thecapitol | if this is to end in fire

Entry tags:

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.

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"If they use magic it's far enough out of grasp that I can't parse it," Dorian said, stepping over to the dwarf. It was almost nice to see a dwarf - though he hoped it went a little better than when he'd run into that elf. He really couldn't assume people were from home.

Dorian himself was quite a bit taller than Thorin, though on the shorter average side for a human, and he had evidently fit in rather well with the strange costumes here - his current one was a deep lapus blue.

"Spent half a day, testing the thing, when I arrived. But such as it is, I'm not sure I'd even be able to feel the magic if it was there, in this condition."

[When he caught sight of that familiar head of hair - helped by the fact that it was almost near eye level for Bilbo, which was rare on its own - Bilbo pursued them in a near frenzy. His mind raced ahead of him with what ifs and budding hope and fear all mixed together.

It could be Thorin or it could not be - the possibilities of finding someone he knew here were boundless and unlimited and that alone scared him from just how vast the possibilities were. Everything about this place terrified him and he wasn't fool enough to deny it.

When he disappears into the restaurant Bilbo nearly loses him, weaving between the tables of people as his heart sinks at the notion that he's already lost him when he catches sight of him again. Just as Bilbo calls out he comes to a stuttering halt as he finally sees his face. Thorin, it's Thorin Thorin-

"Th-Thorin! Thorin!"

If anything, a dwarf is one of the most familiar things he's seen in quite some time. Not that he's ever had many dwarves in his acquaintance, and Varric almost doesn't count (he probably wouldn't count himself, quite frankly). The anger, the frustration, is understandable, but there's really no need to take it out on the servants.

"If you need assistance, perhaps I can provide some," Cullen says to the stranger, gently waving the avox out of the room. Abuse of servants is never acceptable.

To be fair, Thorin hardly even realized the man was supposed to be a servant - no men in Middle-Earth serve dwarves, unless it's a tavern and they're paying customers. This is why his initial reaction to the man's words is a suspicious glance at him, a slight upwards tilt of his face as he stares up at him.

"I did not say I needed assistance." The words are brusque, reserved, and very much untrue; he might not have said it aloud, but he needs all the assistance he can get.

If anything, the lack of an astonished (or worse, excited) look at him was enough to make his reserved attitude change into something-- well, less reserved. Looking up at the man, Thorin assesses his clothes, his general look...

"You can sense magic. Are you a wizard?" He asks, eyebrows raised. The man is hardly a stunning likeness to Gandalf or Radagast, but a strange-looking wizard would be befitting to a strange land.

"Ah- that's not a term commonly used," he said a little wryly, "but in a way, yes. I'm a mage - an altus, if you want to be specific about it. Not that it seems to do a lot of good here," He added with a wistful sigh.

"I hadn't expected to see any of your folk here, though I shouldn't be surprised I suppose. They appear to be bringing everyone they can manage."

Arya finds that she's staring quite openly too - the only dwarf she's seen before is Tyrion Lannister, and the wariness that comes with thinking of anyone from that family, even if he's the only Lannister not on her list, flares up in her. She knows it's not fair of her, even if her staring is at least in part the same morbid curiosity that she'd had toward the Imp when he'd first arrived at Winterfell rather than her automatic suspicion; or maybe that makes it just more unfair. She forces herself to look away.

She glances back when she hears the clinking of silverware, and is annoyed at herself that she hadn't thought of pocketing a couple of knives, too. She's been sat here stuffing herself with food for long enough.

"Be careful. I wouldn't be surprised if they searched us for those knives."

It was not that Cassandra had desired a change in scenery or the meeting of 'new and interesting' people, as one of the escorts had called them. But she had gained as much information concerning her current situation as possible by tearing apart her rooms in the past few days. So she had made a compromise. Training still occupied much of her day, vented just enough of her frustration to keep her sane, but meals would be taken in public. Where she could see and listen to learn about the world around her, even if she maintained her habit snarling at any natives that got a little too close to joining her at her table.

Other tributes were another matter entirely, however. Cassandra was not an overly sociable creature, but the getting to know the enemy of her enemy was a philosophy she could embrace. And Dwarves were not so common a sight on the surface as humans or elves, but were hardly a rarity, particularly at Skyhold, so it is the attention he is receiving from others that catches her eye first. Which, once the source has been discovered, she could only scoff into her drink. Why she held some futile belief these people may offer any helpful bit of gossip...

"Charming company, are they not."

[The voice is enough to almost make Thorin drop the knife he is picking up, turning around quickly, the noise and chatter from the men around him dying away as he focuses on nothing but the voice, the sound of it--]

Bilbo? [The direct form of address perhaps betrays his surprise better than his expression. He walks closer, slowly, almost like he can't quite believe their burglar to be here, to not be some kind of elaborate trick... but no. It is him. And as soon as that dawns on Thorin, so comes the slow dread of realization over what being in this place means.

For him, it is one thing. For a hobbit, even one as resourceful and brave as Master Baggins, to be wrenched from his home and placed here...]

So you have been caught, as well. [His voice carries all the resentment towards those responsible for this situation.]

[By now the Elvenking had perfected the art of using the 'Elevator' and used it on a daily basis. That is not to say it wasn't unsettling to move without moving, but as per usual he wouldn't let that unease show.

The staff here had been more than willing to provide clothing to his specifications, and though the fabric was unknown to him, it was well cut to his figure. Therefore when the doors open into the common area downstairs, Thranduil sweeps out with his usual grace, long layered silk-like silver robes wrapping him in all the majesty he was accustomed too.

If he was bound to be trapped her, he might as well make himself as comfortable as possible. Things were even starting to become routine...

...only that routine and new sense of normalty was broken the instant he saw Thorin Oakensheild. He stops just a few feet away from the elevator doors the closed behind him - just missing the tail end of his robe - and stares because it was not everyday that the dead stood before you once more.]

He nearly fails takes note of yet another pair of eyes watching him in something like curiosity, but when his eyes land on her, it gives him pause - to bring someone who is used to war here is one thing, but to bring a child... it is a monstrous thing like only the orcs or other servants of Evil would do.

He does recognize her when she speaks to him, as the girl he saw earlier, the one he couldn't begrudge the same curiosity that he resented in the others; she's a child. Children nowadays have little reason or opportunity to happen across dwarves.

"Then I shall have to hide them well enough that they cannot find them." Those are the friendliest words he has said, so far, to anyone, lacking the worst of his temper.

At this point, something is starting to dawn on Thorin: that the others brought here in a similar manner as he was hold the natives in as little regard as he does - and that this world of men is apparently as unpleasant to some of the men here as it is to him.

It is an interesting concept, and so when the woman near him scoffs in scorn towards those of the curious bystanders, he simply watches her for a moment, assessing; and when done with that, he nods.

"I would expect nothing more of those condoning this madness." Such a high opinion he has of them, obviously.

[Now, it would be lying to say Thorin has an in-built elf detector, but after so many years of having to watch his back wherever he went, he certainly has the capability to sense a stare aimed at him -- which is what makes him break off whatever conversation he was having at the moment (if any), and turn.

And stare. And despair.]

You-- Am I not to be free of the sight of the great king Thranduil, even in a strange land such as this?

[He's taken quick, heavy steps towards him while he speaks, jaw squared and steely eyes staring up at him, alike and yet different to the last time they spoke to each other.]

[Thranduil doesn't move, but there's a strange startled look on his face that he otherwise would have hidden well in his own halls. In this place though he could hold his outer cool look, internally he was more easily jarred by the unexpected. If it was any indication of how off his game might be is the fact that he doesn't look insulted at the minor slight - at least not yet.]

Thorin Oakenshield. I did not expect to see you here.

[Or anywhere really.]

Edited (what r html?) 2015-01-07 21:48 (UTC)

"Reveling in, is perhaps a more apt term."

Cassandra had some experience with celebrity, with being put on display. A long way down the list of potential heirs to the throne she may be, but being ranked in the lower regions of the top 100 had not stopped her from being dusted off and taken out as a doll on display as a child. This world, however, took it to entirely new extremes, the citizens harassing any tribute in sight out of their love for the blood sport. And with the most bizarre requests. What use her mark upon a piece of parchment would do any of them she had not the slightest idea, yet it had been requested or her more than once this evening. Until she had driven a serving fork through the offending 'autograph book' and put an end to such talk.

"Join me, if you have a mind. I believe I have given enough offence to spare the table any unwelcome guests. At least for the remained of this one meal."

"A mage," he repeats, tone almost skeptical - but believing him, regardless. He is no expert on the matters of wizards, and if he says that is the right term to use, then it is.

Besides, the latter comment is much more interesting to him. "So, there are no others of my kin, here." He isn't quite sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. At least this means he is not forced to go against any of his people.

"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."

Arya smiles at that, but it's sad, nostalgic. She remembers how carefully she'd hidden Needle in Flea Bottom, sleeping on top of it every night, and how Polliver had snatched it away so easily from her in the Riverlands. Had she just not hidden it well enough? No, there was nothing she could have done, she knows that, even if she has to keep telling herself that.

"It doesn't feel right without a weapon. I'll have to find a way to make do, as well."

[Instantly Bilbo is at Thorin's side, one hand reaching out to settle hesitantly on his arm as if reaffirming to himself that yes this is real. Thorin is real and not some cruel Capitol trick. He wouldn't put it past them.]

I- I have, yes. [His eyes flicker to some of the people around them and he swallows nervously.] Were you hungry? Let me take you back to my floor and I can make you something to eat.

That's a...Torin's just going to go with "grumpy short man" in his mental narrative, because he's never seen a Dwarf before, and Thorin is taller than the Hobbit he's run into. He's heard the crashing of the table getting kicked, which has alerted him to some sort of problem. "Take it easy there. No one wants any unnecessary trouble."

Of course, this whole business with grabbing Tributes from other worlds was also very unnecessary, but one thing at a time...

Well, there is someone who's closer to Thorin in height than most of the men, but that is mostly because he's a child. He is a little boy, sitting with a mostly untouched salad near where Thorin is sitting (and stealing knives). The boy is wearing a hoodie that covers his face, but his feet and hands are visible, and they both have blue arrow tattoos on them. The tattooed hands are working on making a necklace out of thread and wire. He weaves flowers into the design, making a long band. It's done absently; not exactly the best work, but pretty good for a human his age.

He doesn't seem to look up, but he must be looking at Thorin under the brim of his hood, because he says quietly, "No one will attack you in the Capitol except Peacekeepers, and they might take you away if they find a weapon on you." Just a soft little warning from a veteran. In the arena, open aggression could work, but outside? A more subtle approach than weaponized dinner knives is required.

"And yet, you look nearly as lost as I felt when I first arrived not two weeks ago," Cullen points out flatly, ignoring the rudeness. He's rather used to blunt dwarves by now. "Have you learned use of the elevator contraptions? That's the fastest way to navigate this tower."

To Thane, the elevators here were pretty basic compared to the ones on the Citadel. Or even the ones on the Normandy. "This is no magic. No spell." Thane answers from behind the man who seems to be fascinated with the one in the commons. "Technology can seem much like magic, though. It's electricity and motors." He doesn't think much on how elevators operate, after all. No one who is used to the technology really does.

Tattoos, at least, are something Thorin isn't unfamiliar with, with the dwarven traditions being what they are (and having known Dwalin all his life), but the colour of the markings the boy has is striking in its brightness.

At first, he hardly pays the boy any attention, but the words bring him to pause and look his way, covertly as well. Never let it be said he cannot be or move unnoticed, if he wants.

"And if they do, it will not be to return me home, will it?" Of course it would not be. He thought it was strange the knives were openly on display, here - entirely too easy.

[Thorin does glance at the hand settling on his arm, but otherwise makes no comment, doesn't seem bothered by it - if anything, it settles his mind, as well, to have concrete proof that their burglar is truly here, that he is not speaking to an elaborate trick of wizardry.

But it's not, it's really Bilbo - and that means Thorin can trust him. Can trust that Bilbo will explain this to him, away from these Men.]

My purpose to come down here was not food but information... but I confess food has some appeal. [Despite the situation, there's a slight, upwards tilt of his lips that accompanies the words.] Fighting a dragon is rather taxing, it seems. [Who would have guessed.]

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