Finnick Odair | Victor of the 65th Hunger Games (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fishermansweater) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2016-11-05 03:34 pm
fishermansweater) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2016-11-05 03:34 pm
ψ i've got a friend he's a pure bred killing machine
WHO: Finnick Odair
WHERE: Outside the Police Station
WHEN: November 4
OPEN TO: EVERYONE
WARNINGS: Animal death, gore, possible PTSD
STATUS: Open
It's been becoming increasingly clear that the weather is taking a turn towards, not away from, winter. Not the mild winters of District Four, either, but something colder, harsher, and the first snowfalls had made him turn his thoughts back to when he'd first arrived and he and Annie were wondering if freezing them out was going to be part of the Gamemakers' strategy.
The snow's cleared now, but it's still cold enough that Finnick is wearing the woolen coat that had been in his backpack when he first arrived on his daily fishing trips. He's spent a lot of time lately carving a thin, strong branch he'd cut from a tree into a suitable haft for the spearhead that had been in the gift box he'd received, and since he's been using the spear, he's been doing well. (The trident is still a work in progress; he still hasn't found anything suitable to use for the tines, though he's thinking it's probably going to be animal bones.)
The spear has helped him increase his fishing yield enough that he can, occasionally, drop some fish by the Inn for Kate Kelly to use. Not that he stops to give them to her: he leaves them in a woven basket by the back door where he knows she'll find it eventually, as his way of thanking her for helping him and Annie when they had too little food to get by. That's the sort of thing a lot of people talk about here, help and be helped in return, more like life in the districts than he'd ever have expected in any arena.
It's still early morning as he heads away from the Inn, spear in one hand and a few fish strung on a cord over his shoulder. He's planning to cut off into the woods again to throw anyone watching him off his trail before he goes back to the house he and Annie are using, but just as he's about to turn away, he notices something bright red on the path just in front of the building labeled Police.
Something big and bright red, and he feels a jolt of fear kick into his gut, the fear that sets off all his instincts. making him draw back from the path, into the cover of the edge of the building. Making him draw his pocket knife, and extend the blade so that when he steps out of the shadow to see what the mangled mess in front of the building is, he has his spear and knife both ready.
Nobody attacks. There's no flash of movement in the edges of his vision, no prickling sense of otherness that suggests hes being watched by someone other than whatever cameras are always on them. But that's no reassurance when he sees what's there. It's a deer, or what's left of one, its throat torn nearly in two, its stomach and back a mass of mangled flesh, torn and worried by what looks like some sort of bite marks.
Finnick's hand tightens on the haft of his spear as he takes a couple of steps backwards, suddenly wishing he didn't have his back to the path. Or anything.
WHERE: Outside the Police Station
WHEN: November 4
OPEN TO: EVERYONE
WARNINGS: Animal death, gore, possible PTSD
STATUS: Open
It's been becoming increasingly clear that the weather is taking a turn towards, not away from, winter. Not the mild winters of District Four, either, but something colder, harsher, and the first snowfalls had made him turn his thoughts back to when he'd first arrived and he and Annie were wondering if freezing them out was going to be part of the Gamemakers' strategy.
The snow's cleared now, but it's still cold enough that Finnick is wearing the woolen coat that had been in his backpack when he first arrived on his daily fishing trips. He's spent a lot of time lately carving a thin, strong branch he'd cut from a tree into a suitable haft for the spearhead that had been in the gift box he'd received, and since he's been using the spear, he's been doing well. (The trident is still a work in progress; he still hasn't found anything suitable to use for the tines, though he's thinking it's probably going to be animal bones.)
The spear has helped him increase his fishing yield enough that he can, occasionally, drop some fish by the Inn for Kate Kelly to use. Not that he stops to give them to her: he leaves them in a woven basket by the back door where he knows she'll find it eventually, as his way of thanking her for helping him and Annie when they had too little food to get by. That's the sort of thing a lot of people talk about here, help and be helped in return, more like life in the districts than he'd ever have expected in any arena.
It's still early morning as he heads away from the Inn, spear in one hand and a few fish strung on a cord over his shoulder. He's planning to cut off into the woods again to throw anyone watching him off his trail before he goes back to the house he and Annie are using, but just as he's about to turn away, he notices something bright red on the path just in front of the building labeled Police.
Something big and bright red, and he feels a jolt of fear kick into his gut, the fear that sets off all his instincts. making him draw back from the path, into the cover of the edge of the building. Making him draw his pocket knife, and extend the blade so that when he steps out of the shadow to see what the mangled mess in front of the building is, he has his spear and knife both ready.
Nobody attacks. There's no flash of movement in the edges of his vision, no prickling sense of otherness that suggests hes being watched by someone other than whatever cameras are always on them. But that's no reassurance when he sees what's there. It's a deer, or what's left of one, its throat torn nearly in two, its stomach and back a mass of mangled flesh, torn and worried by what looks like some sort of bite marks.
Finnick's hand tightens on the haft of his spear as he takes a couple of steps backwards, suddenly wishing he didn't have his back to the path. Or anything.
no subject
So when Kate comes up from the root cellar, where she's put the fish Odair's given her, she glances out the window next to the outer kitchen door. And there. There is Odair, red trousers and black coat, standing out and standing still.
Which isn't normally how he moves. The man is all cat-grace, a rolling saunter as he heads back to wherever he's taken shelter with the redhaired woman.
Swallowing, Kate picks her own coat off its hook, puts it on, and goes outside.
"Odair?" she calls out, staying within running distance of the kitchen door. "You all right?"
no subject
When he turns his head, it's to look back over his shoulder, where he sees Kate Kelly standing outside the Inn, wearing the same black coat everyone here seems to have gotten when they first arrived.
"I'm fine," he says, slowly. But his fingers are moving, imperceptibly, on the handle of his knife. "This deer's not."
The deer's not, and no ordinary animal did that. He's sure of that.
no subject
Taking a breath of cold air, Kate walks forwards. She's wearing her skirts in layers, petticoats under her blue overskirt, but without stockings, she's still chilled. A few layers are better than one or two, but the fabric is still thin. The snow crunches under her feet, an alien sound to her which merely adds to the eerie atmosphere.
She doesn't want to walk forwards. She doesn't. She wants to go back to the warm sanctuary of the inn, the sanctuary she's built up, but she's a Kelly and she's an adult: it is not to her to hide from unsightly things.
Although she can flinch, and she does when she sees the wreckage. She lifts her hand, crosses herself and murmurs an almost silent prayer.
"It. It looks like the ram."
no subject
That doesn't matter, though. She stumbles over what she's trying to say and has to repeat the first word, and it's hard to fake that look on her face. Disgust, horror, unease. Finnick has seen far worse sights, but he's unsettled by the dead creature too, even if he might not show it openly.
"What ram?" he asks, his words blunt, maybe lacking in tact when she looks so upset, but Finnick is not at his best himself.
no subject
Not this.
And not this again.
"Miss Margaery's," she says. "A week ago. It was killed the same way, it looks like."
no subject
He holds up his hands so he doesn't get stabbed, fearing a little for his life here and wishing that he was approaching from the front and not this strange side angle. "Please no killing," he says, gesturing to the animal. "I just want to get a closer look."
no subject
That his approach is just bad timing is apparent quickly, though, and Finnick lets his hand relax a little on the spear, letting its haft lower until he's not actually pointing it at the man.
He nods, letting his head tilt towards the dead deer.
"Go ahead."
no subject
"There's no removal of the brain," he narrates aloud, missing something or someone to take notes for him. It means they're not dealing with a sudden zombie invasion, which is a relief. "The bite marks are congruent with another animal, but the neck..." Ravi glances up and holds out his hand. "I need something to pull back the flesh," he says. "A stick, or something else I can use to prod and poke."
no subject
Before he can ask any questions, though, the man asks for something he can use to touch the torn-up mess that is the deer's wounds. There's still fairly heavy brush in much of the village, and he doesn't need to let the guy out of his sight to go and break a stick, maybe a half, three-quarter inch thick from the scrub and break off the couple of twigs that are sticking from it.
When he gets back to his new companion's side, he hold out the stick.
"What's the brain mean?"
no subject
"Most of the things that something would take for food are still here," he says, which rules out a murder of necessity for food. "If I had to hazard a guess, this looks like it was done for sport, for pleasure," he says darkly.
no subject
"Don't know much about this stuff," Raleigh starts, "But that doesn't look like a bear to me."
no subject
"No, it doesn't. Nothing's been eaten."
He's seen wounds a little like that before. Close-up live on the television screen when he doesn't look away in time to preserve what little he can of the dignity of a dead or dying tribute in his own mind.
"It looks like something wanted it to suffer."
Mutts. That's what mutts do, and Finnick's voice is not as detached as he's like it to be.
no subject
"Seems like a waste and that's not something an animal does," Raleigh agrees. He drops his tone a bit and gives Finnick a look of concern; considering what the other man had told him about where he'd come from, what could have done this? Who could have possibly done this?
Is this a situation where they have to suspect that someone within their group is responsible for this? Why would someone capable of killing an animal not dress the game to eat later? Most of the hunters all dress their game before bringing it in. This doesn't seem like them.
"Do you think it's one of the others who did it?"
no subject
It certainly seemed like a message now. Her stomach lurched as she stared at the poor creature, eviscerated in the same way that Bushy had been. She felt sick, but unable to look away, rooted in place by the horror before her.
"Gods." She didn't want to consider that there might be someone watching them and planning these things, as Finnick had said once before. But it was undeniable that there was something happening.
"What are we going to do?" She asked him, though not expecting an answer. "It's beginning to seem like a message."
no subject
She'd been kind to Annie, though, and she'd had no gain from her generosity, so Finnick's willing to take that as a possible genuine gesture. He lets the spear move back to a less aggressive position, resting the haft on the ground.
"This has happened before?"
He tries to keep his voice a little more gentle, steps a little forward so he's closer to the carcass than she is, because she looks stricken, sickened, by the sight.
Finnick's seen enough horrible deaths that he tries to look away from them now, but the remains of an animal are more concerning for their possible implications than the gore. At least it's not one of his fellow tributes.
no subject
As he lowers the weapon, she feels her heart beginning to beat again. Though she doesn't fully relax. There was something about him that set her on edge, whether it was the spear or his insistence that this was some game where they were all meant to be competitors against one another. She didn't feel the same sense of safety that she once did.
"Only a few days ago. One of my rams was removed from the pen and killed, just like this." She said with a measure of disgust in her voice. "None of my other livestock were disturbed, just one of my rams."
Part of her suspects it's a message, but it's still to early to be sure. This could be a coincidence.