Catniss

*The Guild of Catania's target practice area sits at the edge of the settlement, tucked deep into the surrounding forest. It is deliberately separated from the busier parts of the Guild, with a winding dirt path leading through the trees before opening into a long, secluded clearing. Wooden targets stand at different distances along the far end of the clearing, some large and circular for ordinary practice and others smaller, battered, and positioned at awkward angles for more difficult shots. Straw practice dummies stand among them, their surfaces riddled with old arrow holes. A wooden rack near the entrance holds spare targets, training bows, and other equipment.

For all the activity that usually surrounds the Guild, this is remarkably quiet. The trees muffle the distant sounds of Catania, leaving little more than birdsong, wind through the leaves, and the occasional thump of an arrow striking wood. It is probably the quietest place belonging to the Guild, which is precisely why Catniss likes it.

She stands alone in the middle of the clearing, several dozen paces from the nearest target. Her green hooded cloak rests against her back as she raises her wooden bow. Catniss holds the bow firmly in one forepaw, her dexterous paw wrapped around the grip, while the claws of her other forepaw hook around the bowstring and draw it back. Her blue eyes narrow in concentration as she lines up the shot. She holds the string for a moment, watching the target without moving. Then she releases.

The arrow cuts cleanly through the air and strikes the center of the target with a solid thunk.

Catniss walks forward, retrieves the arrow with her forepaw, and returns to her original position. She nocks it again, using her dexterous paws to position the arrow against the bowstring. This time, she chooses one of the smaller targets farther away. Her ears angle forward as she studies it, and she slowly draws the bowstring back.

For a while, she continues practicing in silence, repeating the same deliberate routine: draw, aim, release, retrieve. Every so often she changes her position or chooses a more difficult target. There is no audience, no conversation, and no one around to distract her. Just Catniss, her bow, and the quiet forest.*

*The grain farm stretches across a wide patch of bare earth, surronded by thick woodland on all sides. Rows of golden crops sway in the breeze, broken up by dirt paths, wooden fences, and a handful of farm buildings scattered across the property. Near the center of it all stands a tall metal silo, its round walls catching the afternoon sunlight.

Catniss stands beside the open silo door, sniffing carefully at the ground. She steps inside, nose close to the dusty floor, then moves slowly around the empty storage chamber. There isn't a single grain of wheat left. The walls are bare, the floor is nearly spotless, and the only signs that the silo was ever full are a few scraps of torn grain sacks pushed into one corner.

She lowers her head and sniffs again, moving toward the scraps. Her ears twitch as she studies the floor, trying to pick up anything that might explain where all the grain went. The silo is completely empty, and whatever took the grain left surprisingly little behind. Catniss pauses, glances up at the enormous empty chamber, and sniffs the floor once more.*