Bayard Sartoris II (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
yoknapatawpha) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-03-29 05:46 pm
yoknapatawpha) wrote in thecapitol2015-03-29 05:46 pm
So I Found Some Ground to Stand [Open]
WHO| Bayard and open!
WHAT Bayard adjusts to the modern day.
WHEN| Before and after the Crowning.
WHERE| Throughout the Tribute Center.
WARNINGS| There may be period-specific racism since Bayard's from 1863. Please let me know which prompt you're using!
I.
Ever since Sam showed him how to use a ballpoint pen, Bayard has taken it upon himself to be District Twelve's resident artist. That isn't to say that he's any good, but he fills sheets and sheets of paper (that seem to come to him for free whenever he asks it!) with crude sketches of men with swords and rifles, riding horses, of cannons and bears and dogs and sometimes of other Tributes. He doesn't throw away any of the pages, instead tacking them to the wall with another of the future's great inventions, Scotch tape.
It's a much better medium than drawing in the dirt with a stick, or begging Granny to use some of her pokeberry juice on a scrap of cloth, and the best is that it seems endless. Whenever he's done with one drawing there's an Avox who seems ready to bring him another fresh sheet of paper, in reams larger than any book Bayard's ever seen.
If anyone walks in on him 'at work', he's eager to explain to them that he drew that art on the wall, thank you, isn't it nice? He'll draw something for you too if you stick around long enough.
II.
Every few hours throughout the day, and usually once at night, Bayard can be heard running down the stairs from District Twelve, past every floor, and out the door to the lobby, whereafter there will be silence for a few minutes, and then he will return, bounding back up the steps to the twelfth floor with the indefatigable energy of youth. Because he has discovered how the kitchen sink works - what a fantastic invention! - he politely washes his hands when he returns.
"It's queer that they would build a bedroom so far from an area to relieve yourself," he says to the nearest person as he washes, as if trying to subtly brag that he's civilized, thank you. "And even more strange that they would make such a tall building and not put a single outhouse in the area."
He also hasn't showered yet, but one night he can be found getting towels wet in the sink and washing himself diligently with a bar of soap. He's decided that hauling pots of water up the stairs to the twelfth floor to fill the bath tub is just something he isn't up to doing.
III.
A wiser man than him, Bayard thinks, might stop making himself ill with all the food here. He's sure that Granny would chide him and remind him of the virtues of temperance if she could see him, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, sampling a little bit of everything. He mouths out the words, syllable by syllable, on every label, thinking that some of them sound like ingredients from the recipes Granny used to read him and Ringo for entertainment and some of them are words that look made up.
He surrounds himself with Chips Aha!, salsa, soy sauce, Froot-O's, canned tuna, Meataroni, sour sugar worms, and about ten different sorts of pastries from the drawers, once he realizes that they're hiding in plastic wrappers (how strange that they aren't in cloth or paper!).
Every once in a while, if he tries something and pulls a face, he puts it in a spoon with a sugarcube and gives it a second chance, thinking it's only right to give every strange delectable a fair shake. And just about everything tastes better with sugar dumped in it.
He has the decency to look a bit sheepish when anyone catches him in the act.
WHAT Bayard adjusts to the modern day.
WHEN| Before and after the Crowning.
WHERE| Throughout the Tribute Center.
WARNINGS| There may be period-specific racism since Bayard's from 1863. Please let me know which prompt you're using!
I.
Ever since Sam showed him how to use a ballpoint pen, Bayard has taken it upon himself to be District Twelve's resident artist. That isn't to say that he's any good, but he fills sheets and sheets of paper (that seem to come to him for free whenever he asks it!) with crude sketches of men with swords and rifles, riding horses, of cannons and bears and dogs and sometimes of other Tributes. He doesn't throw away any of the pages, instead tacking them to the wall with another of the future's great inventions, Scotch tape.
It's a much better medium than drawing in the dirt with a stick, or begging Granny to use some of her pokeberry juice on a scrap of cloth, and the best is that it seems endless. Whenever he's done with one drawing there's an Avox who seems ready to bring him another fresh sheet of paper, in reams larger than any book Bayard's ever seen.
If anyone walks in on him 'at work', he's eager to explain to them that he drew that art on the wall, thank you, isn't it nice? He'll draw something for you too if you stick around long enough.
II.
Every few hours throughout the day, and usually once at night, Bayard can be heard running down the stairs from District Twelve, past every floor, and out the door to the lobby, whereafter there will be silence for a few minutes, and then he will return, bounding back up the steps to the twelfth floor with the indefatigable energy of youth. Because he has discovered how the kitchen sink works - what a fantastic invention! - he politely washes his hands when he returns.
"It's queer that they would build a bedroom so far from an area to relieve yourself," he says to the nearest person as he washes, as if trying to subtly brag that he's civilized, thank you. "And even more strange that they would make such a tall building and not put a single outhouse in the area."
He also hasn't showered yet, but one night he can be found getting towels wet in the sink and washing himself diligently with a bar of soap. He's decided that hauling pots of water up the stairs to the twelfth floor to fill the bath tub is just something he isn't up to doing.
III.
A wiser man than him, Bayard thinks, might stop making himself ill with all the food here. He's sure that Granny would chide him and remind him of the virtues of temperance if she could see him, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, sampling a little bit of everything. He mouths out the words, syllable by syllable, on every label, thinking that some of them sound like ingredients from the recipes Granny used to read him and Ringo for entertainment and some of them are words that look made up.
He surrounds himself with Chips Aha!, salsa, soy sauce, Froot-O's, canned tuna, Meataroni, sour sugar worms, and about ten different sorts of pastries from the drawers, once he realizes that they're hiding in plastic wrappers (how strange that they aren't in cloth or paper!).
Every once in a while, if he tries something and pulls a face, he puts it in a spoon with a sugarcube and gives it a second chance, thinking it's only right to give every strange delectable a fair shake. And just about everything tastes better with sugar dumped in it.
He has the decency to look a bit sheepish when anyone catches him in the act.
i love your tag
"I'd like to see it." Bayard tilts his head upwards a bit, as if looking at the sky out the window is actually an entryway to the world beyond, as if he could see the swollen, fecund orchards sprawling out over the land like the tail of a woman's floral skirt. "But I don't know that I need to. I could probably be in this city for the rest of my life and never find myself short of new things to see and try and do."
Some Tributes have responded to the technology here with fear, derision. Bayard's mostly responded by awe, turning the open face of his heart towards it like a sunflower leans towards the sun. Even the bits that confuse him amaze him, and righteous indignation at the silliness of things doesn't put him in a bad mood. "Would you bring any of it back with you, if you could?"