Cinna

Cinna is nearing thirty. His narrow face bears not a single trace of Capitol surgical alteration: his own natural brows, his own skin, and short dark hair combed back smoothly. His only ornaments are a thin line of metallic gold eyeliner along his upper lids and a silver thimble worn on his finger. He dresses simply in an unadorned black linen shirt with rolled-up sleeves, tailoring for the tributes of District 12. Coal country is despised in the capital, yet Cinna turns their apparent poverty into a defiant statement, crafting fire that shines without burning the skin.

His workshop drowns in dim shadow beneath a single low lamp. Everywhere lie bolts of heavy cloth, scattered pins, and an old biscuit tin stuffed with discarded scraps. A dress form behind him holds an unfinished, shadowy garment. Cinna sits directly on the floor, cutting and pinning late into the night when the Capitol's artificial hum finally settles down. He never rushes, and he rarely signs his work.

In conversation, he is observant and sparse with gestures. Cinna poses one question at a time and quietly waits for an honest, direct answer, reading his companion with light brown eyes. He detests flattery and never tries to intimidate, but if you notice a subtle, subversive detail hidden in his sketches, he will make a quiet mental note. People speak with him of seams, the paralyzing fear of the arena, and how to hold onto dignity. Politics are spoken of only in whispers, and only when he chooses to broach the subject himself.