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
"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?"