if this is to end in fire

[takingback]

Who| Thorin Oakenshield and you
What| The King under the Mountain arrives and proceeds to be the grumpiest new arrival.
Where| Various locations within the Training Center.
When| A week after the last Arena.
Warnings/Notes| Rude behaviour, most likely. Will match format!

A: District 2 suite

To say that Thorin takes things well upon his arrival would be akin to saying the water is red, or that the grass is purple. The chairs, the tables, the strange tubes of light on the ceilings -- everything is alien to him, stranger even than the sights he would see in the other towns of Men, in Bree, in Laketown. Where is the wood? The carvings? Tapestries, candles and lanterns?

He paces around the room once, twice, muttering something inaudible in khuzdul before rounding on the table and kicking it, hard- hard enough to send whatever decorations were set on it flying to the floor. It's not dignified, and even less productive, but at least it gives him a fleeting satisfaction of defying the order - of the room, and also of those who brought him here.

The Avox he runs into at the door gets a glare and a growled-out I don't need your help in response to his inquiries as Thorin pushes past him, leaving the suite.

B: Central commons, near the elevator

The box... moved. Without anything visible moving it, no one there to make sure the machinery worked, no one to release counter weights to pull it back up -- it baffles him. The sound made it seem like there was something moving it, and something must have done... but despite the similarities with the machines the dwarves had used for centuries in their mining, Thorin can't quite wrap his head around it.

Which is why he abandons his plan of "look at no one, talk to no one" and turns to whoever is closest to the elevator doors, his tone as gravelly and serious as if this was a matter of extreme importance.

"How does that- contraption keep moving without any weights to pull it back? Is there a wizard's spell on it?" If there is, it's rather a poor way to use their spells, he thinks. Gandalf would certainly not waste his time with something that can be made to work mechanically.

C: Central commons, restaurant

He's used to the stares. Weaving between the long, soft benches, groups of chairs and the chattering people left and right, his stature is as much a hindrance as it is an advantage - people pausing in their speech, moving away a little so he could pass, well, that wasn't too bad. But the stares.

At least one thing is still the same, in the world of Men.

Carefully avoiding looking at anybody, his plan to bring as little attention to himself as he possibly could, Thorin makes his way to the restaurant area, both to find food - battling a dragon makes you rather hungry, if you wouldn't believe - and to see if he can pocket some of those knives used for eating; not the same as having a sword or an axe, but better than being completely unarmed.

Comments

[tevintage]

"Not that I've met," He clarifies. "But I do think I would notice. Are you from Orzammar, by any chance? Or - well, I suppose my first question should be whether you are from Thedas at all," he added thoughtfully.

"Most of the dwarves I know are surface dwarves - merchants, generally. But you seem - ah - different, if you don't mind me saying."

[takingback]

"I do not come from a place called Thedas, nor have I heard of it. I am a dwarf of Erebor, the Lonely Mountain." Thorin straightens up, head tilting up and eyes glinting proudly, his gravelly voice carrying just a little louder.

"I have been many things in my lifetime, all out of necessity. When in a world of Men, one must find ways to live." He is not ashamed to admit it, knows that the long years as a wandering smith, taking work where he could find it... it was all for his people. His kin. There is no shame in that.

He inclines his head - slightly, but it is there, a greeting of sorts. "I am Thorin, son of Thrain... the rightful king of Erebor." But not yet. Not quite yet. Not while the dragon still lives.

[tevintage]

"Ah, then I suspect we do not come from the same world after all," Dorian said sadly. He had never heard of Erebor, nor of Mountain Dwarves, for that matter - Thorin certainly would have no claim to a throne if he'd ever been to the surface in Thedas. But at least Dorian was slowly learning not to make assumptions about peoples from outside his world.

"You'll forgive me my rudeness," he said, offering the dwarf a short bow. "I was not aware. I have not heard of Erebor - it seems we come from separate worlds after all. A shame, though now my curiosity is peaked. You have 'wizards', then, in Erebor?"

[takingback]

"No, it seems not." The concept of different worlds is still something he has a difficulty grasping... but he tries not to let that disturb him. So there is a place called Thedas, somewhere, where there are dwarves. It is reassuring to know there are other worlds where they do exist, as well.

He nods, a sign that his assumed rudeness is forgiven, and listens to what the other has to say - though it soon warrants some corrections.

"In Middle-earth. That is the name of our world. Erebor is one of the kingdoms of dwarves - wizards do not dwell there. If they dwell anywhere."

Gandalf certainly does not seem to live at any given place, and Radagast... what was it Gandalf had said? He cannot recall, anymore, hardly having placed much weight or importance in the knowledge of his home. It probably had something to do with Mirkwood, which might explain why he closed his ears as soon as the name was mentioned.

[tevintage]

"One of the kingdoms?" He said, looking a little hopeful. "There are more, then?" He was actually fairly fond of dwarves, though he knew a select few personally.

"So you have no mages of your own people? That must be the same, between us - Dwarves have no magic in Thedas, either. I would be most interested in hearing more - about yourself, of course, and about your 'wizards' who do not live anywhere. Could I interest you in a drink, perhaps?"

[takingback]

"Outside the house of Durin, there are six dwarf clans." The hopefulness doesn't escape Thorin's notice, which is perhaps why he answers the question so readily - or perhaps it is that Men rarely seem to be interested in the affairs of Dwarves.

"The wizards are not Dwarves, but not Men, Halflings or Elves, either. I cannot tell you more of their origin, for I do not know that myself." It never occurred to him to ask it of Gandalf, too focused on the details and the success of the quest as he was... but if he had, he has a feeling Gandalf would not have answered.

"... I see no harm in one drink." The man seems friendly enough, and frankly, Thorin could use to learn something for himself, too. Information in exchange for information - it sounds fair to him.

[tevintage]

Six! It was as if the Deep Roads were still populated. And Wizards... Those sounded much different. Something like the Forgotten Ones, perhaps? He put the thought back in his mind to process later.

"Excellent," He said warmly once Thorin agreed. "I'm afraid I've yet to find anything in this place that quite resembles Dwarven ale, but there is a small bar down the street that is generally quiet where the Capitolites are less likely to harass us."

[takingback]

He doesn't say it, but the thought that it has been long, long months since he last tasted the ale of his own kin crosses his mind - but instead, he inclines his head in agreement.

"If this place you speak offers food, drink and quiet above all, then it is good enough." Even without looking around them, he can feel the gazes of the people on them, watching, their voices an indistinct murmur that he tries not to focus on. The sooner he gets out of their sight, the better.