Roland Deschain (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ka_sera_sera) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-03-22 09:06 pm
ka_sera_sera) wrote in thecapitol2014-03-22 09:06 pm
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Who| Roland and anyone
What| Hey, tributes, meet some of your newest competition. He's making a fabulous first impression.
Where| District 4 suite and/or anywhere in the Training Center accessible by elevator
When| minutes after Roland's arrival
Warnings/Notes| none so far?
The light overcomes him, and he screams "Please! Not again! Have pity! Have mercy!" It's what he's always screams. The one moment in which he truly can choose to say anything, the one in which he is fully himself, and he always cries out the same thing. A part of him always knows this, and the rest of him is always too overcome to care.
He's too overcome, even, to take much note of the little details. No smell of alkali and dust here, no baking heat. White light instead, a vision amidst it, a single blade of purple grass. He sees these details, but does not really process them. He thinks of only the doorway, the pull of his body toward it in that moment before the light reaches him and begins to burn. Some time later, he'll think that Cort probably would cuff him for it. In a life full of important moments, this is the one that dwarfs them all, and he is too overcome by something as petty as his own horror and panic to deal with it in any manner befitting a gunslinger. When he thinks this, later, he'll wonder if it might be an offense worth giving up his guns for, and when he remembers that he already has done so, that it would be too late in any case, he will not laugh. What little humor he possesses does not stretch so far as that. But almost.
But that is later. In the now he is stretched out on a cold, hard surface, looking at cold, sterile walls and it is so unlike any moment that has ever come after that he just blinks up at the ceiling and thinks nothing at all. Waits for the dizziness to set in, the thirst, his own plea echoing through his mind and the smell of roses.
What happens instead is a pair of strangers who come, who speak, who take him by the arms and usher him into an ele-vaydor that opens into a set of rooms. In a scarred, two-fingered hand he clutches the small machine he's been given, feeling the cold of it bite into his palm and thinking little of the feeling. He stumbles in a circle instead, one shoulder pressing against the wall as he watches the ele-vaydor's doors close. His face is slack, surprised; he's amazed that he remembers what it is at all.
And if he uses it, just because he can? If he steps inside and presses a button or two, wondering vaguely if the doors will open again on somewhere familiar? Should you see this shocked, wasted man wandering around your suite, or the training room, or anywhere that moving coffin of a room can reach, know that he is at perhaps the most vulnerable point of his life, and please do be gentle.
Or don't. Hey, don't let me tell you what to do.
What| Hey, tributes, meet some of your newest competition. He's making a fabulous first impression.
Where| District 4 suite and/or anywhere in the Training Center accessible by elevator
When| minutes after Roland's arrival
Warnings/Notes| none so far?
The light overcomes him, and he screams "Please! Not again! Have pity! Have mercy!" It's what he's always screams. The one moment in which he truly can choose to say anything, the one in which he is fully himself, and he always cries out the same thing. A part of him always knows this, and the rest of him is always too overcome to care.
He's too overcome, even, to take much note of the little details. No smell of alkali and dust here, no baking heat. White light instead, a vision amidst it, a single blade of purple grass. He sees these details, but does not really process them. He thinks of only the doorway, the pull of his body toward it in that moment before the light reaches him and begins to burn. Some time later, he'll think that Cort probably would cuff him for it. In a life full of important moments, this is the one that dwarfs them all, and he is too overcome by something as petty as his own horror and panic to deal with it in any manner befitting a gunslinger. When he thinks this, later, he'll wonder if it might be an offense worth giving up his guns for, and when he remembers that he already has done so, that it would be too late in any case, he will not laugh. What little humor he possesses does not stretch so far as that. But almost.
But that is later. In the now he is stretched out on a cold, hard surface, looking at cold, sterile walls and it is so unlike any moment that has ever come after that he just blinks up at the ceiling and thinks nothing at all. Waits for the dizziness to set in, the thirst, his own plea echoing through his mind and the smell of roses.
What happens instead is a pair of strangers who come, who speak, who take him by the arms and usher him into an ele-vaydor that opens into a set of rooms. In a scarred, two-fingered hand he clutches the small machine he's been given, feeling the cold of it bite into his palm and thinking little of the feeling. He stumbles in a circle instead, one shoulder pressing against the wall as he watches the ele-vaydor's doors close. His face is slack, surprised; he's amazed that he remembers what it is at all.
And if he uses it, just because he can? If he steps inside and presses a button or two, wondering vaguely if the doors will open again on somewhere familiar? Should you see this shocked, wasted man wandering around your suite, or the training room, or anywhere that moving coffin of a room can reach, know that he is at perhaps the most vulnerable point of his life, and please do be gentle.
Or don't. Hey, don't let me tell you what to do.
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And then the new memories get in the way, crowding up like eager children and Roland closes his eyes, slowly turning his head. "I quest," he says quietly, going with the answer he knows is true. "I quest for the Tower. I always have."
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