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Zev's eyes drift away from the slim girl with the bow and scan the surrounding area with very little interest. Amongst the chaos and bloodshed, he appears almost bored as he watches children fall around him. But no one dares to approach him, he's much too big. In his hands he holds a mace, swinging it back and forth. But nothing seems to take his interest. The others were making short work of the bloodbath. Something does catch the District Two male's eye however; two tributes fighting over a backpack and one obviously winning. He watches as the girl falls back onto the floor, sprawled out on her back, and as the boy leers over her, a knife in hand. It's then that Zev moves, swinging his mace into position as he jogs forwards. "Hey!" the boy's head turns, and Zev recognises him as the District Nine boy. He must have been about fifteen or sixteen whereas the girl only thirteen. The boy's eyes widen and he almost drops the backpack in surprise. He opens his mouth - maybe to scream, but Zev would never know - because a moment later, the mace had collided with the side of the boy's head and he had crumpled to the ground. The backpack flies from his grip and Zev kicks it towards Grey, blinking at her with eyes that lack expression. When she does not move, Zev speaks, "Take it," And that's when she stirs. Hands moving about rapidly Grey takes the backpack between her fingers and with one last look at her 'savior', pushes herself from the ground and runs towards the rocks. Zev blinks after her, feeling just a little sorry for the young girl. She was partially sighted, he could remember at least that. His eyes travel down to his mace and he frowns at the blood still dripping from the spikes. He deserved it, Zev tells himself with a curt nod.

Skene murmurs something incomprehensible to himself. He had wasted time helping that little girl; everyone had already gathered supplies and the bloodbath had truly begun. A backpack would do, a weapon would be even better. Had the little girl gotten out okay? Probably, he hadn't heard her cannon anyway. His eyes move to his District partner, Lyra, as she attempts to leap across the river but slips and land in the fast-flowing stream. She would be fine, but how would he fare? At nineteen years old he was the oldest tribute, but not the most capable. Of course he'd be targeted. Knife. . . His brain conjures the word before he even spots it. Skene's eyes light up as he sees a backpack still left untouched and just a few feet from it, a knife. But his expression falters when the District One boy catches sight of him. Talon, Skene believed his name was. Smirking, the blonde haired boy starts on his way towards the District Eleven male. Skene takes a cautious step back, his gaze moving quickly between the other tribute and the backpack. Talon notices this and steps towards the supplies. Taking the backpack in hand, he continues to smirk at Skene, "You want it?" his tone is mocking, and Skene has to resist the urge to leap forward and strike him with his fist. The District One boy chuckles darkly, "C'mon, we'll fight for it," he takes the knife in his left hand and tosses it lazily towards Skene who catches it with surprising ease, "No tricks, c'mon Eleven. You're not a coward, are you?" Skene glares daggers at the pretty-faced boy in front of him. Arrogant. Cocky. Stupid. Everything Skene wasn't. He didn't even care that all around him, children were falling. He could be next. And so he turns and he runs, much to Talon's dismay. But the District One boy does not give chase; there were bigger fish to fry.

Ebbing away at darkness are candles that flicker.

Burn within the hearts of many and produces an enlightened beat.

Composes symphonies of each thriving entity on the planet.

Limber inhalations to fuel lithe flames.

Oxygen to ignite.

To kindle such a small fire into a radiant splendor.

Illuminate the vast universe.

Obscurity gone.

Despondent voids missing.

Shine on.

Shine on the souls of the broken.

The forgotten.

The lost.

Your fissure shall be filled by sentient wax.

An aroma of life rises.

Fragrance of existence wafts in plumes.

Envelopes the expanse of time.

Shine on deviant candles.

Sʜɪɴᴇ Oɴ .

You’re trapped in a box.

And that box gets smaller.

And smaller.

. . . and smaller.

Until finally, you feel as though your only escape is it.

I guess I shouldn’t have let it get this far.

But it seemed right at first. . .

At first.

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