thecapitol | (OPEN) it's the push and the pull

Entry tags:

(OPEN) it's the push and the pull

Who| Ragnar Lothbrok and OPEN.
What| Since the end of the past Arena, Ragnar's trying to get used to a completely world that is completely foreign in all aspects but the violence.
Where| Various locations in the Training Centre, Capitol, and District 10's Suite.
When| Throughout the week.
Warnings/Notes| TBA | a few scenarios are under the cut but feel free to start your own.

[SCENARIO A: TRAINING CENTRE (ROOFTOP)]

Since his death and awakening it's been a blur, an overstimulation of the senses. The concept didn't make sense. Fight, die trying to survive and wake up once more untouched by death. The last arena had been nothing but confusion and the wounds he sustained had ended him due to blood loss. He had thought he would find peace in the fact his gods would come to take him away to feast in their great halls, but no such luck and in the same position he had been handed three items, the map seemingly the only thing useful to him at the moment. Since then, he had found himself keeping to himself, consumed by the facts, the location and mind ever ebbing over the idea of having met one of the gods his culture worshiped. The violence was nothing new, but the problem was the theory behind it, the reasoning. There was nothing gained, only death, and while he didn't fear it, if there was no reason for his struggle when what kind of warrior was he.

The rooftop was comforting in a way. The height of the building unnerving, the landscape equally so but at least the greenery around him was that small bit of familiarity. Leaning against the edge of the rooftop Ragnar simply looked down. From such heights it felt like has flying, the wind slowly moving over him from his position there. The silver landscape was nothing like he had ever seen before, the sun reflecting on the surface. As curious as he was, it was a process he had to take bit by bit, focus on an item at the time. Everything seemed beyond the realm of luxury and in that moment his heart yearned for his rustic home by the edge of the fjords. His arms hung over the edge, his fingers spread outward and he was quiet, contemplative.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed like that but after awhile he stood up fully and straightened his posture, moving back into the gardens there, reaching into his pocket for the small device he was given. Curious as it was, he wasn't even sure what it's purpose was, why he needed it and if he wanted it in the first place. Still, flopping back onto one of the benches he held it out in front of him, reaching it up, biting on the edge, withdrawing at the bitter taste. It wasn't any material he had seen before and after awhile he dropped it onto the ground, reaching up to run his hands over his head as he looked down, eyes fixated on the device at his feet.

[SCENARIO B: TRAINING CENTRE (DISTRICT 10 SUITE)]

The elevator generally puts him on edge. It's not exactly the safest looking manner of transportation and well, if there are stairs he would rather use them even if he has to climb ten stories upwards to get to the strange little place that he was assigned to live in. The beds are too soft, the surroundings clean and modern and it makes him feel immensely uncomfortable. He's been drinking water the last few days, eating fruit because he doesn't like to depend on people to make his meals for him, doesn't like the idea of not knowing how many of the items in the kitchen actually function. It's a process of acceptance but he can't learn it all at once despite how much he would like to. Ragnar craved knowledge, constantly was curious but some of the aspects of the living arrangements where unsettling. The first few days he's intensely cautious, but now after having been around for awhile he's beginning to get used to the bits and pieces that he has come to comprehends.

In the common room he sits at the table in the corner, rounded and smooth, not rough with dents and edges, sturdy like his own tables back home. Feet propped up into the chair aside him, Ragnar leaned back, tipping the legs of the chair he was sat upon onto two legs, rocking back and forth quietly. His elbows resting at his sides one hand occupies an apple, halfway consumed that he chews on slowly as his eyes look upon his other hand, holding a sleek pen within his grasp. His thumb on the end, he's clicking it, watching the device retract back into itself then come back once more with each press of the button. It's clear by his hands he's figured out with it does, a few dark lines on the top of them from where he's dragged the utensil over the surface and now he's just trying to figure it out. There isn't much writing from his time, nor reading and while he might be able to read now, if anything was inscribed it was within wood or stone. Only Athelstan had introduced him to his books, his script but he had never mentioned anything like this before. It may sound like something silly to be enamoured by, but it's different, it's fascinating.

The clicks sound, a few times every minute or so. Sometimes there are pauses, sometimes they are constant but after awhile examining the item, he's intent on taking it apart, to see how the innards word and so that is where he can be found, at the table, pulling a pen to pieces.

[SCENARIO C: TRAINING CENTRE (TRAINING CENTRE)]

If there was anyway to brush off frustration it was in physical endurance. His solitary nature wasn't anything new. When he was preparing for something he took to his own silence, restricting his thoughts within his own mind. Yet, keeping his body preoccupied was another task. Sometimes it was good to be still but today was not the day. The clothing he had been provided upon his arrival was similar to what he wore back home but felt so different. The people waiting around to assist was more of a bother than a help as the only thing he really wanted from them was to know more. Curiosity caught him but lately it was masked by frustration, covered completely by a small fire of anger in the pit of his stomach. He knew he was better than this, taking to any situation with ease and comfort but this was an entire change of lifestyle and world, of advancement, it wasn't as easy as sailing across an ocean and finding another culture but still in similar times. He didn't want things done for him, he wanted to make his own mead, cook over a fire, catch his own meals and in that frustration he took to the training rooms located within the place he was to call home, reluctantly so.

Still, he could at least focus his attentions on preparing himself for the inevitable. There was no use sitting around becoming weak.

The axe feels different, it's lighter than what he is used to. The grip feels off, too slim and the entire weapon is streamlined. The targets are laid out in front of him, his eyes are focused. He's been here for awhile, trying to familiarise himself with the differences in the weapons of this world but sticking to what he knows; bladed weapons, shields, spears. At this moment he's throwing the axes he has collected. Several already imbedded in the target in front of him, one in the thigh, one in the hip, another on the shoulder. His breath escapes him, he focuses inward and pulls the weapon back, making sure no one is in his way before using both hands to send it sailing between the distance. It hits the arm of the target with a loud thud and Ragnar watches it carefully, cursing under his breath. The weight is different, the chest is untouched, his throw is off and with a look of annoyance he approaches the target to collect the axes there. Vivid eyes can take note of someone out of the corner of his eye. He pauses and pulls one of the weapons off the target before speaking, his voice accented and rough, gaze focused ahead all the while.

"Been here long?"

[SCENARIO D: CAPITOL (STREET WANDERING)]

Now this was the time to be curious. Out of the residences, away from it all the streets are filled with buildings and contraptions nothing like he had ever seen before. Despite the fact it was overwhelming, after a few days of keeping to himself and sorting out his own mind he figures it's time to get familiar with the place he had been brought to and all it's wonders. He felt like he needed to touch everything, running his fingers along the edges of buildings, looking from the sky to the ground, the very earth beneath his feet felt different, everything. It felt hard and uncomfortable the more he walked, his soles used to softer surfaces, the dirt covered landscape of the woods, the sand of beaches. The smallest smile upon his face, he looks around, lingering around buildings, watching people pass in their outfits that seem to be calling far too much attention to themselves, over the top, odd. On the other hand, he was dressed simply, as close as he could attain to the attire he normally wore back in his homelands. It was all so much to take in, it stretched the very capabilities of his mind and consideration. The buildings so tall, the technology so advanced and full of surprises, such as nearly being hit by a contraption on wheels while crossing the road, racing far faster than a horse could possibly be pushed. He's lucky he has a good sense of direction, the map in his pocket providing little use as at this point he'd rather just get lost in a sea of new things to learn, the idea of new cultures and new faces, a new way of life.

Still, it was obvious from the near miss that he needed to keep his gaze straight in front of him, not so much distracted but then he see's it. A light on the side of a building, moving images upon it, voices coming through it and he holds a breath, furrowing his brow.

The pace he takes along the pavement is slow as he approaches, cautious, his eyes widening slightly as he looked upon the display. He's seen paintings before, runes on stone but if the device wasn't so high off the ground he feels like he might be able to reach out and touch them. He had also seen the small screens around the city since his arrival, not paying them much mind, but this was on a scale that he didn't think possible. Releasing his held breath, he neared the crowd of people surrounding it and tried to steady his expression to something more intuitive than stricken by the idea of it all. He watches and then he see's him, the man who claimed to be his god, on the screen; something he believed the further they spoke, the more he proved the extent of his abilities, the control of the storm. Thor. The sound of the individuals speaking is hard to hear, but from what he gathers, it's likely not good news. At his side, Ragnar clenches his fists, his brows narrow. He can feel his chest rise and fall heavily the more he watches the screen, his dissatisfaction mounting, and in a split second he turns to the next person and looks to meet their eyes intensely.

"You there." His accented voice hurries. "What's this?" Pointing to the screen, he's not so questioning what the item is the broadcast is on, but what is happening and why.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Cyrus Reagan always walks with purpose, even when he isn't going anywhere particularly important. His destination, at the moment, is a restaurant sufficiently far from the Training Center that no one he recognizes will see him; ordinary Capitolites don't normally stop a cabinet minister on the street for a conversation.

But Tributes, as always, are a different story.

That's what this stranger must be, of course, Cyrus thinks, about two seconds after turning to him with pointed politeness (Why are you addressing me?) Doesn't know who he is? Check. Unplaceable accent and absent fashion sense? Check. Outrage over a news broadcast? Willingness to make demands of strangers? Check.

He looks at the screen, scans the words on the screen quickly, and his expression sours a little. That debacle.

"It's a broadcast on Thor Odinson, until recently of District Two," he says. "He's facing disciplinary measures for his actions in the most recent Arena." Which you may recall, his tone says.

The sound of clicking draws Arya out of her room into the common area, at first assuming that someone was flickering the light switch, as she'd gotten so much entertainment from that on arrival here. Instead she sees a large man lounging at the table, pulling apart a cylindrical piece of plastic and revealing the pieces that had been hidden inside. She has even less of an idea of what it is and how it works than he does.

"I hope that wasn't useful."

She's sure she could have stabbed someone through the eye with it in a pinch, at any rate; that's as useful as she needs.

To him status doesn't matter much, they're all human at the end of the day and in a society in which he came from there was never an issue speaking ones mind, asking questions and trying to find results. His attitude seems like many he has passed in the streets, an air about him, of arrogance but it doesn't detour him. If anything, the Northman is insistent and as soon as he has his attention he keeps his eyes on his face, even when he looks away to address the display. His gaze is intensely focused, his breaths evening as he waits for him to reply, the innate feeling that he is being judged surrounding him and when he finally opens his mouth, the distaste is obvious on his face.

His tone; he doesn't recall the god being anything worthy of it. Since waking up he's stayed away from the issues at hand, knowing only that he died and now he walks amongst the living once more. Before now, televisions, displays such as this were not of his era, not of his knowledge so why watch something he didn't have any interest in, until seeing it, until now.

"Under what cause?" Was his immediate response. The last time he saw the other was before his own death at the hands of another man. At that point he doesn't seem like he should be punished for anything but surviving, like they all had been doing. His tone isn't as brash as before, evened out like his breath, but the slight narrowing of his brows speaks loudly.

The person in question is none other then a gangly blond girl who's currently collecting a stack of spears and bringing them over to the ranged weapon training area. She looked up from the spears at his question and puzzled over it for a moment.

"Well...let's see there was the creepy town, the sinking ship, that weird kids arena, the mall, and the space place...soooo like three arenas and two little arenas?" She didn't look satisfied with that answer "Not a year but a long time." she decided "Because we only just had Snoggletog once so it can't have been a year."

Feeling a bit more satisfied with that solution she took up a spear and hurled it missing her target by two feet to the left.

The lights where another story. It was the tip of the iceberg but right now the utensil was far more interesting. The dark marks from the ink upon his hand in the shape of runes, small patterns where he had used the item to paint them onto his skin. It was fascinating, to see such an device be able to do such a thing where carving was the primary means of illustration in his culture. The writing was shaken, not exactly the best penmanship as he had never held one before. Right now though, he's finding out how it works, what it can do and as he pulls the spring coil from the external shell and suddenly he hears footsteps, suddenly he finds himself with company. Blue eyes looking upward at the figure in the room he watches the other enter and slowly moves to rest the chair back onto four legs, dropping his feet down from the other seat across from him.

His eyes search their face and at the words, he offers a small smirk, a breath of a chuckle. "Still is." He replied.

Holding up the shell of the pen he looked through the hollow entrance at her.

"Anything's useful, even in pieces."

"Long enough."

For a world drenched in means of destruction and pointless entertainment beyond anything Cassandra had ever held any desire to dream of, there were a comforting number of people that seemed to have at least some experience in practical weaponry. There were many that visited the training center that appeared lost with how to handle a sword and shield or axe, but when there was some talent on display she opted to pause and watch for a moment. Not that this man's form was perfect, but Cassandra could sympathize. The steel here was unnatural, and for an experienced fighter that small change in balance could mean the world.

"Are you practiced with the sword, as well?"

"It is a lot to take in, is it not?"

The voice was smooth and soft, appearing to belong to a tall, dark-haired man who was regarding Ragnar with a critical eye. How long Loki had been observing him was difficult to tell but he had seemingly just appeared and had been silent on his approach. He stood a little distance away - not yet close enough to touch. Hands behind his back, he gave an air of confident authority as if he was in control of the situation, although he was feeling about as out of place as Ragnar was.

Nill spends time on the rooftop almost every day that she's in the Capitol. If it's not once, it's two or three or even four times a day, smoking at night, helping to look after some of the plants during the daylight hours, reading at all hours. It's probably the place she visits most around here, and the place where she feels most comfortable. Maybe that's because of her wings; a bird or not, the sky has more appeal than most of the actual attractions in the city itself.

Because of just how often she's there, it's not unusual for her to spot some of the newer tributes when they finally get to the roof. The scenery of people there constantly changes, but not many come to the rooftop at frequent intervals, and no one looks the same. Ragnar doesn't look particularly unusual, but he also doesn't look like many of the other tributes she's come across. Nill mistakes him for a mentor at first, and leaves him to his thinking. At least until she looks over in his direction and he's no longer contemplating the city, but his communication device. Perhaps she'd been wrong. Mentor or tribute, it certainly doesn't seem like he knows what to do with it.

She takes a moment to actually writing something down on her notepad before she makes her way over. She flips it closed so that she can rap her knuckles against the slightly sturdier cover, mostly to get his attention, before flipping it open again for him to see. The words are written in large, neat handwriting, easily legible.

are you ok?

Julian’s only been up to the rooftop a few times, but he’s found that he likes visiting it. The pristiness of the gardens there remind him a bit of the well-manicured ones he’d seen sometimes at the estates of his father’s business partners. He’s content to just look at the gardens, enjoying the small reminder of home they bring, so when he sees a man out of the corner of his eye, looking like he’s deep in thought, Julian’s planning on just ignoring him. There’s something familiar about him that makes Julian take a closer look, though, and it’s then that he sees the device at the man’s feet.

“That’s not how you use it,” Julian calls from a little distance away, sounding amused, but when he makes his way closer and gets a good look at the man’s face he freezes, the amusement draining away. It’s the face of the man who threw him to the ground, who Julian thinks might have done worse if there hadn’t been someone to jump in and save him. The memory of the fear he felt then wasn’t one Julian cared to remember, and he glares at Ragnar, refusing to show any of that fear now.

It’s not really fair of Julian to place all the blame on Ragnar, and deep down Julian knows it. Julian hadn’t been able to really talk, had only been able to hiss and growl, and he knows the teeth and claws hadn’t really helped. But Julian cares more about holding grudges then he does about about being fair, and when he speaks next there is an accusatory tone to his voice. “You’re not going to suddenly attack me now, are you?”

For a moment that was a breath of privacy, he knew there was always the chance that someone would happen upon him. His hands ran over his brow once more, smoothing over the sides of his head. His mind spins with the possibilities, the thoughts of his family, how he has died then come back to life and figuring that it all doesn't make sense. It's a thought that consumes him, wondering how any such thing was possible. He had his brushes with death before, but he was fairly certain that in that strange space full of starlight he had met his end and happily embraced it, death was not something he feared, it had been embedded in him since he was very young and it was apart of his culture. Curiosity could only get him so far, his personality rampant with it, but this was all just overwhelming at this instant, so much to take in, so much to comprehend, little devices that made no sense.

The approach of the other goes unnoticed, his gaze is tilted downward, looking at the device in the ground. For a moment he is completely silent, his eyes closed, his breath even. As much as he can he tries to take in the surroundings of nature that remind him of home. They are different flora and fauna than he has seen before, but right he's just focusing on the fact they're nature compared to the compact buildings and hard streets. Then he hears the rapping and immediately looks up.

A girl, it seemed. A girl with wings. His breath is still for a moment, she looks young, not as hardened as a valkyrie. Still, it was just another bizarre thing to witness on his list that is likely hundreds of pages long. His silent for a moment and his eyes move from her face to what is being show to him. It takes him a moment to look at the page, unsure what it is, unsure if he can read it but for some reason he can. The only books he had seen before where the Englishman's religious text, and he hadn't been able to read it but now it becomes rather clear he can; perhaps another curse of this land, or in this case, a blessing. Taking in a small breath, he looks over the words carefully and then looks up to her eyes again, blue like his own.

"I'm fine." Reaching down he picked up the device off the ground, a small smile on his lips. "Just acclimating to this place. It's nothing like home."

The voice catches his attention immediately and he looks upward from the tilt of his head down towards the ground. The man standing before him is tall, his voice is even. He looks regal, composed and where normally he would pick up the sound of footfalls from any approaching figure but the individual seemed to come out of nowhere. His distance was respectful enough but Ragnar was okay with closeness, it was apart of his culture. The man held himself well and Ragnar watched him quietly for a moment before reaching down to pick up the small device off the ground and then leaning back on the bench he sits upon.

Offering a slightly smile towards the other, he looks out to the sky before his gaze falling upon the other. "An understatement." A small chuckle sounded from his chest as he looks scoots over on the bench, aware but the other hadn't given him a notion to worry. "Never in my life did I think I'd see something like this."

was anything different from the day to day his culture but this all felt different. The handling was all wrong and if he couldn't get his aim right, then what use where they, what good was he as a prided warrior that held his namesake. It was frustrating, but he had no doubt that he would get used to the strange craftsmanship of the blades. When the other spoke though, he turned his attention to her completely, looking at the others demeanour and stature. She seemed strong, levelheaded upon first impression, if maybe a little quiet. Still, when she spoke the first time he gave her a knowing nod of his head, seemingly it wasn't something she wished to go into great length about.

Reaching forward he pulled another axe out of the target before turning to face her completely, holding both handles in one hand as he reached for the third idly. "Yes, but this crafting is strange. The handling is all wrong."

Walking near the other, he offered one of the hilts to her.

"They seem weak."

The voice that greets him is younger sounding than he expected, so he turns his gaze towards the other slowly and it settles upon the blonde girl with an ebbing curiosity lingering in his gaze. She looked strong, but young at the same time, her style and shape more akin to the young women in his own village. Yet still, it was difficult to tell much about anyone with the clothing provided from the same sets of hands. His own was styled closely enough to how he would have it back in his homelands, it still felt uncomfortable compared to what he was used to. Needless to say though, he listened to her and moved to pull out the remaining axes from the target before stepping back towards where he had been throwing them from.

A small exhale on his list, not much of what she said made sense but Snoggletog, it sounded like a word from his own language but he had never heard of it before. A small furrow of the brow and he waited for her to finish her throw before speaking.

"Long enough, it seems." Came his reply as he set the axes down and picked one up in his hand, testing the weight once more. "You've got a good arm on you. Did you learn that skill here?"

The sound of footsteps alert him, listening to the direction that they moved within and when it was clear that he was the target of the approach, he dropped his hands down, resting his elbows on his knees but kept his head dropped. The comment was almost amusing because of how true it was. Tasting things was simply a part of the manner of getting to know the material and while the device had tasted bitter, it had the faint lingering of a blade, but something was different about it, the metal so light compared to the silver and iron used in the forges of his homeland. The idea was to abandon it, to see what it would do if left to it's own devices but yet the voice sounding brings a small smirk to his lips, a small chuckle in his chest and as he raises his head to answer after an bemused shake of it, his eyes lock with a set that he's seen before.

The creature, from the station. The one that had started the decline to his death. A misunderstanding and a foolish attempt to contain. It seemed the beast could talk though, when before he had looked possessed, now he looked normal and with the glare that is offered, Ragnar does not move, only leans further, clasping his hands and putting his weight upon his elbows as he hold his gaze, the wry smile still remaining on his lips. For a moment, his eyes move to look at his hands, he see's no claws and is quick to keep looking at his face intensely so.

"If I was going to attack you boy I would have already done it." His accented voice murmured, a sharp bite to it but even enough.

Tilting his head to regard the other, Loki didn't move otherwise just yet.

"Are you not used to such a city? Where is it that you hail from?" He questioned.

There was mild interest in his tone and his gaze.

The invitation to join him was set, whether he took it was his own prerogative. Still, he remained sitting and watched the other stand before him. The small tilt of his head, it's registered and he offers the other a small smile. The interest was there and well, talking about home was better than forgetting it. So he was inclined to reply. Even as hard as it was to consider that he was here and not there, Ragnar exhaled quietly and folded his hands in front of him, elbows resting on his knees.

"No, not at all." Came his reply at first. It was nothing like anything he had ever seen. His world was rustic, building by hands upon the foundation of earth, not as sleek and busy and while it was eye opening to see such a land, such a place he never dreamed could be, his heart would always yearn for home. "I hail from a land of the north. My village is Kattegat, it sits at the mouth of the fjords."

Loki nodded as he listened to the words then seemed thoughtful as he gazed out at the view.

"I am from Asgard," his gaze returned to Ragnar. "I am Loki."

He'd spoken that simply but with pride and he waited, eyeing the man as if expecting some reaction. After all, his name was well known to some so it wasn't so unusual to be recognised - if not by face, then at least by name.

She takes it, tossing it an inch or so in the air, letting it twist in the air before gripping it again. Not her preferred weapon, not by a long shot, but she had hardly been above taking a bandit's axe to use as her own when forced. But he was still right: it didn't matter the specific blade type, everything here was strange.

"They do not craft by hand. Technological advancement, they call it," she added a small disgusted noise at the end to indicate her opinion on that."Laziness. But here we are, and here is what we have."

Loathsome as the fact may be.

"Do you spar?"

At first her expression registered surprise, and then a proud but crooked smile split her features.

"Nope, I learned back home on Berk. We had to learn a bunch of different weapons so we'd be ready to fight off dragons no matter when they came."

Not that she was actually all that good with most of those weapons. But years of causing trouble had taught her how to throw stright and true more often then not.

There's something not... not unnerving about this Tribute - that isn't the right word - but Cyrus finds his relentless gaze unsettling nonetheless. Ragnar's not treating him with the deference a Capitolite would have for him, but neither is he putting on the affected disdain that Cyrus has come to expect from other Tributes. The otherworlders take some pointless satisfaction from pretending that Cyrus is beneath their notice or their dignity; but there's none of that here. Ragnar is treating with him like an equal.

Like there is no difference between them, and should be no difference between them. Like he has an inherent right to the information he's demanding. It makes Cyrus' hackles rise in a way that pretended superiority never would have.

"...The list of charges is, from what I understand, extensive," he replies - dry, with a sour twist to his mouth. Some of this headache had, of course, been foisted off on him. "But foremost among them is conspiracy to destroy the Arena." He'd heard about it only after it happened, as he'd not been watching - but he's seen the replays, the gathering storm, the panicked attempt to avert the disaster, If you try to blow it up, we'll blow it up before you get the chance. Insanity all around. "Illegal use of the superhuman abilities generously allowed him by the Capitol. Sedition." Another glance at the screen, which is showing grainy Training Center footage of Thor and speculating on what warning signs for his dangerous, easily-led psychopathy the Capitol must have missed. "Those are the worst of them, I believe."

He isn't sure if it's just that Ragnar is new, or if he has some special reason to care what happens to Thor. Either way, Cyrus is trying to make clear: Sympathy for Thor Odinson is both pointless and misplaced.

Julian’s hands clench, feeling a wave of guilt, when he catches the quick look the man gives them. As much as Julian still wants to stay angry, and only angry, over what happened, the brief look towards his hands is enough to remind Julian that in the end he was the only one who actually drew any blood between the two of them. He’s trying to stay firm in his belief that none of it was any of his fault, but Julian’s glare still softens.

“That’s very reassuring,” Julian says, sarcasm clear in his tone, but he follows it with a shrug, “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I could take you if it came down to it.” It’s a complete bluff; Julian doesn’t stand a chance, which was pretty well demonstrated by the Arena. And Julian’s powers hadn’t even been gone then like they were now. None of that will stop Julian from pretending he's stronger than he actually is, though.

“Why did you attack me, before?” It wasn’t even really an attack, just Julian getting grabbed mainly, but Julian’s still going to refer to it as such. “I wasn’t doing anything to you.”

Julian feels like he knows the answer, if the way the man had reacted to his transformations was any indication, but he still has to make sure. There are some people here who enjoy the Arena, and Julian has to be certain this man isn’t one of them.

With each day that slipped by, Jack had taken it upon himself to explore more and more of this prison of a city. He'd quickly found that the streets of the Capitol were as flashy and inexplicable as its residents were, all of it crammed with strange oddities and technology that the pirate had never thought to exist. Even nearly a fortnight into this madness, it never failed to make him feel uncomfortable and completely, utterly out of place.

At this point, the gathering around the screen had snagged his attention and Jack had wandered with an unstable gait towards the crowd, intent on figuring out what the fuss was about.

His head turns to the side when Ragnar addresses him, and the pirate quickly eyes him over.

Not a Capitolite, by the way he dressed, that was sure.

Jack splays both his hands, gesturing towards the screen that looms over them. "That, my friend, I believe, is a holl-oh-graph-ic screen." The word is still peculiar to him, so he's taken to overly enunciating it. "As for what's on it -- there's some business or what have you about a man named Thor." Jack squints up at the screen, then his gaze lands back on the other man. "In trouble for some reason or another, from what I've gathered."

The man is good with the axe, he has to admit. Thorin stands nearby, his purpose at the training center similar to Ragnar's, to familiarize himself with the weapons available, to get used to the differences and similarities, until he will feel as though these weapons are as much an extension of him like his own axes, like Orcrist ever was to him.

When the man speaks, Thorin regards him in silence for a moment... and his answer is not an answer at all.

"It is the balance. You throw it like the blade weighs double than it does."

She can't help but grin back, sticking her tongue out at him as he peers at her through the hollow shaft of the pen.

"All right, what are you going to do with that bit?"

Because all she sees is a mess of plastic.

After yet another frustrating death in the Arena, Dave is taking a little more time out of his day to sharpen his skills. He's good with a sword, he knows sword, he just gets lost when someone lunges at him. He's a tall boy, but he's thin. It's too easy to knock him off his feet, he needs to work on nipping attacks like that in the bud. A real, human training partner would be helpful, but he's always been awkward at approaching people for help.

Instead, he's focused his efforts on the holographic training modules for some time. He's been there a while, recreating fights and doing well until he gets disarmed. Eventually, tiredness and frustration has him taking a breather. When he sees someone standing around looking like they might know a little something about rough housing, he approaches slowly and vaguely and waffles around him without addressing him.

He almost jumps when Ragnar speaks first.

"Me?" There's nobody around. "Nine months." He responds with no shortage of bitterness. "This'll be my sixth ride on the murder rodeo. You been in one yet?" He raises a brow, trying his best to be effortless and casual and not intimidated.

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(OPEN) it's the push and the pull

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