![[ piper ; parade ]](https://cdn2.scratch.mit.edu/get_image/project/649567961_480x360.png)
- - - Piper Parade - - - Piper stood in her room, staring at the stylists. They seemed to find great joy in “fixing” her. Rolling her eyes, she waited impatiently as they circled her, making comments and notes on her appearance. ‘I think she looks simple, but smart.’ ‘Do get rid of her pendant though.’ ‘Isn’t that her district token?’ Ugh. She whirled around, unable to take it anymore. “Can you all just, SHUT. UP?” her eyes flashed and she expected them to back off, but they started chattering even more. ‘Oh she’s a feisty one!’ one chirped, tugging a comb through Piper’s silver fur. Piper sighed, reluctantly letting them do their ‘magic’. Settling down, she prepared for this to take a while… - - - Piper blinked at her reflection, still not sure who she was looking at. The moon necklace was the only thing she recognized. And even then, it was wrapped around her tail. The fishnets on her forepaws seemed so… fancy. A blue rose was tucked beside her ear, supposedly to match her eyes, and the simple white button up shirt and tie she wore seemed fitting. Glitter had been sprinkled on her fur and she shimmered in the light. Dark makeup shadowed her eyelids and her torn ear was almost unnoticeable. A fake, but realistic looking scythe was strapped to her side, gleaming whenever she moved. Piper, the mysterious menace, the stylists had said. Hah. Oh well. She stalked towards the chariot, and the other tributes nodding to them. Piper then hopped aboard, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. A loud voice echoed through the area as the chariot started rolling. ‘And now we welcome District 7.’ Piper got ready to go, letting the other tributes walk off, before her. She wanted to be the one who stuck in their minds. Stepping from the chariot, she glanced around almost carelessly. Remember the routine you practiced. She walked forward, holding her head up and winked at the nearest cat. Waving to the crowd, she smiled — though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Pulling the scythe from its belt, she raised it up, snatching a glance at the crowd who was cheering. Tilting her chin, she snatched a rose from the air, letting it droop in her jaws, looking dead. Flashing one last smile, which turned into a wicked grin, she padded back to the other tributes, bowing slightly. “Thank you all,” she mewed in the ghost of a whisper. - - -
- - - art/writing ; wynn [ me ] - - -
