thecapitol | People In Glass Houses...

People In Glass Houses...

Who | Timaeus Nadir and guests
What | Timaeus is hosting a picnic get-together/catch-up.
Where | The picnic will be taking place in the Tropical Habitat Dome.
When| We'll be using a bit of wibbly time so that people who want to attend can.
Warnings/Notes| None as of yet.

(This is an opportunity for me to make some new CR as well as catch up with ongoing relationships, but I also want to encourage tagging around between characters! Feel free to do whatever you like in the setting with whoever you like! Also I will be backtagging this so don't feel you've missed the boat if you haven't tagged in immediately <3)

Timaeus certainly knew how to organise a gathering- even if it wasn't an outrageously opulent celebration to be held on one of his own yachts. This one was to be held under the expansive dome of the Tropical Habitat- the entire location rented out for the day to Timaeus and his guests, a loosely private affair- formal invitations as such hadn't been extended, but those welcome knew they were. Naturally, all tributes and victors were included in this group.

The Dome was a beautiful piece of architecture in itself, though antiquated when compared with the technology used for the Arenas. Rather than invisible forcefields, the climate of the interior was separated from the outside by elaborately curving steel and glass. Inside, tropical plants of all types thrived- there was a still, green pond and, deeper inside, a cascading waterfall. Butterflies in hundreds of colours, sizes and shapes flitted about, tropical birds swooped between the trees, brightly coloured fish darted in the water.
Blankets and cushions had been scattered in the main clearing with hampers of food, but there was plenty of space for the guests to break away from the gathering if they so desired- the dome was full of winding paths through the greenery- some even climbing around the trunks of the largest trees and leading to viewing platforms above. In a temporary gazebo in the clearing, a string quartet played music that wasn't quite the classical pieces Tributes were familiar with.

Timaeus himself seemed in a brighter mood than he had been for months, more than happy to make conversation with anyone who approached him- though he was certainly keeping an eye open for particular individuals. Some that he'd met, some that he'd lost and had returned to him, and others still that he had yet to meet.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It had taken him a bit to get here, and the had really only come for one reason, but now that he was here he supposed he should be doing his work and mingling. He'd never been good at mingling, but he reminded himself that most of those here were tributes. Soldiers. Not politicians. (And the ones that were politicians, well, he could practice his best threatening smile.)

He was dressed rather mutely - a good tunic with a wide belt, though his stylist had taken the liberty by covering up his biceps (and the scars on them) with swirls of gold paint. He had complained lowly that he looked like a Briton, but she ignored him.

His prosthetic leg, thanks to the tunic, was in full view , the edges accentuated with lines of gold paint just like on his arms. If it was quiet enough, one could hear the motor in his knee whirr with every step.

Returned, but not whole.

"Hail the returned hero." Cuthbert greeted Maximus with a curt bow. His words weren't meant to sting, but he wasn't concerned if they did anyway. Maximus of all men seemed like the type to be able to take such things in stride.

"Take a seat and I'll find some food for you, if you like."

They stung, a little, but not because he thought they were ill-intentioned. Merely that he had failed, and felt little like a hero these days.

"Thank you, Cuthbert, but no, I've eaten." In fact, the gold paint had already smudged in a few places, thanks to that meal. "You are feeling better?"

He'd known the boy had been keeping to himself, and Maximus had been sure to give him plenty of space. He wasn't one to pry on people's grief, but it was good to see that he was up and about again.

Bert was looking a lot better than he had, especially after his stylist had groomed him and put him in a suit. His attitude had improved as well, although for Cuthbert that usually meant he was more of an ass than less.

"I am. Funny how death can get to a man."

He glanced briefly at Maximus's leg.

"Though I doubt you have to worry about such things any longer. I must admit to some jealously, despite the setbacks I know it's caused thee."

He could almost feel the leg creak under him but he tried to keep his expression mild.

"It seems that victory won't keep me from the arena, or the death that comes with it," he mused lowly. "So perhaps your jealousy is misplaced. They've not granted me my retirement yet."

Cuthbert is still smiling, even if he knows what Max means.

"They have granted you much all the same. No one will stop you from being with the one you love, and I have every reason to be jealous of that."

He actually means that well, if his tone and smile mean anything. He won't look directly at Wyatt, but he does seem to know all the same.

That causes Maximus to freeze, his expression turning stony while he did his best to decide the threat level of that statement.

He had known there were rumours of course, but non had yet confronted him since they'd become true, and he hadn't known--

But of course it would come out. He wasn't capable of keeping a secret like that.

(And something about the phrase. The one you love... His gut twisted, painfully, and the voice in the back of his mind screamed betrayal.)

He was so taken aback by the statement that it took him a full half minute to pull himself together, and there was no cheer in his voice when he spoke.

"That will never be true. No number of battles one will ever keep them safe."

Cuthbert paled considerably at the reaction he got from that, although it was more because he was worried that he'd stepped over a line he knew about and went for anyway. He would never have brought this up if he thought he would be wrongly outing Maximus.

"I... cry your pardon. That was a terrible thing for me to say and I've forgotten the face of my father."

He took a step back and bowed over nearly in half. Bert was mortified, and entirely by his own hand. He wanted to make it up to Maximus, but he had no idea how, so he just stayed where he was with his head bent.

Maximus watched Cuthbert with a hard eye for a moment, still unsure if he was being made fun of, actively threatened, or both - but decided after a moment's silence that the boy's regret was sincere. So, he relaxed slightly, letting the knot in his neck release.

"... Rise, Cuthbert. I find no quarrel in it."

With all the wonder of the place, all the color and beauty, the Initiate has speant a good bit of time already slack-jawed and in awe. How can he help himself in this place full to he the brim with miracles? Even if it did lay within the capitol.

The Initiate's scars were not covered what with only a bit of sheer with no sleeves but no one ever paid mind to darker marks of purple on grey, they'd assume decoration like the painted gold on Maximus. Slip ups and close calls were how he got them, so there was no reason to not be on gaurd here. No reason to sit in the grass with torn-up collected flowers heads, seeing how he could weave them together, what he could make.

He manages to just hear the mechanical whirr in time, and turn. He stares Maximus up and down, then says, "RECALL YOU I UP AND DO. You spoke on death. AND IF HE AIN'T MISTAKEN, UNITY UP IN IT."

Maximus knew the trolls, of course - had been here long enough that it was impossible not to - but that didn't mean he was quite prepared for the Initiate's particular mode of speach and the volume that came with it.

He blinked, taking a second to decipher what had been said to him before he replied.

"I did, yes. At my coronation," He replied, hoping that was what the Initiate meant, though he wasn't sure who 'he' was, who wasn't mistaken.

He doesn't seem particularly bothered with the time it takes for his words to be deciphered. He could almost be mistaken for patient, but really, he was just used to it.

"This motherfucker didn't get chance at to speak then," He says. "WAS PREOCCUPIED, HE WAS." Preoccupied with hiding behind a pillar because his stylists had cut off his hair and made him look like a child. He opts to leave that part out. "He wondered, DID A BROTHER MEAN IT? Most others don't like at to make talk on death. TALK OF THEIR OWN CULL GETS MOTHERFUCKERS LIKE AT TO BE RESTLESS IT ALL DOES. And then they wonder why all it bites back later. CALL HIM IMPRESSED THAT AT LEAST ONE GOT AT TO CASTING ASIDE SUCH. But it only stands if it was meant, of course."

There's a curious tilt to the Initiate's head, as he looks at Maximus.

"It was meant," Maximus assured him after he listened carefully, making sure he knew what he was being asked.

"Death is inevitable, most of all for men like us. It is better to face it. Otherwise the fear can overwhelm and defeat you long before your opponent can."

"GOT A WISDOM TO YOU. Smarter than others he's come across. OF COURSE, FEAR CAN NEVER BE SHAKEN WHOLE AND ENTIRE. Never shaken completely can it up and be, for it lingers like the beacon in a motherfucker's soul, whether they realise or not. HE COULD FEEL IT, BEFORE. But he understands intent on such. NAUGHT BE OF LETTING THE BEAST SWALLOW. He believes the same. NOT TO SAY A MOTHERFUCKER SHOULDN'T FIGHT. But preparing for the inevitable eventual seems wisest," The Initiate muses.

He pokes and prods at his work with the flowers. He usually crafts with bone. Life is different from death, but it's the same enough that still has a hold. He ties off a plant to another.

"IT IS, AS SAID, A RARER MOTHERFUCKING FORM OF THOUGHT, AT LEAST IN THE HERE. He wonders where all it came to be. HERE?"

He looks almost bemused, between the quiet musing and the shouting, but he does his best to be polite.

"No, fear is never fully conquered, but it can be held at bay."

He takes a breath to the question and shakes his head. "I was a gladiator, before here. And a soldier, before that. I have always danced close with death, unlike the majority of the tributes here." He frowned, but continued. "Preparing yourself for your death is not a surrender."

"A gladiator? LIKE THE NAME OF WHAT ALL THE MAY BE, HE DOES. His ownself was a motherfucking subjugglator. BUT BY WAY OF HIM, AND SHAME, A MOTHERFUCKER DON'T GUESS MUCH GLADNESS OF IT." He cracks a wry smile at his own joking. "Soldier though, that he all understands. MAYBE THAT'S ALL WHAT BE MISSING OF OTHERS ABOUT. So few soldiers, so few prepared," He says. He lets out a sigh and shrugs, leaning back on his hands. He observes his work for a moment, then leans back forward again to do more.

"YOU UNDERSTAND, HE THINKS," The Initiate continues. "Death be but a passage. FEAR BE COMPANION BUT NOT LEADER... EXCEPT WHEN IT IS ALL MADE A WEAPON." He mulls over his next words. "Has a motherfucker seen benefit in imparting such to others what all he has? ANYONE AT ALL GOT A LISTEN UP AND ON?"

He had difficulty understanding all of it (the joke about 'glad' simply went straight over his head), but the last questions he was pretty sure he understood, and they caused him to frown.

"I am not sure they see the wisdom in it," He admitted gruffly. "Most place very different significance on death than there was in my time, and so many of the men and women I fought with and against in my first arena here have long since disappeared. But I hope some of them took my words to heard."

He looks mildly disappointed by that answer. He is, of course, naturally. But not really surprised. He purses his lips.

He says, "A small hope was up and had. GOT TO HAVING A MOTHERFUCKING HOPE TO PERSIST ON. Message rung true off victorious tongue. RUNG TRUE AND HE HAD HOPED WAS HEARD. Let thine teachings be writ, was thought, and so this brother did wonder at what all secrets were held by thee. WHAT ALL SECRETS HE COULD SO FIND IN INSPIRING AFTERS. Ownself was to be a preacher, you see. WOULD MAKE FOR SOMETHING MORE, IT BEING HEARD. But you ain't hiding naught, only another with wizened pan and ears to the word, but again surrounded by none of likeness. A SHAME." He sighs and shakes his head.

"As of yet, given no manner of introductory. NO MOTHERFUCKING MANNER OF IT IN FAIR LIKENESS. He is the Initiate."

He had no idea whether he was being insulted or not, and he smiled bemusedly.

"I am no oracle," He admitted easily enough. "If the gods have ever spoken to me, they have not said as much. I know only through what I've witnessed, and what I've lived. It is simple."

It came as no surprise, when the trolls said he was meant to be a preacher, though the word took a bit to translate. He had that air about him - not of insanity, quite, but the strangeness necessary for those that could talk to the Gods. No one could do that and not come off a little touched in the head.

"The Initiate," He repeated with a nod. "That sounds more like a title, than a name. Does your temple strip you of your name when you apprentice yourself?"

He likes this one, he decides. He was smarter. Clearly a soldier, and so, battle-familiar. And respectful. He grins.

"YES," He says with a nod, almost like a bow. When he lifts his head, he chuckles. "And no. ALL TROLLS WHAT ARE TO BECOME ADULT ARE TO TAKE A TITLE. Wrigglerhood names discarded and left behind, except for those what be close and in private still. HAD COUNCIL GATHERED SO AT HE COULD GAIN TITLE OF HIS OWN."

He doesn't tell about the fact he was young for it. It would be evident in his face, or lost in his height, if it even mattered at all.

"A shame gods ain't spoke for he! HE'D BE A WORTHY VESSEL, THIS MOTHERFUCKER THINKS. But he ain't apt to up and imagine he's been without notice," He muses aloud. "AN ASIDE IT UP AND IS. You are called Maximus, that motherfucking correct, brother?"

He'd never known much about trolls, but it wasn't that surprising to him. After all, Maximus itself was a title more than a name - 'The Great'. He'd earned it, and he kept it.

Maximus bowed his head stiffly. "Apologies, for not introducing myself properly. I am Maximus Decimus Meridius, once Commander of the Armies of the North." He raised his head again. "Now, Mentor for District 3."

Maximus Decimus Meridius. That is a rude set of syllables strung together to something that simultaneously means nothing to him and sounds like something real damn impressive. Like it should mean something. The North can't possibly even be a place, it's a motherfucking direction but, despite that, he believes it.

What he doesn't believe is that clap-trap mentor hoofbeastshit. He's believed it from very few, even those he knew were from here. But maybe this one believes it, who is he to know. But even if he's just seeing nothing where there's a thing-- an actual belief and support of this as well as understanding-- after all, he's sceptical, and he wants to ask, despite the danger in asking aloud if someone thinks the capitol is worth anything other than kindling.

Instead, he says, "COMMANDER. Impressive, brother. IMPRESSIVE AND NOT A THING WHAT ALL DEEMS FIT FOR APOLOGY. No apology needed up with this. BUT HE WONDERS IF COMPARISON UP WITH WHAT ALL THAT MENTORING NOISE GETS ON CONSISTING UP FOR IT."

He assumed it was a question, though he wasn't entirely certain what he was asked, he could guess.

"Everything I knew is dust and ash." He said, firmly and without question. There was no comparison to be made - he may as well be dead. "I do my duty as is given."

So of course, he hates it.

That stops him short. That gets everything to braking real fast. He thinks of the Helmsman, a thousand sweeps old and nothing to go back to but torture, then death, whose attitudes toward him seemed like duty at first, for what felt like the longest time. He turns his head away.

"...Understood, sir," He says, dropping rare honorific. Then he thinks, fuck it, why the motherfuck not, capitol already named him their enemy long ago. It isn't like it's not obvious he hates them. "WERE IT HIM, HE'D CAST SUCH TO HAVE THEIR TICKETS REVOKED AND DEMANDING DIGITS REMOVED. If a motherfucker had nothing but ash... he'd make for more ash." He's not this man's moirail, he's got his own. He can do as he wants, and if serving these heathens set him right, that's his choice it all is. He's pretty sure his words could be construed either as admiration or simple disagreement. He's not quite sure which he really means.

Edited 2014-01-15 02:19 (UTC)

Maximus gives him a tight smile. He isn't sure what tickets or digits are, but... He'd make for more ash. That, he understood.

That he understood very, very well.

(And the truth of it burned deep in his soul.)

But even now, even still, he was conscious of where he was, and of who could be listening. So even though he wished for nothing more than to burn the capitol down where it stood, he offered a low chuckle, as if to laugh off Initiate's words and the truth that lay in them. But the smile didn't reach his eyes, and he didn't blink.

"And then a man would have only more nothing. At some point he must build himself a house, too."

Before he burned it down.

People In Glass Houses...

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I am pre-emptively sorry for anything/everything

XD

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