Channel name was changed to «Sunrise on the Reaping : The Runeshard Household 🏹»
soon-to-be famguy
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Channel name was changed to «Sunrise on the Reaping: The Runeshard Household 🏹»
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ
A TRIBUTE IS NEVER CHOSEN.
THEY ARE FORGED—LIKE BLADE IN FLAME. BY FATE, BY FIRE, BY FORCE.
Each steel tread crunches over what came before—ashes, voices, names. And with every turn of the train’s black heart, the names of the taken are etched deeper into memory.
⋄ Proof That Silence Is Complicity
That survival is not the same as
obedience
ㅤㅤ
A TRIBUTE IS NEVER CHOSEN.
THEY ARE FORGED—LIKE BLADE IN FLAME. BY FATE, BY FIRE, BY FORCE.
Each steel tread crunches over what came before—ashes, voices, names. And with every turn of the train’s black heart, the names of the taken are etched deeper into memory.
|Not as Heroes.|But as Proof.⋄ Proof That Silence Is Complicity
That survival is not the same as
obedience
ㅤㅤ
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EXILED — HEIRS OF THE BROKEN CROWN 🏹────────────────────────
Arc of the Exiles ⋄ Epoch: Ashen Dawn.
Branded not by birth but by defiance, they rise beneath the cracked insignia of a nation once whole. Dust coats the bones of old alliances; ambition thrives where compassion died. They do not arrive as heirs of peace but as predators bred for spectacle.
ㅤㅤNo marble halls, no golden laurels.
ㅤㅤOnly gravel paths scorched by war,
ㅤㅤand masks worn not for ceremony
ㅤㅤ—but survival. Glory here is never
ㅤㅤgifted. It's hunted, broken & stolen.
ㅤ EXPOSED—YET UNYIELDING.
ㅤ |
Watch Them. | Dread Them.In the spiral of screens and smoke, a name whispered is already a target. And in these Games, silence kills slower than kindness. As drones hiss above and sponsors bet beneath champagne lights, the clock ticks toward betrayal, brutality, and brief mercy.
ㅤㅤTHEY ARE NOT CHOSEN TO WIN.
ㅤㅤTHEY'R CHALLENGED TO ENDURE.🍓28🔥27❤🔥15❤14💯11😎9🏆8🆒8⚡7🎉6🤩6
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17/75. [ ⚔] “HER FLAME.”
ECHOES OF PANEM ──── &. DEFIANT. (Courage.)
ㅤㅤㅤBeneath the scorched skies of a
ㅤㅤbroken Capitol, she stood — not as
ㅤtribute, but as reckon. An ember among
ㅤㅤ ashes, her silence louder than
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ a cannon's roar.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ── Witness Report, 3/12.
(SPARROWED 🜂 FURY)
───────────────
[⟁] MOCKINGSONG
“District 12.” Of—K.E.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
ECHOES OF PANEM ──── &. DEFIANT. (Courage.)
ㅤㅤㅤBeneath the scorched skies of a
ㅤㅤbroken Capitol, she stood — not as
ㅤtribute, but as reckon. An ember among
ㅤㅤ ashes, her silence louder than
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ a cannon's roar.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ── Witness Report, 3/12.
(SPARROWED 🜂 FURY)
───────────────
[⟁] MOCKINGSONG
“District 12.” Of—K.E.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
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𝅄 ִ In a world where order is tightly managed and truth is a matter of perspective, the line between ceremony and control grows thin. What once began as a measure of peace has grown into a quiet performance, broadcast and beautified, yet heavy with unspoken weight ִ 𝅄
▸ INTRODUCING
ㅤ—FIELD RECORDS: THE VIGILANT
ㅤㅤQUARTER
It has been nearly three decades since the first rotation began. What started as a public display of balance evolved into a system of quiet observation. A tradition cloaked in honorific language, the kind that sounds fair enough to forget what lies beneath. No weapons, no declarations just movement. Precision. Performance. Presence.
ㅤㅤㅤ THE SYSTEM DOESN’T
ㅤㅤㅤ FAVOR YOU. BUT IT IS
ㅤㅤㅤ WATCHING YOU. CLOSELY
There will be no announcement before the next phase begins. No signal, no spectacle. The field is always in motion, and the ones who endure are those who learn to move with it.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤThis is not a celebration. It is
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤcontinuity. And continuity, is
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤthe most dangerous thing of all.
ㅤㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤThose chosen are not given
ㅤㅤcrowns nor shackles—just a
ㅤㅤspotlight, and the silence that
ㅤㅤfollows.
▸ INTRODUCING
ㅤ—FIELD RECORDS: THE VIGILANT
ㅤㅤQUARTER
It has been nearly three decades since the first rotation began. What started as a public display of balance evolved into a system of quiet observation. A tradition cloaked in honorific language, the kind that sounds fair enough to forget what lies beneath. No weapons, no declarations just movement. Precision. Performance. Presence.
ㅤㅤㅤ THE SYSTEM DOESN’T
ㅤㅤㅤ FAVOR YOU. BUT IT IS
ㅤㅤㅤ WATCHING YOU. CLOSELY
«Those within the records don’t always speak. But their names linger in passing, on slips of regulated paper, among whispered ranks and anonymous assessments. They are never called rebels—only rearrangements. Never punished only relocated.»
There will be no announcement before the next phase begins. No signal, no spectacle. The field is always in motion, and the ones who endure are those who learn to move with it.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤThis is not a celebration. It is
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤcontinuity. And continuity, is
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤthe most dangerous thing of all.
ㅤㅤㅤ
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▷°✦ The Capitol calls, and the arena awaits. Among the tributes and trials, the odds may falter—but so does fear. Tell us, dear citizen of Panem, when the horn blares and the games begin… where shall your heart stand?
Anonymous Poll
86%
I raise my chin to the sky—I shall fight, not just to survive, but to burn brighter than them all.
12%
The flame in me flickers. I’ll move with caution, yet I will not back down.
3%
No, my steps are heavy with dread. If given the choice, I’d vanish into the woods.
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TO STAND STILL IS TO DISAPPEAR.
TO MOVE FORWARD IS TO DEFY.
III. 1989’S🕔
The Capitol may measure time in victors, in scars turned spectacle, but we count in breaths held, in sparks passed hand to hand beneath the rubble. Where they build walls, we dig tunnels. Where they broadcast fear, we speak in signal fire and silence. To be of the Ashen Line is not legacy—it is burden.
But it is ours. We do not inherit peace. We inherit resistance.
ㅤㅤ“Gratitude doesn’t wait.
ㅤㅤ It remembers. It fights.”
ㅤㅤ
TO MOVE FORWARD IS TO DEFY.
III. 1989’S
The Capitol may measure time in victors, in scars turned spectacle, but we count in breaths held, in sparks passed hand to hand beneath the rubble. Where they build walls, we dig tunnels. Where they broadcast fear, we speak in signal fire and silence. To be of the Ashen Line is not legacy—it is burden.
But it is ours. We do not inherit peace. We inherit resistance.
ㅤㅤ“Gratitude doesn’t wait.
ㅤㅤ It remembers. It fights.”
THE FLAME SPREADS. THE RAILS STILL BURN. THE ASHEN ENDURE.
RAGADIS RUNESHARD.ㅤㅤ
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ㅤㅤㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𓆩⚔️𓆪 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
Twilight bled across the scorched sky, hues of ash and rust settling over the ruins of forgotten fields. A lone figure moved through the thickets—quiet as shadow, sharp as memory. The scent of smoke clung to the air, tangled with wild pine and the faintest trace of metal. Every step she took whispered defiance. She did not flinch when the wind howled, nor when distant thunder rolled like drums of war. She was no longer afraid. Not of the Capitol. Not of the odds. Not of the fire inside her.
🔗
‣ 𐂡 Sniper Who Sees Through Storms
ㅤ ㅤ ✯ MARILYNNE RUNESHARD ✯
ㅤㅤㅤ And as the wind stirred around
ㅤㅤㅤ her — cold, hungry, alive—she
ㅤㅤㅤ became something more than
ㅤㅤㅤ a tribute. She became legend: 𐂡 ‣
──── Each breath she took was an act of rebellion, each heartbeat a tribute to those who had fallen and those who would rise. Above her, mockingjays chorused in the trees—not in mourning, but in remembrance. The world was watching, but she walked not for their eyes. She walked for the forgotten, for the districts, for the flicker of hope that had refused to be extinguished. In her veins ran the quiet wrath of generations.
ㅤㅤThis is not departure. This is the
ㅤㅤselection. Where others see transit,
ㅤㅤwe see tribute. To be chosen is not
ㅤㅤalways honor. Not merely a journey
ㅤㅤ—but a sentence written in fire.
ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𓆩⚔️𓆪 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
Twilight bled across the scorched sky, hues of ash and rust settling over the ruins of forgotten fields. A lone figure moved through the thickets—quiet as shadow, sharp as memory. The scent of smoke clung to the air, tangled with wild pine and the faintest trace of metal. Every step she took whispered defiance. She did not flinch when the wind howled, nor when distant thunder rolled like drums of war. She was no longer afraid. Not of the Capitol. Not of the odds. Not of the fire inside her.
A SIREN ECHOES THROUGH THE DISTRICT, NOT A CALL TO ARMS, BUT A RECKONING. ‣ 𐂡 Sniper Who Sees Through Storms
ㅤ ㅤ ✯ MARILYNNE RUNESHARD ✯
ㅤㅤㅤ And as the wind stirred around
ㅤㅤㅤ her — cold, hungry, alive—she
ㅤㅤㅤ became something more than
ㅤㅤㅤ a tribute. She became legend: 𐂡 ‣
──── Each breath she took was an act of rebellion, each heartbeat a tribute to those who had fallen and those who would rise. Above her, mockingjays chorused in the trees—not in mourning, but in remembrance. The world was watching, but she walked not for their eyes. She walked for the forgotten, for the districts, for the flicker of hope that had refused to be extinguished. In her veins ran the quiet wrath of generations.
ㅤㅤThis is not departure. This is the
ㅤㅤselection. Where others see transit,
ㅤㅤwe see tribute. To be chosen is not
ㅤㅤalways honor. Not merely a journey
ㅤㅤ—but a sentence written in fire.
ㅤㅤ
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marilynne leia.
timber locker &. dusk air hail the drapery daint woolens puppet! 🪩🩷
25❤🔥15🤩9🐳7🥰5🕊3🏆3💘3❤2🔥2😎1
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TO STAND STILL IS TO DISAPPEAR.
TO MOVE FORWARD IS TO DEFY.
III. 1989’S🕔
The Capitol may measure time in victors, in scars turned spectacle, but we count in breaths held, in sparks passed hand to hand beneath the rubble. Where they build walls, we dig tunnels. Where they broadcast fear, we speak in signal fire and silence. To be of the Ashen Line is not legacy—it is burden.
But it is ours. We do not inherit peace. We inherit resistance.
ㅤㅤ“Gratitude doesn’t wait.
ㅤㅤ It remembers. It fights.”
ㅤㅤ
TO MOVE FORWARD IS TO DEFY.
III. 1989’S
The Capitol may measure time in victors, in scars turned spectacle, but we count in breaths held, in sparks passed hand to hand beneath the rubble. Where they build walls, we dig tunnels. Where they broadcast fear, we speak in signal fire and silence. To be of the Ashen Line is not legacy—it is burden.
But it is ours. We do not inherit peace. We inherit resistance.
ㅤㅤ“Gratitude doesn’t wait.
ㅤㅤ It remembers. It fights.”
THE FLAME SPREADS. THE RAILS STILL BURN. THE ASHEN ENDURE.
RAGADIS RUNESHARD.ㅤㅤ
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ㅤㅤㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𓆩⚔️𓆪 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
Twilight bled across the scorched sky, hues of ash and rust settling over the ruins of forgotten fields. A lone figure moved through the thickets—quiet as shadow, sharp as memory. The scent of smoke clung to the air, tangled with wild pine and the faintest trace of metal. Every step he took whispered defiance. He did not flinch when the wind howled, nor when distant thunder rolled like drums of war. He was no longer afraid. Not of the Capitol. Not of the odds. Not of the fire inside him.
‣ 𐂡 Eyes Behind the Scope
ㅤ ㅤ ✯ NATHANIEL RUNESHARD ✯
ㅤㅤㅤ And as the wind stirred around
ㅤㅤㅤ his — cold, hungry, alive—he
ㅤㅤㅤ became something more than
ㅤㅤㅤ a tribute. He became legend: 𐂡 ‣
──── Each breath he took was an act of rebellion, each heartbeat a tribute to those who had fallen and those who would rise. Above him, mockingjays chorused in the trees—not in mourning, but in remembrance. The world was watching, but he walked not for their eyes. He walked for the forgotten, for the districts, for the flicker of hope that had refused to be extinguished. In his veins ran the quiet wrath of generations.
ㅤㅤThis is not departure. This is the
ㅤㅤselection. Where others see transit,
ㅤㅤwe see tribute. To be chosen is not
ㅤㅤalways honor. Not merely a journey
ㅤㅤ—but a sentence written in fire.
ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𓆩⚔️𓆪 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
Twilight bled across the scorched sky, hues of ash and rust settling over the ruins of forgotten fields. A lone figure moved through the thickets—quiet as shadow, sharp as memory. The scent of smoke clung to the air, tangled with wild pine and the faintest trace of metal. Every step he took whispered defiance. He did not flinch when the wind howled, nor when distant thunder rolled like drums of war. He was no longer afraid. Not of the Capitol. Not of the odds. Not of the fire inside him.
A SIREN ECHOES THROUGH THE DISTRICT, NOT A CALL TO ARMS, BUT A RECKONING. 🔗‣ 𐂡 Eyes Behind the Scope
ㅤ ㅤ ✯ NATHANIEL RUNESHARD ✯
ㅤㅤㅤ And as the wind stirred around
ㅤㅤㅤ his — cold, hungry, alive—he
ㅤㅤㅤ became something more than
ㅤㅤㅤ a tribute. He became legend: 𐂡 ‣
──── Each breath he took was an act of rebellion, each heartbeat a tribute to those who had fallen and those who would rise. Above him, mockingjays chorused in the trees—not in mourning, but in remembrance. The world was watching, but he walked not for their eyes. He walked for the forgotten, for the districts, for the flicker of hope that had refused to be extinguished. In his veins ran the quiet wrath of generations.
ㅤㅤThis is not departure. This is the
ㅤㅤselection. Where others see transit,
ㅤㅤwe see tribute. To be chosen is not
ㅤㅤalways honor. Not merely a journey
ㅤㅤ—but a sentence written in fire.
ㅤㅤ
Telegram
Nathaniel
(E. 99, 26) ｜ “Henceforth O' Every Twist Is A Journey: Paper Folds ──&.
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