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.

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

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.”

THE FLAME SPREADS. THE RAILS STILL BURN. THE ASHEN ENDURE.
RAGADIS RUNESHARD.
ㅤㅤ

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.”

THE FLAME SPREADS. THE RAILS STILL BURN. THE ASHEN ENDURE.
RAGADIS RUNESHARD.
ㅤㅤ

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.”

THE FLAME SPREADS. THE RAILS STILL BURN. THE ASHEN ENDURE.
RAGADIS RUNESHARD.
ㅤㅤ

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.

A SIREN ECHOES THROUGH THE DISTRICT, NOT A CALL TO ARMS, BUT A RECKONING. 🔗


‣ 𐂡 One Who Strikes from Afar
ㅤ ㅤ ✯ KHAILO 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

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.”

THE FLAME SPREADS. THE RAILS STILL BURN. THE ASHEN ENDURE.
RAGADIS RUNESHARD.
ㅤㅤ

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.

A SIREN ECHOES THROUGH THE DISTRICT, NOT A CALL TO ARMS, BUT A RECKONING. 🔗


‣ 𐂡 First Trigger, Last Threat
ㅤ ㅤ ✯ GLENCA 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

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.”

THE FLAME SPREADS. THE RAILS STILL BURN. THE ASHEN ENDURE.
RAGADIS RUNESHARD.
ㅤㅤ

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.

A SIREN ECHOES THROUGH THE DISTRICT, NOT A CALL TO ARMS, BUT A RECKONING. 🔗


‣ 𐂡 Wielder of Tactical Arrows
ㅤ ㅤ ✯ ARDHAN 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

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.”

THE FLAME SPREADS. THE RAILS STILL BURN. THE ASHEN ENDURE.
RAGADIS RUNESHARD.
ㅤㅤ

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.

A SIREN ECHOES THROUGH THE DISTRICT, NOT A CALL TO ARMS, BUT A RECKONING. 🔗


‣ 𐂡 Guardian of the Distant Hunt
ㅤ ㅤ ✯ EBERFORTH 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