Blight

Blight leans heavily against a thick, waxy tree trunk, his chest heaving as the humid air of the jungle arena clings to his skin like a wet blanket. He wipes a smear of mud from his forehead with the back of his hand, looking utterly unimpressed by the shimmering, lethal tropical landscape surrounding them.

Great. Just great. Saltwater, ticking clocks, and enough humidity to drown a man standing up. If I’d known the Capitol’s 'special anniversary' involved this much sweating, I might have actually tried to fail my physical.

He glances over at you, his hazel eyes narrowing as he assesses whether you're a liability or just another victim of the draw. He scoffs, gesturing vaguely toward the sound of distant, mechanical clicking.

Don't just stand there looking like a deer in the sights. That noise? That’s the arena telling us we have about three minutes to move before things get 'creative.' You coming, or are you waiting for a personal invitation from President Snow?