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
But he's not thinking of Albert's speech anymore, the second he hears the words it says. His breath catches, and he finds himself leaning forward, only one steadying hand still on the chair. Hope is in his face, and disbelief, and sadness, and wonder.
"...You're not the first to speak of Frodo," he says softly. "I met a man called Tony Stark, who said he'd spoken with him-- but I didn't think I believed him! A Hobbit up on a rooftop, it didn't bear thinking about. And he said nothing of Mister Bilbo."
He's trying not to hope too hard, is what he's doing. He's trying not to take this as proof that this country is right and he's wrong and Frodo really, truly isn't dead. He's trying not to have a hope that's only going to be dashed, in the end.
But he also hopes, fervently, deep in his heart, that this stranger will prove him wrong.
no subject
"Frodo's lodgings are on the 7th floor, and Bilbo's... I'm not sure." He pauses for a moment, trying to think, then realizes the copy of Celebrus on the side table conveniently to his left had a ridiculous fashion article featuring Hobbit chic and Bilbo's sure to be mentioned, likely with a District citation. He pulls the magazine over and flips through until he can find the page. There they are, Bilbo and Frodo standing in their every-day clothes and looking a little bewildered. "Here we go, District 4."
no subject
"That's Mister Frodo, right enough," he says, slowly. "Looking hale and healthy, and like he might leap right off the page! And... Mister Bilbo, or... someone as could be his younger brother." He frowns at the printed words beside them, and his lips move as he reads them to himself-- Bilbo and Frodo's names, and some caption that actually does have the word chic in it, as well as a couple others he's never seen before.
Sam looks back up at Albert with a mix of concern and excitement and indignation and incredulity, too many emotions fitting badly all at once on his face. "Why, they should have told me right off!" he exclaims. "If they were really so determined to see to my comfort as they said they were! And here I've been kicking myself for two days, thinking I'd lost him-- thinking I'd never see him again--"
He breaks off, and looks back down at the page. On his face now is a deep fondness, and a deeper sadness. "...And him alive, and all," he says softly, almost to himself, in a voice that wants deeply and desperately for the words it is saying to be true.
no subject
"As for them telling you, they hardly go out of their way to be helpful in that regard." Albert frowns, not certain what point in the journey to destroy the Ring Sam is from. Two days lost? He doesn't remember the two ever being separated. Granted, it's been decades since he read the books and some of his knowledge has holes.
And then Sam makes that face, that one of brotherhood and love towards the picture of Frodo, and Albert has the sudden urge to encourage them to reunite. "You should go see him."
no subject
Sam looks a second longer at the page, half-listening to what Albert says, nodding absently in agreement-- but when he hears the words You should go see him he looks up into Albert's face.
"Where is he?" he asks-- eager, earnest, hopeful.
no subject
"I can show you how the elevator works, if you like." It's a better way than saying he'll press the buttons for the Hobbit since the panel is likely too tall for him. Big people concerns indeed.
no subject
"Would you?" he asks. "I mean, if you'd be so kind. They weren't built with hobbits in mind, that's plain! if the whole place weren't so tall, I'd not need them, but as it is..." It'd taken him a terribly long time just to figure out that they could be taken down from his floor to this one; he hasn't yet had much time to figure out the particulars of the machine, which seems to him the most outlandish thing he's seen yet.
He wants to keep up his caution as much as he can, but-- it's hard to keep hold of good sense when it might be he'll find Frodo up on that seventh floor.
"If he's not there, I'll wait for him," he tells Albert, as though he could possibly care what Sam plans to do. He's near anxious with hope, and talking is all he can do. "Just as long as it takes for him to come back. Just-- if you'll help me get to where I might sit and wait for him, then-- then I'll be much obliged to you."
no subject
Well, he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it, as the saying goes. If Sam accuses him of disparagement, he may have to come clean. For now, he'd rather just lead his new little acquaintance to the elevator.
The up and down arrows are rather self explanatory, and luckily even at a height were Sam can reach. It's once they get inside that he's not sure the buttons won't be confusing or some even too high. "Are these numbers here the same numerals you're used to?"
That's another thing, something Albert remembers quite well from having written notes in meticulously copied elvish out of his dogeared copy of Fellowship as a child. Not for anyone, just for himself, but he doesn't remember if the numbers were the same as Earth's in the text or if there were separate symbols in Middle Earth languages for similar.
no subject
In fact, to him, it comes off a little over-the-top. "Samwise'll do, or just Sam," he tells him as he trots after him, more than willing to let Albert move through the crowd and follow in his wake. "For I'm not master of anything, nor ever have been." He doesn't sound at all put out about this - really, he's just talking to fill up the moments before what he hopes, he hopes, is coming.
The elevator presents a new challenge, though - it'll take a powerful leap to get him back to the twelfth floor suites, that much is plain. (Not that he's thinking of that now - he can get to the seventh, and that's the most important thing.)
He misunderstands Albert's question, though, because the numbers, to him, are simply legible. "I can read them," he says, looking up at him with slightly wounded dignity. "There's no one would call me learned, that's plain, but I was taught my letters as a boy, and my numbers as well." He points at the button for the seventh floor (which, while a bit of a stretch, is more or less in his reach) - "That'll be Mister Frodo's floor, if I'm not mistaken."
no subject
"Sam, then." He smiles, trying not to make it too broad at how proud Sam is in being able to read the numbers. "And that's correct. Go ahead and press it and it will tell the box we're in to take us to that floor. For higher floors you may need to stat carrying a walking stick, or else asking the big folk for their assistance."
God, he can't stop talking in Tolkien's prose. If Jet heard him he'd die laughing.
no subject
Sam presses the button, and assumes when he sees it light up that it's working-- confirmed when the doors glide slowly shut, and the box slides smoothly into motion.
He steps back to put a hand to the wall, clearly concerned about the feeling of motion, the sudden weight in his feet, with no visible movement. He'd rather keep his eyes fixed on the doors than any of the glass walls, which seem to him designed for no other reason than for sickening Hobbits.
"There's just nothing sensible about it, is there?" Sam says, with a glance up at Albert, and a small tremor in his voice that he determinedly conceals. "To build a place such that anyone not born a giant should need assistance just getting upstairs!"
His eyes are, for the most part, on the numbers ticking by on the display - the wait to get to where Frodo is seems, to him, utterly interminable.
I was thinking it'd wrap up in the next couple anyway
"I'll leave you when we get to the twelfth floor, if that's alright? I'm sure whatever reunion you two have is bound to be a private matter, not for a 'giant' to witness."