thecapitol | dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts; (OPEN)

Who| Cullen and Dorian; Cullen and YOU!
What| So a medieval fantasy knight walks into Panem...
Where| All around the tribute tower, possibly in the city itself! He's exploring and trying to figure out wtf is going on.
When| The first week or so after the end of the arena.
Warnings/Notes| Uhhhh... possibly some spoilers for Dragon Age Inquisition...? I can put him just about anywhere, so feel free to just toss up a location. If you're not sure if he'd be somewhere, feel free to PM me or ping me on plurk (

frodabaggins)!

The place he wakes up in is no less surreal than the dark metal monstrosity he left, though it's obviously cleaner and more brightly lit - less overtly dangerous. It's all shiny, flat surfaces, with metal and glass and strange materials he doesn't recognize. No stonework, no masonry, no crenelations or battlements. Just strange flat squares showing moving images in practically every room. There must be some powerful magic at work here, to be able to light whole buildings with no candles that he can see, and make those framed faces talk.

He spends some time looking for his armor, for his sword, but he can't for the life of him find any of it - makes sense, he supposes, that their captors would want to remove his weapons, his outward defenses. Even though, as far as he can tell, he's free to move about the place as he wishes. No one tries to stop him.

In the kitchen area, he finds a box filled with cold food - more magic? And he pokes at strange boxes with buttons on them that look nothing like any oven he's ever seen before. At the elevator bank, he can be seen examining the doors and panels with a confused expression on his face, his brow furrowed slightly. Eventually, he finds his way to the training room, where there are actually weapons he recognizes, at least, even if much of it is still strange and alien to him. In the city itself, he is nearly overwhelmed by the number of people. The outrageous fashions remind him a little of Orlais, and when strangers approach him in the street to gawk and ask him questions he looks incredibly uncomfortable.

There isn't even a proper Chantry in this place.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Cullen can't quite wrap his head around not knowing what a Chantry is. Even Dalish are aware of the primary human religion in Thedas.

His brow furrows as he tries to come up with a description that this man will understand - though honestly, if he doesn't know, that must be answer enough as to whether there is one in this city.

"It's a - place of worship, dedicated to the Maker and His Prophet, Andraste," he finally says, haltingly. "It doesn't matter, I can - make do."

The halting rhythm of the man's speech is enough to give lie to that speech itself - it's clear it does matter, at least a little. "I'd make a shrine in your room then, if your maker permits, because I haven't seen a hint of a religion in this place since I arrived."

After a moment Roland continues, slow and thoughtful. "In all the lands I've seen - even the ones outside my own world - there was something. Even just old stories of old gods no one seemed inclined to worship. But here..." He shakes his head. "Not even that. I can only think it has something to do with their machines." He waves a hand at a car passing along a street a little ways away, although there's no chance the other man doesn't already know what he means.

"Yes, that's what I meant," Cullen murmurs. Hopefully he can at least find some candles, maybe even some incense. He doesn't need all of that - as long as he remembers some of the Chant, as long as he can pray, none of the trappings are strictly necessary - but it would be nice to have. Something familiar.

"Where do they imagine the world came from? No matter what wonders they are able to accomplish, how do they imagine people came to be?" he asks, almost incredulously. It's true, he didn't necessarily expect adherents to the Chant of Light here, but as Roland said - everyone has gods, even dead gods.

"Maybe they don't care," he shrugs. "I seldom did, even with my land's own stories to listen to. Maybe something's here somewhere - after finding the tenth or fifteeth book of some politician or another's honorable life story I stopped looking. But learning more about this place is probably best, no matter how tedious. If you find anything, let me know. It's more difficult, when so much of this city's so focused on..." He tries to put it into words, gives up. Waves a hand instead, gesturing toward the shopfronts and the streets and the crowd. Everything in general. "It doesn't run much like the other cities I've known, even some of the odder ones."

"There's always someone who cares, even if most don't," Cullen points out. "I can't fathom how among all these people, not even some of them worship a god of some kind."

That, more than anything else, might be what makes this place so alien. More than the technology he can't fathom, more than the barbaric blood sports. The politics, even some of the fashion is recognizable to him, but the utter lack of any kind of religion? That is difficult to comprehend.

Roland just shrugs. Doubtless some do. Either they have to keep it hidden, because though Roland's seen no sign of that sort of thing - at least in relation to religion - it doesn't mean it isn't here, or they just don't care to talk about it. But he knows so little about the matter that to say any more would be letting the conversation devolve into idle speculation, something Roland's never seen any actual point in. "This place's shops give you credit, which their government pays out, but they use little cards of plastic to do it. You'll need to know how to work it before you can make your shrine. Not too hard to figure out, but I can show you if you like."

Cullen's frown only deepens at Roland's explanation.

"What's plastic?"

"You haven't, then. It's a material, another of their inventions. Doesn't matter. We're only given money for killing in the arenas, so you'll need to learn to use it - first by finding yours, unless no one's given you one."

"Oh good, so we're not only forced to participate in their blood sports, but we're being paid like common mercenaries too?"

Cullen makes a disgusted noise worthy of Cassandra.

"Be sure none of the capitolites hear you saying such things." He takes a turn, uses the movement to make sure no one's in listening distance. "Keeping the crowd's goodwill may not seem important now, but-" He shrugs. "Don't have to seem grateful, but there's no use in alienating anyone just yet."

Cullen makes a face, but the man has a point. The people here clearly have great power at their disposal, power which they aren't afraid to use in less than moral ways.

And there's still the matter of the Inquisitor. His Inquisitor. Even here, separated by who-knows-what kind of distance, if he can protect her, he will.

"No doubt," he mutters with a sigh and a grimace. "Well, shall we find a more... quiet place to chat?"

"Mm." He looks around, nodding toward a building in the distance. "I know that place. Not perfect, but quiet enough if you find the right corner to sit in." Now they've lost their followers it should be safe to head directly toward it, so he does. It's been a while since he's really sat down for a drink with anyone, even if for practical, information-sharing purposes. "We'll be able to watch the people, too. Good way to start getting used to this place."

Cullen nods, waving a hand vaguely. "Lead on, then." A good guide can be a very useful thing, in his experience.

dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts; (OPEN)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject