Annie Cresta | Victor of the 70th Hunger Games (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
treadswater) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2016-12-23 06:45 pm
treadswater) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2016-12-23 06:45 pm
Entry tags:
What is elegance? Soap and water! [Closed]
WHO: Annie Cresta
WHERE: The butcher's
WHEN: Backdated to after the hunting trip gets back
OPEN TO: Helen Magnus
WARNINGS: TBA
STATUS: Closed | Ongoing
Some days, Annie really hates the snow. It's not for any good reason like the cold, or the squeaking sound it makes as her feet move in it, or the tracks it leaves in her wake. It's not because it covers the landscape and insists on falling like they are in the wet season, except for decent thunder and torrential rain, it is snow. No, some days she hates it just because all that clean, squeaky white just shows how dirty she is. Her original uniform is closer to grey now than white, grey-brown, and all her original things are stained with sweat and dirt. She - fishergirl, born and bred and raised at the docks, deckhand for years - yearns to be clean. To have clean things. Clean clothes. Clean skin. Clean hair, but, no, her hair makes her cry if she thinks about it too much.
So here she is, trying to track down the soapmaker. She, not Finnick, has been driven to this, and sourly she thinks that's a laugh. Fish-girl having more vanity than peacock-boy.
Annie's not dressed in white; at least, not how she can help it. The denim overalls over the new, woollen longjohns, her black coat. A leather-and-fur hat, quickly sown by the village-women who have such skills after the winter meeting. She has gloves (grey, woollen) from the Gamemakers, but no scarf. She could use her braid, but her hair is scratching her skin and reminding of her of how itchy-scratchy everything feels if she thinks about it. No, she'd rather be cold.
She's not dressed in white, which makes her stand out against the landscape as she makes her way down to the butcher's. That's where the fat and charcoal go, although the actual process she doesn't understand at all. Soap is something you buy, in her experience, in hard bars usually or in pampered liquid softness from the wealthier merchants. Annie hovers outside for a moment, and then ducks into the doorway.
"Hello?"
Maybe she needs to go around the back instead.
WHERE: The butcher's
WHEN: Backdated to after the hunting trip gets back
OPEN TO: Helen Magnus
WARNINGS: TBA
STATUS: Closed | Ongoing
Some days, Annie really hates the snow. It's not for any good reason like the cold, or the squeaking sound it makes as her feet move in it, or the tracks it leaves in her wake. It's not because it covers the landscape and insists on falling like they are in the wet season, except for decent thunder and torrential rain, it is snow. No, some days she hates it just because all that clean, squeaky white just shows how dirty she is. Her original uniform is closer to grey now than white, grey-brown, and all her original things are stained with sweat and dirt. She - fishergirl, born and bred and raised at the docks, deckhand for years - yearns to be clean. To have clean things. Clean clothes. Clean skin. Clean hair, but, no, her hair makes her cry if she thinks about it too much.
So here she is, trying to track down the soapmaker. She, not Finnick, has been driven to this, and sourly she thinks that's a laugh. Fish-girl having more vanity than peacock-boy.
Annie's not dressed in white; at least, not how she can help it. The denim overalls over the new, woollen longjohns, her black coat. A leather-and-fur hat, quickly sown by the village-women who have such skills after the winter meeting. She has gloves (grey, woollen) from the Gamemakers, but no scarf. She could use her braid, but her hair is scratching her skin and reminding of her of how itchy-scratchy everything feels if she thinks about it. No, she'd rather be cold.
She's not dressed in white, which makes her stand out against the landscape as she makes her way down to the butcher's. That's where the fat and charcoal go, although the actual process she doesn't understand at all. Soap is something you buy, in her experience, in hard bars usually or in pampered liquid softness from the wealthier merchants. Annie hovers outside for a moment, and then ducks into the doorway.
"Hello?"
Maybe she needs to go around the back instead.