thecapitol | (no subject)

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Who| Sabriel and you
What| Sabriel starts exploring the tower
Where| District 10, the training area, and the commons
When| After Sabriel's arrival
Warnings/Notes| Possible discussion of zombies and death.

(Option A: Initial arrival, Floor 10, Common Area and Roof)

They had taken away her bells and sword- well, it had been Touchstone's sword, but she'd been carrying it at the time. And then they had explained why they'd brought her here, and it had taken every last ounce of self control and memories of ettiquete classes with Miss Prionte to stop her from screaming at them and trying to blast them with a Charter Spell.

Instead, she'd given them a sharp, brittle smile and explained in a tone normally reserved for addressing lesser domestic servants. They hadn't been impressed, and so Sabriel found herself in a strange building, fear and shock and absolute, seething rage all shifting around inside her head.

Not willing to sit around and sulk, Sabriel explored the premises as best she could. She watched the peacekeepers and tributes and avoxes, quickly realized that the technology here was utterly beyond anything in Ancelstierre, and silently vowed to get to the bottom of what was going on. Then, she decided it was time to start asking questions.

"Excuse me, where is this place? I'm afraid I don't completely understand why I've been brought here." Sabriel's face and voice might be carefully neutral, but her hands were clenched into fists.

(Option B: Training Center)

Sabriel had entered the training center out of curiosity, and had stayed to investigate further.

She'd spent some time practicing with a training sword, getting a grasp of the weight and feel of the weapon- not exactly what she was used to, but it was easy enough to adjust to- but wound up spending most of her time watching other tributes and spending time at stations that taught about skills that weren't directly related to combat- recognizing plants, knot-tying and the like.

Occasionally, she'd approach another tribute or mentor- mostly asking about if one skill or another would actually be useful in the arena, and what she should watch out for.

(Option C: Common Area, a few days later)

They'd given her the bandolier back, but the bells inside were not her own. Sabriel frowned, running her fingers over the handles. The materials were right, but these were powerless copies- there was no magic, Charter or Free, within them.

Carefully, she set each of the bells on the table, in order from smallest to largest. Then she began to ring them.

At first, it was simple peals, just to test the sound. Then she upped the tempo, sounding two bells at once and sometimes tossing them into the air and catching them by the handle, just to get the right sound.

It was strangely soothing, and Sabriel felt some of the tension that had built up over the past few days fade as she focused only on the bells- hitting just the right note, creating just the right melodies and harmonies, and not thinking about death, or the arenas, or anything but the sound.

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As strange as it sounded, her declaration helped settled him some.

He still couldn't say he'd be of any worth to anybody as a mentor, but surely it had be easier if they saw the Games the same way.

"Been there," he murmured, nodding wryly.

He took a step closer and held out a hand.

"Wyatt," he introduced himself. "Wyatt Earp. I've been here a while now, an' I'll do what I can to help ya."

"Sabriel," Sabriel said, taking his hand and shaking it. Her palms were calloused, and her hands had the same unnatural pallor as the rest of her skin. She didn't feel like calling herself Abhorsen, or explaining what the title meant. And she didn't want anyone calling her by it either.

"I think," Sabriel said, "I'm going to need as much help as I can get. Why- why were we brought here? Simply to fight? And if they win, will they- will they return us to where they came from?" Sabriel doubted this would actually happen, but she asked anyway.

He gave her hand a shake, his grip steady and warm, palms as rough as hers, though the skin was far darker. A golden brown from all the time he'd spend in the sun, save for the pale scars, some very old, some rather fresh, between his fingers, across his knuckles.

"No," he said, rather flatly, exhaling a long breath as he released her. "No, I'm 'fraid not. On both counts."

He glanced at the Avox, now looking calm again that Sabriel had turned her attention elsewhere - now that she wasn't asking for something he couldn't give her - and then back at her.

"The Games - the fightin' - that's the biggest part, but they'll expect more of ya."

A fighter Sabriel thought as she looked at him, and something about his eyes reminded her of her father, and Colonel Horyse- the same kind sort of mix of toughness and compassion. She almost smiled, and then she heard his next words. So no way out would be handed to her- she'd have to find one on her own. And try to get the other tributes out as well.

"What more do they want?" Sabriel had the fleeting idea they might want her to raise the Dead, or something equally awful. But she squashed that idea- if that was what they wanted, then she'd still have her death-sense.

"We're like toys to 'em," Wyatt explained.

There might have been softer ways of going about it, but Wyatt had yet to find any words that made being kidnapped and forced to kill any sort of alright. Besides, he'd always appreciated directness.

The cards laid flat, as it were.

"You'll fight in their game for their entertainment, then, when yer out, they'll trot ya out an' show ya off. You'll get folks tellin' ya how much they enjoyed the show, what their favorite moments were, how much they liked ya - or didn't."

His mouth pulled as he spoke, a bitter edge clipping his drawl some. Eventually he turned, moving toward a cabinet set into the wall, bottle out a bottle of dark amber liquid and a glass. He picked up a second glass, and held it up in question, offering.

Harsh and direct was just fine with Sabriel.

"So we're expected to fight like dogs in the arena, and then be led around like- like poodles when we leave?" Sabriel's tone was carefully flat- if she allowed herself any inflection, she suspected she'd start screaming in outrage.

Sabriel's first experience with hard liquor had also been her first experience with alcohol- and although she'd long since developed a tolerance for wine, she avoided anything stronger.

But now seemed as good a time as any.

"Just a little bit, Mr. Earp," Getting drunk simply wasn't going to do much good. "Do you have any advice for what I ought to do while I'm in an arena?"

"Wyatt," he said, pouring a finger each in both glasses. "Wyatt'll do."

He twisted the cap back on the whiskey bottle and held out one of the glasses to her.

"Every arena's different, but some things don't change. Supplies'll be harder to come by the longer the arena goes on. They'll try an' play tricks on ya, 'specially when things get quiet - if ya don't haven't done anythin' excitin' for 'em." He sipped from his glass and shifted to take a seat one of the chairs by the, currently dark, fireplace. "But the biggest thing, I 'spose, is to keep in mind that a lot of yer fellow tributes don't feel any different than you do."

"So, get supplies early and don't rely on getting them later," Sabriel recited, "Try to be interesting- would singing work?- and remember that most tributes are no more eager to harm me than I am to harm them. Is that right?"

She sipped the whiskey and tried not to flinch.

"Stay aware and be ready for anything."

His head tipped, and he nodded slowly.

"Not to put to fine a point on it," he agreed.

Then he paused, sitting on the edge of the seat, glass hanging loosely between his knees.

"I'm sorry," he added after a beat. "That this happened to you."

"I'm not a child," Sabriel said, "I haven't felt like one since I was twelve, and Father showed me how to walk into Death. But... thank you."

Sabriel paused. She hadn't been told about tributes being resurrected, so she hesitated.

"Is- is it really true that only one person survives the area?"

Edited 2014-05-11 18:25 (UTC)

Wyatt no disrespect by it. Remembering well his first days in the Capitol, and how many times he'd been told what an honor it was to be kidnapped, to lose everything, it just seemed to him that somebody aught to recognize she might not be as happy about it.

"Yes an' no," he replied, frowning slightly as he worked over how to explain it. "In yer usual arena, there's only one winner, an' everybody else dies...but death ain't the same thing here. They can bring folks back, back good as before they went in."

He looked at her, mouth pursed, wishing he could give her the details -- wishing he could tell her something more comforting.

"If ya don't win, they'll likely bring ya back, an' then you'll try again."

"Necromancy," Sabriel muttered, "Except everything I've seen here is technology, not magic, and to be skilled enough to return- how many tributes are there?- to true life..." Well, she'd done it herself once, with a little girl's pet bunny. But though the thought of not actually dying was a little reassuring, she felt cold fear begin to seethe in her stomach.

"Thank you for telling me this. I suppose it explains why they took my bells."

He wasn't sure what she meant by bells - somehow suspected she wasn't talking about the average sort - but, he could answer the other bit.

"Ninety," he said. "Er there 'bouts. It changes some, depending on how many they bring back an' how many they take to replace 'em."

He took a drink from his glass, lingering before he swallowed, letting it burn away the aftertaste of the words.

"I died nine times, before I got out."

"Then if nothing else, I suppose I ought to praise their skills- even if I wanted to try, I doubt I'd be able to raise so many repeatedly," Sabriel said, but her tone was not complimentary, "Although with that many... winning must be almost impossible."

Her tone wasn't despairing, just thoughtful and matter of fact as she took another sip.

They might have just met, but Wyatt decided, watching the way she held herself - straight and steady despite everything being thrown at her - that he liked her.

He'd always appreciated gumption.

"It ain't easy," he agreed, but still, his mouth twitched. The gentle edge of a smile. "But it can be done."

He was proof of that.

"I'll help, as much as I can."

"Thank you." The words weren't as loud as Sabriel had intended, but they were sincere. Wyatt was trustworthy, as far as she could tell, though Sabriel wasn't ready to tell him her ambitions extended beyond merely escaping the games.

"How, though? Will you help me train?"

"I can do that," he said with a nod. "If there's somethin' I can help with."

To be fair, he didn't know what she was capable of. (Though the way she talked - the easy way she mentioned reviving dead folks - it wasn't hard for him to imagine her having a fair amount of talents.)

"But that'll be when yer outside the arena. While yer in it, I'll be able to send supplies to you an' the other tributes."

"You- they let you do that? And they don't consider it cheating?" Apparently these games were even stranger that she'd imagined.

"I don't- there's nothing I can think of that I really need right now. Not unless you can help me train- I do have some experience fighting with a sword, but I always had my magic too." Sabriel was tall and strong for her age, but she didn't know how well she could defend herself without a sword.

Swords.

Wyatt frowned to himself, knowing full well he had no business trying to teach anybody how to use those.

"That's a mentor's job," he said instead. "After ya win, yer expected to try an' help the other folks in yer district win. The other mentors will be doin' the same."

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