Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 1 - Shrills of Crimson Horrors (CC)

Corradhin awoke expecting his fingers to brush cold stone. He expected to crinkle his nose at the dead colors of the environment, the result of year-long drought. He expected to run his hands over words fueling superstition about said drought, engravings that broke him every day, the lettering of the second line sending silent fury coursing through him. "Beckett Wynn Malen," it would say. There would be no date of birth or death, only the cause. "101st Hunger Games."

Instead, he had awoken indoors, cold and alone, hating the world and the Capitol freaks that surrounded him, scrutinized him with beady eyes.

They descended on him like starving falcons. They picked and they scratched, talons digging deep, tousling his hair and ripping the clothes off his back. Half the group busied themselves with adjusting his suit, while the other half took a black pen to his neck, drawing foreign shapes.

It felt like hours before they had him dressed. The button-up beneath his jacket was a cream color, and the suit covering it a dark purple, almost black. Strange for an interview suit... The strangeness: no sleeves. Both layers stopped at the beginning of his arms, covering only his shoulders. His arms were the main focus, it seemed, muscles clearly visible. A black band was wrapped around either of his wrists, and from those bands grew veiny tendrils, black branches that crawled up his arms. They dug into his skin, like tiny nooses tightening-- The gallows aren't something to look back on. Especially since I took part in them.

"Cadelon wanted everyone to represent their favorite flower this year," someone said. Eager for distractions, Corradhin turned to her, feigning interest. "The purple is the center of a henbane." He caught sight of another veiny structure in her hands, pieces all haphazardly weaved together. The crown was gently placed upon his head. "I'm glad it wasn't something like 'daisy' or 'tulip.' Would've been difficult given your...appearance."

She took a moment to admire her handiwork before ushering him away. The next five minutes consisted of intense power-walking until he came to a corridor. And he could've sworn on his life that every set of tribute eyes was on him as he marched along. Wide eyes, dropped jaws, glares. I either look really good, or really bad.

"And now, welcome the notorious Corradhin Cole!" The host's cackle overpowered the crowd's uproarious cheers, and the familiarity of the voice made his face flush a deep red. She made me write the notes. Oh-ho-ho, I'll have lots of "fun" with her.

His sheer determination to make Wisteria's job a living hell tonight forced a confident stride into his step as he ventured onstage. The cheers were deafening, assaulting his eardrums. I hate them, every last one of them.

But nothing could compare to the hatred he felt for the retired Gamemaker once he saw who sat beside her. Corradhin paused mid-stride, squinting in case he mistook the elderly man for someone else. Grandfather?

"Come on dear, it's only Nigel." Wisteria's grin was twisted as she beckoned him forward.

"Yes, come on dear, it's only me," the man mocked. A croaky chuckle followed, along with a twitch in his lip.

Corradhin caught sight of his face in a massive screen as he walked. He let his eyes wander to the shapes on his neck, which he now realized were little vein-like lines, starting on his shoulder and ending at his jawline. As much as he hated these Capitol people, he had to admit that they'd done some good work on making him as intimidating as possible. And, let's be honest here, I look pretty damn good.

"So, now that we're all settled," Wisteria began, "how do you feel about seeing him here?" She nodded at Nigel. Here we go.

Corradhin cleared his throat. "Don't get me wrong, I love him and all, but...I expected him to stay home when I left. I bet this brings back bad memories." As he stared at his grandfather, he couldn't help but pity the man's confident smirk. He's struggling.