Here is another update! Bundle up and enjoy this installment.

Hazel Jackson (District 11)

The end of day three is, quite literally, fruitless. I spent much of the day searching for some plant I recognized, anything really, for as long as I could, but my once thin body is now bony as a skeleton and refused to continue by nightfall. I now huddle around my dying fire and clutch my knees, the only thing keeping me company is a screaming headache. I don't understand, I was able to find some hearty tree nuts on my way up but my supply has since run out and there's nothing but the occasional scraggily tree and snow this high.

I think about my sky-scraping safe haven. So high that no tribute would want to exert the energy to come and hunt me down and that's not considering the fact that probably everyone else fled to the woods, yet the solitude comes at a price; food. I know my plants, and even though most of these trees and flora aren't native to my tropical home district, I know I could find something worth scrounging up. Hell, I already did, didn't I? Those berries-I mean nuts. My brain feels foggy and half frozen. I know my diet of melted snow needs to change soon.

Panem's national anthem begins with a flourish and my brain screams in protest. I peak my head out long enough to note that there are no new deaths today, but a moment is all my aching head can handle. I half crawl back to my lonely fire. I think of my district partner, Cris, and feel a hollow ache register near my sternum and I can't help but remember his end.

We made a break through the trees, he with a large backpack and me with a measly blanket and a knife. The boy from district 4 caught up to us in seconds, bloody spear in hand and a laugh in his throat. He took a wide swing at the two of us attempting to break us apart, but as he turned to face Cris, I slashed at his exposed arm. Before either of us could react, however, he kicked me in the stomach so hard my feet left the ground. I watched as he skewered my friend. It took every reserve of strength to turn with nothing but my blanket and leave my partner screaming in pain. Cris' howl and his killer's laugh rang in my ears all through my chaotic dash.

I shiver and try to rub some feeling back into my hands over the fire. It did neither of us good to remember that nightmare, or at least that's what I tell myself.

My stomach growls weakly and I can't help but imagine a groosling roasting above the open flame. Then something shakes. Actually, everything shakes and crumbles and I don't understand.

I don't understand why my cave collapses in on itself.

Croix Hail (District 7)

I raise in my tent at the tell-tale boom of a cannon. This half of the woods is quiet and the only movement is a slight whoosh in the trees and the goose bumps that are currently raised on my arms. No doubt about it, the field is down to fourteen. I lie in my tent, staring at the dark blue canopy a few feet above my head. It blocks the wind out, but it still must be nearly twenty-something degrees. I wipe my runny nose, push my dirty hair out of my face and will myself back to sleep. I return to a half slumber, more wary after the most recent death. Maybe the pack finally found another victim.

When my eyes open next the sun turns the navy fabric of my tent to a dark cobalt. I stretch briefly and then take stock of my supplies for the millionth time. A small cardboard container with 13 matches, my thick knife made of some black metal, a chipped ceramic bowl and a blanket. I go through them again. And again. Once I've finished counting my matches for the fourth time, I sigh in relief. Repeating, organizing and categorizing things isn't a habit- more like a necessity. I fixate over the smallest details obsessively and can't manage to pack my bag up properly until my blanket is folded into an absolutely perfect square.

Once I am finished filling my bag with everything save my tent and bowl, I pull up the hood on my jacket, clench my teeth and enter the howling wind. My vision is nearly obscured by the white flakes that dance by, twisting and turning at the smallest change in the air. They rest on my shoulders and legs and a few somehow land precariously on my eyelashes. It's so dang cold, more so than the woods in November, and the wind slaps my bare face raw. I squint through the snow and push forward anyways. The snow has started to pick up and I need to stock up on food before the snow drives me to my tent.

I pass the long dead remains of my campfire and stomp for ten minutes to the patch of bramble berries that have been my main food source. I pick them in multiples of three and have to recount them if I lose track. I navigate the thorns and start looking for the luscious fruit- but something is wrong. Where the peculiar winter fruit thrived yesterday, only the rotten bodies of each berry are present. I search every branch but find nothing I trust.

I lick my chapped lips and look again. Something twisted is going on. Specific plants don't just die amongst perfectly healthy ones. When we harvest wood at home, we don't come across a single sapling with tree rot; we find half a dozen at the least. Even if they're different species, there should be more damaged plants. Nowhere in the endless ocean of forests in District 7 would something so specific happen. I turn and slowly creep back to my home tent, bowl and stomach empty.

Yes, the Gamemakers are up to something...I just hope that they have their eyes on someone else.

All throughout the arena, nearly every single wild food source creeps towards death. The few tributes with sponsors or supplies are not immediately affected by this change of events, but most begin to suffer. With the lack of food and snow machines cranked up to high, there's no doubt about it; a storm is approaching.

Here we go! No spoilers; but the next chapter is bound to be very bloody. Review and tell me what you think is going to happen next!