thecapitol | [Open to you and you and you]

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[Open to you and you and you]

Who| Fiona and Y o u ~
What| Of the mind she can walk it off.
Where| District 2 suites and around the capitol!
When| Nnnow?
Warnings/Notes| Nothing for now, things may be added in subject headers if need be.

[D2 Suites]

When no one was in the living area Fiona paced. She couldn't go into her designated room. She had peeked inside and it was nice there, as it was in the living area, with everything seeming to be high quality. Fluffed beds and pillows, a large window, they gave her food, and nice clothes.

It made her sick to her stomach. Rather than be at any ease her eyes darted around her and she could feel an old paranoia gripping for her. The pacing helped her slip around the thoughts, metaphorically speaking. But she couldn't pace around one room all day.

Her fingers twitched at her side occasionally and with disappointment etched on her face she'd wring them together. It was repetitive with hope ebbing away each time, a clenched jaw slowly holding in its place. They took it. They took her clothes, they took her staff, they took her magic. It was horrifying and the more she tried, the more she wanted to scream. How any of this could be, she couldn't fathom nor did she want to. She forced the terror down, trying to let an older rage build in its place. But fear has a nasty way of gripping tightly.

[Around the streets and such]

Even cities have limits, and though this city appeared huge and foreign and fake, Fiona knew it would have a familiar, solid border. It's a prettied up cage and it was driving her mad. She put one foot in front of the other, with her eyes staying down to the ground. She knew better than to stare in awe at passersby. It was compelling when things around her were so different, but only by appearance. She knew this game and its tune. Never again, she had told herself. Never again would she put up with this. Different faces, different clothes, different... wherever this was. But it was always the same when the facade was stripped down.

She kept to one street for as long as it could go, only turning at dead ends. She wanted to find its limits and the longer she walked, the more she dreaded it. She would likely have to turn around soon, she knew that. But for now she just walked, looking for somewhere quiet if the walls never came. Her mind was absorbed elsewhere, when her vision refused to pay much attention to reality. It eventually brought her to a halt after nearly running into someone in front of her.

"Sorry, I-"

No, hold on a moment. Why should she be apologizing?

"Can't you look where you're going?"

[OOC: Ooor add your own! Prose/Action is fine with me? Just do your thing and I'll follow.]

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"Oh, do stop pacing, young lady," Merlyn said sharply, after half an hour or so. He had been sitting in the corner of the living room, knitting peaceably and being thoroughly unobtrusive to the point of invisibility, as only old men can. But this was getting ridiculous. "You're making me dizzy. Either sit down, or wear out the carpet somewhere else."

He wasn't without sympathy, though. He hadn't seen her before, which probably meant she was new, and therefore had plenty of very good reasons to be distressed. Besides, it wasn't as if he hadn't done his share of irritable pacing lately. Still, it wasn't going to do her any good, so he saw no reason to indulge it.

After a moment, he put his knitting aside (it flapped oddly, a green-brown tube that didn't seem to resemble anything in particular) and said, in a rather gentler tone, "Oh, do sit down. It helps to talk about it, I've found."

The first comment she barely heard, and the second fared little better. The third, however, she turned her head toward the elderly man. It was a quick glare, as though he were intruding on her. "I'd really rather not." She said with no small amount of annoyance, her pacing continued, if only because he asked her not to.

He sighed, getting to his feet, and smoothed down his robes carefully, then his beard. Something in his beard chirped, and he looked down at it with a frown. "Oh, do be quiet," he said to it, and strode over to the young woman, looking her up and down as he tucked his hands into the long, tippetted sleeves of his robes.

"You can pace patterns and wring your hands all you like," he said, after watching her for a moment. "I don't know what you're trying to achieve, but this won't accomplish it. Unless you're trying to wear a hole through to the next floor down, in which case it might." Sighing, he took his hat off, dug around in it for a moment, and started to absent-mindedly feed mealworms to his beard. "Let me take a guess at your situation. You just arrived in this by-our-lady hellhole. You are very, very angry at the people who brought you here - and let me just assure you, so am I - and all that they've taken from you. Including, by the looks of things, your magic. Believe me, I understand the feeling. I would tell you it passes, but frankly, I'm not at all sure it does. There is, however, a limit to how long you can go on pacing and hand-wringing before your muscles start to overproduce lactic acid, even in aerobic exercise. Sit down. I'll make some tea."

The scrutiny hadn't been appreciated. How spot-on his conclusions were had also not very appreciated. He had a point and it, too, wasn't appreciated. It made her feel like a stubborn child and she wasn't, but sitting just felt wrong to her.

"They shouldn't be allowed to do this," is all she managed to say. It surprised even herself that she was agreeing with him, but it was hard not to. So with a sigh of finality she did as requested and took a seat on the couch nearby. She hadn't noticed it while she had been moving, but her legs felt sore as soon as she sat down. It was subtle, yet just another tally against the old man for being right. The scale was becoming incredibly skewed.

"No, they shouldn't. I couldn't agree more." Merlyn stood there for a moment, then tucked the last worm into his beard and went to sit down opposite her. "I'm afraid that our erstwhile hosts don't care a great deal for shoulds and shouldn'ts, though. Or, indeed, for what they're allowed. It's a common problem of hubris in corrupt regimes. They've settled into an echo chamber of their own power and satisfaction, which, alas, renders us entertainment at best, a nuisance at worst. My friend Cicero has a great deal to say on the subject, but, unfortunately, it loses a lot in translation and they've taken away my Latin." He sighed, taking off his pince-nez and polishing them on his sleeve. "Although, speaking of echo chambers, I'm probably duty-bound to warn you that they're listening to us right now. Do with that information as you will."

None of what he mentioned were foreign concepts to her. People with power abusing others without was an old, tiresome tune she had never heard the silence of. Others listening to her or watching her every move was also not new in the slightest, but there seemed little reason to here. Her magic was gone and so was this man's, they took it, so why bother keeping an eye on them at all? "Listening to us for what, exactly?"

"Oh, this and that. Sedition. Overfamiliarity. Juicy gossip." Raising one bony brown hand, he indicated the cameras set up around the room, or at least the ones he'd managed to spot so far. "I did mention, did I not, that we are rendered entertainment? Welcome to the Capitol, my dear. When we're not fighting each other to duly grisly deaths in the Arena, I'm afraid our general purpose is as celebrities to sedate the masses. Bread and circuses, all this place is under its pretty coatings is bread and circuses."

Circuses and pretty coatings sounded no better than Orlais' grand Game of politics. It was something to take of note, but not nearly anything that was quite as troubling.

"I don't understand." She said shaking her head slowly. "We are all here because they made us, yes? Those who are fighting for these peoples'... entertainment. Why are we fighting each other?"

"Ah, well. There's a question for the ages, isn't it?" He clicked his tongue, sighing, and reached for his knitting again. "I consider myself a conscientious objector. I have no intention of fighting anyone. Except, perhaps, in a war of words, but alas, none of our hosts seem all that interested in open and honest debate. Despots rarely are."

He knitted for a moment in silence, watching her thoughtfully, until at last he added, "To answer your question, we are fighting one another because fear drives people to do very foolish things. Such as, for example, playing directly into the hands of their captors. We are expected to fight, and Man is a creature of expectation. Put him in a ring, where he is being watched and judged on his ability to kill, and he will do so - that is, enough will do so that the others must either defend themselves or die. Barbarism. Pure barbarism. Believe me, I wouldn't allow it. If they'd only listen when I try to explain the fundamental stupidity of it all..."

"Are our numbers truly all our own then? There are no..." Before she continued she caught her tongue as her eyes glanced to what the man indicated to before. The glance turned into a glare until she tried her words again. "I would think most of those here wouldn't fight each other considering circumstances. There must be good people who would never otherwise harm those around themselves. It cannot be all barbarism as you say."

"No, I suppose not. Although a great deal does, I'm sure, derive from the kind of ninnies who think the best way to solve a problem is to thump it." He considered for a moment, casting on a couple of stitches. "Pass me that brown yarn, would you? Thank you. In any case, the fact is that where open rebellion is impossible, people tend to close ranks. Form groups. It's a phenomenon well known in prisons, for example. Gangs form as a response to outside threats, and when those threats can't be combated, well, the gangs turn on each other. There are good people here," he added, looking at her from under heavy, drawn eyebrows, "but they are good people in an impossible situation. A rabbit, under most circumstances, is a very gentle beast, but if you snare it, it will bite its own leg off and still go for your hand while it's bleeding to death. Trapped things have a certain tendency to run mad. I see no reason for Man to be the exception."

"Man wouldn't be any exception, no." It seemed foolish only now, to ask the question she had. She knew better than to hope for that.

"Tell me," she said, leaning a moment, "have you been here long? How long do people stay here?" Perhaps some left, perhaps some... disappeared. Even were there any promises of taking some back to their homes, she knew not to trust it. But the old man had just called rebellion impossible, she had to determine what wasn't.

"I'm afraid I'm the wrong person to ask." He did sound genuinely grieved by it. He hated to be the bearer of bad news, especially when he didn't even get to say I told you so. "I've only been here a month or so myself. I have heard that some people have left permanently, but as the accepted method of leaving seems to be via horrible death, and I have yet to receive confirmation that they go anywhere except wherever it is people normally go when they die..." He shrugged one shoulder, looking back down at his knitting. "I wouldn't recommend it."

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D2

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