The Fifth Annual Writer Games: The Fall

District Eleven Female: Cleopatra Babirye [lostwithmyfriends]

Name: Cleopatra Babirye

Age: Eighteen

District: Eleven; Agriculture

Sex: Female

Physical Appearance: Cleopatra has the skin of a goddess, like papyrus smoothed out by the river. She's below average in height, though she refuses to look up at those above her, simply staring with her eyes of obsidian, of bedrock. Her lips seem fried, dry with asymmetrical curves that purse with envy and bleed when silent. Above that, an obtrusive nose, the meteor which takes out a home, trapped within its own crater. She's a pillar among rubble, a tower in a broken city. She's everything there is to be when you're bred from lust and vigor.

Personality: Cleo reminds those around her of luxury. In a world built from ruin, she's the sliver of gold left buried behind, the cracks in the walls leading to its inevitable crash. She's cold, lonely, and parts of her wish to speak warmly when the rest of her shuts down. There's something about promises that she can't stand, pessimistic in her belief that all are meant to be broken, torn apart, shred to pieces and buried in stone. Cleopatra Babirye is trapped in a storm. She's not afraid of the winds that surround her, but longing to see the destruction that's left in the hurricane's wake.

Background: She doesn't belong in District Eleven. She's known that since she was eleven herself, and the tapes of the Games started circulating beyond the district centers. She could watch them alone then, and listen as these children of ruin built themselves to glory and gore. Her mother prevented her from watching them as long as she could, but Cleo is fixated on victory—on the stains of crimson beneath the winner's fingernails, the way their mouth hung open in relief, and the way their eyes glistened differently than before. Cleo wants that. She desires the attention of the Capitol. She deserves to be hailed, to be seen as a goddess in a realm of nothing but dying mortals. And she knows that she'll be remembered. She'll be remembered, even if it's her last breaths that bring her renown.

Reaped or Volunteered: Volunteered; there are times when the nest is absent a queen, and moments when the empire must start to fall. Royalty must know when to retreat, and when to execute the one slowing everyone else down.

Weapon of Choice: She's adept with small melee weapons, knives and daggers with blades of gold. Look into the forest, and one will see trees with slices in their bark, branches cut off and burned. A tree only makes a sound if there's someone there to hear it—and if they're willing to tell the truth to the others.

Token: N/A