity with reality. Thinking the past was coming back stronger than ever.

HIT. HIT. HIT.

He listened to each and every notch that she left in the training peg. It did not give under her. If that were a person, well, that would be an entirely different story. That person would be a bloody mess on the ground. He always preferred to come at someone from a distance. It was less messy that way. Cleaner. More humane? Well, only if he got them through the eye--- chasing someone through the underbrush while they had an arrow sticking out of their ribcage leaking torrents of blood into their own lungs was another story.

The knife dropped.

He always found her beautiful. Even wide eyed, pupils blown, hair a mess--- she was as stunning as an angel of death. Perceptive eyes raked her as February approached. He wondered how loud the voices were for her today. He never wanted to fix her. She was perfect. LONG, SLENDER fingers passed his jowls, the scruff that lined his jaw and his neck, a tuft of hair that had fallen in front of his face---

Then he was shoved back up against the wall, held by his neck. He let out a sharp, wry laugh and an exhale of breath.

“Am I dead?”

He stroked a fallen strand of blonde hair out of her face. Trailed his thumb down her jawbone. Then turned sharply and pushed her back up against the wall.

“That would make things a lot easier for me if I were dead. Think of how many drinks I could fit into my day if I were dead and not looking after two wide eyed kids. But I’m not. Life can’t get rid of me that easily.” His tone became serious. “Feb, this is real.” He placed his hand on her shoulder firmly. “I’m real.”

#ch: the archer { Daniel }#atasteofeuphoria #angel of small death { feb }

@mxscellaneousmuses | v. glory and gore | ch: the archer { Daniel }

The last two tributes from his home district in the 74th Games had died too easily. One of them was tortured to death by Clarke Griffin from District 7 in her haste to find some tribute from Four. Those two tributes from Twelve last year were not trained by him, no, Daniel was a hunter who remained in the wilds outside of Panem’s electrified fences to hunt down feral creatures. This year under his watchful eye would be different.

Least to say: he wanted to beat District 7.

The mentor had a clear crystal glass of brown liquid in one hand when he found him. Nikolai. District 7′s infamous mentor. He had never fought against him or seen him save for a handful of times spent at the Capitol. As a recluse, he was at a disadvantage. He only knew February Summers here.

“So. I saw that your tribute in the last games tortured mine for information. That must have really fucked with her psyche.”

#mxscellaneousmuses #[ v. glory and gore ]#ch: the archer { Daniel }

worldamongbooks

( ☀☁🌙)

@notthescarsyoucansee | v. glory and gore | ch: the archer { Daniel }

“Get up.”

Most mentors hadn’t even begun training yet with their tributes: there was a year until the Games. But the archer was not most mentors. He was currently wearing his standard training clothes: a pair of baggy sweat pants and a tank top for ventilation. They had been going at this for about two hours now. He had an obstacle course that he set up: every time she failed or fell off, she had to start it all over. It was timed. He wanted to push her until she was almost at the breaking point.

The last two tributes from the 74th Games had died too easily. One of them was tortured to death by Clarke Griffin from District 7. He wanted to beat District 7. Those two tributes from last year were not trained by him, no, Daniel was a hunter who remained in the wilds outside of Panem’s electrified fences to hunt down feral creatures. This year under his watchful eye would be different.

“Go at it again. How about this: if you are able to finish it this time, you can leave and I’ll get the kitchen to make you as much food as you want. If you aren’t able to, you’ll spar against me. And you’ll lose.”

#[ v. glory and gore ]#ch: the archer { Daniel }#notthescarsyoucansee #psst it's hmnal this is my multimuse account

hipsteriisms

Vacant blue eyes followed the passing scenery outside the speeding train. He’d never been outside his own district and when he was younger he used to dream about the world outside the fences. But now the world held less wonder for the boy. He was to spend a year in the Capitol, being trained to kill and survive, and the media still expected at least a smile from him. They didn’t get one. Isaac wasn’t in the appointed car for the tributes, he’d removed himself to a much quieter, much more secluded train car, away from the questions and prying gazes. His blue hues fell to his hands, no matter how much they scrubbed, there was still coal under his nails and in his blonde curls, making them appear almost slivery gunmetal grey in the right lighting. He was so absorbed in the flecks of the mineral that basically powered his life, that he didn’t notice when his mentor walked in.

The blonde didn’t feel like talking; he hadn’t felt like talking in four years. He mostly got by on facial expressions. There were only two good things about this situation. One, he was away from his father, and two, he finally got to take the damn collar off. He gave his mentor a look that screamed, ‘Seriously?’.

He was not in the appointed car with tributes. Not with the girl who wore the big sweater and had a look on her face like she’d rather be anywhere but here. They were off to a great start. From Twelve he too often got the ones that just sat back and listened to whatever bullshit he could sprout.

He was not good at this. He was good at archery, he was good at being alone, he was good at knowing how to survive for forty days in the wilderness where there was nothing but yourself and your thoughts and maybe a bear that had gone too many days without food, or a mountain lion that had been stalking you for days. He could thrive in those conditions. Here? With fancy mahogany chairs and elaborate chandeliers and a train that barely made a sound as it cut through the mountain line.... he was not adept at this.

He caught his tribute’s pointed look and made a scoff of his own.

Next he was pouring himself some brown liquid into a clear crystal glass.

“Coal miner.” He gestured with the glass to the dust he could see under his nails. “And... by the look of your build, not well fed.” He didn’t care if he offended him. “You’ve got attitude.” Those blue eyes were vacant. He wanted to see steel in them. “Unfortunately, you and everyone else who wind up on this train has attitude. Are we going to get along, Isaac?”

#[ v. glory and gore ]#ch: the archer { Daniel }#hipsteriisms

thexhierarchy

@descendus

His jaw is set, firm, eyes glowering. It’s been years now, and Roan might think everyone’s forgotten, but not Loral. Loral hasn’t forgotten. He’s unceremonious as he enters the home, searching for his younger brother with a purpose. He stumbles upon a different man though.

“Where is Roan? Where is my little brother?”

descendus-blog

He heard someone enter his home. He heard it plain as day. He waited for the person to come to him, and when he did---- OH. An angel. Something, beneath the vampire’s cold exterior, rippled like disturbing the placid surface of water. Morgan turned on him.

“Roan?” Morgan said although he already knew.

#thexhierarchy #ch: the eldest { morgan }#i #hate #my #tagging #system

jamiecampbellbower-official

#I don't even remember my tagging system #ch: the eldest { morgan }

@hipsteriisms // v. glory and gore // the archer { Daniel }

------He hadn’t made this train ride in years. No: the Capitol let one other mentor be in charge of the usual run of the mill Tributes from twelve. This one was seldom seen in Twelve at all. The entire place could have blown up and he would have been well beyond the boundaries of the old District Thirteen and no wiser for it. No, he was a wanderer. He had seen more in his life than people see watching those Games year round.

No. This was terrible. And he had every intention keeping to himself for the entire train ride there. He was in the middle of attempting to make his way to somewhere silent && devoid of children when he stumbled into a room at the back of the train car. This room had windows in every direction: mountains and forest peeled away, covered by a thin mist of rain.

Daniel’s eyes fell upon the tribute. His tribute. And more: his eyes, descended past his blonde curls, fell on the half hidden shape of a bruise on his collarbone. Interesting.

“So. This is the part where I tell you how to not die. But considering you will be living in the Capitol for a year, you might just poison yourself first.”

#hipsteriisms #ch: the archer { Daniel }#[ v. glory and gore ]

@atasteofeuphoria // v. glory and gore // the archer { Daniel }

THE ARCHER was not a mentor in the typical sense of the word. He was never called to train tributes or lead them on their victory march in the rare case that someone from Twelve struck it out long enough to make it to the end of that particular bloodbath. No. Instead he was the one who was called to hunt beyond the confines of Panem’s many districts and their many fences. He had seen dragons, feral werewolves, spirits of the north, and things that he was sure the Capitol could never dream of------

He did not always kill them. Most of the time he was just: alone.

He received a quaint little letter scrawled in elegant handwriting when he had returned home to Twelve to his lonely home in Victor’s Village. Something had happened that warranted an ( early ) formal request for his presence within the Capitol. It sat uneasily in his stomach. Mostly, he ignored his tribute ( the one with the curly blonde hair and a bruise sneaking out of his collarbone ) the entire train ride there.

The Capitol was a big, noisy place.

He found HER where he had thought he would. They had only met once. Well, many times in that one time he stayed in District 10 for a while too long. The archer stood: leaned up against the side of a wall, smoke grey eyes on her.

#[ v. glory and gore ]#ch: the archer #closed starter

capitolupdates

THE QUARTER QUELL;;

100 years ago there were three types of people: the kind that were human, the kind that weren’t, and the kind that believed that supernatural creatures should be free. After a long war the latter drew the short end of the straw: thirteen districts were formed to keep supernatural creatures on a tight leash and punish those humans who supported them. Now, 75 years later, twelve districts remain to serve the Capitol in goods and blood.

NOW, THE QUARTER QUELL NEARS. The last year’s events of the 74th Hunger Games shook the Capitol and the districts from all they know. Now: it is in the Capitol’s hands to deal with the survivors and make an example out of those who thought that they could find a loophole in the games. The catch is: now all mentors are being thrown into the ring, too. It is a fight of tribute against mentors. And only one will come out.

THIS VERSE IS INSPIRED BY THE HUNGER GAMES BUT IS VERY CANON DIVERGENT AND FOLLOWS A DIFFERENT INDEPENDENT STORY LINE THAT IS SEPARATE FROM THE BOOKS / MOVIES. THE PREVIOUS GROUP POST CAN BE FOUND HERE.

Keep reading

#[ v. glory and gore ]

ooc// hellooo, it’s me

#I haven't signed onto this account in 84 years #the writer { mun }

@thexhierarchy | v. glory and gore closed starter

She had been separated from Alec first, then Theo, and now she was running FOR HER LIFE. She wondered if Connor was watching her from home. She missed her older brother. She missed working with animals, she missed firing homemade arrows into the forest instead of people, she missed---

A SCREAM made her run faster.

Her lungs couldn’t keep up with it. At 4′11, she could only run so fast.

She cleared a room. A FAST figure raced out from the shadows and slammed the door shut, the sound of bodies being THROWN UP against the flimsy door greeting her ears. One of the mutts had her by the hair. They went falling to the ground. Then, Ellie was stabbing it in the head with her knife, again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again----

@atasteofeuphoria (stabby stab stab)

Morgan pulled her off.

He wasn’t a kind man. And he was never one to comfort. But--- he took Ellie off of the limp body of a madman, and brought her shaking form to his chest. It would take just a movement of his arms to snap her neck. Except-- well, except Roan was there. Ellie fought against him. All at once the fought fled from her and she was sobbing loudly into Morgan’s chest.

Screams from the other side of the door could be heard. The door looked like it was seconds away from breaking.

#ch: the eldest { morgan }#ch: spitfire { ellie }#[ v. glory and gore ]#stabby stab stab #thexhierarchy

JIMMY;;;

Jimmy frowned over at Connor, he didn’t exactly take his words well, sounded like he was judging him for something and the Hunter hated that feeling since he got enough of that back in the safezone. His finger grips onto the frame of his bow just a little tighter now.