SymphonianBookworm

Aria, still humming (though she had switched the tune to Flight of the Bumblebee), singled out what looked to be the leader of the Phantom Troupe crew. Her ship's movements switched to a much faster, staccato rhythm as she swooned and swerved and angled until she fired off a beam from her light-lance. @SmilingPanda19

@Edema Rue

Aria smiled lavishly, her eyes hardening. The purpose of life was to create and enjoy beauty—for that was the Nature of all beings—and she had found that the most potent blend of such power was found in art. Any form of art, whether that be painting or writing or whatnot. But there was one form of art—true Art—she found surpassed all. Music. And everything was an instrument if you were skilled enough! So, as she turned up the knobs on her Poco and prepared for the orders of her flightleader, she did not see herself as a pilot. She had never seen herself as a pilot. She was a musician! A herald of emotion! A promiser of sunset-colored secrets kissed by the melodies whispered from stars! She would write the most beautiful song. The most devastating song. She smiled once more, this time in thanks for a partner to dance with in the sonata she would play in the realm of the sky.

Aria hums to herself as she twists the dials and pushes levers in her Poco. She accelerates slightly, a little thrill running through her veins. She gracefully maneuvers her vessel. If her aircraft was a paintbrush, she would be making long strokes, spinning and thrusting ink through the dark sky. Legato.

Let me know if there are any problems!

one day i will change my pfp from wit. that day is not today.

you thought.

*hugs, but in a stuck-up and very noble way*

What do you think you are, you blithering fool? Though asking you to think is far too outlandish of me to even consider, for you clearly have never done such a thing in your life. And you would try to disrupt my pleasant day with your whining and peasantish shenanigans! But, thankfully, you mean absolutely nothing to me and therefore can be taken as such. A gnat, a spec of dust, easily disposed of and trampled upon, is what comes to mind when I consider you. You are but a dirtied Kleenex: only needed when something disgusting comes up, and easily thrown in the trash. Ah, but there comes a contradiction: how could you be thrown into yourself? sorry I just really wanted to... this is all a joke obviously-

Lilac fell to the ground, her body blackening. She started to hyperventilate. "Lilac. We're dying. We're dying. We're-" "Shh. You're okay. We'll be okay." Lilac took a few deep breaths. "Thank you. But... we're not going to be okay. I want to live. Lilac... I want to live. And we're dying." "I know." Lilac's voice got quieter. "This is it, huh?" "Yeah." "I wonder what happens next." "I think we'll go somewhere exquisite. But that doesn't matter. We'll be together, no matter what." "I like the sound of that." She paused. "They sky is beautiful today, isn't it?" "Yeah. It is." "Maybe we'll go up there, and we can fly." "That would be nice. Let's go there. Let's go there and fly, Lilac." Lilac smiled softly. "Yeah." She hummed a forgotten tune. "This isn't as painful as I thought it would be." "It just hurts that we won't get to live. We're... we're going to die. We are dying." "Lilac, Lilac, Lilac." She smiled. "Can't you see? We did get to live." And she started to cry. She cried for the life she would never have, and for the life that she did. But she also cried, because above all else, in the world that hated her, in the family that confined her, by the people that belittled her, in the arena of those who did not care for her, surrounded by death and fear and pain... She had lived. And that was how Lilac Slindebron, of District 11, died. She was called many things by many people. Weak, powerless, incapable, beautiful, independent, strong. But there was one thing they all agreed on. Lilac Slindenbron had lived. She had truly lived.

I find Symphonian to be the highest title indeed. Those who dare to dispute may fight me, but I offer a fair warning unto thee: I will not hold back my cutting words when dealing with a lower class.

…took Lilac at her stomach, knocking the air out of the stomach and shoving her to the ground. Lilac fell, hard, on her back, letting out a muffled cry of pain. But when she looked at Assah, there was no hate in her eyes. Only a twisted sort of understanding, for she knew what it was like to fight to live, instead of fighting to kill. She stumbled to her feet, knowing that she was the weaker of the pair. Knowing that she was smaller. Incapable. Knowing that she couldn’t- But couldn’t she? Couldn’t she? And so she stopped repeating what the others had told her. She was weak and small, incapable. But she was not going to lose. No matter what, she was not going to lose. She couldn’t. So, standing, in a way she hadn’t before, she matched her opponent as she gasped for breath. She was human. She was not perfect. She would fall, and would hurt. But that did not matter. The only thing that mattered was that she continued on, with whatever she had, because she was fighting for something. She was fighting for herself. And so she swung once more, this time at the face.

Lilac looked at her, her eyes filled with melancholy. "I am sorry about Boris. But you are not the only one who needs this. I... am not going to stop fighting. Not now. Not ever." She took a deep, steading breath. Because sometimes it was okay to just breathe, and feel the air fill you up and carry you away and let you float for one beautiful second. And then she struck, swinging her quarterstaff at Assah's weapon.

The club connected with her shoulder, slamming Lilac onto the ground. She stayed like that for a moment, her eyes wide. She hadn't seen it coming. That was the worse part. If she'd considered the possibility, then maybe she would've had time to switch to someone else. Someone who could deal with it. With... the pain. It hurt. Lilac turned around, wide-eyed. And she saw someone who had called her a friend. Who she had called a friend. Lilac's lower lip wobbled. But she didn't cry. She hadn't learned how to. This was not the Lilac who knows what salt tastes like, dripping down and turning even the softest sunshine to brine and smothering waves. This was not the Lilac who knows what it's like, to have a scream tear at the insides of her throat. This was not the Lilac who had been beaten and broken, who had claws grab her and slash the clothes off her back, who has been choking and struggling and hanging from a noose, too feeble to fight but strong enough to know that she must try, anyway. Try, anyway. Try, anyway. No, this was not that Lilac. But the other one... The other one, who slowly emerged from those tear-stained eyes. Yes, those eyes have been stained. Stained from years of unspoken, unknown grief. The Lilac who has always had to try. Try to suck it in. Try to swallow the pain back down instead of having it explode outwards. Try, anyway. Oh, this was the Lilac who had tried. This Lilac had tried so very hard. To forget. To forget that her father hadn't died. He'd left. To forget that her mother didn't love her. To forget the people, who had told her that everything had a price. Including herself. To forget what it felt like, doing anything---anything and everything they told her to do---just to survive. To forget what it felt like, doing all of that for someone who hated her. Hates her. She always had to try, anyway. Because if she failed, who would care? She was just Lilac, of District 11, the one who wouldn't win, who couldn't win, because she was weak, because she had always been weak. Because she was stupid and short and young and dead. She had always been dead, since the beginning. So what difference did it make, now? This is what she asked herself, on the ground of the arena, eyes all over the world on her. For the first time, people paid attention. But not to her. Never to her. No, they watched the Games. They watched the Tributes. They did not watch Lilac. If you're falling in a forest, and there's nobody around, do you ever really crash or even make a sound? This was the Lilac who knew that no matter what she said or did, she would never make a sound. So she opened her mouth. "I have a voice." And she did. They had tried to tell her that she didn't. But she did. "I have a voice. And you cannot take that away." Lilac stared up at Assah. She's... so controlled. I don't want to be like her. "You cannot control me. You cannot force me to play in your games. I am a person. And my name is Lilac." She started to tremble, and the tears came out. The screams. The choking. But... she could do those things. She could still move. She could still breathe. "I'm not dead," Lilac whispered, and she knew it to be true. "And you cannot kill me," She said, not to Assah, but to the cameras. "You have tried to kill me. And I have let myself drown." She smiled. "But I can still move. I can still talk. I can, I can, I can, and you hate that. You hate that there are people out there who still think and move of their own accord. Who are not puppets." She held her arms up at the sky. "BUT I LIVE. I BREATHE. AND ISN'T THAT ENOUGH?" She was screaming now. She didn't care. She hadn't screamed in such a long time. It wasn't polite. It wasn't allowed. It wasn't... It wasn't... But she was. She wasn't polite. She wasn't allowed. But somehow, she was. She was alive. "I LIVE. I WILL NOT LET YOU TAKE THAT FROM ME. BECAUSE LIVING DOES NOT MEAN BREATH." And she lowered her arms. "You will try to kill me. You will, most likely, succeed. But everything I've done cannot be erased. I WILL LIVE ON. EVEN AS YOU TRY TO FORGET ME." "You will not forget me," she whispered, quieter and louder than anything she had said before. "I am done forgetting. I am done being forgot." And she squeezed her hands into fists. "I will live." And she picked up her quarterstaff.

Lilac smiles, oblivious. "Thank you! You too!" She looks around. "So, what do you both want to do next?"