conversations: human
conversations:  As you awake, you realize the day has finally come.  It is the day for the reaping of the 73rd games.  A day that has stood out in your memory as long as you can remember.  The feeling of dread fills your stomach.  Something feels off, but you're not sure why.
  
  You rise and dress for the occasion, as does everyone throughout the district.  Everyone wants to look nice for the ceremony.  You never know when you might get chosen after all.  So you better look your best.
  Leaving your home, you join the mass exodus of people heading to the Reaping.  The peacekeepers presence is throughout the streets.  Their clean white uniforms and faceless helmets impress upon you a cold reality.  Everyone is going.  The silence of the crowd as they walk betrays another fact.  They know that two children are going to die.  Not today, but because of the events of today.  It's a sobering fact.  It hangs over the air like a heavy fog.
  
  Just like all the other children of the district, you line up with the children of your age. Girls on one side, boys on another.  Your blood sample is taken as peacekeepers check everyone in for the reaping.  Children around you try to stay brave, especially for the younger ones.  But they're all afraid.
  
  And then the capital Visitor comes up on stage.  Your heart sinks.
  The time for Tributes has come.  
   Spoiler 
   Please post your character's general appearance and his/her mannerisms as the reaping takes place.  How it goes down is completely up to you.
   
conversations: CowMasterTrojan:
conversations: human
conversations:  This bloody thing again?.
  Every damn year for the last four years, people I've been putting together and taking apart are taken away to get killed in a Amarr-forsaken wasteland for the amusement of a bunch toff's with the bloody worst sense of fashion I've ever bloody seen.
  
  He shakes his head, glancing around at the crowd as he does, it takes a moment to force down the sneer rising like a sun across his face, yokels and inbred bastards pushing themselves through each day like it bloody well matters, not one is worth more than a passing bloody moment.
  
  His hand creeps upto his eyes under his small rounded spectacles as he tries to massage them back into functionality, another late night with the Kailels daughter, trying to keep her going after the silly bitch tripped and cut herself open from stomach to breast on her fathers scythe. Still, he muses, an interesting chance to examine a working set of lungs in action isn't the most common of experiences.
  
  Oh look, the ponce is here with his silly bloody ball to pull out names and tell us how bloody lucky we are. Who the hell does their hair like that? Is that a ****ing duck? It is. He has a bloody duck in his hair. **** me.
  
  He fiddles with his carving knife absently, can't stop the towns apprentice medicae from carrying his tools now can you? Don't even bloody search us properly anymore. It's calming anyway, he muses as he grips the bone handle tightly, helps clear up the approaching tension of a budding migraine. He sighs deeply, turning that **** eating grin on the plebians expect all the damn time, and glances around back to the stage where the Duck-Wanker has just called out the lasses' name, some nobody, can't remember having done anything with her, no injuries, no deformities. Nothing bloody interesting at all.
  He takes a gander at the mirrored wall to his left catching a glance of his reflection, same as always when he's in public. A tall lad, well built if a tad stocky, a shaved goatee with a jaw-line hugging style, a shaved head, the aforementioned spectacles, wide shoulders with long arms and that constant grin which he feels creeping up on him even when he isn't turning his public face on. Should really check up on th... Why has it gone quiet and why is everyone staring at me?
  
  ****.
conversations: Molosse:
conversations: human
conversations:  What a bloody nuisance, this is. A patient left to work on sitting at home, the Sieur probably heading here and I'm sat in, what has to be said, a very nice hotel room waiting to go get butchered on tele with more armed guards than you can shake a stick at. Great stuff.
  
  He unscrews the lid of the flask they've left him with the rest of, taking a quick sniff before swallowing a measure, screwing the lid back on he places the flask back down and falls backwards onto the bed.
  
  I'm sure they'll wake me when needed, no family to go to and if I'm right Sieur Bequin will be turning up soon anyway, Ol' Git will be loving this.
  
  He closes his eyes letting himself enjoy the rich deep bed, the grin slowly falling away as he relaxes.
  
  Mhm, could get used to this, wonder where they put the lass? Quiet thing really.
conversations: Molosse:
conversations: human
conversations:  Just as his mind thinks of visitor, a knock at the waiting room door interrupts Zehir thoughts.  Walking in without being told to do so is the middle aged mentor from District 9.  A half-elf with a limp, Zehir knows him as Ignatous Irigold.  He's also been known to be quite the recluse of the district.  His skin seems rough from the elements, and a trademark scar runs across his face.
    "Zehir? I'm here to walk you to the train.  I've made some arrangements to the give the girl tribute, Sickle as I believe she's called, a little more time.  So why don't you come with me and we can talk while we walk."  
   "I'm sorry sir, but it is our responsibility to deliver the tributes to the train."  One of the peacekeepers in the hall says, interrupting.  Ignatous turns and says with a light smile   "Of course.  Why don't you split your men, and send a few to tale the two of us.  I assure you, I won't be trying any funny business."  
  His light words seem to touch the peacekeeper, and nods with approval despite your ability to see his face.
  
  With a wave, Ignatous signals Zehir to follow him and they leave the waiting room with a slow pace towards the train.  Stepping out of the waiting room and into the hallway, Zehir sees that the door to the girls waiting room is partially open.  The other tribute is a 18 year old girl, but what catches his eye is a very young child that appears to be hugging her.  The child is perhaps 3.
  
  Once the two of you have gained some distance, your mentor leans over and says   "See that? That was the poor girls daughter.  Kind of sad really.  Of course I suppose all of this is when you think about it. I understand you have some interesting abilities.  Is that correct?"  
conversations: CowMasterTrojan:
conversations: human
conversations:  "Mhm? Oh aye, poor lass and the poor lasses lass at that." 
  He rolls his shoulders and neck, glancing about as he goes, eyes hovering at his supposed mentors scar before continuing on.
   "As to "Special Abilities", I'm just a very good doctor. VERY good, naught more than that... And yourself? as a mentor that must mean you survived this damnable thing somehow" 
conversations: Molosse: