Taw Winstanley

25th games prospect tbh

## **Basic Information**

**Name**: Taw Winstanley

**Age**: Eighteen

**District**: Ten

**Gender**: Male

**Personality**: The calm, the clarity, the intelligence, the assured demeanor. The harsh appearance that seemed to be eternally at odds with the pensive nature of his character. One mere glance and one could notice these features, all of which rippled out of him like an aura. He may not have been the tallest or the most formidable, but he had a certain quality to him that his peers lacked in terms of demeanor. Taw was an interesting fellow. As a child, he had been prone to a great deal of mischief. He could not help it, he found too much amusement in stirring up trouble, even though he more often than not turned out to receive nothing but more trouble in return for his actions, and two-fold. His penchant for disorder seemed to stem from no place in particular, although truth be told, he had been filled with anger for as long as he could remember. If the ever so dreary world he had been brought into had no use for people like him, if it did not have a better place and higher tasks for him, well, in that case, people like him would go to pot, and the loss would be the world's, but until that were to happen he would make it his mission to raise pure hell. This suffocating anger was all the boy had ever known up until the point in which he annexed himself to the working force of District Ten at the urge of his father, which was when his choleric disposition dissipated at once and gave room to a crippling bout of existential dread that filled his mind well past his working hours.

Such was his insatisfaction with the powers that be. The anger he long harbored had left him at last but his bone to pick with the people in charge was as present as ever. His internal monologue reeked of revolution. As a young boy, mischief had been his unwelcome companion, a manifestation of an inner turmoil that seemed to surge endlessly within him. His inclination toward chaos stemmed from a deep-seated anger, a violent current that coursed through him, driving his every thought, although it was an anger shadowed by a profound sense of discontent with the world that had birthed him. His shift from outward rage to an inward dance of fanatical dread was what defined the better part of his late teens. There was nevertheless a dash of fearlessness to his way of coming across, an understated confidence that is rare to observe in one so young. He was astute and highly intelligent. He fought his corner. Taw did not come across as warm or genial but it was that flippant exterior that hid a very capable mind. He was clever and unyielding when he needed to be, which benefited him in his line of work. His gaze, sharp and calculating, appeared to miss nothing. He was not afraid to speak his mind. Though his build and demeanor conveyed toughness, there was a subtle hint of fragility that peeked through the cracks of his stoic exterior. It was in the way his eyes held a depth, his calm demeanor a butcher's apron that shielded the storm brewing within.

Taw was not one to warm up to strangers easily. In fact, more often than not, he maintained a certain distance, his demeanor guarded and reserved. Trust wasn't something he handed out freely, and his initial interactions were marked by a notable coolness. His disposition, gruff as the edges of well-worn leather, set him apart in a crowd. Taw had a way of carrying the weight of his thoughts in the set of his jaw and the furrowed lines etched into his face. His opinions were as unyielding as the steel of the knives he wielded. It was nevertheless amidst the carcasses and the metallic tang of blood that teemed his place of toil that his demeanor would soften. In the company of his comrades, a different Taw would sometimes emerge. A deadpan sense of humor would manifest itself, dry and straight-faced. The irony and flippancy in his humor weren't lost on those who worked alongside him. Trust was paramount to Taw and few men had ever earned his. He was a pragmatic young man. Efficiency was his watchword. Whether it was the precision with which he wielded his tools or the methodical way he approached problem-solving, every aspect of Taw's demeanor spoke to a mind finely tuned for practicality. His straightforwardness bordered on blunt, a trait that often caught others off guard. He was not one for beating around the bush.

**Appearance**: Shrewd working-class youngster who knew where his interests lay, Taw bore a resolute expression of serious resolve at all times. He possessed a pair of glazed over, dark brown eyes that were given a subtle hint of murky green when he stood in the light. These were framed by thick, rather unkempt eyebrows and long lashes that gave a drowsy quality to his gaze if one was to hold it for long enough. His body was usually crammed into the drab, bloodied gray uniform characteristic of a butcher and he was one to just to plaster his hair flat with water whenever he was to depart the confines of his home, giving little thought to the maintenance of the dark mane that framed his face.

His appearance was sandy and foxlike, and hours spent butchering carcasses under the flickering lights of the slaughterhouse had replaced the sun's caress with quite the lifeless touch to his skin tone. Taw was of average stature and possessed wide shoulders, being stocky and sturdily built. His frame, toned and sinewy, suggested an active lifestyle, and he moved with a natural grace that hinted at athleticism rather than sheer brute force. He was still physically powerful, on one occasion personally heaving a run down farmer's cart out of the way of his companions en route to their place of toil. His voice was quiet, albeit deep and gravely.

## **Background**

Marrow Winstanley was born in a dingy farmhouse stranded somewhere north of nowhere. His father, a man of gruff disposition and hardened hands from years of wielding branding irons on the ranch, ruled their homestead with an iron fist. There were no facades, no point in keeping up appearances. His father's temper was as unapologetic as the harsh landscape they inhabited. Marrow's youth bore the imprint of his father's unchecked anger, each clash leaving a mark on his very spirit, much like the livestock bore the branded insignias of ownership. Amidst the storm that brewed within their home, Marrow found solace among the animals. He'd steal away moments to tend to the cattle, treating the creatures that roamed the pastures with the utmost care. In the barns, Marrow's concern for the injured and the weary transcended duty. It was a testament to his compassion, the one thing he could afford to hold on to amidst the harshness of his upbringing.

His days unfolded in a whirlwind of ranch chores and stolen moments of respite among the grazing herds. Each dawn brought with it a glimmer of hope—a hope that beyond the confines of the ranches and amidst the livestock, he'd find a way to escape the shadows that lingered over his existence. Marrow's spirit, though weathered by the abuse, held onto a quiet strength. His faith in better days did not once waver. And so came the day in which his lonesome path crossed with that of Grier Reed. It was a warm afternoon. Marrow found himself in the heart of town, tasked with delivering a consignment of supplies from the ranch to a local vendor. The clamor of the marketplace filled the air as he navigated through the crowded streets, the weight of crates and packages secured in his strong arms. As he made his way through the lively thoroughfare, a collision with a precariously balanced stack of crates led to an unexpected encounter. Amidst the chaos of toppling goods, a girl emerged, her dark hair askew and a basket of produce scattered around her feet. Marrow's instinctive reaction was to rush to her aid, offering a hand to help her steady herself.

One glimpse of the young woman was enough to make his breath catch in his throat. Black hair as dark as thunderclouds and eyes that seemed to shimmer with a light that no artist could capture with simple paints. It took all of his willpower to not stand there and gawk. He had no idea what a beauty like her was doing in a place as hopeless as District Ten. The girl swiftly gathered her scattered produce, thanking Marrow for his assistance as she hurried off. Marrow found himself struck by the allure of her demeanor, a stark contrast to the harshness that seemed to define his world. A look into a life beyond the fences and pastures he called home marred his vision. From that day forward, Marrow found himself drawn to Grier. Whenever his tasks brought him to town, he would steal moments to watch her from afar, observing her interactions with the townsfolk and the easy grace with which she navigated the chaos of the marketplace.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, yet Marrow remained on the outskirts, entangled in a dance of fanatical longing. It was a year of silent yearning, each stolen glance steering him towards the next. The marketplace became a theater, and Grier, the unwitting star, was the leading lady in Marrow's own private pantomime. But as the seasons turned, so did Marrow. The courage that had eluded him for so long began to stir, fueled by a desire to step out from the shadows and be more than a silent spectator. The decision was made on a day when the sun painted the town in warm hues of birch beige, and the air was alive with the sound of corncrakes calling in a field near the bustling marketplace. Approaching Grier felt akin to navigating a labyrinth. His steps were tentative, like a newborn calf finding its footing. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted through the air as Marrow closed the distance, his palms growing clammy with determination. Or perhaps it was simply nerves. The introduction was neither grand nor rehearsed; it spilled out in fragments, a jumble of words painting the portrait of a man who had watched from the shadows for far too long.

Still, his clumsiness did not matter to Grier. He soon found himself basking in her smile, and as the days unfurled into months, he found himself basking in her kisses. Marrow's once solitary existence expanded to include Grier, her presence a balm to the lingering wounds of his tumultuous childhood on the ranch. Determined to break free from the chains of his upbringing, Marrow embarked on a new path. He took to tanning hides, immersing himself in the laborious task of transforming raw animal skins into usable leather. The tanning vats became both his sanctuary and his crucible. Marrow worked tirelessly, the sharp scent of chemicals mingling with the sweat on his brow. The long hours were fueled by a singular purpose—to scrounge up enough coin to move away from the ranch and build a life of his own design with Grier. When the time came, Marrow stood before Grier, holding not just the fruits of his labor but a promise to carve a new life together, far removed from the shadows that had haunted his past.

* grier's rebel ties forged through the death of her brother at the hands of a peacekeeper
* birth of taw
* marrow takes to working as a butcher, highlight the fact that his clothing and hands are usually bloodied due to his line of work
* IF we go the grier murderer route > research psychosis and detail it in a nuanced manner
* grier cutting ties with the rebel group
* gruesome murder of a peacekeeper, disappearance
* marrow and grier become something close to living ghost stories in district ten
* *the red lady and her bloody benefactor*
* the epic highs and lows of... the life of a single father
* taw knows nothing of his mother or what she did. but whether he knows it or not he *is* his mother's son. whatever that may imply.

[TAW]

* The boy was born in a ramshackle town that God himself had forgotten located somewhere near the outskirts of District Ten. His father, Marrow, was a quiet man and his mother, Grier, had been out of the picture for as long as he could remember, to the point where her existence in the eyes of the young Taw was closer to that of a phantom than a maternal figure.
* He had been prone to rebellious acts starting from a very young age, his streak of mischief further driving him apart from his distant father, who didn't much raise him to begin with, but had never shown himself to be abusive or flippant either. He loved his son in his own way.
* In an effort to quiet the antics of his son, Marrow put him to work at the age of fourteen, when his rebellious streak had reached its peak and he was sure to wind up a juvenile delinquent should no one intervene.
* He was employed in a slaughterhouse, his job consisting chiefly of killing cows swiftly with a bolt gun. He threw up as soon as he came home after his first day. Throughout his first months working there, the slaughterhouse kept coming back to revisit him at night.
* He had also been tasked with working on skinning due to possessing careful, surprisingly delicate hands that could get around all the curves of a cow. A large sum of his waking hours was to be spent splitting carcasses open, relieving them of their body and slipping the skin off.
* Taw was to live out quite the uneventful life. Through working in the slaughterhouse he was able to scrounge up enough coin to leave his father's ranch and move into a gloomy and drab pension room at the age of seventeen. He would go on to become accustomed to his line of work overtime, becoming quite robotic in the manner in which he took in the gruesome setting around him and carried out the tasks that were expected of him.
* If he was a brooding and quiet fellow on the outside, his inner monologue was one of sheer desperation. He could not bear to live out what he perceived to be such a meaningless life and could not find the means to better his own predicament. It was the government that he resented for his inability to make a change. He was no organizer, however, and he found that it was best to keep thoughts of such revolutionary nature to himself, lest he follow in the footsteps of his mother. [expand]
* He had an innate aura to him that drew people in, but he had always been one to push them out and never had what one could call a close friend, even though one could always expect to find him in the company of his fellow workers down at the pub after a long day of work. He was the youngest of his peers and was cared about by the older men down at the slaughterhouse, although he paid this no mind.
* His days had been merging together for months on end with no new developments taking place when his name was drawn from the Reaping bowl during the last Reaping ceremony he was to take part in. After the initial shock started to wear out, he took this turn of events in stride, all things considered. Hell, maybe this was just what he needed to make something out of his life. And so he steeled himself for the challenge with a grin that was quickly effaced by a serious expression of countenance. He had nothing to lose and the world to gain. And if he had to go down, he would go down screaming.

NOTE: i might get read of the chapter format but this background section will probably be a bit lengthy and the chapters might make it easier to follow. but we'll have to look at the finished product to decide!

## **Additional Information**

**Mannerisms**:

**Height**: 5'10

**Weight**: 177 lbs.

**Dominant Hand**: Right-handed.

**Other Information**: His birthday falls on the 28th of January. His living family members include his father and grandfather. His mother is missing and presumed deceased as of his employment in the Games.

**Weaponry**: Knife, Cleaver. [DETAIL]

**Strengths**: Extreme precision with blades, advanced anatomic knowledge, beyond comfortable with blood and murder. [He is, after all, his mother's son] [IN NEED OF REVISION] [DETAIL]

**Weaknesses**: Incapable of swimming, climbing and foraging. Little knowledge in the way of plant identification and living off the wild when it comes to hunting. [DETAIL]

**Fears**:

**Alliance**: Loner

**Token**: Taw owns no token.