↳ i don't rise from the ashes, i make them...
oc x finnick odair
catching fire - mockingjay pt. 2 (flashbacks included)
TW: Depression, thoughts of suicide, use of drugs/alcohol, use of tobacco, detailed gore, use of weapons, death, and mentions/sug...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
┗━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┛
Isla Winslow stood by the water's edge, watching as the foamy waves slowly came closer to the shore, before curling over and crashing on top of themselves with a subtle noise, pushing their way further up the bank, where they washed over her cold feet. Even in the midst of summertime, when the heat was nearly unbearable and the humidity seemed to only continue to rise, the chilling temperatures of the water never failed to remind it's occupants of how cold it could get, pulling them back down to reality.
Keeping her hands steady, Isla gripped her fishing pole, the metal staying within the restraints of her hands. They bore callouses and scars that could only symbolize years of fishing experience from the occasional tangle with a jagged or sharp hook. In the beginning, the feeling of her previously smooth hands becoming inflicted upon by the fishing hooks bothered her, but eventually, she came to terms with the fact that it could proudly reflect all of the conscious work she had put within her trade, reminding her of all the time that she had spent minding the waters with her supplies.
Her father had been the one to teach her his ways, his gentle voice guiding her with the rough skin of his hands helping her bait her first hook. After a while, she had caught on enough to pursue the day's catch on her own - digging up her own bait from the twisting forest edges and taking the rusted bucket and pole that belonged to her, after years of use from her father, down to the water to see what she could find.
The inlets always held the best catches, and that was something Isla had come to notice after many attempts of trying and failing at the hands of the difficult skill. There were days with empty buckets, but there were also days with her bucket almost spilling over. It was trying to navigate how to achieve the very best that took her lots of time and plenty of patience.
Isla heard Naya behind her, even against the crashing waves that echoed loudly around her. Inside the inlets, the waters always calmed themselves a little more, almost as if knowing their places. She turned her head over her shoulder, not releasing her fishing pole as she did, and saw her friend look up at her from where she was turned to a fresh page in her sketch pad and was still firmly gripping her fresh, charcoal pencil.
"Drawing the sunset again?" Isla inquired, raising a careful eyebrow to express her curiosity. Naya always had a certain attraction to the sunset, especially when she had watercolors with her and could perfectly define the intricate tones that dabbled and highlighted the evening sky. Tonight, Naya shook her head, a smile slipping onto her pink lips.
Isla watched as Naya picked up the sketch book that was balanced on her tanned thighs, turning it around to face her friend. Isla squinted, looking at the picture that the intricate strokes of charcoal had imprinted on the paper. Alone, they meant nothing. Together, they formed a detailed picture of Isla, her dark hair partially floating in the wind, while the other part hung down her back. Her white dress seemed whimsical, carefully drawn to catch the full fluidity of the light skirt, the bottom soaked through with saltwater. The waves helped define the area in which she stood, the sea foam already clearly bubbling amongst the waters, the trees that surrounded the inlet acting as just another detail as their thin branches and needles interfered with the sides of the page.
