Forum Thread

Kayda had been busy staring at the new girl who has just entered. Confidence seemed to flow through her veins- not a surprise, in her expierence, most Careers were like that. She quickly sides up with Sorrento. That's when she stops paying attention to her. She could care less about their smalltalk. That's not what mattered here. Strengths and weaknesses, that's what I need to figure out. If only I had a phone that held all that information in one forum. Was that everyone? She was sure she gave everyone a death state, she wouldn't want to leave anyone out, that would be mean. Her thoughts were interrupted by Faye, who was excusing herself and about to leave. She nods dismissively. Once Faye's back is turned to her she takes a moment to glance at the other tributes once again. How will they react to Faye leaving? She wanted to get a good feel for how others thought about Faye. It would be nice to have an alliance with someone, but she didn't want to bite off more than she could chew. What if Faye had multiple enemies? That was very likely, considering everything she had been told.

Once that was over she returns her gaze to the window. Suddenly aware of the fact that she was alone again. She can feel her walls being placed back up, her steely gaze returning and her fists being clenched once again. It was a nasty habit that Kayda didn't want to break just yet. She finds that she doesn't actually look out the window, rather she stares at the faint reflections. Another habit, she didn't like the idea of anyone sneaking up on her. I need some serious help, don't I? Kayda thinks to herself with saddened amusement.

Orchid chooses to glare at Sorrento and Lakshmi. "Hmph." she huffs, crossing her arms against her. chest. "Careers. How disgusting. I hope they get Hemlock in their drinks later!" she thinks. "Oh, but Hemlock is far to traceable. That'd be to easy." she says, scowling. Her pulls a vine from a pouch around her shoulder and ties it up, so she can better see her competition. She watches Faye leave the room, her scowl deepening. She shifts her position and glares at Kayda. "Hmmmm...." she narrows her eyes. "Nightshade, Belladonna, Hemlock, Ivy." her mind sings, listing some of Orchid's favorite.... herbs. She loves herbs. All different kinds. Healing, sleeping, pain.... poison. It occurs to her that she may not be entirely sane.

---

𒉔 𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐃𝐄

The soothing view of the cerulean-clad ocean dully gave way to the towering monoliths and neon colors of the Capital of the locomotive neared its designated station.

Apprehension knotted in her stomach as she caught a glimpse of the crowd that had amassed outside, their faces full of glee and excitement. They looked beyond ridiculous, like a flock of brightly colored birds. She could almost taste the delight in the air, the croon of the crowd somehow deafening even within the train car. Flashes of white light piercing through the dark tunnel made her jump, blinding her briefly. Cameras. Of course. The Quarter Quells tended to be rather ... monumental occasions worth remembering. She delicately raised a hand, reminding herself on the expensive posture that the wealthy wore like a glove, as though to wave, though she was really covering herself. Having isolated herself from the other tributes the moment she boarded; Adelaide didn't know what to expect from the rest of the group. A few stuck out to her as the most significant threats; Belladonna, known for 'accidentally' slipping fatal doses of venom into the drinks of those who displeased. Sorrento and Lakshmi, sirens who held the entirety of the capital's hearts and used them to their advantage. So far, she hadn't seen Vallo - one of her informants from eight, on the train. Had he even been reaped? If not, she'd adjust. There was no way that she could contact him if he was in his own district and she was in the arena.

The rapping of Adelaide's feet gently from time to time marking the only movement, she waited in dead silence for her stylist. The only ‘seats’ they’d been allotted in this confinement, there was an absence of windows within this room, the solemn steel-grey walls blandly reflecting the artificial lights above. A bleak setting, for an even bleaker purpose. Chills whispered up and down her arms, which were still mutely burning from being roughly plucked of every hair a few moments earlier, leaving goosebumps in their wake. The opaque walls surrounded her on all four side, hiding her view of the other tributes who had been led off with their stylist teams. Her stylist team had always been rather off-putting, despite their giddy and frivolous demeanor. Perhaps it was because they too were an extension of the Capitol's voluminous wealth. In essence, it reminded Adelaide of many young children played with their dolls. Harmless, perhaps, but in the end, utterly useless. It was like adorning up a sheep for sacrifice. If the sheep was going to die, why bother? They'd have better luck dressing a corpse. At least then, they wouldn't be wasting their time. She scowled heavily.

So far, the stylist team had trimmed and redefined her nails into perfect round half-moons, scrubbed her skin free of blemishes until she was pink, re-combed her hair, along with a bunch of other ridiculous things. It had been a blur really, just Adelaide stepping through the motions wearily, putting up very little fuss as they manhandled her in the name of beauty. Their firestorm of hisses at her rather chiseled appearance were ... vexing to say the least, but the fae ignored them as if they were flies in her ear, merely nodding along as they prettied her up. The Hunger Games were not a beauty contest, but according to Adelaide's notes, the best-looking tributes always pulled more stylists and somehow, seemed to live longer, if not by much. You could almost say that the fae used to feel a shred of regret more when she sounded their death cannons.

Adelaide felt more than a little uneasy, her grim visage perfectly giving voice to the roiling turbulence she kept confined under a mask of bland innocence. And it wasn't just due to the fact that she hadn't eaten breakfast today. To be frank, the reaping hadn't quite set in for her yet, despite her vehement declaration of self-sacrifice at the reaping earlier. The fact that the Capitol was once again sending for their prime slaughterer to sate the bloodthirsty audience once more — no that wasn't surprising. Reputation precedes one in the business of politics, and the title of "Maledictus" — which apparently hadn't been granted in twenty years — was one that many from her district would wear with pride. But Adelaide wasn't like those who had been blinded by raw loyalty. And that was been set in stone. It was why she'd initially made the bargain that she did with Coin, despite being in the dark about the older woman's more ulterior motives. Tight lipped, straight backed formality was all Adelaide had presented.

The fae was snapped out of her brooding when the door swung open, with not even a groan on its well-oiled hinges. Adelaide perked up at seeing a familiar face of bejeweling sapphire optics - only lightly decorated with a swirl of silver on the cheek and strawberry blond hair. Of course, they'd send Sarandiel to her, knowing that his tranquil presence would keep her temper soothed.

"Oh, don't frown, Adelaide. It's not a good look on you." Sarandiel chided, his quiet, velvety murmured tones taking any harshness out of his words as he examined his chosen tribute. Giving her a quick once over, and not just in the manner in which an artist examines a blank canvas. Solicitous, almost — his eyes like candles in the night and yet gentle.

He cast a meaningful look at the door, his polished visage crinkling up ever so slightly in a frown, "I'm sorry if Dionysus was being too rough again. I'll speak to him about it. For now, though, let's get you dressed. I took your request not to give you a dress this time."

And get dressed she did, and true to his promise last year, Sarandiel had not brought a dress with him for her to wear on parade. No, what she wore was armor, tight fitting, beautiful yet not over the top. Adelaide had no doubt it could've been designed for a winged celestial maiden, judging by the coloring. The snow white scales accentuated with stormy grey overlapped like raven feathers, gleaming with cold resolution in the light. Cruel ebony talons crowned her knuckles on both hands, going down to cover her fingers. A slight fullness on her arms like a bird's tucked wing. And judging by the pride in Sarandiel's eyes, looking at her, she knew he'd designed it. Even wearing a pair of dangerous looking heels didn't dim her joy. A statement, if anything, of art. He left her pale hair in a braided bun.

Whatever his goal was, there was no denying that Sarandiel had raised her spirits, and Adelaide was able to stand just that little bit taller when he escorted her like a knight to the chariots. Two handsome stallions stood in front of the chariot, necks held high by the draw reign, their well-groomed pitch black flanks practically gleaming in the light.

Yes, we from District Two are mighty, she seemed to say. And we will not bow to the fist of the Capital.

Heavy chains and shackles were the first to greet Ryan, locking his wrists together. They didn't threaten his neck with the metal, but his ankles were shackled too. Between the heavy iron clamps, a chain ran. Likely to stop any attempts to use the upper half of the bonds as weapons. The violent Tribute couldn't help but pout; he'd been looking forward to leaping atop a stylist and marring the Capitol scum. Apparently they'd learned to predict him after a few attacks on Peacekeepers. Sighing, Ryan allowed himself to be tugged along, sat in a chair, and bolted down. He couldn't move, couldn't attack... It was incredibly boring.


Only a few minutes passed before the Tribute was assaulted with various objects, tugged this and poking that, pushing this and yanking that. A few times, he tried to spit in the eyes of those in front of him, only receiving more pokes. Another person entered the room, cautious with every step. "What? You finally bring a muzzle for me? Gonna treat me like a rabid dog?" Jokingly, he bared his teeth and snarled, only to sneer at the lack of response. " Did they take out your tongue? Or are you just too much of a coward to talk?" Again no response. "Damn you, you're no fun." Tucking his chin into his chest, Ryan allowed the stylist to do their work, eventually dressing the boy in possibly the most ridiculous thing he'd ever seen. Straining, he tried his best to tear the tight fabric, only getting to hear a few seams pop. Apparently that was enough, though. The outfit was quickly removed and the cuffs were replaced, and a second outfit was brought forth. "You know me too well. You even predicted I'd try and tear up the first outfit!" He scoffed. "You're lucky you're at least a little smart, else I'd be wiping your blood off my hands." The lack of response turned the conversation into a monologue, with the occasional joke to try and make the poor stylist laugh, although to no avail. Giving up, Ryan shut his mouth. The outfit was... Better, this time.


A white button-up shirt, covered by a black vest and a navy blue overcoat, all of which decorated with bronze buttons. Pants of the same navy blue, a pair of black gloves (in addition to a new pair of shackles that didn't cover all of his hands), and a decorative silver chain with what appeared to be a small sapphire, pinned up near his face.


After being led to his carriage, Ryan had muttered something about the Peacemakers with guns already pointed at him, and the fact that he'd been bolted to his carriage. He wasn't unhappy, just... Bored. He wanted to spill the blood of the Capitol, and they weren't letting him. It was starting to piss him off, actually.

Dismay fills Kayda's gaze when they arrive at the Capitol. This was it, this was when the real trouble began. She would have to put on a brave face now. If she couldn't decieve the Tributes then she would have to decieve the Capitol.

"What a treat! What a treat! My dear Karma has returned!" Her stylist chirps as he wheels her into a room to make her look more presentable. Somehow, she doesn't wince at her nickname. "I knew you would win in that arena! Nobody else believed me, but you proved them wrong! I haven't stopped talking about you since-" Kayda sighs. She lowers her gaze to the floor and shuts her stylist out. She could care less about his ramblings. All she wanted to do was get this little game of dress up over with. "She's a fox my friend!" Her stylist shouts as he frantically waves his assistant over. "Both beautiful and clever! She was a danger to any farmer who dares underestimate her. We must show the world how foxy our little fox is~" Oh no Kayda thinks to herself. She didn't like where this was going. Orange did not look good on her. Their words made her visibly cringe, which they pay no mind to.

She says nothing though, she simply allows them to pretty her up to their desires and when they are done, she wishes she would've said something. They added a light blush to her cheeks, and foundation to her face. They finished it off by curling her hair and giving her a tight fitting dress. Her makeup helped conceal the cross look on her face which helped make her look almost innocent. The dress was tight fitting, made to show off her muscles and curves. The lamb. On top of that, they had given her plastic golden knuckles and a belt with- you guessed it, realistic looking plastic daggers. Bloody designs line her "weapons" and her white dress looked slightly blood splattered. The wolf.

She was a wolf in lamb's clothing and Kayda hated it. She could practically see the word: MURDERER written on her clothing as she stares at her reflection. Why did they choose innocent? She was far from innocent. She had seen and done terrible things, her stylist shouldn't be celebrating it. "Come on dearie, flash a smile!" Her stylist begs. But Kayda silently refuses. With an annoyed huff, her stylist leads her to her carriage. Kayda can't help but glare at the crowd as she sits on her carriage. They were happy for this? Her jaw tightens, holding back the string of curse words that she would be delighted to shout at them.

The most forgettable part of this event was the part Amonei dreaded the most. During the first games he didn’t mind the ridiculous outfits at all, but instead he was a little thankful for them. The nicest thing he had ever worn before then was a dirty white shirt handed down from his father with a vest that seemed to be a close relative to an ugly sweater. The cleaning and pampering was new to him, but it was weirdly refreshing. But of course, like every other part of him, those thoughts didn’t last. Now he hated all the fancy, worthless dressing up. He hated having any attention drawn to him whatsoever, and these outfits didn’t help. At first he threatened the stylists whenever they tried to go near him, but realizing it was pointless and immature to act like that made him sit still and let them do their work.

“Ah, Amonei! I’m quite surprised, I didn’t expect such a kind hearted and mannered young career to be here again...” The sad tone was like a whisper in his ear, secretive and dangerous but also warning and generous. The look that came with those words that was on his stylist’s face showed some sort of sympathy and surprise, which he didn’t exactly expect from them. It was strange for him to see someone seemingly cling to his former self... Well... none of this conversation mattered to him, and it was as though they were stalling. “Just get it over with...” he growled, clenching his fists in order to not go into a yelling rage that would get him into trouble. The stylist, taken aback, paused and tilted their head a bit. “Look how the Ravager has changed... Quite fitting for an underdog, wouldn’t you say? They’re always the ones who change the most after an event like that... Anyways, at your request, my dearie!” The stylist began their work, the process being slow and painful... He sighed and relaxed his red knuckles near the end of the makeover. He looked disgusting... He was dressed in a similar fashion as Adelaide, as they were both in District 2. White and grey overlapping scales on a somewhat tight wear of armor. Everything else seemed about the same, since his counterpart didn’t wear a dress like most of the other female tributes would. Each step in the outfit seemed to bring more pain to his face, making the look of murderous intent more intense. As he walked to his ride he had to stifle a cough, which was harder to do than on the train. More blood filled his mouth than before. What a pain.

(Help I’m suffering from grammatical errors and dullness)

---

𝕍𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕠 𝕂𝕠𝕣𝕙𝕠𝕟𝕖𝕟
With the train rolling in, Vollo set down his book, dog-earing a page. His limbs felt heavy as he rose from his seat, slipping off his knitted jumper. He had been informed that he had been reaped, his name scryed from the glass ball through few knew of his existence. He could only imagine the confusion as the unfamiliar name of "Vollo Korhonen" was called yet no one stepped forward. Clipping a belt of cosmetics and other materials around his slim waist, Vollo stretching out his limbs. Like every year he had been assigned to District 8's female tribute and he took a slip of paper for her basic information. "Seitem Mari..." He mused, testing out the name on his tongue. He didn't really keep up with victors, who won what, and who was who so the name certainly didn't ring any bells. She had won before him too so he never had the chance to be her stylist.

Sighing, he crumpled up the paper and chanced a quick glance at the mirror installed into his prep room. He looked good enough, he guessed, the high collar of his dark polo shirt brushing against his neck yet not high enough to cover the sprawl of ink crawling up his neck in the form of jagged stalactites. Nothing the capital gave him would ever cover their brand. With a sigh, he readjusted his belt of materials as well as his black jeans before throwing open the door. "Chop chop, let's get the tributes dolled up." He snapped, clapping his hands as his crew snapped to attention. "You know what to do."

"Sir, what about the male tribute?" One of the members of his team inquired, snapping to attention.

"Leave him to me." Vollo replied curtly, striding towards the rows of clothing. All of them were hand crafted by him, a collection of his work laid out for picking. Keeping in mind that the capital at least expected them to match, he began sifting through the fabric to pick something out.

---

𝒮𝑜𝓇𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝐸𝒹𝑒𝓁𝓈𝓉𝑒𝒾𝓃
TW: PTSD, Mild Panic Attack

As soon as Sorrento hopped off the train, he was whisked away to be dolled up once again. Hands twisted him this way and that, coating his face in a thick base of cream and makeup and Sorrento did his best to suppress a full body shudder. He probably failed as one of the assistants worriedly stepped back. "It's nothing, honey. Your hands are just cold." He immediately blurted out, flashing a reassuring smile that helped the poor assistant relax just a little bit better. With work resuming, Sorrento closed his eyes to focus his own breathing. Yet it only heightened the fluttering touches of those damned hands, crawling over his face and body, gripping and groping before he couldn't take it anymore and jerked away. "Sorry dearies, I need a bit of air." He laughed apologetically, quickly walking away before anyone could question him.

Hurrying to a more secluded corner, Sorrento quickly glanced around before dropping down into a crouch. Blunted nails took to the pale expanse of his forearms, drawing down heavy red scratches as he fruitlessly attempted to scrub off the lingering touches. Phantom pressures traced along his skin as he shuddered, grasping the warm metal of his ring for comfort. After a few minutes of shivering in his lonely little corner, Sorrento felt like he could duct tape back the shattered fragments of his psyche, the lingering touches beginning to fade, he shakily stumbled to his feet and began to find his way back to his designers. His mind was still racing through, supple lip gnawed until it bruised. He thought he had gotten better, had moved on from such silly things like freaking out over a wandering touch. Being sent back to a hauntingly familiar landscape wasn't dong any favours for him either as a pair of phantom fingers walked up his spine, causing the tribute to bite his lip harder, holding in the shudder. Well, it was no matter. He'd get this awful thing done and over with, he was better than this. He was better than anyone here. As long as he believed that, then he'd stay alive. And he needed to go back home, damn it, he'd physically tear anyone in his way if it came down to it. Laying his still shaking hand on the wall beside him, Sorrento leaned against it for a quick breather before he continued back to his gilded cage of a dressing room

---

---

Kallo Hadmer

District 1

---

Oh no. Here it goes.

Dread filled Kallo's being as the train ride came to a stop and the joyous crowds outside felt more suffocating than the metal tube they had previously been stuffed in. And the relief of being herded indoors again, away from the prying eyes of the public, was anything but that.

There, Kallo's demeanor went from meek to defiant as he was manhandled.

They didn't even let him wash himself and any protests of how he knew how to shave his already smooth face were met with indifferent silence. He might as well not have spoken at all or be capable of doing so. It truly was as if they were playing with a life-size doll. Nothing he said made a difference and going beyond noncooperation in his physical protests was, well... a bad idea. The memory of that one time he had put his hands on these leeches to get their hands off him after his victory was enough to squash the urge to fight back in his brain.

There was no escape.

As always.

So he gave up and the rest of the ordeal went by in a haze. He couldn't really make sense of what was being talked around him as they went about finishing cleaning and dressing him up, it all boiled down to noise alongside the rest of the hustle and bustle.

Wait.

Why was he being dressed?

He couldn't really remember what was happening or how he got there. He frowned down in confusion at an unfamiliar face as the stranger fastened a belt around his waist. What was he supposed to be doing here?

Oh no.

He couldn't remember what he was supposed to do. Sebastos was going to be disappointed. He couldn't really remember why that filled him with panic and sorrow but his lack of understanding did nothing to dampen the intense feeling. His throat closed up as he found it hard to breathe through the dread. Why was it so important that he did not disappoint?

The weight of a jacket placed on his shoulders was enough to knock the air trapped in his lungs out and allow him to take a fresh breath. Off to the side, a woman dressed in an elegant black suit was fitting a pure white jacket onto a younger man. She went about raising the collar up just right, creating more volume around the shoulders together with the golden shoulder pads to accentuate the masculine V shape. The matching white trousers were void of added details to balance out the more busy top. The hem of the jacket was short, undoubtedly to show off the black belt decorated with glittering diamonds adorning the man's waist. It matched with his black shoes and hair. Despite the splashes of gaudier details, the outfit was still fairly simple and the man did look pretty handsome in it.

The feeling of rings being pushed onto a couple of his fingers distracted him from his observations just as the woman placed some onto the man's fingers as well, a little added dash of gold to go with the-

Oh right. That's him.

He had a name too, right? Yes. Kallo. Yeah, that was it.

Who is Kallo?

As the woman lead him to sit in a chair, he slowly managed to grasp onto the answers floating around in his head as he watched the woman apply makeup on his face in the mirror.

He was being dressed for the opening ceremony.

Because he was going to fight in the Quarter Quell.

It wasn't important he didn't disappoint. It shouldn't be anymore.

He raised a hand to his cheek to touch the little diamonds the woman was now gluing onto his face, but she quickly slapped his hand away. Wouldn't want him to disrupt the drying glue. Or whatever one uses to stick things on skin, he wasn't exactly privy to how that works.

He ignored the little huff of annoyance from the woman as he scrunched up his face in his examination of his reflection and the little gems spreading from under his eyes onto the sides of his face. They were surely made in District 1. Their sole purpose being an exhibition piece for the Capitol so his District could say "Look what we've made! Aren't we great?"

The other Districts at least contributed something of importance to keep the nation as a whole running. But District 1? All they did was prop up the Capitol with frivolous luxuries.

He is a frivolous luxury.

Kallo remembered why he was angry. He went to stand up from his chair but his stylist stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and a firm order to stay still. He dug his nails into his palms as he balled his hands into fists to will himself to obey. Almost done. He opted to glare down at his hands instead of the mirror for the rest of the ordeal.

Except that was only the first of the ordeals this show and tell would have to offer. Kallo wasn't at all enthusiastic to step onto that first chariot. But he'd do it nonetheless because he would end up in that chariot one way or another. He'd rather avoid being chained to it like Mr. Wanton Violence. District 7, Kallo counted from the chariots. Huh.

Perhaps in a bid to delay his own chariot confinement, Kallo lingered to eye the chained tribute with curiosity for a moment. He wasn't surprised the man had received such special treatment after the incident with the peacekeeper, he was just unsure of what to make of the attitude the man showed. He didn't seem to care about pissing off the Capitol in the least, which was confusing but also both frightening and inspiring. Didn't make him any less stupid or crazy though.

Probably best to avoid pissing him off without good reason.

For now, he needed to get his butt into this blasted chariot, which he did reluctantly. Since Lakshmi was going to be plopped down next to him, he could exchange a few words with her. But it'd probably be better to talk to her later when all this hubbub had been suffered. ...Though she most likely didn't share his feelings on this ceremony nonsense, no kindred victim to complain to on this little ride. A shame.

---

Faye rather hated her dress. It made her radiant, true, but Faye still hated it. Her stylist, Gray, had apologized before forcing her to wear it. It made Faye look like she was wearing ocean waves. The way the multiple layers of fabric waved when she moved gave the impression that Faye was riding an ocean wave. The shades of blue were beautiful, complimented her eyes, and looked hella nice on Faye's light skin. The worst problem with the dress was the bottom. It was a deep navy blue, so unlike the other lighter shades. If you stared at it long enough, it would give the illusion that there was something coming out of it, at you. It reminded Faye of the darkness of the ocean floor, which had many danger. "It makes you looks stunning, but deadly." Gray whispers in Faye's ear as she adds the finishing touches. Pearls, sea stones, lapis, sapphires. Faye stares at the fabric around her waist like it's a shark. The dress seemed to move on it's own, playing tricks on the eyes. It really did make Faye look amazing. Radiant and deadly.

Orchid's outfit screamed poison ivy. It looked like it was made of it, and for all she knew, it was. Orchid tried not to breath to much, as the outfit she was wearing smelled like belladonna. Not her, the actual plant. Which was poison, as Orchid knew, probably better then anyone. While district 11 usually worse some sort of farmer thing, because of her history, her nickname and her relations with important people, she was in this. "Poison Ivy." she said with a scoff. Her stylist was an idiot. She did look good, so that was a plus. She had a white rose in her hair on one side, and a "red flower" on the other side. "Stupid people don't even now herbs when they see it." she muttered.

---

𝒮𝑜𝓇𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝐸𝒹𝑒𝓁𝓈𝓉𝑒𝒾𝓃


Finally released from the straying hands that pulled him this way and that, imprints lingering much too long for Sorrento's liking, the tribute finally stumbled out of his dressing room again, dolled up to the whims of wandering eyes. It made him shudder. His stylist, a lovely woman he was sure, had given him what could be considered one of the more scandalous outfits, showing off skin that Sorrento liked to keep hidden by cloth. Around his shoulders sat a sleeveless suit jacket, the light blue fabric just barely doing anything to cover him as it was only buttoned at the bottom, showing off the slim V that dipped into a pair of airy pants, the slits riding up its sides doing little for people to imagine despite its billowing shape. Like his district partner, the flowing outfit gave off the impression that the ocean waves had been wrapped around his alluring form, just barely covering his body though his clothes faded from a darker blue to a light seafoam blue. Behind him, a train to satin fluttered in the wind, the ombre gradient from a pale blue to the night sky gave off an air of regal power yet Sorrento felt anything but powerful. He was essentially a pin-up model, used to flaunt his beauty as if he was a kept pet who kept his master's bed warm. It disgusted him how much of that statement was true. Stiffly stepping into the chariot, Sorrento pressed himself against the edge of the cart, hands coming up to absentmindedly claw at his forearm, unable to stand existing in his own skin at the moment. The wandering gaze of the nearby makeup crew did no favours as he suppressed the shiver that instinctively crawled up his back.

---