Sorry for the delay, but here are your entries! Keep in mind that if a tribute is not listed, that means they are technically dead, even if they have not appeared in any of the deaths chapters yet. Also, apologies for missing some of the italics, just know that I am able to see them.

Lastly, female entries will have to be delayed for about another 12 hours because I have to head to bed now. I'm halfway done and I'll make sure to post it tomorrow morning. I've done a quarter of the scoring and notes as well so hopefully that will be up soon. Task 4 is all written up and ready to go as well so that should be good :)

Just relax and enjoy these entries for now :)

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District 4 - Quinlan Cyril - RECEIVED LATE

Quinn found himself standing on a pedestal covered in ice, together with a few other tributes who were scattered around him. The golden Cornucopia before him gave the view of the landscape a little more color other than the plain white of snow.

But his appreciation of the pretty color of the Cornucopia was quickly interrupted by the loud noise coming left of him. Quinn looked out, and saw a mist rising up from the ground, coming towards them as the timer started counting down. The sky turned dark gray on the left side. Is this a... blizzard? A freezing breeze reached onto Quinn's skin, as snow swept into the mansion.

"Guys!" Despite the fact that the tributes around him were his opponents, Quinn felt a need to warn them of the impending danger. "There's a bli–" His voice was cut off as a loud boom rocked the clearing, before his eyes connected with a pool of vermillion on the icy floor. A tribute had fallen off of their pedestal, and now, all of the tributes were looking at him with accusation no doubt thinking that he was the one who caused the tribute's death. Oh shoot, that's not good...not good at all.

As the gong rang out signaling the beginning of the games, Quinn leapt off of his pedestal with the rest of the other tributes and ran with all his strength towards the Cornucopia. Coming to a stop near the mouth of the horn, he reached for the nearest thing he can grab. And that exact same moment almost all of the people came up to fight him; he quickly either dodged or hit them with the mysterious package in his hands. Three were injured and others were too tired to chase Quinn, so they began fighting each other, letting the boy slip off into the darkness.

"What is this?" He mumbled to himself as he slowed to a stop near a small doorway behind the Cornucopia. Taking a chance, he unwrapped the object from its red-green-white-striped wrapping. "No way!" It was a sharp half-opaque ice knife, with a handle of red-green-white-stripes. What is this? A joke? Is everything Christmas-themed here, or what?

Suddenly, a male tribute appeared from the edge of his vision, waving a sword. "This should do the trick," Quinn mumbled to himself, standing erect. In fact, he just threw the knife with his full force as he pivoted around on his heel at the enemy tribute. The blade sunk deep into the boy's shoulder blade, and he fell to the ground with a cry of pain – dead.

"Whew," Quinn jogged over to the tribute, grimacing as he pulled out his knife from the boy's shoulder with a repulsive squelch. "That was a close one." Upon second thought, he also turned and gathered up the dead boy's sword, knowing that it would come in handy in the future.

Turning around one last time to see that he was not being pursued, Quinn quickly disappeared into the doorway, where the darkness enveloped his shivering body.

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District 5 - Cymric De Chiel

An array of thoughts formed in his head when the real battle began. Cymric was the type to predict; to anticipate was a definite, overused verb in his life. And, when it came to bloodshed, it was no different. Cymric looked at the icy floor, shimmering without sun and glistening against the pale cheeks of the leftover and frightening tributes. He predicted the exact spots to fall, to slip, to ache. With a flick of the brain, he painted a picture of what patterns of blood would splatter on the white and the blue.

And there, a crimson curve...

...a flicker of cherry red....

...........a pool of us.

He didn't want to wait for the countdown to end, yet he also desired the beeping to continue endlessly. Nothing about the scenario was fine; the threatened lives were harrowed and the lurking murderers crept and stood still, all in varying degrees of tremulous muscle on their pedestals. At the ten, he eyed a girl name Janet, moving to the left to see the child at seven. Nearing three, a boy, but then Cymric looked down at one.

The floor was similar to a silver lining, a trickle of blue blood within a myth of stringy vein. A metallic taste filled his mouth, yet it remained dry; and, with a pulsation, Cymric left his pedestal to collide with the icy ground. Nose slamming into it, a single stripe of Crimson falling down and over his lips, he groaned, wanting to remain lifeless. The momentum of slipperiness carried him a few feet away, where the sounds of bloodshed echoed. Where the wild things became tame and still; in his head, at least, in his head.

He then heard screams. They were torn already, like the scratchy throats desired more claw. Ragged and raspy, he suddenly longed to stand and fight, as if the one battle would conclude his victory of the whole war.

With a whisper, Cymric stood; "Here's the gore."

Standing, the select few left in the Games were battling, a few bodies and cannons already filling the air. An orifice towered behind the staircase, a lengthy hallway implanting a seed of an idea in him. Avoid death, or cause it?

He walked as quickly as possible to the middle, while most created horrid distance between each other. There was electricity within him, striking and less then trodden. At the center of the arena, a wonderland of winter-esque materials, his grip landed upon done spheres. If he didn't know any better, he'd say they were glass and simply decoration; in actuality, only the latter was correct. He held the red and green orbs of unknown creation intensely, tossing them up and down to test the weight. The ornaments were made from something odd, as if the item would save him for a burning death.

Turning, the prediction became truth. There was someone waiting for him to turn around, eyes a beacon to the murder he was waiting for. Cymric acted out of impulse, hands tightening around the ornaments until they cracked and crushed and splintered into his skin, palms bleeding. Instinctually, Cymric thrust his hand into the tribute's face, given no gender or name because it happened swiftly. The shards of the holiday decor landed in eyes, in cheeks, in the face until the person could see nothing.

Then, as a slink of a third body crashed to the ice, screaming in pain, a small girl came into Cymric's view. The way the room's unnatural light reflected from the floor to her face flipped the world upside-down, alongside his solitary plan. Loneliness never grasped him, but seeing an ally stand alone- this switched his belief. Maaike Stolburg was an angel of frailness, a swivel of brightness. She was craning her neck and looking left and right, eyes illuminating the fear she was expectedly experiencing.

I am helpless, she was saying, I need help.

Cymric thought autonomously. Rather than stray from battle and survive far away, he walked with his tip-toes skidding the ice. His eyes latched onto Maaike, peripheral scanning to see the others running around. Everywhere, yet nowhere, tributes threatened his life. To him, a circle of light traced Maaike with her within its center, and no one was allowed in.

So, with a breathe, he walked into the area, holding his hand up to her like an older brother does a sister. Sister. Was Cymric De Chiel a brother?

Yes, the boy's parents had bloomed another. As a young man, he had prepared for the best; Cymric was joyful when the news was delivered of a beautiful and younger sister. Her name was to be Sarah. And they were to grow as a duo, their smiles inlining and becoming one. However, she was born blonde. With no concern for genetics or the impossibilities of possibility, Cymric's father questioned it. For he adorned black hair and so did their mother; Cymric, in fact, was born with even darker strands, so when Sarah was seen to be the palest of skin and brightest of blondes, he demanded that his mother was a cheating whore.

The murder was only secondary, of course, the two turning orphans. An afterthought was the killing, not a preplanned meditation.

It was also a legend of a story, one that Cymric remembered as an old folktale. With deep prose and lines of hyperbole, his mind bantered back and forth between what was true and what was false. Seeing Maaike determined one thing; where was Sarah? Who was she? And was the girl watching him on screen, or did she not have eyes because she was not real?

Either way, he stepped up to Maaike and kneeled because he looked at her like he looked at Sarah. Her hair was not the exact same and the girl was definitely an older age. And as she responded by putting her hand in his, they smiled the same smile.

"Shall we?" he asked, a joke of an offer. Skipping his left leg over the right, they laughed and laughed until they reached the doorway to the hall.

However, as the cannons boomed and wailed, in tune with inhuman shouts, not one audience member listened to the laughter. Because it wasn't there.

Cymric had a wild imagination.

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District 6 Male - Jasper Solangelo

"When the bloodbath comes, grab the nearest things you need. Food and water, if you can. Don't fight." The voice of my mentor resounded within my head as the glass confining me unhurriedly receded.

However, he undoubtedly did not think I would have a weapon in possession. I glanced around, taking in the place we were in. Thankfully, it wasn't freezing. The room we were in was probably eight times my whole house--the walls were assembled with several planks of chopped wood, and a blizzard howled outside where evergreen trees stood- a cabin, this was called.

Shining lights of rainbow colors hung throughout, dangling off the ceiling. In the center stood the Cornucopia. It, like all years, was carved and manufactured with utmost precision; this year perhaps even more since it was of pure ice. My mace hung pendulously from my sweaty hand, as I took a good look around. I noticed I was of the few who carried a weapon.

A circular hologram suddenly materialized above the Cornucopia, counting down in seconds from ten. My heart beat faster, my body trembled as I realized this was it. The bloodbath. One fatal step off the pedestal, purposeful or accidental, would result in being blown up- and I would not count myself out for doing so.

From the hologram, a chanting of many voices counted down. "Five!"
"Four!"
"Three!"
I realized it was directly broadcasted from the Capitol.
"One!"

Several tributes, all but one or two, immediately leaped off, running to the Cornucopia. I had been so foolish before as to ignore the boxes, ranging from tiny to huge, wrapped colorfully and with springy bows, spilling out the mouth. The one nearest me was a foot long cylinder, in a paper consisting of decorated evergreen trees with bright yellow stars resting on top.
I shook myself out of the daze I had fallen into, and lunged forward, off my pedestal to grab it. The paper was loosely wrapped, and I ripped it away easily. There was a plastic cylindrical container with three dark blue ornaments inside. I urged open the top, eyes darting around frantically, until they landed on Janet, the District Five female tribute. She was sprinting towards me, from across the room, but her eyes were set on the ornaments rolling around in my large hands.

I quickly stored two ornaments in each of the pockets on my jacket, zipping them up; the other had no space, so it remained in my hand.

Suddenly, I was knocked down from behind- and believe me, that is quite the feat. My mace flew out of my hand and scattered away. I twisted my neck around to see the firm face of Melanie- the female from Six. The fragile glass ornaments were underneath my hands, which was pinned under my stomach. Melanie wasn't the weak tribute I thought her as.

If I could just...

I flipped over with lots of strength, so she was now pinning me on my back, as if animal and prey. I watched my mace be picked up by another tribute, but could do nothing to help it. It had to be Cymric de Chiel, the bit odd boy from Five. Soon, though, the mace fell from his hands, as did he from life. Another tribute, perhaps the female Career from Two, stabbed him into the neck with a deadly-looking evergreen tree knife.

My fingers stroked the smoothness of the glass, and I came up with a sudden idea- to throw the ornament at Melanie. It was glass and could pierce enough, so that I could get away.

"Do you know what these do?" I asked her. My voice came out as a squeak, and Melanie was confused enough for a moment to pause the knife she had brandished. I repeated my words, "Do you know what these do?"

She responded, "No."

From somewhere else, came another girl's voice. "Melanie! Stop taking--hey! That's my knife!" Shoot. Did she have an alliance?

My choice was quickly made, and I said, "I don't, either. So let's see, will we?" I brought up my right arm and let the ornament leave my hand with enough force to kill.

Kill it did: Melanie was thrown back with a startled yelp, the glass piercing into her skin; unfortunately, it acted like a bomb, and blew me back, even though the pieces flew to Melanie. Her knife almost found a place in my chest, had I not caught it by pure accident. Janet was still coming for me, though doubtlessly with struggle, it must mean that all with Melanie occurred within a span of less than a minute.

I unzipped a pocket and took out an ornament. Janet widened her eyes, skidding to a stop; she either knew how it worked, or saw the scuffle between Melanie and I. Still, I had already thrown it, and Janet's life quickly came to an end. Swinging around, I spotted a small door behind the Cornucopia, and rushed there, without interruptions.

I looked back at the bloodbath. The most gruesome scene there was the sight of two tributes' bodies, the twins from Eight, propped up against the Cornucopia, staining it with red. They had empty eye sockets and carved open necks - the rest I had to look away from, as I pushed open the door.

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District 8 - Logan Krassix

Warmth. It wrapped around Logan, enveloping him like someone embracing him. Normally, someone who felt it would have been comforted.

Logan wasn't.

He had been on his own for too long, protected and raised his siblings while his mother was either passed out from drugs, or being drunk, or both. No one ever embraced him... Not unless it was one of the men his mother slept with, and then, they only embraced him to beat him.

No, this warmth made Logan cringe.

"What's wrong?" Lynia glanced at him, as if she could see straight through him.

What's wrong is we're in a fight to the death. I barely managed to protect you last time. What if I can't do it again? I'm doubting myself, and the Cornucopia is just ahead, which means that a lot of blood is about to be spilled. I don't know if I'm ready for that or not, Logan thought. Instead of voicing his concerns out lout, he wiped his expression clean, like wiping off a whiteboard, and looked at her impassively. "Nothing, I'm just surveying our surroundings."

He took that time to actually survey their surroundings. They had come in through a hole in the floor and the two siblings stood several hundred feet away from the Cornucopia. It was made of ice, which glimmered from the torches that hung all over the room. The walls were made from dark oak, giving the place a dreary feel to it, which only added to Logan's unease. The perfect place for spilling blood, Logan thought. A staircase to the left of the Cornucopia led up to a balcony with an unknown destination. All along the railing was garland, green, gold and blue all intertwined together. Lights hung off a crystal chandelier, flashing a kaleidoscope of colors, throwing the area directly underneath it into a circle of multicolored light. Off to the right of the Cornucopia, closer to where they were, was a giant Christmas tree. It had a few presents underneath it, the wrapping made from various patterns and designs. The presents only increased in number as they got closer to the Cornucopia itself.

"We just need to grab whatever supplies we can and get out of here... Before all the Careers come," Logan hissed to Lynia in a hurry.

She nodded and he clutched her hand, making sure to keep her close to his side. He knew how to fight... on the streets. Fighting a Career who had trained in fighting their entire lives, all the while trying to protect Lynia, would be a completely different story entirely.

They had to hurry if they were going to avoid the slaughter that Logan knew was coming. With that thought in mind, he took off at a fast run—not as fast as he could, but at a quick jog to conserve his energy in case he needed it. Fortunately, Lynia kept up with him well, so he didn't have to worry about her falling behind. It didn't take long before they reached the Christmas tree. Logan snatched two boxes and handed them to Lynia. "Here, you carry these. If anyone comes, I'll fight and you hold the supplies."

Lynia nodded. "Got it." It was a good system they had, but one that wouldn't last forever. Logan's heart clenched at the thought, but internally, he build a wall around his emotions, damming them behind it like water he could hold back.

There was a wild cry from behind him. Logan swirled in just enough time to avoid being sliced in half with a tomahawk. The boy who wielded it was from district two, but Logan couldn't remember any more than that. The boy was obviously better trained, and much stronger than Logan. Where Logan was thin and skinny from malnutrition, this boy was built, with muscles to hold and wield a larger weapon much more efficiently than Logan could. Logan's benefit was that he was skinner, so he could move quicker.

"You're going to die, district eight!" the boy screamed.

Logan jumped backwards to avoid another strike. He had no weapons, and this boy had a tomahawk. How am I supposed to beat him?

Logan's chest clenched. I can't.

He glanced over his shoulder at Lynia. Her best chance was to run—away from him, and away from the Career. "Go!"

Lynia's eyes widened and she shook her head. "No! I won't leave you!"

"I'll catch up with you, just go!" His voice was harsh, thick with order and laced with command. Despite how it tore him apart internally, Lynia turned around with tears in her eyes, and left him.

She had to. You had to give her the best chance she could have, Logan thought. For his entire life he had always done that; done whatever was necessary so that his younger siblings could have their best chance. This time was no different.

Even if that resulted in his own death.

He watched Lynia long enough to see which direction she ran in—behind the Cornucopia toward a long hallway there—before turning back to the boy. Raising the tomahawk, he darted toward Logan, but Logan was faster. He twirled around behind the boy , and kicked the back of his knee.

"This isn't training," Logan hissed. That was the main difference between Logan and the Careers. They had trained inside a room, inside safe environments where everything was set up. Logan had not trained. No, he had lived. Lived in the real world and gone through all its harsh experiences. He had learned to fight while his body was dehydrated and malnourished. The stomachaches and dizziness no longer bothered him—no they were a dull ache in the back of his mind. In the real world, people who truly fought knew that there were no set rules to follow. People fought to survive, which meant they would do anything to do it.

That's exactly what Logan did.

The boy's knees collapsed from underneath him, but he turned around and swung the tomahawk toward Logan's abdomen. Logan jumped up in the air out of the way, and brought his knee against the boy's chin. His body fell onto the ground and he lost his hold on the weapon. Logan quickly kicked it aside.

That gave the boy the chance he had needed. He snatched Logan's ankles and then slid his feet across to knock Logan's feet down. As Logan tumbled to the ground, the boy crawled on top of him, punching Logan in the face. Logan reeled from the blow, spitting out blood and a tooth. He pressed a knee in Logan's ribs, keeping him from breathing.

"Pain... doesn't... bother me..." Logan hissed between gasps of air. He couldn't recall how many time his face had been punched, or his ribs, or how many scars he had. His entire life, his body had been riddled with scars from the beatings of the men that invaded their home. Men who had killed Logan's girlfriend, men who had destroyed his life and childhood with their abuse.

"Don't like pain, huh? Well, I'll just kill you, then!" The boy snatched a dagger out of his belt, one that Logan hadn't seen. He brought it down toward Logan's chest, but Logan used both his hands to push against the boy's. They both fought for control... one boy's strength against another's.

He twisted Logan's hands, breaking the right wrist. It snapped, and Logan felt the bone itself crack backward. Logan screamed, and his strength faltered, giving the boy the chance he needed.

He pressed the dagger inward. Logan tried twisting to the right, hoping to keep it from slicing anything vital. The coldness of the blade licked his skin, and sliced his flesh. Logan gritted his teeth, as blood welled underneath the blade. With a final grunt, the boy dug the blade deeper, embedding it into Logan's right side. White hot searing pain exploded there, and his vision flickered. Logan's side burned. The pain was so intense, and all Logan wanted was for it to stop.

"Hey! You're going to be okay!" It was a high-pitched voice, feminine. Logan gasped, trying to gulp air into his lungs, but all that came through was agony that swept through his body, radiating through it.

"Logan! Swing me, swing me!" The little girl giggled, holding her hands in the air. Twelve-year-old Logan gazed down at his five-year-old sister and sighed.

"Fine." He snatched her tiny hands and began swirling her around in a circle. Her laughs and playful screams echoed around the tiny alleyway where they played just outside their small apartment. The movement sent a wave of dizziness over Logan, making his head swim, but he shook it off. Playing with his sister was more important.

"Logan." The deep, adult male voice made Logan wince.

He gently dropped his younger sister to the ground. "Go inside, Gracie. Now," Logan stated firmly. His sister didn't wait at all; she darted on inside the house. Logan didn't want to turn around, and see the current man that visited his mother frequently.

The man grabbed Logan by the back of the neck, jerking his head forward. Logan's stomach rolled and growled with hunger. How long had it been since he'd eaten? Four days? Five?

"Where's my payment, boy?" The man was burly, with muscles as large as boulders.

Logan swallowed and bit his lip. "I..."

"Speak!" The man shook him, jerking Logan's neck painfully. Logan winced, and tried squirming away, but the man's grip was like iron.

"I couldn't take it. I didn't want to rob the woman. She's old... "

The man sneered. "Well, I guess you'll have to pay for it in other ways, then won't you?" He threw Logan down. Logan's back slammed against the wall and he collapsed onto the ground. Pain flared in his body, and he gasped, but he couldn't move.

The man stalked over to him like a lion stalking its prey. "You see, I love watching people experience pain. So since you haven't paid me with the trinkets you were supposed to steal, I'll need to be paid in other ways. Like watching you suffer, boy."

Logan wanted to run away, but the man kicked his ribs, cracking them. He cried out, and the man kicked his face, rolling him over. He pressed a foot into Logan's neck and Logan gagged.

The man beat him senseless and left him on the street, laughing and taunting him through the pain. He dragged the boy back to the bar, where the other man's friends were drunk and waiting. They threw Logan across tables, laid him on the bar and sliced him with shards from broken beer bottles. They laughed and jeered at him, and then threw him outside beside a dumpster, leaving him for dead.

"Hey! Hey wake up!"

Logan's eyes fluttered open to see, not his sister as he had suspected, but the district six female. She was kneeling over him, and her long caramel colored hair fell around Logan's face. Logan sat up, but the movement sent a spasm of pain coursing through him.

"Don't try to sit up. That dagger stabbed pretty deep. I used a torch and fire to cauterize the wound and stop the bleeding, so you should be okay as long as you don't have any internal damage..." The girl started.

"What's your name?"

"Melanie. And you're Logan, right?"

Logan nodded, and winced, but Melanie helped him rest against a larger present box for support. "Why would you stop to help me? I mean, this is the bloodbath..." his voice trailed off, as he struggled to hide his pain.

Melanie's eyes downcast, glaring at the ground as if it was to blame for all the problems in the world. "I... I saw you lying there and it... reminded me of something in my past. I... I don't know why I was so stupid in helping you, but for some reason I just couldn't leave you."

In her piercing sea green eyes, Logan saw the same pain that he felt inside his chest every day. It was the pain of the past... the pain of too much violence witnessed at young ages. The pain that scarred them, and ripped their childhoods away from them. "I understand." It was a whisper, and so simple a statement and yet as the two gazed at each other, it was much more than that. It was Logan saying that he understood and felt the same pain she had.

She nodded once, as if she knew more about what Logan said than he did, and she helped him to his feet. Pain exploded in his side, but he gritted his teeth and pushed it back, just like he did with his emotions.

As he gazed around the room, the emotions flooded through him, shattering the walls he had locked them behind.

To their right was the body of the district five male. His eyes were blank and lifeless, head turned in their direction. He stared at them, his last expression one of horror, as if he was begging for help. His skin was ghostly pale, all except for his throat, which was slashed open. Crimson blood still spurted from the wound, making a pool underneath his body.

Logan turned from the sight, where the district three female and the district four female was fighting the district seven female. Together, the district four female held her, while the district three stabbed her stomach. Seven fell to her knees, clutching her stomach, desperately trying to hold in her intestines. Three laughed, and kicked her down, making her lose her hold on her stomach. Innards fell to the ground, making Logan gag.

Before Four could do any sort of celebration, Three turned on her and snapped her neck. Looking proud of herself, Three sauntered away, but not before she saw them.

Melanie, to Logan's surprise, turned and threw two daggers at her. Three dodged the first two, but darted in their direction, not expecting Melanie to have a third. It lodged inside Three's skull, and her body fell to the ground instantly. As Melanie scrambled to collect all of her daggers, Logan snatched a box, wrapped in snowflake wrapping paper, and gazed at her. "Do you want to stay together? I have to find my sister, but we'll be safer that way," he said. He finished the thought inside his mind, at least for now.

Melanie nodded, and Logan's stomach twisted. She reminded him of his dead girlfriend. He wasn't sure if that was why he wanted her to stick around, or maybe because despite that he had his sister, a part of him was lonely.

Together, they both headed to the hallway behind the Cornucopia, and Logan desperately hoped to find Lynia.

One question plagued him, continuously playing through his mind like a mantra. One that he desperately wanted to forget, and yet he couldn't.

What if he couldn't find her?

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District 9 - Theodore Laurent

No Entry - No Note - Strike One

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District 12 - Louis Whitmore

Used Automatic 12

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