aragorn elessar telcontar strider feathercrown (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elfstone) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-09-30 08:35 pm
elfstone) wrote in thecapitol2014-09-30 08:35 pm
Entry tags:
some legends are told [open]
WHO| A scruffy lunatic in the park and you
WHAT| A Ranger gets the lay of the land and finds the biggest green space he can.
WHEN| Slightly forward-dated to shortly after Clara's win.
WHERE| The biggest park in the Capitol.
WARNINGS/NOTES| Just a reminder that your character is 100% welcome to have heard of Middle Earth and the things and people in it, but he's pre-canon, so I'd prefer if you kept spoilers to a minimum! Also, he'll be using an obscure alias and won't be recognizable from the movies. If you feel your character would still recognize him, message me!
Strider has never felt so trapped.
It is not that he is unused to cities. As Thorongil he had spent time in Edoras and Minas Tirith and had found it no worse than nights in the Wild, and Rivendell, though it was by no means a city, was where he would call home, were he asked to name it.
Buildings and beds Strider can handle. It is confinement to the city that makes his hair stand on end.
The materials the city is built of do not help this sense of entrapment. The towers of Gondor had been quarried from stone, good plain stone worked for strength. Strider knows not the arts by which the walls of this city were fashioned, but when he puts his hand on the wall of the Tribute Center, it seems to him him unwholesome. The stone is smooth, too smooth, as though it had been liquified and poured into its shape. Even the rough pavement below his feet feels like a poison.
Strider feels cut off from the outside world, locked in a strange cage with folk of strange talk and stranger dress. He has paced the limits of this cage by now, finding the edges of the city beyond which he is not allowed to pass, speaking with few. Finally, in the late afternoon, he returns to the largest stretch of green he has found and walks through it, casting himself on the ground at whiles and listening intently to the earth before rising and pacing once more.
Even if his behavior were less unusual, Strider cuts a strange figure; there is nothing remarkable about his hooded shirt or jeans, but his brown boots come nearly to his knees. He looks too old to be in such clothes: his hair is streaked with gray and his face is weathered, and always he wears a troubled look. Often his left hand strays to his belt, as though checking for something that is not there.
He's probably just mad.
WHAT| A Ranger gets the lay of the land and finds the biggest green space he can.
WHEN| Slightly forward-dated to shortly after Clara's win.
WHERE| The biggest park in the Capitol.
WARNINGS/NOTES| Just a reminder that your character is 100% welcome to have heard of Middle Earth and the things and people in it, but he's pre-canon, so I'd prefer if you kept spoilers to a minimum! Also, he'll be using an obscure alias and won't be recognizable from the movies. If you feel your character would still recognize him, message me!
Strider has never felt so trapped.
It is not that he is unused to cities. As Thorongil he had spent time in Edoras and Minas Tirith and had found it no worse than nights in the Wild, and Rivendell, though it was by no means a city, was where he would call home, were he asked to name it.
Buildings and beds Strider can handle. It is confinement to the city that makes his hair stand on end.
The materials the city is built of do not help this sense of entrapment. The towers of Gondor had been quarried from stone, good plain stone worked for strength. Strider knows not the arts by which the walls of this city were fashioned, but when he puts his hand on the wall of the Tribute Center, it seems to him him unwholesome. The stone is smooth, too smooth, as though it had been liquified and poured into its shape. Even the rough pavement below his feet feels like a poison.
Strider feels cut off from the outside world, locked in a strange cage with folk of strange talk and stranger dress. He has paced the limits of this cage by now, finding the edges of the city beyond which he is not allowed to pass, speaking with few. Finally, in the late afternoon, he returns to the largest stretch of green he has found and walks through it, casting himself on the ground at whiles and listening intently to the earth before rising and pacing once more.
Even if his behavior were less unusual, Strider cuts a strange figure; there is nothing remarkable about his hooded shirt or jeans, but his brown boots come nearly to his knees. He looks too old to be in such clothes: his hair is streaked with gray and his face is weathered, and always he wears a troubled look. Often his left hand strays to his belt, as though checking for something that is not there.
He's probably just mad.
no subject
To be honest, it's the look on Kankri's face as much as his outburst that makes Strider do what he does next.
He laughs.
It is not a long laugh, nor a carefree one, but it is the first laugh Strider has had in a while.
"Then you are unlike any troll I have ever seen, for they cannot walk in the daylight and seldom use words like inclines and criteria. Neither do orcs, for that matter -- they communicate well enough, but use no more language than they need." He looks Kankri over, convincing himself fully that this tiny gray-skinned creature means him no harm.
Satisfied, but with the ghost of a smile still playing at his lips, he says, "Your pardon, master troll! You must understand, I have never seen your variety of troll before, and the things I have seen which resemble you most would attack me on sight."
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He sips his own, as if to demonstrate the theory of sipping hot drinks for Strider. "My people are nocturnal, but that's because the sun of our world is much harsher than this one. It's odd to get used to keeping different hours here, but it's just a little uncomfortable more than anything truly distressing. There's plenty of other things to be distressed over, anyway," he mutters darkly. "How much do you know about why we're here? I've been here, well, close to a human year now. So...if you have any questions, I can answer them to the best of my ability."
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"I understand we are here to be slaves," says Strider, face grim. "We are to be made to fight one another for the entertainment of our captors. Though perhaps only some of us will share that fate," he adds, looking sideways at Kankri, "or perhaps it is not always to the death."
No one told him about Tribute resurrection.
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"It is to the death. It's always to the death," Kankri says quietly, looking at the cup cradled in his hands. "And then, if they deem us sufficiently entertaining, they bring us back to do it again. We remember what happened, but our bodies look the same as they were before we ever entered the Arena. I don't really know how they do it, but no matter what happens, it doesn't appear to be a problem for them. I was beheaded and mutilated my first time in an Arena, but as you can see I'm still perfectly whole here and now." It's surprisingly easy to talk about. He feels very distant, like he's not quite inhabiting his own body at the moment even as he's saying these words.
He looks out across the stretch of green in front of them. "I was killed the third time a few weeks ago. I don't know why they keep bringing me back when I refuse to harm others. I don't know why they waste so much on this obscene pageantry when their own people are suffering. But they do it anyway." He shrugs, letting his eyes fall to his lap again. He's suddenly very aware that he's perhaps talking too much. "Er, is there anything else? That you'd like to know?"
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The latte almost falls from his hands. Strider turns to stare at Kankri, unable to believe his ears.
"What black art is this, that lets a man be killed and then restores him to life?"
To Strider, this is not only unbelievable, but also blasphemy. Death is a gift to Men: all those creatures who live mortal lives were given death, and to take it away is to go against the will of Ilúvatar.
"You say it was done three times? It seems impossible, and yet I think you do not lie." Shhh, he can tell. "What manner of place have I been brought to, that will kill me yet cheat me of death?"
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He takes a long drink of his latte before he starts saying anything actively seditious. Always being under watch like this really wears on him. Though speaking of that, he should warn this stranger, shouldn't he?
"Be careful what you say and do. We're always being watched. Especially since certain recent events...they can't stop us from being discontent, but they're rather paranoid these days."
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His tone says exactly what he thinks of the Capitol's technology.
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He glances over at Strider again. "Is there not much technology, where you're from?"
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"We have skill," he says slowly, "although much of the art that was used to make great things long ago has been lost. There is magic that will allow one to see impossible distances. Those who can work it are few. However, we do not and have never had a way to return life to mortals who perish. Is that what you mean? What would you call technology?"
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He shrugs. "It isn't really my field, so I can't really talk about much in the way of details, but I hope that makes some sense. I really don't know what they've done to bring the dead back to life, so I can't help you there."
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"It is clearer to me now than it was," says Strider, but decides he wants to talk no more about it for now. "You have my thanks, Kankri Vantas: I am accustomed to knowing when I am and am not being watched, and had it not been for your warning, I might have said things better left unspoken."
His eyes fall to the latte in his hands. To refuse it would be discourteous, so Strider raises it to his nose and takes a sniff. The scent is like nothing he has smelled before: spicy and sweet at once.
"You called this a latte, did you not? What is it?"
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"It's spiced tea, brewed hot in milk and water, with some sugar added. And then because it's autumn they've started adding pumpkin flavoring to it as well." He has another sip. "It's nice."
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"I am called Strider," he says. It is an unusual name, but then again, Kankri is neither human nor from Strider's world. Explaining away the strangeness would not be difficult.
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He takes another sip.
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Another sip, and a sideways smile.
"It's not bad."
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He pauses; then, "You'll learn quickly that the Tribute Tower tends to be forever abuzz with gossip. You can find out many things, if you pay attention."
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"What was the blackout?"