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)
sixthiterationlogs2017-03-11 07:07 pm
fishermansweater) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-03-11 07:07 pm
ψ my weakness terrifies me I must breathe in breathe out | closed
WHO: Finnick Odair
WHERE: Out on the edges of the area, later Finnick and Annie's house.
WHEN: March 15th (forward-dated for schedule reasons because it's a long weekend and the rest of March will be terrible)
OPEN TO: Cassian Andor, Annie Cresta
WARNINGS: FIREFLIES so insect attack, paranoia, PTSD; also issues to do with powerplay and sexual abuse, plus you know, Hunger Games is a murdergame despotic dystopia canon.
STATUS: Ongoing!
The fog and mist have rolled in apparently to stay, but that doesn't mean that Finnick and Annie can stop fishing, or stop planning for the future now that the weather seems to be starting to shift towards spring. Cougar's concerns about fish populations have been growing on him, as the number of people in the village increases and there's no obvious source for replenishment of fish stocks.
Finnick's waited until the afternoon before venturing out along the river, in the hope that the fog would burn off more than it has. He's exploring along the riverbanks, looking for a spring he knows that runs from the west down towards the river, in the hopes its pool might be suitable to create some sort of breeding colony. Unfortunately, somewhere in the fog, he'd lost the trail of the stream, and in doing so, he's lost the direction of the sun through the fog, and he's not sure which direction he's headed.
It's hard to keep perspective on distance and time when the woods are so featureless. He pulls the flashlight out of his backpack and turns it on, looking around himself to see if there are any recognizable landmarks. He's gotten to know the woods fairly well in the months he'd been here: a large rock, an odd formation of trees, a clearing, could all help him orient himself. The mist, though, is too heavy, maybe a sign that he's close to the river, that if he keeps going, he'll find that one steady constant of the landscape, and he knows the river, knows it well enough to be able to follow it back to the village.
What he finds, though, is the canyon wall, looming suddenly, a dark mass appearing out of the swirling damp. He puts out a hand, brushes it against the rock, looks up, wondering which edge of the canyon he's found: north or west? Either way, if he just follows it around, he should find his way back to the waterfall, and then, at least, he won't be lost, just potentially a long way from the village.
He's not sure just how long he's been following the cliff face around when he sees lights through the mist, floating just in from the canyon wall at the very edge of visibility. He's seen solitary lights sparking and disappearing over the last couple of weeks, but never this many, never concentrated like that and moving in that irregular, slightly erratic way.
That looks less like the will o' the wisps than some sort of swarm of insects, and he's just considering whether he should turn, skirt around them and find the rock wall again once he's past them, when the lights move, all at once, straight towards him, not like the little groups of insects he's sometimes encountered by pools of water here, more like ...
More like the trackerjackers that he'd watched swarm and kill his tribute last year.
He lets out a shout, surprise and a surge of fear vocalized, as the things come for him, and he turns to run, but he's not fast enough before they're on him and he feels the sting, once, twice, maybe more, on the bare skin of his face. Finnick reels away, trying to escape, and he has just enough presence of mind to try to lift his coat to cover his face so the wool might shield him from the attack.
He's dropped the flashlight, and he stumbles blindly off into the woods, shouting again, and his boot catches on something -- rock, tree root? -- sending him sprawling onto the ground, curling over and around, defensively, clutching at the coat. He doesn't feel any more stings, but half his face feels hot, needle-sharp painful, so it takes longer than it should to notice.
He stays down, not daring to lift his head to see that the swarm has dissipated.
WHERE: Out on the edges of the area, later Finnick and Annie's house.
WHEN: March 15th (forward-dated for schedule reasons because it's a long weekend and the rest of March will be terrible)
OPEN TO: Cassian Andor, Annie Cresta
WARNINGS: FIREFLIES so insect attack, paranoia, PTSD; also issues to do with powerplay and sexual abuse, plus you know, Hunger Games is a murdergame despotic dystopia canon.
STATUS: Ongoing!
The fog and mist have rolled in apparently to stay, but that doesn't mean that Finnick and Annie can stop fishing, or stop planning for the future now that the weather seems to be starting to shift towards spring. Cougar's concerns about fish populations have been growing on him, as the number of people in the village increases and there's no obvious source for replenishment of fish stocks.
Finnick's waited until the afternoon before venturing out along the river, in the hope that the fog would burn off more than it has. He's exploring along the riverbanks, looking for a spring he knows that runs from the west down towards the river, in the hopes its pool might be suitable to create some sort of breeding colony. Unfortunately, somewhere in the fog, he'd lost the trail of the stream, and in doing so, he's lost the direction of the sun through the fog, and he's not sure which direction he's headed.
It's hard to keep perspective on distance and time when the woods are so featureless. He pulls the flashlight out of his backpack and turns it on, looking around himself to see if there are any recognizable landmarks. He's gotten to know the woods fairly well in the months he'd been here: a large rock, an odd formation of trees, a clearing, could all help him orient himself. The mist, though, is too heavy, maybe a sign that he's close to the river, that if he keeps going, he'll find that one steady constant of the landscape, and he knows the river, knows it well enough to be able to follow it back to the village.
What he finds, though, is the canyon wall, looming suddenly, a dark mass appearing out of the swirling damp. He puts out a hand, brushes it against the rock, looks up, wondering which edge of the canyon he's found: north or west? Either way, if he just follows it around, he should find his way back to the waterfall, and then, at least, he won't be lost, just potentially a long way from the village.
He's not sure just how long he's been following the cliff face around when he sees lights through the mist, floating just in from the canyon wall at the very edge of visibility. He's seen solitary lights sparking and disappearing over the last couple of weeks, but never this many, never concentrated like that and moving in that irregular, slightly erratic way.
That looks less like the will o' the wisps than some sort of swarm of insects, and he's just considering whether he should turn, skirt around them and find the rock wall again once he's past them, when the lights move, all at once, straight towards him, not like the little groups of insects he's sometimes encountered by pools of water here, more like ...
More like the trackerjackers that he'd watched swarm and kill his tribute last year.
He lets out a shout, surprise and a surge of fear vocalized, as the things come for him, and he turns to run, but he's not fast enough before they're on him and he feels the sting, once, twice, maybe more, on the bare skin of his face. Finnick reels away, trying to escape, and he has just enough presence of mind to try to lift his coat to cover his face so the wool might shield him from the attack.
He's dropped the flashlight, and he stumbles blindly off into the woods, shouting again, and his boot catches on something -- rock, tree root? -- sending him sprawling onto the ground, curling over and around, defensively, clutching at the coat. He doesn't feel any more stings, but half his face feels hot, needle-sharp painful, so it takes longer than it should to notice.
He stays down, not daring to lift his head to see that the swarm has dissipated.