Samwise Gamgee (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lasttosail) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-11-15 04:32 pm
lasttosail) wrote in thecapitol2014-11-15 04:32 pm
halfling race bonus: +1 to stealth check
WHO| Sam Gamgee and YOU
WHAT| Another goddamn crying hobbit in the Capitol
WHERE| The District 12 suites; the Tribute common area; anywhere else, if you'd prefer!
WHEN| Throughout the day of his arrival
WARNINGS| Will update as needed, but none expected!
A. District 12 suites
It's plain to Sam first thing - first first thing - that this country, and all its accommodations, were made for Big People and Big People alone. Which isn't new, exactly - of every place he's been, only in Bree and the surrounding country did people seem to give any thought at all to the smaller folk they shared the world with - but it makes him more small and lost than before, if that were possible.
But, well-- so long as he's stuck in this place, he'll take stock of it, and give himself one less surprise to contend with, maybe. He can't hope to take his mind off what he's left behind, or settle the fear in his stomach, or lessen the weight of his loneliness, heavy on his shoulders; but he can find out what he may, and that's-- well, it ain't much, in the face of all he doesn't know, but it's more than he's got now.
They brought him into his quarters through the common room, and it's to this he first returns. It doesn't look like any prison he's ever imagined - too big, too bright, too... lovely, even. He's drawn first to the great bank of windows on the far wall, with their blinds partly-shut against the bright morning sunlight. Windows mean a place to look out on, in his experience, and if he might get some idea of the grounds around this place...
He hurries over and stands on his toes to lift up one of the blinds gingerly (there being no cord that he can see), squints against the light--
--and promptly goes reeling back, tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away from the sudden dizzying impression of height, from the many fathoms between him and the ground and the thin window in between, the miles of glass and stone spires stretching seemingly to the horizon before him. It is so tall, and so vast, and so strange, that when he falls he stays down, and scrabbles backward until his back is against some piece of furniture - something to ground him.
"Imprisoned!" he cries aloud to no one, clutching instinctively at the chain around his neck. "Caught at the top of a tower! It's as sure a prison as any dungeon fathoms below the ground-- surer, even, for one might climb up a tunnel before he wills himself a pair of wings."
He draws up his knees, buries his face in his hands, and for a moment, lets himself despair.
B. Tribute Tower - common area
It'll be a few hours later at least that he's downstairs, perhaps more baffled than before by what seems the vastness of his prison. A prisoner he must be, for he's not where he should be, and none seems much interested in returning him to that place; but thus far no one's prevented his going anywhere in this particular tower, for all he keeps waiting for some reprimand.
But even lacking reprimand, there's been no explanation; and Sam's beginning to think he'd rather return right to the cold stair and the sound of Orc-voices round the corner, than suffer another minute not knowing. After months spent hiding from any sound made by living creature, the common area feels frightening, too big and open and full of people (and all Big People, too, he's sure).
"Well," he mutters to himself. "You're not trapped at the top of a tower, and that's more than you thought you had; so might as well try for something else, now you've got that! It might be your asking questions won't be to their liking; but better to know, than to wander around as lost as if you had your head in a sack."
Stepping out into the open space makes him feel still smaller, and the tile floor is cold under his bare feet, but he crosses the floor with purpose, and doesn't wait for anyone to acknowledge him with a glance. He's too polite to tug a sleeve, but he'll trot determinedly next to the next person to pass him, and raise his voice to be heard over the murmur of voices.
"Begging your pardon," he says, with determination-- the stern kind of tone he might take with some assistant gardener who'd failed to heed orders a few times already, and trying to ignore the cold fist of desperation tightening around his heart. "Begging your pardon, but--"
If he's ignored, he'll seek the next person walking by, and the next, and the next, if he has to. Short of grabbing them by the ankles and sitting on them, he doesn't know what else to do.
WHAT| Another goddamn crying hobbit in the Capitol
WHERE| The District 12 suites; the Tribute common area; anywhere else, if you'd prefer!
WHEN| Throughout the day of his arrival
WARNINGS| Will update as needed, but none expected!
A. District 12 suites
It's plain to Sam first thing - first first thing - that this country, and all its accommodations, were made for Big People and Big People alone. Which isn't new, exactly - of every place he's been, only in Bree and the surrounding country did people seem to give any thought at all to the smaller folk they shared the world with - but it makes him more small and lost than before, if that were possible.
But, well-- so long as he's stuck in this place, he'll take stock of it, and give himself one less surprise to contend with, maybe. He can't hope to take his mind off what he's left behind, or settle the fear in his stomach, or lessen the weight of his loneliness, heavy on his shoulders; but he can find out what he may, and that's-- well, it ain't much, in the face of all he doesn't know, but it's more than he's got now.
They brought him into his quarters through the common room, and it's to this he first returns. It doesn't look like any prison he's ever imagined - too big, too bright, too... lovely, even. He's drawn first to the great bank of windows on the far wall, with their blinds partly-shut against the bright morning sunlight. Windows mean a place to look out on, in his experience, and if he might get some idea of the grounds around this place...
He hurries over and stands on his toes to lift up one of the blinds gingerly (there being no cord that he can see), squints against the light--
--and promptly goes reeling back, tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away from the sudden dizzying impression of height, from the many fathoms between him and the ground and the thin window in between, the miles of glass and stone spires stretching seemingly to the horizon before him. It is so tall, and so vast, and so strange, that when he falls he stays down, and scrabbles backward until his back is against some piece of furniture - something to ground him.
"Imprisoned!" he cries aloud to no one, clutching instinctively at the chain around his neck. "Caught at the top of a tower! It's as sure a prison as any dungeon fathoms below the ground-- surer, even, for one might climb up a tunnel before he wills himself a pair of wings."
He draws up his knees, buries his face in his hands, and for a moment, lets himself despair.
B. Tribute Tower - common area
It'll be a few hours later at least that he's downstairs, perhaps more baffled than before by what seems the vastness of his prison. A prisoner he must be, for he's not where he should be, and none seems much interested in returning him to that place; but thus far no one's prevented his going anywhere in this particular tower, for all he keeps waiting for some reprimand.
But even lacking reprimand, there's been no explanation; and Sam's beginning to think he'd rather return right to the cold stair and the sound of Orc-voices round the corner, than suffer another minute not knowing. After months spent hiding from any sound made by living creature, the common area feels frightening, too big and open and full of people (and all Big People, too, he's sure).
"Well," he mutters to himself. "You're not trapped at the top of a tower, and that's more than you thought you had; so might as well try for something else, now you've got that! It might be your asking questions won't be to their liking; but better to know, than to wander around as lost as if you had your head in a sack."
Stepping out into the open space makes him feel still smaller, and the tile floor is cold under his bare feet, but he crosses the floor with purpose, and doesn't wait for anyone to acknowledge him with a glance. He's too polite to tug a sleeve, but he'll trot determinedly next to the next person to pass him, and raise his voice to be heard over the murmur of voices.
"Begging your pardon," he says, with determination-- the stern kind of tone he might take with some assistant gardener who'd failed to heed orders a few times already, and trying to ignore the cold fist of desperation tightening around his heart. "Begging your pardon, but--"
If he's ignored, he'll seek the next person walking by, and the next, and the next, if he has to. Short of grabbing them by the ankles and sitting on them, he doesn't know what else to do.
no subject
"Oh, calm down," he says with a roll of his eyes. "And try not judging a guy from your first sight of him, asshole. You might notice the part where I held back on demanding to know why you're such a midget--" His gaze slips down and back. "--or why you feel the need to show off your hairy feet, but I suppose your particular concept of 'good faith' only counts when you want it to."
There's not a sign he feels threatened, but it's hard to when the person questioning him is small and obviously freaked out. The fear practically broadcasts from him on loudspeakers, and it's hard to take the bold attitude seriously for it. He looks more like an injured creature backed into a corner than something to be wary of.
But not looking for a fight, especially after the last time he pissed someone off, he dips to sit himself on the floor. Legs folded, hands empty and open palm-up on his knees, nonthreatening save for what species causes. His horns aren't near so bad as they could be, though, with their ends too short and rounded to be of real use.
"I'm a troll," he explains, "and I don't know a thing about your North or what that means. I'm from a completely different world with its own culture and technology, and I've never so much as seen one of whatever-you-are if you're not just a tiny, hairy human. That good enough for you?"
no subject
--except then the-- troll?-- sits down, and it looks so much like a bid at courtesy that it throws Sam right off his ire. There's a few things he could have expected, but that... that isn't one of them. He finds his irritation replaced with a sort of wary bewilderment - because now the things about this stranger that say Orc are pretty clearly outnumbered by those that say not Orc, and Sam's got no preconceived notions whatsoever to tell him what to think of it all.
"Troll means something different where I come from, I suppose, then," is what he says-- still gruff and wary (only matching the tone set out for him, he thinks). "Bigger, and ug-- and less well-spoken, for one. And I don't imagine as you have Hobbits at all, in your country! At any rate, you've no idea how to speak to one."
He disapproves of that, clearly-- but it's no longer a direct attack. The peace offering is, in its way, taken.
no subject
"Remember the thing I just said about a completely different world? We didn't even have humans in my universe, let alone..." He motions at him. "Hobbits?" His eyebrows scrunch. The word sounds weird, unlike any other term he's heard before.
He leaves out the part where, technically, it was trolls who made humans and their universe at all in his section of reality. It's not relevant and would complicate things to an unnecessary degree.
"Second off, I talk like this to absolutely everyone save people from the Capitol. You're not going to earn special treatment just because you're shorter than me and have bare feet." It is pretty nice to find someone who isn't taller than him, but he's also not saying that. "Be glad I didn't just tell you to screw off."
Figuring his point has been made clear enough by now, Karkat climbs back to his (shoe- and sock-wearing) feet. He dusts himself off briefly before saying, "Now, you acted like you wanted my attention before for something. What was it?"
no subject
"It wasn't your attention in particular I was looking for," he says. "But it'll do, I suppose! It being the first I've managed to catch so far this morning." This is, for all his gruffness, a point in Karkat's favor. "If I'd been here longer, I'd have looked for a kinder welcome than yours; but beggars can't be choosers, as my Gaffer used to say. But if you've been here long enough to know a thing or two about this place, then perhaps you can help me-- for none as come from this place have shown much inclination to answer any question."
no subject
"What the fresh nook contusion is a Gaffer?" he asks first, because that's obviously the important part. "And if beggars can't be choosers, maybe you should dial back the passive aggressive whining and spit the question out before I decide I have better things to do than entertain the whims of whatever a Hobbit's supposed to be."
But on that note he adds, "How about you tell me your name, too? Otherwise this is going to devolve into increasingly moronic nicknames which I doubt will be that conducive to productive conversation. I'm Karkat Vantas."
no subject
He's confusing in his own right, this creature - he jumps quick between insult and courtesy, and Sam can't decide if he means either one as much as the other. But a name's something to grab on to, something to move forward with, and so he'll accept it, for all he's not sure if that's meant to be one name or two. (Orcs, in his experience, don't usually have more than one at a time.)
"Samwise Gamgee," he says. "Hamfast's son. That being the Gaffer's proper name." His father's name is not a courtesy he usually extends, not being of any high birth, but as they were talking about his father anyway-- well, why not? "Though Sam'll do." (Not in a My friends call me Sam way; everybody calls him Sam.)
no subject
He does hold back from any insults to Sam's intelligence. If he's missed the blatant, colorful insult he directed, he'll let the misunderstanding remain for the sake of continued discourse. He is trying to make something of a point here, and he feels no need to accrue enemies before the arena's started--no matter how hard it might be to be threatened by a tiny man with hairy feet.
(He's not even sorry for that thought.)
"Right, whatever. Sam. I don't do nicknames, so just call me Karkat," he insists, neatly brushing away all the nicknames he does tolerate. Sam's not close enough for him to tolerate a KK or a Crabcatch - not that Sam seems the kind for fish puns - or any of the various jumbles Meenah came up with about his shouting and nubby horns.
"And I'm no one's son because trolls don't have fathers," he goes on, only to catch himself with a bit of a frown. "Technically speaking I do have two relations, but they really don't matter right now."
no subject
"Especially," he goes on, "considering your lack of regard for your elders and relations!" The relations, especially-- he's willing to concede that this Karkat doesn't have any compelling reason to speak kindly to him, outside simple courtesy, but one's forefathers (or fore... not-fathers, as the case may be) always matter. "All the more for there being fewer of 'em. I do hope you're not a full-grown troll-- it's all that might excuse you!"