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
"I know you're there," Strider said without warning. "You've been following me since I crossed the path. I suggest you show yourself and explain your errand, or I shall come behind that tree and ask you again, not so nicely."
no subject
"Tip to the newbie," Lyle said, leaning around the tree in question. "You might want to be more careful about throwing those threats around." He raised his eyebrows and smiled toothily. "I could have been a Peacekeeper or something, and let me tell you, sentients who threaten them aren't treated with nearly so much kindness as they treat the rest of us."
He stepped the rest of the way out from behind the tree, though he lingered near it rather than approach any closer. What could he say, he preferred to avoid being within arms' reach of muscular strangers who had nearly a foot in height on him, especially when he was needling them.
"And I'm following you because I'm bored and you're the most entertaining thing I've seen today."
no subject
He lets the last comment be, for now. Strider does not like being thought of as entertaining, especially after being told his purpose for being here.
no subject
Sprock, but it did. But it was better that Shikari was out there with the team -- as soon as they figured out that Lyle and Brainy and Rokk (please, please let there be some way to bring him back) were gone, she could find them and bring the entire Legion down on this place.
"They might come up with a reason to try and sneak around after you," he said, leaning against the tree. "Best case, it's a fan who's trying to get up the nerve to talk to you. Worst case, someone's pointed to you as an enemy of the Capitol and they're hoping that you'll lead them to others."
He smiled, thin and cold. "I wouldn't recommend doing anything that would make them think the latter case might apply."
It's only a warning. His cover story is playing nice for now.
no subject
no subject
Sprock, he hates saying this stuff. But there's no way to know where the recording devices are, and he doesn't know if he can trust this sentient yet.
"You know, I don't think I caught your name. I'm Lyle Norg."
no subject
"I am called Thorongil, though you would have heard my name soon enough," he says, and there is little warmth in the reply, "if I understand our captors' purposes aright."
He does not particularly like Lyle, nor does he feel inclined to trust him. The man has given up on leaving too easily, too cheerfully, for Thorongil not to feel suspicion. Yet Thorongil cannot ask why Lyle does not resent this place -- they are being watched. He's not stupid.