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Sorrel Allowark

I know nothing of hunger but I do know pain.

0 · 377 views · located in Panem

a character in “The Final Hunger Games”, as played by Korrye

Description

Image Image


Name: Sorrel Allowark
Relation: Nephew of former gamesmaster Seneca Crane
Age: Eighteen
Residence: Capitol, close to the training center
Family: Two older sisters and his mother remain alive while his father was taken prisoner by the Capitol, forced to manage the games.
Alterations: Tanning and scar removal, skin treatments that make him appear smooth skinned and flawless. His eyes have been surgically altered to a shade of blue that borders on grey.

Physical Description: Sorrel is 6"1 and 165 pounds, well rounded and toned due to an obsession with the perfect body. His hair is short and straight, a jet black shade not typical to many in the Capitol. His skin is darker than average, tanned and altered to a honey brown. His lips are full and his eyes bright and constantly alert. He's often dressed in black or white trendy suits and jackets. He's always been dressed in formal attire by his mother. Now that he's to attend the games he's allowed himself to dress and appear as he pleases - more relaxed and comfortable. Years of beatings by his parents have made him defensive and one to work out to harden his body and to keep fit.

Personality

Sorrel is the alert type, the one who pays attention to the features of others. He has mastered the once over glance and is often judgmental of people based on their appearances. His mother's concerns for their family reputation and appearance have made him concerned about his body and features. He has a hard time with filth given his upbringing in a near sterile environment. His father was a surgeon before he was drafted into working in the games with his uncle, Seneca Crane. As such, the tactical cleanliness and organization that came with his plastic profession transferred over into their household.

Much of who Sorrel is, he has been trained to be. His parents have long dictated where he is, what he wears and what he says to the people in the Capitol. Where he socializes and who he's friends with haven't even been things in his control. As such, he often feels stunted and uncertain in the company of his family. On his own he lacks confidence in his ability to choose. However, the games have awakened something within him. Sorrel has become self-aware, far more concerned about himself and who he is. The reputation of their family was ruined by Katniss and when his uncle was executed for mismanaging the games Sorrel began to recognize the flaws in his parents. Now with the Final Hunger Games he knows his father to be a murderer, and his mother a senseless woman who's nothing but self absorbed. He's begun to care for his sisters in a new way, appreciate the family that he has, and to decide and do things for himself. He is capable, and manipulative. Years of vocal coaching and training have made him into a master liar. He is fit and cunning, sly and deceptive.

Equipment

Two long handed knives, a series of throwing stars, snares and traps. Sorrel is good with a rope and is better suited to close combat.

History

Sorrel was born into privilege. His father was the brother of Seneca Crane. The two of them were elevated elites amongst the Capitol's citizens, especially after the two brothers began to extensively plan and coordinate the Hunger Games. His household was an OCD clean freak's joy. His father was originally a plastic surgeon, working on thousands of patients for a number of years and 'enhancing' them according to the Capitol's latest fashions. He was concerned with mess and dirt, and as such he forced his wife to maintain sterility int he home. Sorrel was not allowed to be dirty as a child. He was forced to remain prim and proper, staying away from nature and dirt. His mother was a socialite and from a young age she raised her daughter's according to proper etiquette and social skills. Their appearances meant everything to her. The family took great pride in the Hunger Games but they also took great pride in violence. His mother was a hitter, his father a senseless beater. Sorrel suffered under his parents, particularly during their nights of drunken rage.

Sorrel was 16 when his father became extensively engaged in running the games. When Seneca Crane, his uncle, became Gamesmaster the family was bathed in fresh glory and status. Sorrel was proud of his uncle until he began to hear his father discussing their intentions for the 74th annual Hunger Games. Something didn't sit well with her when he overhead them detailing ways in which to torture the tributes and to create a good show. The discomfort grew as he paid great attention to the games while they aired. His sisters and mother would giggle as the tributes were killed, especially on the day of the cornucopia. Instead he sat in silence, wrinkling his nose. It wasn't that he disliked the gore of it or was afraid of it. Instead it felt like senseless murder. Did the districts not know enough of their crimes?

When his uncle was executed and the rebellion began, Sorrel's family became the source of much hatred in the Capitol. They found their home vandalized on a regular basis and themselves the targets of isolated violence. Sorrel knew the games were in the wrong but he was horrified when the Capitol became the source of extreme violence and bloodshed. More so, it was his family in disarray that hardened him. His mother was on the brink of insanity, her home in ruins and her reputation in the toilet. She became more violent, often striking out at Sorrel. The beatings were worse than when he was a child but he endured them, knowing his mother would eventually tire and pass out. She deserved to rage, he knew. He just didn't know how to stop her from taking it out on him. And worse, he thought it was better him than his sisters.

His family narrowly escaped with their lives and now he faces a near certain death with his father on the other side of the button. Sorrel's father remained prisoner and was only released home when he was informed of his role in running the Final Hunger Games. While the games are run for the most part by representatives from Districts, his father will remain a planner and architect in the games as punishment, especially since his only son will be participating.

So begins...

Sorrel Allowark's Story

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Character Portrait: Sorrel Allowark
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#, as written by Korrye
Sorrel Allowark
On stage in the Capitol's Main Square


This is a tragedy, Sorrel Allowark thought. This is a true horror.

He stood at the front bay window of his family home, donning a clean charcoal sweater and fine black dress pants. His family butler held out his coat to him, a fine supple white leather, before harrumphing and limping away at a leisurely pace. Swallowing the spittle that gathered in his mouth, Sorrel turned to view the faces of his mother and sisters. He was the only member of the Crane children eligible for the games. His sisters Shimmer and Patience were in their mid twenties, clinging to their sense of lost youth. Their hopes of glamorous weddings and luxury seemed dashed. As he looked them in the eye, his sisters avoided him. Patience turned her gaze to the floor, her fingers preoccupied with picking at her nails, the polish long since chipped. Shimmer instead looked to the left, watching the doorway in anticipation, wanting desperately to leave the suffocating room.

Worst, perhaps, was the look his mouth gave him. Sorrel eyed her and watched as she raised her chin in a prissy manner, rolling her eyes at her sons attire and wrinkling her nose in dismay. “You should wear your finest Sorrel. You make us look as if we live in a poor house,” she snorted.

“Is that all you care about?” he yelled in response. His voice snapped the tension. His irritation was immediately apparent. “You care merely for how I look when I die, but not that I am going to die?”

The woman’s features suddenly melted before him, morphing into a furious state. His mother’s nostrils flared and in an instant she backhanded him, her hand flying across the left side of his face. The blow was strong enough to send him reeling. Sorrel struggled to keep his footing. He immediately threw his weight back at her, screaming in anger. “You bitch! I cannot believe that you don’t even care about your own son! Me! You pretentious narcissistic witch!” He pushed her, his arms aggressively slamming her shoulders. His mother was thrown back and into the glass table in their sitting room. It shattered amongst her, catching her hands and face in hundreds of tiny cuts.

She gaped at him, her anger turning to horror as she held her bleeding hands in front of her face. “What have you done to my skin!” she shrieked.

Again, she cared for her looks more than anything. Sorrel stood there, shaking his head, hating her with every fiber of his being. Why hadn’t they stormed this goddamn house and killed her! The world was so much better without her! Yet at the same time he was astonished. This was the first time he had ever fought back. The years of beatings by her and his father, the slaps and punches and kicks, every ounce of pain they had inflicted upon him seemed to rush into thought at that moment. The left side of his face swelled, the skin pulsing and puckering into a lovely bruise.

“Sorrel!” Patience called out to him. The dark haired boy shook his head as his sisters tried to console him. He immediately rushed from the room, throwing open the front door and rushing into the thick of the crowds proceeding to the square. Despite his sister’s pleas to come back, to wait for them, that they loved him, he didn’t dare look back. Maybe he could restore honor to his family by winning, but he knew it was far better if he died. Then maybe, just maybe, his mother’s shell would crack open and she would realize that her materialism was the very reason by the rebellion had been as ugly as it had been. At least in his mind that explained it.

When he arrived in the square for processing the day was still quite warm. He was dressed down compared to most. He lacked the makeup and color of most children. Despite his family’s wealth, he looked as if he might have been from one of the districts and not the Capitol. He eyed the families that hugged their children dearly. He shook his head, his eyes watering for but a moment. When the games had affected the districts, you always saw the desperation in the family of any tributes named. Their life had been tied up in their offspring. Here in the Capitol, a child was a vehicle for your reputation and a means by which to continue your legacy. If they weren’t doing a good job then good riddens and be gone with you. It was obvious whose parents cared and those that didn't.

As he stood in the crowd of eighteen year old boys, he realized that there were few of them. It appeared as if the average age for the boys in the Capitol was verging on the lower end of the spectrum. Still, the sheer number of people who had turned out to be potential tributes astonished him. It wasn’t often you saw so many children in one place in the Capitol.

When Pinto Flickerman took the stage, Sorrel watched. As the girls began to get called, he felt for them. More than anything he realized that he knew many of them, a few particularly well given that their fathers had all worked together in the running of the previous games. His attention was very much caught by their colored hair and features, by the parents who shrieked for them to run or didn’t respond. So he wasn’t alone in being abandoned by his parents. Part of him very much wished his family would be there, screaming out for his life, showing him that they cared.

Then there was Plumeria Snow. He had met her once. She’d been as horrible as his own mother back then. Indulgent. Vain. Yet the girl who walked up to the stage, and amongst a great deal of booing from the crowd, was different. There was an awareness in her eyes and a sadness that matched his own. This is a tragedy, he thought again. And when she reached out and spoke to Pinto and her voice caught the mic, he could do nothing but smirk at her minor act of rebellion. She showed him to be a coward. He had run from the capitol and into hiding until it was over. She had stayed. She had experienced it and she was there, bold and defiant, facing this death sentence head on. He swallowed, watching as they accumulated on the stage.

For the girls, Eliana Simmons, Plumeria Snow, Flicker Rosewood, Sable Blomgren, Lira Dashwillow, Ember Marrs. 6 girls stood before him, all various heights and personalities. Some were dressed up, others simply like himself. They were a motley crew, one that definitely depicted the diversity of the Capitol in and of itself.

The boys seemed sparse and ill chosen. A twelve year old named Quin Dunn had been called first. He seemed to tremble on stage, becoming more and more of a wreck as time wore on. The other four were barely noticeable, the highly educated and material types dressed in flashy suits, even one in a dress. Coal Rousseau, Sawyer Necker, Jupiter Huntington and Ambrose Tennikin. Pinto had regained his composure after Plum’s little joust and proceeded to plucking the name of the sixth male tribute with a skip to his step. “Sorrel Crane,” he announced. Sorrel swallowed, closing his eyes and knowing that there was no duplicate in the crowd. Only recently had his family started to sign using his mother’s maiden name. He stepped forward, waving a hand in the air without even thinking.

“This one seems glad to have been picked!” Pinto teased, a sly grin plastering his plastic features. Sorrel walked up onto the stage, quite a bit taller than the other boys on stage already. Far from it, Sorrel thought as he folded his arms over his chest squarely. The teen paid a great deal of attention to the crowds who seemed to recognize a few of them. Yet the cries did not grow lower. They became happier. They had faces they knew, people to hold accountable for the crimes of the Capitol. This, he knew, was clearly a tragedy.

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Character Portrait: Plumeria Snow Character Portrait: Sorrel Allowark
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#, as written by Korrye
Plumeria Snow

Standing there was petrifying. Plum didn’t know what it was, but the moment she was forced to stand on her own beside the other tremoring tributes she could feel the hatred enimating from the crowd. She hadn’t truly experienced it since she’d been so secluded by the new government. But there, on that stage, she felt like the equivalent of a fire ant under a magnifying glass. Pinto Flickerman seemed to go on after her comment with slight hesitation but he got back into the swing of things quickly. It was like she didn’t even exist. Plum swallowed, sweat beading on her forehead. She could feel the sun on the crown of her hair, burning her scalp. She felt like her chest was constricting the longer she had to stand there, her eyes gazing over the faces of many people who pointed at her with sneers of vengeance. Her grandfather’s words echoed through her head. “They will hold you accountable for my actions…”

Plum felt her eyes swell and her body seemed to tremor. She reached out for something to hold onto and all she found was the arm of the girl next to her, a nobody with black hair and gold stars tattooed beside her eyes. The girl held her hand, squeezed it with reassurance, and just patted her hand. It was suffocating to be standing there. All of a sudden she exhaled, her breath panicked. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding it for so long. Her chest constricted and her stomach twisted. The nausea of nerves and fear seemed to constrict her jaw. She stifled her desires to scream. Everything in her wanted to jump out at the crowd and claw their eyes out and to turn their hands away from them. The spectacle had her faint and sick. By the time Pinto finished his speech she heard only one other thing.

“May the odds be ever in your favor,” he smiled, his words ending as a fanfare of music and confetti shot out from over the stage. Plum tossed her hair over her shoulders, her lips curling as she suppressed a cry. The stranger squeezed her hand again but was soon separated from them as the guides closed in on them, arms extended with black gloves to push them into the mansion that she had used to call home.

The foyer was baron and Plum’s mouth dropped in horror. All traces of her family’s presence in the building had disappeared. The walls were still a rich blue, the floors a dark mahogany. The elegant chandeliers were gone, the paintings too. As she glanced at the walls she could see the evident traces f repairs. They’d stormed the building in their capture of Snow, this she knew. But it was horrifying. Her home felt desecrated. And here they all stood, in a place she knew so well. It sickened her to see it this way. They were occupying it and treating it like a government building. The drastic changes to it hurt her heart and seemed to reinforce the idea even more so that there was no going back to her old life. Her family was gone and she was alone. This home was no longer her home. Where else was she to go? No wonder they sent her to the games. It was a means to get rid of her and to free up the half dozen military men who’d kept her prisoner.

It was in the moment of horror, looking up at the walls of the building, her mind wandering and her attention on anything but Pinto that she felt an arm wrap around her shoulders. Startled, she turned to look at one of the older boys who had been picked as a tribute. She remembered his face and how many of her friends had gone after him. He was another victim of a family history bearing heavily on his name. Sorrel Crane, now Allowark, held her tightly to him, allowing her head to lean on his shoulder. He held hands with another girl too, as if to reassure them both of what was to come, that more than one of them would survive.

* * *

Sorrel Allowark

As Pinto Flickerman said his regards, Sorrel held onto Plum, fearing that she might fall apart before they even arrived at the training center. He’d watched them all on stage, wondering for his friends’ safety. He’d noticed that halfway through the reaping the change in tone on Plum’s face. She gone whiter than white and looked ready to snap. She’d grabbed onto the arm of the girl next to her, who surprisingly held her steady. Perhaps he was nurturing. When he’d seen her grow even more uncomfortable at the sight of her former home he’d reached out to her. He wasn’t sure why. It would certainly make it harder to for him to kill her. Then again, alliances were always useful in the beginning and that spite and spark in her initial composure led him to believe that maybe she might be useful.

Then there was the other girl, one he’d played with since he was a child due to their father’s mutual occupation in running the games: Sable Blomgren. He saw the rage in her eyes, the betrayal. She was so proud of the games, that he’d always sensed from her. She wanted to be just like her father. She found the games a work of genius and mechanics. Sorrel hadn’t. But if any of them had any semblance of how the arena would work it was the two of them.

As they were escorted out of the lobby, Sorrel transitioned his arm from around Plum to simply holding her hand. They walked in pairs down a long formerly elegant hallway. The farther they walked, the more chips and scars of the revolution on the walls became evident. They exited through a pair of large double doors out onto a private deck and terrain. There, a large hovercraft was waiting for them. The guards had them all lifted into the large vehicles, sat and buckled into seats that faced one another. As Plum seemed to close her eyes and drift off into some deep through Sorrel sat forward, eyeing his competitors who seemed to sit in silence. One of them, however, was not silent and instead took to shredding the papers of her rather large sketchbook.

“Sable!” he shouted. “Sable no! If there’s anyone who inspires your father it’s you. If he’s being forced to run the games the way my father is, then he’ll do all that he can for you, which means using your inventions because he knows that you’ll be able to defeat them.”

His words seemed to break the silence. A few of the younger ones immediately stared at him and their glares made him swallow any additional words.

“I’m sure we’ll all introduce ourselves to one another later,” he murmured, sitting back into his seat and sighing. The silence returning and beside him Plum turned her head up to the ceiling, silent tears running down her cheeks.

* * *

Plumeria Snow

“You have the most gorgeous skin my love,” the stylist told her. Plumeria Snow found herself in a long hospital type wing, only instead surrounded by various beauticians who seemed very wild in their tastes. She’d always been conservative in her dress, keeping away from violent colors and styles. They poked at her cheeks and chin and body, wishing for implants of various types. “What if we dyed it a subtle gold or silver? What do you think Fen? She's so natural she could be from district two for all I know.”

“No,” Plum said bluntly. The team practically dropped their brushes and tweasers. The blond hadn't so much as breathed a word as she'd been delivered to her prep team. They'd asked her all kinds of questions, trying to be chatty and finding her cold as ivory. “So she speaks!” her lead stylist said, stepping forward with his arms on his hips and his chin length blond hair in his eyes. “Why my dear are you against looking like the very Capitol you are from?” he asked, his eyes a deep hue of green. Plum sat up off the table to eliminate how much he seemed to stand over her. “I have not been tainted by my grandfather or my family’s legacy. I am not like the Old Capitol and I refuse to look like I am.”

Her words were sharp, and her spiteful tone seemed to resurface. The stylist’s frown broke into a smile. “Then our visions align Ms. Snow. My name is Stark, how very nice to finally meet a woman who’ll stand a chance in this arena.”

When Stark had given her the gown she was to wear for dinner, Plum could still recognize herself in the mirror. They had plucked her eyebrows and waxed every inch of her body it seemed. Her legs still stung when she stood up to dress, turning for a moment to look in the mirror. Her normally wavy platinum hair was pin straight, so long it nearly reached her belly button. Her skin was unbelievably clean and shimmered under the light due to a lotion they had lathered her with. Her cheeks were flushed with blue and her lips a soft pink, not the trademark red of her family. Her eyes were luminous and bright, the blue irises standing out against her palour. She liked what she saw and even more so once she doned the dinner gown, a unique dress that while short, was a flash of white at the hip but otherwise black lace sewn into a bodice of her skin tone to appear as if she was tattooed over the upper promotion of her body. She liked the daring patterns that wore up the length of her leg and her arm and chest. She liked that it wasn’t all white.

* * *

Sorrel Allowark

“Would you stop plucking my damn eyebrows!” Sorrel shouted, his arm reaching out to swat at the tiny woman who hovered between his eyes, fingers poised with a pair of clippers and various grooming tools. “But they’re so hairy! Gross!” As he looked up at her face, Sorrel realized that the beautician had no eyebrows at all, only lines drawn onto her face to simulate them. He swallowed, finding her rather alien looking.

“That’s enough Velvet, he’s to be dressed now. We’ve plucked and soaked him enough. Not much to change when it comes to him. Plus, we want him to be recognized as the boy from the square who raised his hand upon being selected. He’s facing his fate with a strength and dignity most others don’t have.”

“That was unintentional,” Sorrel countered. It was a habit built into him by school to raise his hand when his name was called. The various stylists, each creepily dressed all in one color, their faces contorted and stretched by treatments and enhancements. He could hardly read their expressions. “Don’t tell anyone that!” Velvet snapped. “You’re heroic already! So many people are talking about you. Plus they got a picture of you holding up that poor Snow girl. You look dignified and she’s a wreck.” The girl chuckled but Sorrel snorted and shook his head.

“You’ve been paired together,” his stylist added. “Just so you know. I’m working with her stylist to keep your looks in sync. My name is Modena, Sorrel. I'll also be your mentor.”

The woman was gifted, that was for sure. His hair was died beyond it’s dark brown color to a jet black, the ends trimmed and styled. He was bathed in a series of vats meant to help his skin recover from sun damage and various scars throughout life. When he stepped out the girls on his team seemed to giggle with excitement. “If you weren’t a tribute, I’d jump you right here!” Velvet snickered as she helped him towel off. His modesty annoyed them.

When he was sent up to his room he was one of the first. A guard escorted him to the lift and up to the one floor where all of them would be living. He wasn’t left to his own devices but immediately escorted to a large ballroom for dinner, all the places set so that all 24 of them would sit. He saw that the room was set for additional people to join them. He was alone initially, standing in a black dress shirt, the collar open a button, and his black dress pants. He looked down on the city he had felt some contempt for for some time. When a second figure entered the room he whirled around to face her. Plumeria Snow stood there, a vision in white and black. Behind her were several others. Time for dinner and then, more ominously, the tribute’s parade through the city.

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Character Portrait: Sorrel Allowark
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#, as written by Korrye
Sorrel Alloward

Dinner was nothing but uncomfortable. Even with the top buttons of his shirt unbuttoned, Sorrel felt as if he was choking. As he sat down to dinner, Plumeria was beside him and once again tense and withdrawn. The stress she felt was contagious and he found himself keeping his shoulders raised and his jaw clenched. Modena reappeared, her hair looped to the side of her head in a mass of curls, the ends died a deep pink. She was older than he had thought and the more he looked at her, the more he noticed. As they were seated the Avox servants began to attend them and immediately Sorrel recognized one young man serving the far end of the table. He held his tongue, looking down at the table, knowing fully well that that man had once upon a time served his family. His family had treated the boy like a dog because they had been told to be hard on him. Sorrel recalled his mother taking particular joy in torturing the political prisoner. The action had him biting his tongue in frustration. He tasted blood within a few seconds of doing so. Swallowing, Sorrel took his class of water and kept his attention diverted and on the three people in his immediate surroundings: Plum, Stark and Modena. They appeared to be all he had.

Sable hadn’t responded to him. Maybe she thought poorly of him, hated him. He didn’t know and he didn’t have time to care. The teen looked over at Plum, constantly feeling her attention on him. They met glances often, and he felt sorry for her. She was struggling and he couldn’t do anything to stop any of it. He was struggling too. It seemed that was their only thing in common.

When he wasn’t watching Plum, Sorrel’s eyes took in their competition. He noticed that several of them had been severely made over, some representing the utter extravagance of the Capitol and with reason. One of the boys had a blue sheen to his skin, another several had had their hair radically altered. They weren’t meant to be relatable individuals for the crowds. They were meant to be children of the Capitol and that meant dressing them in radical pieces, adding alterations to their bodies and contort ing them. It made them appear as plastic and fake as the most radical of residents. It upset him and he was thankful that Modena had done little to him.

“Sorrel,” Modena asked, drawing his attention back to their immediate section of the long table. “Where did you grow up?”

“I was in the eastern district in my parents’ summer house most often, with a nanny or tutor. My mother worked in fashion for some time before she retired. My father was…well. You know who he was,” Sorrel answered, initially content but slowly fading in his volume.

“You’re related to Seneca Crane?” she asked innocently. “Yes,” Sorrel sighed. “He was my uncle.”

"And he dragged my father into working on those goddamn games. Now he’s at the other end of a control panel handling my fate and being tested as he does it," he thought angrily. If his father biased the games in his favor there was no doubt that they would all be executed. The success of these games was a demonstration of power on behalf of the revolutionary government. He hated that he was a pawn. More so he hated that his family would suffer if he did well or tried to help him survive.

He was going to die.

The idea hit him then. Funny how it hadn’t come to him when they had called his name. Sorrel’s stomach fell and he dropped his fork. At that instant Plum and Stark were in the midst of an altercation. He turned to her defensively, watching as she snatched Stark’s wrist only to have hers slammed into the edge of the table so that she would let him go. The room grew quiet and everyone was watching them it seemed.

“Fighting over the last potato I see?” Modena chuckled. Sorrel smiled weakly, his hand trembling as he took his fork back into his right hand.

“Sorry,” Plum swallowed, her voice cracking. Sorrel closed his eyes for a moment. “Sorrel, I’m sorry,” Modena added. “We cannot control who we’re related to,” he replied in a tired voice. “I am who I am and I am not my father or my Uncle.” Sorrel shrugged and popped a potato into his mouth, the food try and causing his stomach to turn further. Modena tilted her head and sighed, smiling at him with pity. Her attention was drawn away from them as a the stylist next to her leaned over her shoulder and whispered something into her ear. The two began a conversation of their own and Sorrel found that he had nothing else to do but listen to Plum struggle with her stylist and her sanity.

The exchange was harsh but Sorrel found himself nodding along to Stark’s words. They were true and just as much as Plum, they applied to him. He didn’t want the government to own him like property, to just be done with him as they sought fit. He was not a tool in some scheme to settle the new government’s stronghold. He was an individual and he had a right to life. Plum didn’t take it as well as him and immediately seemed frustrated and insulted with Stark’s words. As she pulled her chair out Sorrel reached out to her before she could stand up.

“You can’t leave, Plumeria,” Sorrel told her calmly. He leaned out to place his hand on her wrist but thought better of it. He sighed and they both seemed to stare at each other and then the floor as dinner was cleared. Within minutes they were being ushered downstairs by their guards and into the carriages. Sorrel felt removed from the situation and very much caught up in his head. He walked along as directed and felt as if he was weightless. In his head his thoughts doubled over themselves, screaming in repetition. “You’re going to die, you’re going to die, you’re doing to die…”

It wasn’t until they were in the carriage, his shirt collar being rearranged and his face re-made up with make-up that Sorrel seemed to come back to the present. A make-up brush caught his eye and the stabbing pain forced him out of his thoughts. He winced and tucked his head down, grunting unhappily. The noise around them and the craziness of preparation caught him off guard. He found himself nervous, his shoulders again tight and raised. His neck was getting sore from where he held his tension.

“Close your eyes, both of you,” Stark instructed both Sorrel and Plumeria. Sorrel looked over to Modena who stood on his left where she nodded and smiled so he did as ordered. A few seconds later he inhaled at the exact moment that Stark blew a mysterious powder over his face and neck. Immediately Sorrel couldn’t breath and the airborne substance had him sneeze violently.

Stark dismounted from the carriage, handing the plate over to one of his team members. “Show them that you are a brave one, Plumeria. I have faith in you.”

“Sorrel, show them that you’re the man who caught their attention in the crowd. You raised your hand when they called you. You accepted your fate with dignity. Don’t let them take that from you,” Modena called out to him. Sorrel nodded. Before he could shout something back to her they were moving.

As they emerged from the tunnel Plum immediately grabbed hold of his hand. Sorrel looked down at her small fingers as they gripped his palm like a vice. He squeezed hers back in an attempt to be reassuring, settling their hands on his knee, not caring if anyone read into it.

The crowd was deafening but Sorrel was used to being a public figure. Immediately he grinned and the screams for the two of them pushed out any sort of dark thought that had pre-occupied him. He threw his hand into the air in a fist before he began to wave, seeking the eyes of as many people as he could as they went by.

The teen noticed that it took a few minutes for Plum to ease up, to sit up taller, to feel comfortable and yet chique. He leaned over into her ear as he waved, resting his chin on her shoulder for a moment. “Laugh like I’ve said something funny,” he said huskily and she giggled in the most unexpected way. It was a small laugh but one that stretched her cheeks into a wider more natural smile. She leaned her head back into his for a moment before resuming their posture.

The ride was both long and short. The continuity of the crowds screaming at them seemed to stretch on and on for miles. They toured through hthe entire city and different stretches of the parade were populated by people from different districts. He knew that Katniss Everdeen was not watching. Something within him told him that she was dealing with other inner demons. But perhaps her partner Peeta was, or any of the other former victors. He wanted to show them that he was worthy of their ranks, not egotistical, not from the Capitol, but humble and a fighter.

As they returned to the base of the training tower the chaos continued as ushered hurried to pull the tributes from their carriages. Modena was pulling him down from his seat rather hurriedly. Sorrel squeezed Plum’s hand one more time knowing that they had done well. He was pulled by his stylist and immediately surrounded by guards. Unlike the others who headed for the elevators up into the tower Sorrel found himself led down a long stretch of hallway and settled into a smaller room. He was forced to sit down and Modena was alone with him then. They emerged from chaos into silence and the teen looked up at his mentor confused.

“Did we do something wrong?” he asked his stylist who shook her head and kept her back turned from him for a moment. When she faced him her eyes were somewhat hopeful. “We’ve received word that tributes will be permitted to work in pairs. No tricks, no lies or last minute rule changes. You’ll be bound together and forced to work together with the person they assigned you with. This means that you’re with-”

“Plum,” Sorrel answered for her. Modena nodded, and her lips pursed and she seemed very unhappy. “I wanted to tell you now. I saw that look on your face at dinner Sorrel. You like her and the gamesmasters are already seeing this as repetition of Katniss’ games. They don’t want Plum to be another Katniss. She might insight a counter-revolution. This makes it hard on you…very hard…”

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked her, taken aback. “So that you can prepare yourself Sorrel. So that you won’t love her. Hate her. Hate everything she represents and you might stand a chance."

Sorrel swallowed, murmuring “How can I hate a girl who is just like me?”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Plumeria Snow Character Portrait: Ember Marrs Character Portrait: Sorrel Allowark
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Ember had been through her finished styles, and was now in her flowing, tealish blue dress. Zina had told her, it showed her off as sexy, which she didn't get, but it showed her off as dangerous, a threat, which Ember still doubted, but Zina had her thoughts set differently. Her sandy, sun bleached hair hung in beautiful feathery wisps around her body, rather long, and her deep blue eyes shone. She was in a chariot with some minor, she didn't know the name of. She flashed the crowd a beaming smile, pure white, and her naturally tan skin seemed to glow radiantly. She blew kisses to everybody, wanting to get on their good side. Ember wasn't one for people not to like if they knew her. But, although she can be very sweet, she is lethal as well.

Finally, the chariot ride was over, and Ember rushed to Zina. She saw some other people talking to their stylists, for example, a girl she had recognized as Plumeria Snow. Ember let her gaze linger on her and her partner a few moment, then turned back to Zina, Ember's eyes radiating power but nerves. She was nervous, but she felt as if, for the first time, she could stand a chance in the Games. BUt,Ember, she wasn't one to kill people... She couldn't... and she wanted to stay that way, no let the people change her, and who she is naturally.


(Horrible Writers block again >.< i don't know how to post in this... lol)