The people of DISTRICT 7 are hardworking and DOWN-TO-EARTH.

SOTR DOSSIER.

• return.

THG DOSSIER.

• return.

BACKGROUND.

there was nothing remarkable about karya braddock. the daughter of two lumberworkers, the same as every other child in seven. an axe in her hand at the age of ten, like every other child in seven.her father’s ‘little dryad’. a woodland nymph was she, climbing the trees and descending with oak leaves tangled in her hair and acorns filling her pockets. childhood in seven, as it was for all children, was good. and things only tasted sweeter with the addition of her younger brother, the little rascal that he was.but the reaping would change that — for every child who hears their name called.perhaps she got lucky that year. two years later, and she would’ve drowned with the rest of the tributes who couldn’t swim… but her area was a woodland paradise. it reminded her of home, somehow — just quieter. there was no rhythmic swinging of axes, just the intermittent screams of dying teenagers.
to this day, it’s tough for karya to remember it all. did she kill that girl from two, or that boy from twelve? perhaps that was how the brain dealt with the trauma of it all, she could barely remember any of it… but the scars provided enough history.she’d be forced to watch the highlight reels on her victory tour, how she’d hidden within the trees with axe in hand — her sun-kissed skin stained with mud and moss, just like she had done with her brother all those times. how she’d dropped from above and caught them unaware, a quick death for those who were lucky enough to stumble upon her.
how that boy from one was the closest she came to death on that final day, the scar across her back was his parting gift.as with every victor, the life that followed was no freedom, no prize for the blood that now stained her hands. a lavished house on the edge of two, her family allowed to follow — at least they got to see the benefits.a ‘rose with thorns’. that's what they called her, as they paraded her before those rooms. they never told the victors what might follow. the ones who could be sold anyway… perhaps that was worse than the games. it certainly seemed like it to her.
the blood on her hands felt like an escape, one she sorely wanted — any escape from the capitol seemed preferable.it was her father that saw the change in his little dryad first. even he couldn’t blame it on the arena — he’d soothed her nightmares after the games, he knew this was different.
she didn’t get to speak to her father before he left that day. but she’d spend many hours at his grave, cursing and praising his actions. his attempt to save her from the capitol... his little dryad.as with many of the victors, she closed off to the world. forced to watch the children she fought so hard to not become attached to fall beneath sword, axe and starvation. summoned to the capitol as one of the collection, their playthings.solace found in the friendships with those who endured the same fate. the other victors, those who understood — and solace in the embrace of her brother, and the woodlands around seven. a victor no longer had to work their trade, but none would dare stop the work of karya as her axe would strike the trees, working till her hands were blistered and bloody.there was relief in that.. her own, silent rebellion against it all.

• return.