HG OCT: Roarke Farryn Audition (UPDATED)

Long, Sleepless Night.

Those of District 4 had watched, as all were required to do, the Reaping of six young girls and boys from Districts 1 through 3, and, after much ado, the long awaited day had finally arrived within the boundaries of their own home. There had been cause of much curiosity when those from the Capital had come to erect the stage and screens in the center of town for the following day's events. It was all anyone could talk about, as well as, what no one wanted to acknowledge. Fear lay beneath every careful word and concealed glance, more so for those with children of age. While their District was fairly well off compared to those that would need to seek the aid of the Capital, the knowledge that all those eligible were at least entered once could not be ignored. Almost every boy and girl of age had an equal chance of becoming the one selected.

One young man in particular had stayed up through the whole of the night having spent the hours putting his family's home and workshop in order. Roarke Farryn was just days from turning 18 and the only member of his household that was still alive. Not much older than many of those that would be joining him in the square that morning; it bothered him that the Capital would think to include children not even old enough to have really experienced life as anything but kids; the images of a few surging to the forefront of his thoughts. Two of his cousins were of age.

Pulling on a heavy wool sweater that was beginning to unravel at the hem and wrists from age, he stepped outside long before dawn and made his way down towards the docks. There would be no one out preparing their boats for sail that day. A small sail boat set back furthest from the central docks was his goal. It had been his father's boat. While the damage had been a daunting sight all those years ago as it was pulled back to port, he had slowly pieced it back into working order. With a heavy hand, he traced his hand along the rail of the low sitting ship. Layers of varnish and wax giving it a smooth shine that not even his work calloused hands could catch on. In the light of day, with the sails full, one could almost imagine disappearing into the horizon. He'd thought of it a time or two in the past and more than that in just the last few days. Touching the cool weight of obsidian at his neck he couldn't help but wonder how far he might get? Would the Peacekeepers bother to seek out just one vessel?

"Your father would have done it."

Roarke's heart hammered as he turned about to find his Uncle standing on the main dock, a small lantern lighting his face. "Are you trying to kill me before the Capital gets a chance, old man?"

"With any amount of luck, you'll be around for years to come adding to my grey hairs." Brown stubble surrounded the subtle smile upon his face, while a slight limp seemed all the more noticeable as he joined Roarke at the base of the gang plank.

"Luck has never really been in my corner..." A moment settled between them at the truth in that statement; both men just looking up towards the deck but not climbing aboard. "How are the boys taking it?"

"As well as anyone, I suppose. Jonah raised hell about getting his hair cut and having to wear his Sunday clothes today. Micah... He hasn't said much since yesterday. He's a lot like you in that respect."

"There's not much to say. You'll either get selected or you won't."

"True. I've heard talks of a few planning to volunteer."

"I've thought about it." Roarke hadn't missed the open ended tone in his Uncle's voice, urging him say more, he just didn't know what more to say. His father had always told him that it was better to accept fate then fight against it. "...What did you mean before?"

"There's been a lot of befores, Roarke." For the first time since his uncle had joined him at his side, Roarke turned a bland glare upon the older man that had a gruff chuckle rising in his chest, "your father was always an impulsive man. He and I never really saw eye to eye most of the time but more often than not he was right. Especially when it came to the sea. If he was put in your position, I have no doubt he would have made a run for it and I wouldn't have tried to stop him."

"Are we talking about the same Monroe Farryn?" Disbelief echoed in the early wisps of morning mist beginning to circle about their feet.

"Your mother tempered him a bit."

It was Roarke's turn to smile as he thought back to all the times a word or glance from his mom would quell the storm all too often present in his dad's eyes. She was his total opposite and even to his young eyes it was clear that she kept him grounded. "Maybe if she'd still been around he wouldn't have gone out that day."

"We'll never know." A strong hand fell upon a broad shoulder with a familiar squeeze drawing eyes the color of sea glass back from the fading darkness beyond the docks. "You should go get ready. I'll come by the house on our way to the square."

Nothing more was said between them beyond a hearty pat on the back before the uneven click of steps faded into the thickening fog, leaving Roarke to take in the dawn before he too would head back towards home and the impending events.

The next time either would see the other it would be after a few brisk knocks woke him from an unexpected nap. Wearing a pair of his father's dark grey slacks and a button down that just fit him, Roarke grabbed up his sweater and a slim fold of papers before he stepped out to join the group at his door. Just as it had been when they'd parted, neither spoke, nor did any of the others. It seemed even the sea had gone silent as the whole of the District made their way towards the town square.

The whole process was rather surreal and before he knew it, he was standing amongst all of those boys that were eligible as tributes; staring at a stage populated by their mayor and a row of imposingly still Peacekeepers and the bowls. Two large clear bowls filled with layers of small papers. Somewhere in there were his cousins' names and the names of every one of those gathered around him. A slight motion to the right of the stage announced the one that would honor two of their Districts children with the gift of fighting for their lives. His fingers curled into fists at his side at the thought but he did nothing more than force himself to stand through the presentation preceding the drawing.

For all of the lead up it was nothing more than a simple lottery. No matter how much their visitor from the Capital smiled. No matter how daintily he reached into the bowl and made a show of shaking out the slip... A shared gasp spread through those gathered as a second slip fell away from the one that he lifted to read. There was a moment of pause given as he seemed to debate just what she should do. The whole crowd seemed to lean in, waiting with baited breath as he bent to pick up the fallen paper.

Both held, still folded, in his hands, he looked between them and then to those gathered, his false smile seeming to brighten with his decision, "It seems we have a name more eager than the others. Let's see who was so willing to join me on stage."

"More like join him in the fire," muttered one of the boys a few rows back as the escort returned the slip that he'd held on to back to the bowl.

With a flourish of his hands, he made a spectacle of opening the slip, "and out first tribute from District Four is... Roarke Farryn."

The escort seemed oblivious to the sudden wave of shifting bodies and eyes, as they turned upon the young man who stood stock still amongst them. His eyes wide and heart stuttering to beat again, he found himself unable to swallow despite the shear urge to do just that. He had forced himself to accept this outcome. He knew it was a very real possibility but faced with it he suddenly realized that there was absolutely no way he could have ever really been prepared; willing or not.

With the parting of those around him, the man on the stage repeated his name. That sickly sweet smile like a dooming beacon before him as his feet began to move on their own; his brain yelling for him to tuck tail and risk the wrath of the Peacekeepers. Fortunately, his body was more focused on self-preservation, no matter how temporary it would be. Step by step he came to the stage. His eyes refused to focus on anything other than the distant shoreline until his wrist was taken and arm lifted from his side. At some point a young woman had joined them on the stage and in a brief moment he glanced over at his new traveling companion. He couldn't remember if he'd ever seen her before. For some reason it was suddenly such an important thing to need to know. Unfortunately it would have to wait for later because as soon as they were allowed another moment before the crowd they were whisked away to prepare for their quickly leaving train...

The Journey to the Capital

He had been given a few minutes to say goodbye to his Uncle, allowing him to pass along the papers he had grabbed before their walk to the square. The deed to the house and title to the boat were folded in with a small inventory of his shop. Looking back on the hours he had spent on preparing to be selected, he began to wonder if he had cursed himself.

With a rumbling sigh he shook his head and slid the blinds shut over the window he sat next to. The quickly rushing scenery reminded him far too much of how life as he knew it had slipped through his fingers in those few precious hours of morning. His shock had faded to self-pity and finally to irritation with those of the Capital and himself the further the got from his home. At the moment all he had wanted to do was settle in and sleep until he got there. For the first hour or so it seemed like that was exactly what they were willing to let him do.

The sudden clank of silver ware and tea service jolted him out of his peace and quiet and thrust him face to face with a rather non repentant man dressed to the nines in a fine suit and seemingly sheepish smile. Frowning in return he rolled his shoulders and dropped his feet from the bench opposite him so his most recent guest could have a seat. The slender cart of fancy cups and containers fit perfectly between them and flush with the window it became a convenient table. Roarke's continued silence having the opposite effect he'd hoped for as the man poured his self a cup and settled back comfortably in the lush bench seat.

"The name is Stephan Atreo and you, Mr. Farryn are a hard one to find."

"And yet here you are," shifting he sat up with a rake of fingers through the loosened fall of his hair.

"Yes, well, as it is we'll be seeing a lot of each other in the coming days."

"I can't wait."

Where silence had failed him it seemed an indifferent attitude was working wonders to ruffle this man's feathers. His shoulders had stiffened and his back went more rigid as he took a moment to stir the tea he had already stirred. The motions brought a slight quirk to Roarke's lips. "I am going to be completely candid with you, seeing as you are more than prepared to burn bridges with your current attitude. I am here to help you, Mr. Farryn. I've been assigned as your mentor until you step up into the playing field. You can accept my help or not. It's your choice."

Locking eyes across the small expanse of the private car he'd sequestered himself into with his few possessions he'd been allowed to bring, he couldn't help but further assess the other man. Here he was, very likely about to meet his death and they'd sent him an accountant to mentor him. Somewhere Lady Luck was apparently lying face down in a gutter completely drunk and unconscious.

"Do I really have a choice?" When the other man made to respond than went silent, he truly knew his answer. "I didn't think so. Look, I didn't sleep last night and while I understood the possibility that I could have wound up in just this particular situation, I'm still processing it. So, please, don't feel rushed to finish your tea but I really just want to go back to sleep for now."

"Understandable."

"Thank you."

When his mentor acknowledged his gratitude, he shifted fully onto the bench, curling deeper into the corner with his legs drawn up tightly to his chest. The peek of fingers missing their top sections was given as he brushed his long hair over his should and down his back. The small detail not missed by the one now left awkwardly finishing his drink before he would slip from the room to let him sleep.

Going Through the Paces

The Capital was something to behold, especially to one that had never left the salty air and serenity of lapping waves behind before. Sleek structures of metal and stone reached for the sky with flitting balls of color heading here and there on their way to where ever; the vibrant fashion and styles almost blinding in their oddity. Even the bits of grandeur in the train that he had taken the time to notice had nothing on the Capital its self or their temporary lodgings. The floor of suites was bigger than the floor plan for his uncle's house and his combined.

They had been devastated of their possessions when they'd arrived and the first thing he had wanted to do was find where they had put them. Unfortunately, there were more people to meet. Aside from their escort and mentor, Stephan, a whole team of others had been brought in to help in promoting them to the public. He'd been told that they would be similar to celebrities, like the Gladiators of old; to which he simply bit his tongue as a sidelong glance fell upon him from their mentor.

There didn't seem to be a moment to breathe now that they had arrived. Almost as soon as they had been introduced to the others they were rushed off to be bathed, not bathe but be bathed; a particularly uncomfortable incident for Roarke. Mostly because it brought the deep black tattoo on his back to light and the very in depth appreciation of their stylist upon his person. Somehow she seemed a bit too excited about the possibilities. His waist length hair turned gold with the shampoos and treatments they subjected it to, they even trimmed the sides, cleaning up the uneven lines he had done. In the end he was loathe to admit that his skin felt far smoother then he'd ever remembered. Even his calloused feet and hands looked as if they'd never met the coarse touch of rope or deck. Right then he vowed that if he survived this, if he won, the first thing he was going to do was spend a week on his boat.

Fresh clothes had been laid out for him and initially he had chased out the dressers, staunchly refusing to be dressed until he stumbled upon just what they'd chosen for him to wear. The rather thin looking material reminded him of fish scales... and a dress... Somehow he felt there had been some gross mistake until he finally let them back in and was assured that there had been none. Their attire was influenced by their District's specialty and fish didn't wear pants. As it was the stylist had already made a major change to the design when she'd noticed his mark. Where there had been a whole back to it the outfit now ended at his waist. Shimmering sections were added to his arms and torso, his hair braided, teased and decorated with shells and pearls. Those vibrant eyes made even more so next to his well-tanned skin and the shimmery whites and iridescent blacks of his attire.

Looking in the mirror as they bound his waist further in delicate netting, he begrudgingly admitted that it wasn't the worst they could have put him in. At least he looked like he was from the sea.

"It's missing something," the distracted comment came from the woman that had envisioned their debut fashion as she circled him like a shark timing its kill. "It's still a bit too... too..."

"Feminine?" Piped up one of those helping her.

"No, that's not it. There’s nothing feminine about this," she replied motioning the lean muscle of his exposed chest much to his slight embarrassment and when she gave a delighted peel of laughter upon figuring it out he nearly toppled over in surprise. "A weapon!"

"Ex-excuse me?"

"You heard me, you need a weapon."

Leaving him dumbfounded she hurried about the room looking for anything she could use. It took him three tries to get her attention again in addition to a little helpful prodding from one of her assistance, and when she finally turned to him he knew he only had a few moments, "I might have something."

Interest peaked, she motioned for him to go and get what he was referring to, completely ignoring the fact that his was basically wearing a long skirt. There was a moment that he was going to argue but the sheer look of innocent anticipation on her face was enough to shut him up as he walked very carefully back to where they'd shown his room to be. Among those things that he had been allowed to bring with him was a piece he had designed himself. As long as he was tall when put together the harpoon and hook was brought back much to her delight. He had left the line free of the trident shaped harpoon head in order to keep it simple and he was so glad he did as she draped it in more of the fine netting and gossamer pearls.

When it was all said and done, he and the other tribute from District 4 were led off to where they would ride before the masses watching in person and televised. The two of them amazingly recreated into creatures of the deep. Shimmery tones almost glittering in the spot light.

Apparently, however, that had not been enough for those that created the game.

He was put to the test with his survival skills. He could navigate with the stars and make a raft, fishing pole and net from things he found around him. He wasn't the strongest by far but he found that he could hold his own. He had them all, save maybe the other from his district, on swimming and his balance was slightly shocking thanks years on a swaying vessel. His demonstration with his weapon of choice had a few eye brows lifting. The lethal trident head reconnected to the line that would allow him to pull in his prey was razor sharp. The backwards prongs made to lock into the flesh just like those on the hook which was meant to pull his catch a board. The dagger, which trailed the harpoon line, was a weapon in and of its self. Protection from predators in the water and out, it could also be used to get a bite into the wood of his ship and hold the line fast.

After another round of primping and polishing, he found himself backstage awaiting an interview with the now well-known Freema Oiren. All of the tributes would be brought before the live audience so that they could 'get to know them better'. At his back their mentor leaned in for some last minute advice as the young woman from his District made her way on stage.

"Try to smile and look at the audience. Pick out a few to focus on specifically but not for too long. Just do what we did in practice."

"That’s easy for you to say..."

"It’s a lot easier then you're making it out to be. Remember you're selling yourself here and right now your looks are pretty much the most you've got going for you. You have the personality of a mule."

He rolled his eyes right up to the last part, which actually made him laughed, albeit briefly, startling those around him that were used to seeing the stoic expressions upon his face. "I'll try my best but I'm not making any promises."

"Th-that's all I ask."

As his teammate reappeared, he ran a quick hand over the lapel of his navy blue suit, leaving the long thick braid of his hair lying over his chest. His obsidian necklace lay out on top of his silver tie like an old styled cravat clip. It was his turn and with a soft touch of his hand to her shoulder he stepped into the brilliant lights to the sound of cheers and whistles. It was time to put his mentor's acting lessons to the test.

When Freema reached out to him, he tramped down the quick jolt that stiffened his spine and took hold of her slender hands with a gentlemanly press of his lips to her fingers. Out of the corner of his eye he didn't miss the unchecked grin that spread across his mentors face before he turned his full attention to the briefly silent interviewer as he was motioned to take his seat.

The questions were fairly routine: What did he do back home? Who would be cheering for him? When it came out that he had been orphaned before he was a teenager the questions turned to how he had supported himself. And just as his mentor had predicted, he didn't get off stage without being asked if there was anyone special back home -it seemed to be a favorite question for the older tributes - to which he, of course, answered no. Not just because it was what he'd been told to say but because it was the truth. There was no missing the murmurings that picked up here and there at that revelation as he was led off stage.

A Birthday to Remember

He had forced himself to sleep that night. He knew he was going to need it and as he stood in the sterile room awaiting the tone that would tell them it was time, he knew he had been right to do so. There had been a final pep talk from their mentor that morning at breakfast and their stylist had not given him a chance to argue before she worked his hair into a tight braid. Just next door was his teammate... No, he knew that thinking like that would be trouble. She was a tribute just like him. It was everyone for themselves the moment that horn went off.

Shaking his head he looked to the door as it opened and found a small smile on his lips as his mentor stood before him. For all of his attitude towards the man, he hadn't given up and that was what he appreciated. Tucking his father's necklace into his jacket, he accepted the firm handshake offered to him and didn't hesitate when the countdown began. There was no looking back. From that moment on he was in the game. He turned 18 today and it very well could be his last day alive but he was hell bent to at least make it to tomorrow...