thecapitol | let's share demons.

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let's share demons. | open!

Who| Alistair Theirin & you !
What| Alistair's musing over waking up in the Capitol ; he's recently learned that a few familiar names are alive. He's on edge, and would appreciate a bit of explanation.
Where| Training Center Roof
When| A few days after the week six death announcements
Warnings/Notes| Talk of death, coarse language, possible DA:O spoilers, possibe purple prose ( i saw someone else tag this? so there u go. )

' Maker, preserve us -- '.

Neck pops and battle-born hands clasp in each other, a stressed sweat pouring down his jawline. All of this was so strange, so distant from the world he called home. He stands, pulling himself from the crouched position on the top of the roof. His back tenses, heart racing; it's then, in that moment that he realizes he hadn't been this nervous since his battles with the Wardens, causing a sense of nostalgia to rush over him. He swallows, shaking his head as he looks out onto this strange city; why had they taken him?

Frustration sets in, and he grips at his hair. Why had they taken him? Confiscated Duncan's blade and shield from him? None of it made sense -- and to know, there are familiar faces dying in that Arena right now? That thought alone drove him up the wall. Wringing hands and watching the mechanical city shift from afternoon to evening, Alistair began to pace. There were more Wardens now, yes, but he was in hiding, a person of interest. Their Warden-Commander was missing as well; trapped in that Arena of theirs... would they be missed? Would an investigation be launched to find them?

Doubtful.

A sound pulls the man's attention over his shoulder, not relaxing. Never relaxing. With his arms visibly tensed, the vein on his neck protruding normal skin, the bastard son's hazel eyes burrowed into those of the person who joined him on the roof.

' Friend, or foe? '

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Arya had found it difficult to adjust when she'd initially been brought to the Capitol; the bright lights, tall buildings and technology were beyond anything she'd ever experienced, and the strange surroundings combined with the fact that she was suddenly a celebrity here when she'd had to hide who she was for so long had bewildered her. But now that she was back from the Arena, now she'd felt the cold grip of death for herself, the Capitol felt like it was almost a mockery of itself, as though the glossiness of it was all an illusion. She'd prefer it, in a way, to be stuck in a hyperrealistic afterlife than to be resurrected only to be stuck here. It took so much of the gravitas of the act of killing away. It made her feel like her need for vengeance was pointless, if the names on her list could stir back to life as easily as she had, rather than the almost tortuous way of Beric Dondarrion's resurrections.

She'd needed to get away from all the shiny technology, and especially from the screens showing people she'd grown to care about trying to kill each other. She'd wandered up to the roof for some air, and to try to escape the oppressive feeling that followed her everywhere here.

When Alistair turns, when she sees his reaction to hearing her approach, she freezes. She's tired of fighting, needs a reprieve from the Arena, and she's disappointed that she's walked straight into the same tense, distrustful introductions she'd gone through in the glacial wasteland she'd just left.

"Which do you want?"

' Preferably, a friend. '

Arms cross over broad chest, looking down at the younger person; there is no need to fear this one. There is no need to antagonize her, either. They're one and the same, Alistair and the young lady, and so to prove respect and peace, he offers her a nod of his head and a little bit of a bow.

' You're more than welcome to stay, ' He says, resting one hand on his hip, the other laying flat against his form. ' I just... I apologize for my previous behavior. I'm a... well, I'm a little on edge." Explanation is offered with a tired laugh, dark circles around his hazel eyes so very evident.

' This place, ' He continues, nose crinkling in disgust as he takes in the air of the Capitol, just knowing that these people are forcing his loved one to fight and kill, be resurrected and try again for their amusement...? He'd behead them all if he had the chance; he'd tear them to shreds, like darkspawn. ' I don't like it here. There are too many lights and magical technologies, all things I don't know... and my friends-- my partner, too-- they're fighting for their lives in that arena. I would say I'm afraid, but truly, I'm just disgusted. '

Turning to her, the man runs a hand through his hair before offering it to the girl. ' My name is Alistair. You don't look like you belong here, either. '

Arya shuffles forward tentatively, not taking her eyes off him, leaning against the edge of a large plant pot and gazing past him to the Capitol skyline and back again, still finding the buildings unreal, like everything else here.

"Some of the technologies are good," she assures him. "Like the magic box that takes you between floors without having to use the stairs. And the switches that light up the room." Though her own expression clouds over with her uncertainty about being here, too.

"Arya. I was taken here just before this Arena started."

"It's nice to meet you, Arya."

He nods to her, agreeing with her statements-- he had heard some of the words for some of the technology from his apartment-mates, like the moving box was an 'elevator' and the magic switches that turned on the fake fire were literally 'lightswitches'.

"I was taken just a couple of days ago. I watched my wife die on television. There are a few of familiar faces around here, but they act as if they don't know me much at the moment." He steps backward-- one step, two, three-- before sitting himself down on the floor of the roof, crossing his legs.

"Would you like to sit with me?"

"She'll come back." She aims for reassuring, but she knows that she sounds a little bitter and jealous despite that, wishing that the people she loved would be similarly resurrected. "I died in there too, but it doesn't seem to mean anything here."

She seats herself next to him, legs tucked underneath her.

"You sound a bit bitter, if I may say so." He looks over at the younger girl, arching a brow. "I'm sorry if I said something that you didn't quite like. You say she'll be back? That's something that I wouldn't have thought of."

Jaw sets, and it's apparent that the thought of his beloved returning both infuriates and anticipates the man. He shakes his head, resting his elbows on his knees, cheek in his hand. Alistair almost looks a bit childish, as if he's pouting.

"If only those who fell at Ostagar would return similarly."

His childish expression is mirrored in her own. She bites on her lip, looking off over the skyline. "Death doesn't mean anything here."

"So I've heard," he replies, looking out on the falsified illuminations of the city before them. "I don't quite like that thought, but I suppose there's nothing you can do about it."

Arya shakes her head vehemently in disagreement. "You can't control the dying, but you still have the power over the killing."

"Fair statements. I wish I was as wise as you are when I was your age." He chuckles, blinking. Thoughts of his home, of this place he was forced to call home now, all of it, crossed his mind and his lips curl down into a scowl.

"You have power over the killing." He repeats quietly, the words burned into his mind.

She wishes that she hadn't had to learn what little wisdom she had. She'd seen too much, done too much, that had forced her to see the world in a different way. She attempts a grin up at him as she voices the one positive she's found. "At least you can kill the people you hate again and again."

"Out of the mouths of babes," he chuckles, shaking his head. "I remember Duncan-- ah, he was my mentor in the Grey Wardens, the faction in which I was proudly a part of-- saying something similar to that about the Darkspawn."

He clears his throat, deepening his voice to a comedic standpoint, and putting on a terrible impression of his mentor and father figure. "The good thing about these damned Darkspawn is that they don't stop coming-- a good stress reliever, Alistair."

Oh, how Alistair missed him so.

"Have you been to the training centre downstairs yet? I spend a lot of time hitting the dummies there with the practice sword. It helps." Not a lot, but at least she can let some of her frustration out.

"I have not. Do they have a variety of swords down there? One would think so, but... in this world, everything looks the same." Alistair shakes his head, yawning for a moment. "Perhaps I'll examine it a little tomorrow."

Arya nods enthusiastically. "They even have water dancing swords." Which she hadn't expected, given how rare the type of sword she used was in Westeros.

"Water dancing swords?" While Alistair, the skilled swordsman, was familiar with a couple of types of blades, the one that the young girl was mentioning seemed... oddly unfamiliar. Then again, it might just be the partial language barrier the two of them faced. While both blonde and brunette spoke a form of the common tongue, there were terms he used that she was not familiar with and vice versa.

"Would you mind telling me just what those are, exactly?"

Arya rises from where she's seated herself, her body shaping into a water dancer stance, relaxed and fluid, her left arm outstretched and looking as though it's not complete, as though Needle isn't just missing from her hand but has been amputated from her and she's incomplete without it.

"It's smaller and lighter than most swords. You don't just hack away at people, you have to be agile. Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow."

"Neither, at the moment."

Tom's returned from the dead without a scratch on his body but with furrows in his ego and a temper swollen from the injustice of yet another loss in the Arena. He's come to the roof with his pipe and his cane, which he uses more today to help him walk than he usually does because a foul mood makes his bad leg hurt. He walks straight past Alistair, not even bothering to meet eyes, and takes a seat in one of the wrought-iron chairs that overlooks a patch of roof garden.

He knows Alistair is new - doesn't remember his face from before - and yet that in itself isn't enough to pique his interest. Instead, he strokes his chin, lights his pipe and looks at the new growth of spring sprouts emerging from the soil of the garden. From the way his eyes move and his mind seems to formulate, one might think he were writing down notes except for how still his hands are.

"But that's a hell of a way to start off an introduction, lad. How about you save the black and white simplistics for the Arena?" If there's anything Tom can't stand, it's people who conflate the two, Capitol and murder-pit.

' Ah, I'm sorry-- I'm a little on edge; I'm not used to all of this. '

Hands are displayed up, gesturing to the world around him; the futuristic, technologically-advanced place throws the Warden off. His senses are dulled here. This world wants him to relax, but instead, the blonde just gets more and more scared, putting him on even more of an alert.

His hands fall to his sides, sighing softly before nodding and taking a few breaths. After a beat of rest, Alistair speaks:

' Your name is Tom, then? You must know something, anything about this place other than what the people who took us told us. My name is Alistair, by the way; where I'm from, I'm a Grey Warden. You know-- fabled heroes of legend, destroyed the Darkspawn Horde? Heh... I guess that... doesn't apply here.

But seriously, anything? A word of advice? Why my damned friends are in that Arena fighting for their lives to dance at the hands of a false Maker? '

"It is. Tom Cassidy. And you are?"

Tom doesn't really pay much mind to the hands; he knows there are Tributes here who would hurt him, but Alistair doesn't seem one of them, doesn't have reason to unless someone with a grudge talked him into it. Tom hasn't had time to make an enemy of Alistair yet.

"None of that applies here, you're right. And you might as well be speaking Swedish to me, lad, for all I can make of that. As for advice, you may look to better sources than your competitors for that. You know you have a Mentor, don't you?"

"My name is -- Alistair. Just call me Alistair."

At the man's discontent, he sighs, shaking his head. Dark circles plague the eyes of the (ex?) Warden, letting his hand fall to the side. An audible breath is taken -- in the nose and out the mouth, to calm and clear his mind. It was something he was never too good at, nightmares and fears plaguing him so.

"Right, right. I... Sorry. Suppose I wasn't thinking. It's nice to meet you, Tom Cassidy."

The name means nothing to Tom, means less than the clear anxiety this man feels and the exhaustion on his face. Tom returns his attention to the garden.

"Pleasure's yours," Tom says, snide and frustrated, before pausing. "I'm sorry, the devil's gotten into me a bit. Losing an Arena puts me in a bit of a tiff. I'm sure you can imagine why."

"So I've heard. Haven't had the, ah... displeasure of being in an Arena quite yet. Though I'm for certain they'll place me in the next one. I've heard people speak... they say they like the 'new, fresh faces'. Whatever the bloody hell that's supposed to mean."

He rests his hands on his waist, shifting his weight from left to right. Walking around without his armor on, without that large kite shield and long blade, is very strange. He's too light on his feet; Alistair's out of his element.

"That says that the people here get bored easily. You can imagine why, can't you? A constant flow of entertainment leaves their minds idle."

He raises an eyebrow as he looks at Alistair's feet, the lightness to them. A thief, perhaps?

"What, are you preparing to start boxing, lad? Take a seat."

"We're all Tributes together," Coffee was the thing, and Shepard liked hers cheap and strong with a thick, sugary sludge in the bottom, "So, I wouldn't ask that question, if I were you."

Shepard is not, by and large, a particularly imposing woman. She's short, for one thing, particularly out of armor. but her face... now those aren't eyes soon forgotten, particularly not in the dark. She's cragged with scars, glowing eyes, deep wounds that never really heal. It's a bit of a contrast to the pink bo-peep yoga pants, really.

"Let's start with names."

' Alistair, ' he replies, crossing his arms over his chest; the white cloth pulled across his form is something plain. After all, Alistair himself has never been a memorable man. He's hidden behind his Wardens and his Templars and he's stood in the background, only observing. Only waiting.

He presses his hands to his waist, resting his weight evenly on both legs. Brow arches as the sword-bearer's eyes scan the woman; how strangely is she dressed, he thinks. Silent for only a moment more, Alistair's teeth grit. She intimidates him, most definitely, but because she may or may not end up being the person to take a blade or a spell to his throat, he does not show it. ' Alistair of the Grey Wardens. And, you are? '

"Welcome to hell, Alistair."

Gettin' an awful lot of scrutiny for a lady dressed in a loose cotton shirt and baggy pajama pants, but alright, she's had worse. Besides, Shepard's spent her life working hard, and having some blond new-guy give her the once-over while she sips her coffee isn't going to reveal anything she should be ashamed of.

"I'm Commander Shepard, Special Tactics and Recon, I'm with the Alliance Navy," And pause, sip your drink for effect, "Not that I expect that to mean anything to you. I've been a Tribute for District Five for the last few years."

' District one, ' he replies, nodding, looking off to the side. ' That's what they claim I am from. All of this is so sudden-- you claim to have been here a while? It's, ah, nice to meet you, Commander Shepard. '

Idle pacing comes from the man, gently gliding into his first step with his head tucked to his chin. His arms fold behind his back, and he sighs. "What does all of this mean? Why did they pick us? Are we special? Or are they just that sick?"

The half-smirk that had been hovering around the corner of her mouth dropped away at that. District One. This was the man brought in to replace Thane. This guy would sleep in the room that had been his, without ever realizing what ghosts he shared it with.

No. No, goddammit, we can't do this now. Shepard took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it go. Whatever else this 'Warden Alistair' was, he'd asked a question-- and will wonders never cease, a relevant one, from a new tribute! Reign it in, Shepard.

"We don't know for sure, why they pick particular people," She liked that, his disciplined stance; the ghost of a parade rest, of all things. How long had it been? "A lot of the time, it seems like they take people who might know each other. Got any friends here, that you know of? People you're familiar with?"

' Is that so, ' He sighs at her response; truly, that was the one thing he didn't want to hear. If there was a pattern or if they had picked people based on different attributes... he would know why he was chosen. He could figure out how to go home.

' There's a young woman on the televisions nowadays-- Tabris? I know her. I know her quite well. She is... she is the only one I can name off of the top of my head. ' Chest rises and falls, chin lifted so that he can look at the city around him. If one looked close enough, they would see his teeth bite the inside of his cheeks, skin pulled tight on the outside. ' And now I know you. Not well, nor properly, but we are aware of each other's presence. '

"She's been working with the group calling itself an Inquisition, right?" Shepard had never met an actual honest-to-god elf before, though Thranduil made himself hard to miss, and she knew the race wasn't exactly...

...She could the idea of elves to seem sane, even ordinary, but it wasn't easy. Nothing that had come before had adequately prepared her for the daily absurdities that came to her in the Capitol. After so long, she should probably just be grateful that she still had the capacity to be surprised.

"So, you know her. That make you friends?"

No sense not being sure, after all.

"She's my wife."

The declaration is a bit sudden, causing the man to shift awkwardly on his heels. Breaking the pseudo-parade rest, the Warden crosses his arms over his chest for a second time, turning to face her. Jaw sets, and he looks a bit... awkward, almost, telling the Commander this.

"I would go on about her for hours if I was told to. But I won't bore you with those details. After all, you look like you've been here a while. You know of her."

"We had a friendly conversation," Shepard tilts her head a little, almost embarrassed by her former reticence, "I like Tabris, seems like she lands on her feet."

A fair advantage, in this place.

"Yes, literally and metaphorically." He nods, gaze downcast.

"So, what's your story then, Commander Shepard?" The quick change of topic is perhaps a bit rushed and awkward, in the Warden's opinion, but it's necessary. He's curious, startled by this Commander (she doesn't look like a Commander he's ever seen before, but he does intend to treat her as such.) in question. "You claim to have been in 'District Five' for a couple of years. You must have been in quite a few arenas, then."

"I've had my share of action. Coulda won, a couple of times, if I wanted."

She really, truly doesn't. Winning is a punishment for surviving, in her humble opinion-- and her real work is on the inside, not sitting around the captiol, wearing a hole in the floor.

Alistair is right to be startled; Commander Shepard is not a calming influence.

"I'm a career soldier, I do what I have to to get the job done. I don't like to screw around. Back home, I got a big war waiting for me, and the way I hear it, if it isn't gonna be me winning the fight, it might not be anybody, so... You can imagine how much I just love being here."

"I sense a bit of sarcasm in your voice, Commander Shepard."

He chuckles for a moment, arms crossing over his chest. "I have a war to tend to in my home as well. The way you put this makes it sound like a nuisance in comparison to the tragedies of our worlds."

"War will exist as long as there is profit and politics." The Warden looks off to the side, lip curling in distaste as he shakes his head, and he lets his arms fall to his side. "But I prefer to not talk about the grit of it all. Not while there are other things to do."

"Me? Nah, I'm never sarcastic."

She said. Sarcastically.

But then, she has to laugh at that, even if it's just an amused breath for his grimace, and the certainty in his voice. Would that it were that easy.

"It's not really that kind of war," she folded her arms, still offering him that helpless smirk, "More of a... We fight or we all die, end of the world type scenario. Monsters from the dark."

"I understand that more than I'd like to admit," Alistair sighs, wringing his hands in distaste. "The Darkspawn are something that are a danger to all, a pleasure to none."

The Warden sighs, shaking his head. "I wish the best of luck to your cause, then. May your weapons be sharp and your wits be sharper. I believe one of my senior Wardens said that once."

"That depends," Bull responds after a few moments of locking eyes with the other man - well, his one eye with one of Alistair's. Who is this man and why does he seem so... familliar?

This qunari can never get off easy and enjoy a moment of peace and quiet up on the roof in this place it seems, there's always someone there trying to release some kind of stress or frustration, or they're having a mini-panic attack and need to be left alone. Or else they're drunk and throwing glass bottles at the railings and invisible wall, in Shepard's case just the other day. Bull won't think any less of the person, everyone reaches that point sooner or later.

Half the time they can't be blamed, this place has a habit of pushing everyone to their limits.

Is that the case here? the qunari spy wonders as he can easily make out the vein in Alistair's neck. It's none of his business, whatever has set the man off, but maybe he can help.

"Maker's breath, I never thought--"

He blinks, brow furrowed as he steps forward, palms upturned to the man as a symbol of peace as he does so. A Qunari, here? Thoughts course through the man's mind as he drops his hands to the side, a dumbstruck look on his face.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't stare, but-- Are you a Qunari? I didn't think I'd see anyone else from home here... I'm so dumbfounded half of the time here, and I ran around with an Elf for a Warden, haha. No harm intended."

He shakes his head, styled (much to his discontent, mind you) blonde hair falling from its cut to lay awkwardly against his head, crossing his arms over his chest.

"My name is Alistair, of the Grey Wardens. Do you need the roof? I was just about done. Musing, and all."

Edited 2015-04-01 20:14 (UTC)

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let's share demons. | open!

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