thecapitol | if this is to end in fire

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

So we were... a deadline we made because of you. [He's doing the thing where he smiles without smiling, the line of his mouth soft and eyes too, but no visible hint of a smile on his lips - and yet, the extent of his regard is still there in his voice.

Those are the last words he says for a long while, following Bilbo's example of staying quiet during the way to his quarters. At the elevator, Thorin pauses, but doesn't say much; he tried it, once, and the only reason why he trusts it not to fall is because the first thing he did was to have the mechanism explained to him.]

I have. I have been given a room on the second floor. [He tenses up, too, when the machine starts to move - he still can't quite believe that these buttons do what they would achieve with levers and pulleys, back home.]

So District Two then. [A small pause, bringing his hand back to intertwine his fingers over his waistcoat. It was a small pleasure that they at least allowed him to wear clothes more comfortable to him and not anything like the strange and oddly flamboyant styles the natives seemed to enjoy wearing.] I'm in District Four. I'm told outside the Capitol it's a fishing town which is... funny seeing that I can't swim. [He gives Thorin a weak smile before the elevator stops and the doors open for them to the fourth floor. Bilbo doesn't waste much time in stepping off the lift, knowing Thorin would follow him off just as quickly.]

Everything here is so different I- I'm not even sure where to begin- like the food! There are dishes here I didn't even know were possible to make, but here they are! [He steps past the common room and into the kitchen, grabbing a stepping stool on his way around the island to turn on the stove without a hint of fire being needed.] Like, ah- frozen sweetened milk! In all sorts of flavors too! That giant metal box - [He motions vaguely towards the refrigerator as he bustles over to the sink to fill a kettle up with water before setting it on a stove eye.] - Is called a re-frigera-tor. Everything inside it is cold or frozen all the time! It's marvelous.

Perhaps it is a sign you should learn, Master Baggins. [Still, there is no smile, but the words at least hold an edge of amusement. The information, though, stores at the back of his mind - a fishing town, is it? Not unlike Laketown, then.

Thorin does follow him, quickly, not sparing much more than a glance at the common room; similar enough to that of the second floor, and unpleasant in its strangeness. His eyebrow raises a little at Bilbo's actions - at first, he can't quite understand what he's doing... but the kettle is enough to clue him in. So not only do the boxes move without counterweights, but now there is heat without a tinderbox or wood?

He is so focused on the stove that he nearly misses what Bilbo is saying to him, but when he starts to listen... well, the topic is hardly a surprise.]

... it seems you have the comfort of good food once more. [Even though he's not saying it out loud, he can't help but think a box that would keep even foods like meat and fish fresh for longer? It would be useful.]

[That earns him a slightly annoyed look.] Even if I wanted to learn it would only end terribly. Hobbits can swim about as well as a rock can and a good number of them have died that way. No, I will stay away from any sort of swimming as much as I possibly can, thank you. [Thorin doesn't have to smile for Bilbo to see his amusement. Confounded dwarf.

When Thorin finally tunes back in Bilbo doesn't even realize he hadn't been paying attention until just now and stops in the middle of pulling out two mugs for them from a cabinet with some difficulty even with a step stool. The tips of his ears burn red when he comes back down, setting the mugs on the counter.] W-Well it isn't all terrible. Just because this is all strange and new doesn't make it bad and I've had some time to... adapt.

[In normal circumstances, he might have remarked something about the mugs, or the ears, or something of the sort... now, though, Thorin only stares. His eyebrows scrunch closer together in a frown, and his answer consists of two words:]

How long?

[Nothing to clarify what he is asking, and yet it should be obvious enough. As should be the fact that the idea of Bilbo having been here, trapped in this place that delights in pointless violence, for long enough to "adapt" is something that troubles him to think about.]

[The weight of the past few months finally settle over his shoulders. He had hoped he could be a little more put together for Thorin, at least for a few days, but his hopes are dashed as he takes in a shuddering breath. His gaze falls down to the mug clasped in his hands.]

A... A few months at least. Far too long. [One day had been far too long and now it felt like an eternity.] The Arena makes it feel... so much longer. [And dying, but he bites that back.]

[Thinking back to all they have been through, the Goblin Halls, the confrontation with Azog, the spiders in Mirkwood, and then, finally, the dragon-- and yet, Thorin cannot recall Bilbo ever looking so shaken as he does, now, clasping the mug in his hands like a lifeline.]

You've been through it. [Again, there is not much clarification there, only the words themselves, the icy tone - but the ice is not directed at Bilbo himself, but rather those who have forced him into this, into the pointless battle for nothing but entertainment, an orc monstrosity if there ever was one.]

Once. [But it was more than enough. He could still hear the sounds of other tributes dying, of hearing Frodo and Samwise dying in the most painful and terrible way. At night his dreams consisted of replaying his and Thorongil's deaths over and over, watching those creatures rip him apart limb by limb-

The mug slips between his fingers when he jerks out of his trance and crashes to the floor in pieces. At the same moment the kettle begins to sing and Bilbo scrambles to turn off the heat while trying not to step on any broken ceramic.] Oh Yavanna I'm sorry-

if this is to end in fire

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