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.
Re: no problem at all!
"And you... Sir? Are you a Sir? What am I to call you?"
no subject
"I'm just a gardener," he adds. "Or... was, I suppose. I've done little enough gardening in recent months."