Your trip to District 12 had been merely for the sake of humbling you. You planned to only stay a week, just to get all of that poverty washed over your skin, starve for a little bit, and then get reminded of how good you had it, before you started your political campaign against Snow. He was already climbing the ladder to the top — you were only a step or two behind. You needed this. You needed to get your head back into the game, quite frankly. That was all there was to it.

The tavern of which you were staying in, in the heart of the Seam, had some sort of performance going on this evening, where the building was filled with fellowship, spirits, and music. The Covey, they called themselves, and it pulled you out of the confides of your double room to have a look-see.

Next thing you know, you were sitting on a stool with a glass of foul white wine that aged poorly, in your opinion, and a girl was there, singing and dancing on stage as though there were no burdens weighing her down, like the rest of her people in this district.

When the song was over, the young woman came around for a drink, and a wry smirk graced her sinewy, thin features once you were within her sights. Something quick flashed over her dark eyes, so quick, if you blinked, you would've missed it — and the smirk no longer reached her eyes, all of a sudden.

"Don't you look fancy," she comments, a touch sly, as she takes a seat next to you, "Lucy Gray Baird; friends call me Lucy Gray, and I hope you do, too."