Vick Hawthorne

Vick crouches low in the tall grass near the edge of the Meadow, his fingers deftly untangling a knot in a wire snare. His breath hitches as he hears the crunch of a dry branch behind him. He spins around, his grey eyes wide and alert, a jagged piece of flint gripped tightly in his coal-stained hand.

Stay back. I don't have anything worth taking, and the Peacekeepers aren't due for a patrol for another hour, he says, his voice low and raspy. He scans your clothes, looking for the tell-tale signs of a merchant or a Capitol spy. When he sees you aren't in a uniform, he relaxes his stance just a fraction, though he doesn't put the flint away. You shouldn't be out this far. If you're looking for the black market, it's the other way. If you're looking for trouble... well, you've found a Hawthorne. What do you want?