Lost in Hope and Desperation (open)

[Draco Malfoy]

Isabelle lazily sprawled out on her thin branch high up in the trees above the rooftops of District 11, her leg dangling freely as she took a bite out of the ruby red apple she'd snagged during work hours. To most, it was a measly meal but to her it was a feast. Her stomache was so used to survivng on so little, that it felt full halfway through the fruit. Her eyelids closed lazily as she finished off the last bite, over stuffed but happy. As she napped, her long beige skirt, once white, drifted in the breeze as the swaying branches gently rocked her small frame. Her knit tank top stuck to her skin in the balmy heat before it cut off just halfway down her rib cage, leaving most of her stomach exposed as she reached back and placed her arm between the back of her head and the blood red scarf she'd been using as a pillow.

The small female slept until the sun shined bright orange on the horizon, painting the sky in a plethera of colours that looked like a unicorn had shat all over the place. She sat up and straddled the branch she'd been laying on, effectivly keeping her balance as she used her hands to conceal her sun tanned face. She wrapped the scarf around her head, hiding her identity. Isabelle swung down from branch to branch, running along the tree tops lightly on her sandaled feet before she reached the tin rooftops that provided protection from the buildings beneath them. From their it was only an eight foot drop to the ground in the middle of the crowded market place.

Isabelle landed in a crouch behind the gathering of people and began to shift her way through the crowds. Her eyes, the only part of her face visible from within the scarf that ran long around her shoulders as well and drapped over her left arm, searched person after person. She delved into the masses in light of something valuable. Some one valuable looking.

[Raeoki]

(ooc:

like a unicorn had shat all over the place

Can I please steal that sometime?)

Some people would find it either sickening, angering, or disturbing to see people intentionally avoiding a blind girl, for it would be most likely that those people would promptly jump to the conclusion that they were ostracizing her for her disadvantage; discarding her for being different, for being “weak”. Those people would most likely be the ones who would scream, “The strong must defend the weak!” Or, “Diversity must be accepted!”

Those people had never met Koranit Arbutus.

The casual depiction of the blind has always been one of feebleness: one that desires pity, one that was kindly but almost always slowly dying, and one that was almost always poor. And this is very odd, this decision that those who are blind must, obviously, be humble and gentle and pitiful. A blind man cannot serve himself, apparently, and all that he can accomplish is begging and being mistreated by a family that refuses to understand him. That, or the blind person is the gentle and beautiful daughter of a rich family who has to be taken care of by some male relation.

It’s something to be marveled at, this refusal in many works of art that the blind can’t be strong, can’t be unruly, and can’t be independent. Whether these pitiful mirages of blindness can be accredited to some bizarre and rather common allusion, or that several people lack originality as they attempt to invent a character worthy of sympathy, is unknown; but, it is fair to say, that if any of those people actually believe that the blind are as pitiful as puppies and as weak as water, then not one has met Koranit Arbutus.

There was something almost frightening about her; something that didn’t fit right, something that the world itself might not have expected when she was dragged out of her mother’s womb. It was simply some bizarre nuance that made her this way, one that was hard to pick out from the others, but one thing about it was certain: it orbited around her blindness. If it was not for the fact that she was blind, then her nuance would not have been frightening; indeed, if it was not for the fact that she was sightless, other people would have looked at her and determined that she was just some common punk, some little bitch who thought that the sun and the stars were her satellites, and that all that crawled beneath their glow were her peons. But, alas, Koranit had been cursed blind, and so this aspect of her, as the self-alleged punk goddess of the heavens, could not be seen, but was known by witnesses to be here, only it could only remain nameless and vague, because the cane that she held before her camouflaged it and erased its title. But it could not remain unknown, and for that, it became something to be feared, for it was a product of strength, of determination – the mark of an emperor: that special something that we can appreciate, but for people in lands like Panem, must be feared, must be hated, as if it was the bringer of an apocalypse.

If this was the Bible, the mass of people would be the Red Sea, and Koranit would be God parting it. None who looked at her dared to approach her, especially those who were around her age (she was sixteen), for they knew of her wrath from various happenings at their school.

Thus, Koranit Flint Arbutus, the blindest girl in District Eleven, she of the stringy body and of the poor family, was the most feared sixteen-year-old female the district had ever known.

She knew that she was in the market place, for she could hear the bargaining of people and the scent of decaying fruit that naturally lingered over the area, and she knew that this was the place she needed to be in. For it was her turn to procure goods from the market place for dinner tonight, and often, she reached into her pocket and felt around, feeling the scratchy cloth nip at the sides of her hand whilst her fingertips touched the cold smoothness of the money in her pocket. Whenever she felt around in her pocket, she would nod to herself in a dutiful fashion, as a soldier might nod at the command of his general, and then she would look up, remove her hand from her pocket and extend it outward, feeling the air with her fingertips.

As it is apparent, one does not necessarily need sight in order to figure out where to go, though it most certainly helps; judge of distance, a good tuition with your other senses, and familiarity were, for Koranit, good enough replacements for sight. It was all three that led her to her goal, scent – out of all her able senses – being the most especially helpful; for it was the stench of animal carcasses, cleaving the scent of rotten fruit like a butcher’s knife, that dragged her up to the butchery that she had been searching for. It dragged her into the establishment, and it was what led her out, her pocket now empty and the knitted sack that she had been carrying now loaded with the carcass of a small fowl.

She began the stroll out of the market place, going the way that she had come, only backwards, this time, her cane leading her forward like a helping hand. It was a crude cane, more like a stick in in its crudeness of feel, but it was thick and it was strong and it was long, longer than Koranit’s own arm, in fact. Its tip tapped against the ground like a Morse key; the tip itself was rather sharp and slightly pointed (Koranit had sharpened it herself – just in case), capable of breaking flesh – but nothing more – if it should be used as a weapon against someone.

Thus, it most likely caused Isabelle some slight, stinging pain as the tip accidentally scraped against her foot – which is rather sad, seeing as how she had just reached the epitome of badass thievery. Not that Koranit cared; she did not even know that Isabelle was before her, until her fingers felt the soft smoothness of some sort of cloth – only then did she realize that someone was in front of her. But, rather than apologize for awkwardly touching someone in the face, she merely contorted her mouth into a squiggly sneer, and her nose became wrinkled; then, in the curtness of a rude grunt, she said, in her brassy and loud and uncaring voice: “Move yer ass.”

(ooc: ...Yeah, this post is crap, but hey! Anything for you~! xD Ah hah, I'm sorry if this post leads to nowhere. I just wanted to write about Kor (who's been horrifically ignored ever since her creation); that, and your character seemed like a lot of fun, and I like your face a lot. <3 )

[Draco Malfoy]

Isabelle surprisingly got a good haul today; a gold bracelet from some busty blonde, 6 copper pieces from a merchant, a nice pocket watch that was hand wound with an intricate swirl design from the head peacekeeper, 10 silver pieces from a fellow pick pocket, and a bit of roasted bird. Where she had all of this hidden? Well that was her secret and hers alone. She knew it was dangerous, the game of theivery, especially since she'd been stealing form the peacekeepers for years. She was also aware that if she were caught, it was her death sentence so she theived but she did it well. It was nearly impossible to live in this god forsaken, Hell of a District without doing so. 

As for the fellow pickpocket she'd stolen from? The two had a long running game of stealing from one another while the opponent was none the wiser. He'd incidentally stolen her heart as well, but that was another story. 

Isabelle was slinking back towards her hide out with all of her stolen riches when a sharp stick slit the soft arch of her left foot. A slew of curse words dropped like verbal bombs from her gritted teeth, including the phrase "fuck me running" as she stumbled into the man in front of her. Might as well take advantage of the opportunity .. Classic pickpocket trick. Stumble into someone and retrieve there valuables but hide them before they recover. The thief stuck the copper piece in her hiding place as she righted herself. "My apologies, i should watch where i step next time." 

She did a little dorky bow and spun to face a girl with a stick and a sneer stretched across her face. She knew this girl, well knew of her. The bitchy blind girl that refused to be treated like a disabled. Respect points for her. Normally she'd burglarize whoever had the nerve to injure her on a theiving day, but she wasn't heartless enough to steal from the blind no matter how much they deserved it. 

Instead, Isabelle did the opposite. As the grumbling man walked away, she spun towards the girl, as "move your ass" was slapped into her face. "I would but you seem to have injured me. i can see a light above!" She gestured dramatically even though the girl couldnt see her. "Bleeding..." cough "to death. You have brought the end to this..." -cough- "humble thief." 

With a snort and a roll of her eyes, she walked away with a slight limp on her bleeding foot, simulatiously slipping the golden bracelet into the girls potato sack of what could be called garments and began to walk away.

[Raeoki]

(Ooc: I apologize for sucking eggs.)

Koranit had never had much pleasure in meeting new people; indeed, she never had much pleasure in people in general. It all seemed quite obnoxious, really, stumbling into some other sack of flesh which she would have no use of, another sack whom would most likely begin to avoid her in its quavering little way or abase her for lack of seeing. She had no time for their grovels or for their shit - she had a life to live, bitches, and she ain't in no mood to take her time out on some dumb-ass.

Admittedly, there was a rare few who still owned the male necessities necessary for defiance, or for intelligence, or just for male necessities in general. But even they annoyed her, for simply because one was rational enough to see what was behind her eyes, and to either love her for it or to spite her for it, it was still a waste of her time and a little slither of her life. Because Koranit did not want people - she wanted her self. That was all she had ever wanted; and, really, that was the only to be really had, especially in a world of Panem, where the self was meaningless, where only the government and the collective and the labor was what could be considered, by all members of society, as a part of a person. But, in any realm, the self was what produced happiness, because it was what defined happiness - and the self was many things: for Kora, it was chemistry, defiance, bitchiness, and many other things, some of which not even Kora knew of. But it was her, and, for all her faults, Koranit was wise enough to want it and to keep it, even at the price of company, for what is company but unnecessary luxury?

Thus, when Koranit's new obstacle turned around and proceeded on her little dramatized whine, Kora was not at all amused. She had a life to live, bitch. She ain't gonna care less 'bout what choo sayin'. Especially when she could CAH-LEARLY tell that what choo spewin' was nuttin' but a load of CUH-rap.

But, still, it could have been worse for both Koranit and Isabelle (once it came time for Koranit to express her own exasperation). At least Isabelle had the dignity to avoid the issue of Kora's disability.

As Isabelle's dramatics drawled on, Kora's squiggly sneer had become a squiggly scowl, and her eyebrows lay low and huffy over her narrowed eyes. Her toes wagged up and down, tapping the earth, and her heart was twitching with the inflammation of impatience. There was a slight peak of the brow and a tiny skip of the heart when the obstacle proudly and sweepingly admitted to being a thief, but, as Koranit didn't care much about people, she didn't really let herself give a crap.

With a breathy relish, the thief ended her theatrics - and then snorted with a most ungracious and spiteful edge. The snort, which put a particular emphasis on Isabelle's histrionic insincerity, caused Koranit's mood to become particularly scathed, and it dragged the tips of her scowl all the way to her chin, and she grunted with a particular guttural inflection: "Bitch, just move yer ass out of my way so I can get the Hell home, alright? I couldn't give two shits about you, so just scat before I scat in your face..."

As she finished her threat, she began to hear a slight and stilted thump, the slight and stilted crunch of grass, which meant that movement was being performed, if not slowly and irregularly, as if the mover had a small discomfort or awkwardness in his body.

Koranit lifted her arm (which she had lowered during Isabelle's dramatic soliloquy), thusly making her pocket most exposed in doing so, and pawed the air before her, and her fingertips felt nothing but the coolness of naught; with a relieved and snide smirk, as if she felt that she had triumphed, she proceeded forward, hand still erected (just in case). As she moved, she felt a very gentle tug, almost nonexistent, like the breath of a ghost, at her pocket - she almost did not notice it, and she would not have, if it was not for the sake of her remaining four senses compensating for a missing fifth, and thus the . Indeed, she almost did not believe that she had felt it, it was so slight, and once it had occurred to her that it had, she had mostly convinced herself that she had not in the elapse of a footstep. But there is a sort of curiosity within Koranit that cannot be extinguished - it was the curiosity that is within all great future scientists, the sort that makes them ponder the world as a concrete, the sort that makes them consider theorems, the sort that moves the world of science forward, into the next expanse of eternity. And it was this sort of curiosity which so viciously murdered the cat.

She stopped walking; her hand went down, and her fingers stumbled and slid over the rough, potato sack-like cloth of her garment. Eventually, she rediscovered the pocket, and the sides of her hand scraped against scratchiness as her fingers wormed their way in; her fingers tickled something smooth.

This struck Koranit most befuddling and most peculiar, for only seconds ago - she swore by her brain - her pocket had been emptied; the fruit vendor had taken it all, in exchange for her family's sustenance.

Her fingers had become entangled in the smooth, cold, hard...metal rope? She withdrew it from her pocket, and caressed it with a thumb. Definitely metal. The pad of her thumb slid down something small, delicate maybe, but metallic, and then it paused on something flat...ish. It had been flattened, certainly, but the ridges and divots and intricate coarseness suggested markings. Engraving? Into metal? Sure. That could be done - but in a place like District Eleven? Absurd! And how did this metal...loop engraved thing end up in her-

"That's it!"

What?

Some treacly, femininely screechy voice kept cawing, over and over again, as if on some...some hysterical loop: "That's it! That's mine! Get it from her! Get it from that thief!"

What?

There was a very brief elapse - brief to God, giant to Koranit - in which there was some sort of pause that touched all her innards and froze them: her heart, her mind - all only remained functional by the basis of "What?" And, in that elapse, all she could do, breathe, and think, was that basis of "What?"

The elapse was shattered by the caw of reaction and the drum beat of footsteps - some away, some towards. Her ears flared as survival hardened her spine, and travelled into her brain; there it planted and sprouted, and there, it became the new basis which her body functioned on.

For some people, survival is fear; survival is flight. Survival is subordination. Koranit was not one of those people. She was the alpha - or, at least, the wannabe alpha. Her word was law - in her mind, in her life, perhaps no one else's. But, assuredly, alphas do not fear challenges, especially one so minor as briefly mistaken guilt: to fear challenge was to encourage sedition, and of all things alphas must avoid, sedition was the most unwanted, the most avoided.

Thus, Koranit did flinch - but it was a brief reaction; in the next instance, her arms were thrown outward, and she could the feel the coarseness of her stick in one hand, and the smoothness of the metal rope thing in the other.

"Bitch!" she cried to her reactionary world. "Does it even LOOK like I want this piece of crap?!

(Ooc: Yeah...! Um...woo! More stabs in the dark!! Sorry if I misread anything...um...)