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 Griffin Charcoal, Squirrel // Miles McMillan
Griffin Charcoal
 Posted on: Nov 24 2017, 11:42 AM
i shut my eyes, but the world's still burning
Posts: 125
Rep: 9 pts

user posted image


Also Known As: Griff (to his younger brothers only)
Mother -- Etna Charcoal (deceased)
Father -- Vulcan Charcoal (deceased)
Brothers -- Chiron & Chimera Charcoal (age 12)

Play-By: Miles McMillan

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“You look like your mother, you know. My family -- my father, and his father, and his father before that, they’ve always had the grey eyes you see everywhere in the Seam. But your mother -- she was different. No, not in the Merchant way with their pale skin and fair hair -- no, your mother was Seam, born and bred. She had the olive skin and dark hair, but her eyes were hazel, you know. Bright green-brown, like yours. Why did you have to have her eyes? Why? It’s… it’s bullshit. You killed her. You know that, don’t you? You’re filth, little Fin. You’ve taken everything from me -- and you always want more. How can you tell me you’re hungry, when you took her from me. We’re all starving, Fin -- but you, you don’t deserve to eat. You don’t deserve to breathe. Why should you live, when she died? Your life -- it’s tainted. You’ve had blood on your hands since the day you were born.”

Your father would always say cruel things after long days in the mines. You could always tell his mood from the heavy footsteps which stormed up the pathway towards the house. He’d slam the door open with soot-coated hands, his hardened eyes searching for the nearest bottle of homemade whiskey. You tried to be scarce when he was due home; you’d hide away in your bedroom, curled in a tight, shivering ball beneath your coarse blanket. Sometimes he’d be home early, though, and you’d have to sneak through the shadows, a silent whisper as you fled to the safety of your bed. On the best days, he’d forget you even existed -- but on the worst, he’d leave tears on your cheeks and fingerprint bruises on your arms.

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You were five when a pretty woman with a round tummy started coming home with him. She said you were such a “cute little thing” and asked whether she could braid your hair -- but your father snarled that you were a boy, not some doll, and he always took her straight up to his bedroom after that.

You were six when your father came home with a bundle of blankets in each arm. You were hidden away in your room, as usual -- but this time he didn’t stop for liquor. He came straight upstairs and kicked your bedroom door open, leaving it rattling on its hinges. A freezing draft seeped into the room. “They’re just like you,” he snarled, dumping the bundles at the foot of your bed. “They killed her. She was pretty, too. I might’ve asked her to marry me, one day. She’d never be as lovely as my Etna was -- but she was a perfectly good fuck, all the same. And now she’s gone, too, just like Etna, and now all I’ve got let is you -- and… and them. Three parasites. No -- fuck that. I want nothin’ to do with them. You deal with them, you hear me? Deal with them, or I’ll leave them on the street to freeze. Fucking leeches, all of you.”

The twins were tiny, pink things with tufts of dark hair. They cried quietly, their newborn screams feeble and weak. They settled quickly when you held them close -- and you were glad for it, too, because you thought your father might have smothered them in their sleep otherwise. You called them Chiron and Chimera, because you thought your mother would have liked those names.

It became very clear, very quickly that the three of you couldn’t survive off the meager rations your father gave you. He didn’t earn enough for three young, hungry mouths -- and every spare bit of coin he had was quickly sunk into bottles of liquor. You gave the twins as much of your share as you could, but you were already rail-thin and kept awake at night by a screaming stomach.

You started sneaking away some of your father’s possessions -- nothing noticeable, at first. An old, broken clock from your bedroom, or a spare stool from the garden. You flogged them at the Hob, making enough coin to buy a cup of milk and a stale loaf of bread; food for the week, if you were very careful. Your father found out soon after, of course, when you tried to take one of his old belts. It was a nice, supple leather, brown and soft, but the clip was broken and it hadn’t been worn in years -- so you thought it’d be safe. He noticed it was gone, though, and you couldn’t lay on your back for days afterwards.

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“Hello -- I’m… I’m so sorry to disturb you, dear. I just… you look so much like an old friend of mine, I just have to ask. You have her pointed chin, you see -- and that slight wave in your hair, too. And her eyes -- such a bright hazel. I’m sorry to bother you -- I know you’re busy, but would you mind telling me… Is your name Griffin?”

You were lucky -- an old friend of your mother’s recognised you. She’d never met you before, of course, but she’d known your mother since they were children. They’d even talked baby names together -- and your mother had always stubbornly insisted she’d call her child Griffin.

“I’m Marigold, but do call me Mary! I live over in the Merchant part of town with my husband, Sage, and our young daughter, Rosemary -- or Rosie, as she insists on being called! We run a small shop -- I don’t know if you’ve ever seen it? Lavender & Mint Apothecary -- just across the road from the bakery. My husband wanted to call it Thistle & Mint, you know, but I told him it’s bad luck to name a healing shop after a weed. They’re perfectly good bits of plant, but they’ve got a bit of a bad reputation, you see. At least this way we can have pretty sprigs of lavender out front -- the smell is just delightful!” She paused here, and patted him on the shoulder. “Now, pardon me if this is a little forward, dear, but would you like to come for a visit? I have a picture of your mother I could show you, and you look like you could use a warm cup of tea. We’re looking for an assistant -- you’re awful young, child, but better you work for us than linger around here too long. What do you say?”

You were a diligent worker. With speedy hands and nimble fingers, you took the utmost care when chopping herbs or re-potting plants. You carefully ground mixtures into pastes with just-the-right-thickness, and had an eagle-eye for spotting when the plants were in need of a water. Sage was a stern, no-nonsense kind of man, who made you work hard for every penny you earned. He didn’t like you much -- you could tell. He made your work in the dim back-room; he didn’t want any of his customers catching a whiff of a Seam urchin in his store, after all. He’d quiz you as you worked, too, demanding quick answers to difficult questions. What type of plant is this? What is it used for? Does it need diluting? How? Why?

You’d answer his questions with a scowl, snarling out the answers through gritted teeth. You were an explosive child with a fiery temper, just like your father, but you tried to push it down because you needed the job -- needed the money. You weren’t very good at pretending to like Sage, or at hiding your emotions -- but the man tended to let any outbursts slide, for the most part; he couldn’t deny your skill, and Marigold seemed to like you well enough for the both of them. She let the twins stay upstairs while you worked, insisting it was no trouble as Rosie was glad for the company. Marigold would take a small share out of your earnings and cook the three of you a warm lunch most days too -- potatoes mashed with herbs, or a vegetable stew, or some carrot soup with grainy bread rolls. She even gave you the odd present -- bits and pieces for you to take home, insisting it was no trouble as it would all just go in the bin otherwise; chipped flower-pots, withered plants they couldn’t sell, a handful of seeds to plant.

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At fifteen, you were woken in the night by a loud knock on the front door. The twins sat up in their bed (a thin mattress on the floor), their bleary eyes blinking slowly as they tried to push away the fog of sleep. “Stay there,” you hissed, creeping silently along the landing and flying unseen down the stairs.

The knocking continued -- three times: knock, knock, knock.

Your father’s boots weren’t by the door and there were no empty bottles in the kitchen, either.

When you opened the door, you were greeted by a mean-looking peacekeeper with slate-grey hair and impatient lines etched into his face. He had a nasty smile; thin lips and bared teeth.

There had been a mining accident, the peacekeeper said. Thirty-nine people had died -- and your father was one of them. He pressed a small, woven bag into your hands; it was heavy with coin. Compensation for your loss.

When he asked whether your mother was home, you lied and said she wouldn’t be back until later. Good things never happened to orphaned children in District Twelve.

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You always take out the maximum amount of tesserae you can -- you have done, ever since you were twelve years old, because you’ve always desperately needed the grain and oil. You hated it; you didn’t want to worsen your already shitty odds, because you knew the twins wouldn’t survive without you.

Each Reaping Day passed by with some other unfortunate soul stolen away. Each year, the District Twelve tributes died -- but you were just glad they weren’t you.

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You don’t get on with people very well. You’re blunt and callous and antagonistic -- you say what’s on your mind, and it’s often accompanied by a scowl or a glare. You’re bitter and jaded and fiery, hardened by years of struggle. You get angry quickly -- and you show it. Loudly. People don’t like you -- and that’s fine with you. You don’t like people much, either.

But with the twins, you’re softer. Calmer. You’d do anything for them -- give anything for them. You spend every evening sitting quietly, the three of you huddled around the fire with thin blankets draped over your shoulders. You teach them about plants -- the kinds you can eat, or the types with medicinal properties, or about the ones that can kill you. They aren’t very interested, but they’re good at pretending -- because they know eventually you’ll cave and tell them a story, or chase them around the house in one of their games. Sometimes, you show them how to make little animal figurines, your hands pressed firmly over one of theirs as you guide the blade, whittling the wood into the shape of a hare, or a cow, or whatever imaginary creature they come up with.

You smile, when you’re with them.

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The 122nd Hunger Games is the first year the twins will be eligible to be reaped -- and the last one for you.

Just one more year.

Just one more reaping to get through -- and you’ll be safe.

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OOC Name: Squirrel
Age: Old enough
Pronoun: Grill
Reference: Either RPG-D or Caution, I’m not sure!

Medic: +10 to medical supplies.
Aggro: Once a fight, tribute can attack twice in one post.
Healing Hands: Roll 1d20 for extra HP when using medical supplies on anyone.
Griffin Charcoal
 Posted on: Nov 24 2017, 11:43 AM
i shut my eyes, but the world's still burning
Posts: 125
Rep: 9 pts


Medic: +10 to medical supplies.
Aggro: Once a fight, tribute can attack twice in one post.
Healing Hands: Roll 1d20 for extra HP when using medical supplies on anyone.
 Posted on: Nov 24 2017, 12:46 PM
Seize the Day
Posts: 360
Rep: 3 pts


Your application has been accepted! Now, it is time to complete all the CLAIMS that apply to your character. We hope that you have a great time continuing to build your character through Against The Odds!

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