(no subject)

[witbastard]

Who | Fitz and YOU!
What | Fitz has been dragged away from his Extremely Vital Quest and dumped in a weird city. This does not please him.
Where | Around and about
When | A few days after the Crowning
Warnings/Notes | None yet; will update if needed

A: The District 11 Living Room

Fitz awakes aching and exhausted, and lies for a while in the darkness behind his eyes, feigning sleep as he pieces together what he knew. He had just come from the Elderling city, mired in the tug of the Skill, when suddenly he had awoken in a cold, bare room, foreign in its strangeness. Awareness of the severity of his situation had come in waves; no Skill river in which to reach, not a flicker of life showed to his Wit-sense, not even an awareness of the distant bond with his wolf. He had no weapons, and they had taken his clothes and his pack, and with them his elfbark and herbs. Locked up, alone and unarmed in a strange land, it's no surprise that when the Peacekeepers came for him, he hurled himself into them, trying to get past them and away. He had, he recalls with a flicker of pride, knocked the teeth loose in one’s mouth, and kicked in one’s knee with a force that would not soon heal, but in return he received a solid beating, and a blow to the head which sent him spiralling down into one of his seizures, to awake here. The bed is soft and silk-sheeted. There is blood in his mouth where he has bitten his tongue, and the area above his eye feels tight and bruised. At least one rib is bruised if not broken. But mostly, he felt wreathed in the unbelievable sore tiredness that followed a seizure. And mostly, he’s bone-tired, stiff and sore from his seizure, and cursing himself for showing that great weakness.

Without his Wit, he can’t tell if there are others in the room with him. Certainly, he’s no longer in the cell he woke up in before, but was he moved by his captor or rescued by someone else? Either way, it seems likely that as soon as his hosts know he’s awake, someone will come for him. And unarmed and disorientated, he has little chance of escaping this room if they do. Best to move fast. Cautiously, he cracks open his less-sore eye. The lights hurt his head something awful, brighter and harsher than firelight or daylight. The room is empty. He lies still a moment longer, gathering his thoughts, eyeing the room from under his lashes, then moves sharply.

He swings himself out of the low, soft bed, ignoring how the room swims around him, and, lurching slightly, makes for the door. To his surprise, it opens easily. The first door leads into an odd ceramic and silver anteroom, walled with mirrors; a dead end. The second leads into a hallway, and from there into a glass-walled room, laid out with low tables and soft chairs. He moves into the living room near-silently, warily, like a caged wolf. Distracted by a combination of concussion, Skill-headache and exhaustion making his vision blur, and lacking the familiar warning of his Wit-sense, he doesn’t notice there’s someone else sitting in there until he’s already moved out of the cover of the corridor.

B: The streets of the Capitol

Later, after having this place explained to him (however loosely) and after his test, he is surprised to find that he is free to leave the building. On the pretext of visiting the market, he has determined to find the edge of the city and plot his escape before they throw him into this deathmatch. But now he’s out in the city, he finds it almost distracts him from his plans. If the magical tower with its sourceless light and great glass walls and self-opening doors was strange, these streets are incomprehensible. He recognises not one in a thousand things that the huge glass-fronted stores display in glittering mounds, there are vehicles that make no sense, and even the people passing him, with their impossibly colourful hair and skin, and shimmering, shifting, oddly-cut clothes, are so alien as to be barely recognisable. They seem barely human. Elderlings? he wonders briefly, but puts the thought from his mind. If they are Elderlings, they seem hardly likely to come to the aid of the Six Duchies, when they are so venal and sick as to battle humans for sport. What’s important is to gather what information he can, then return to his friends and to Verity.

Admittedly, that currently mostly seems to take the form of standing, rather dumbstruck, in the street, looking very lost. This place is so confusing.

C: The Training Centre

There is one place in this odd city that seems almost familiar, and that’s the training centre in the building. The room itself is as strange as everything else, but the familiar weight of weapons in his hands is oddly comforting, especially when, bereft of his weapons, his Wit and his poisons, he feels much more vulnerable than he’d like in this strange and hostile place. And, having decided it best to present himself as a predictably aggressive soldier, he feels no qualms about being seen here. Not to mention, the more he sharpens his rusty skills, the better his chances of survival.

Hefting a suitable sword, he goes through familiar drills swiftly and neatly, one by one. The physical exertion frees his mind, takes him back to a time before everything went so wrong, running the same drills again and again out in the yards before Hod the Weaponsmaster’s sharp eye and critical tongue. By the time he pauses, panting, and notices that he isn’t alone, he feels almost cheerful despite his situation. The exercise is good, and he is feeling the benefits of relief from the constant guard he has had to keep on his Skill for the last few weeks on the Skill-road.

He throws the newcomer a wolfish smile, tossing his sword from hand to hand. “Looking for a sparring partner?”

Comments

[knittingbackwards]

"You seem lost, young man." Since learning that his money is taken from the Districts, Merlyn has made a point of not using his credit card where at all possible. He's living an increasingly ascetic life in the Center, and as such, rarely ventures out of it. But there are some necessities that simply can't be got in the confines of the tower, which is why he's currently walking down the street carrying two bulging bags of books and yarn.

He isn't in a hurry, though, and so it's not even a real decision to stop and help out someone who is so clearly out of his depth. He looks down for a moment at the fledgeling sparrow which, despite his urgings, has decided to live in his beard and is now cheeping impatiently. "Oh, do be quiet. I told you, if you will insist on nesting there, you'll just have to live with the consequences." Then, back to Fitz, with a warm, grandfatherly smile, "I take it you've just arrived?"

Although he cuts a rather queer figure, the old wizard looks no more a part of the city than Fitz does. He's persisted, against his Stylist's wishes, in wearing the same clothes day in, day out, and the rich velvet robes are getting a little the worse for wear. His beard, unsurprisingly, looks like a bird's-nest, and when he takes off his conical hat to scratch his head, he seems to be the only person in the street to be going bald entirely naturally. In fact, he seems to be the only person in the street to be old.

[witbastard]

Still unused to walking around without his Wit-sense, and distracted by the glittering crowds, Fitz takes a moment to notice he's being addressed. He blinks and turns his attention to the old man in front of him. His eyes keep drifting down to the chirruping bird in Merlyn's beard. It's a whole other kind of strange to the flashing lights and unnatural colours surrounding him. The question of whether he's addressing Old Blood presents itself, and he wishes dearly that he knew whether this old man was also Witted, and, if so, whether his Wit has abandoned him as totally in this soulless city.

He realises he is gaping like an idiot again, and forces himself to focus.

"Oh. Yes. This morning, I suppose, though it's been a long day."

[knittingbackwards]

"Yes, yes. I should imagine so." Merlyn clicks his tongue disapprovingly, shaking his head. "I wish I could tell you it will improve with time, but no. This by-our-lady place is no less ostentatiously ridiculous once you get used to it." Replacing his hat on his head, he proffers one bony hand, gnarled as old wood. "I am Merlyn, late of old England, now, alas, thoroughly trapped in this dratted place. Welcome, for what it's worth, to Panem."

His tone suggests that what it's worth may be even less than Fitz thinks, and furthermore, that it is only getting less worthwhile in his eyes.

[witbastard]

"I was rather hoping not to be here that long," Fitz replies ruefully. He isn't sure whether he can trust Merlyn - they've just met, and he's learnt his lesson about underestimating people just because they look harmless - but he figures the Capitol's pretty well aware of his feelings on the matter. "I've things to attend to back home."

The word 'England' means about as much to him as 'Panem', but it hardly matters. He'll have to find his way somehow, the names hardly matter. He takes the hand Merlyn proffers, and shakes it somewhat awkwardly.

"Good to meet you, Merlyn. I'm -" And here he pauses a moment, because after the past year it feels so strange to introduce himself by his true name. But the Peacekeepers addressed him so, and so it's clear his captors know who he is, and equally clear that he's under their watchful eye even now, or they would not have let him out into the city. He cannot afford to waste an alias on this, or, for that matter, to let on that he's smart enough to lie, if he can help it. "Fitz," he finishes somewhat lamely. "Late of Buck, though I've travelled long and far from there."

C

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn is still deep in the frustration and depression that has dogged her since the Arena. Her time with Firo and Arya lately has dulled the worst edges of the pain, but she's still a bundle of pent-up energy and half-hidden grief, spending a lot of time with the horses and a good seven or eight hours a day in hard training. The old callouses on her hands have blistered, healed, blistered again. Her bad arm is giving her constant pain, a dull ache that demands rest she never gives it.

She barely looks at the stranger until he speaks to her. By that time, she's picking through the sword rack, shield buckled to her arm, back to the room. Her long hair is braided back, but messily, and her loose tunic and trousers are crumpled. She doesn't answer his smile, but only nods, selecting a longsword from the rack and turning to face him.

"Better a partner than a straw man," she agrees, dropping back into a defensive stance, handling the longsword with ease. "Whenever you will, I am ready."

[witbastard]

Fitz looks her over, tucking back a lock of dark hair that's escaped his warrior's tail and rolling his shoulders as he settles into a similar stance. She looks hard and confident, and he almost laughs thinking about how utterly outclassed he probably is. After all, the sword was never his best weapon - it tends to end up on the ground as he brawls, and his fighting method consists mostly of hurling himself as hard as possible at his opponent and taking less harm than he deals - and it has been a good year or so since he did regular drills and sparring. This has the potential to be very embarrassing and rather painful.

He smiles crookedly. "My lady, you'll forgive me if I make a poor showing. I have been on the road for some months, and not practising as I should."

The sword in his hand is well-balanced and weighted, though not a patch on Hod's workmanship. He adjusts his grip, lowers his stance, takes another moment, then more or less experimentally feints to her left and brings his sword up into her right, keeping his guard tight.

[shieldofrohan]

"I will forgive you, my lord," Éowyn agrees, and flashes her teeth for a moment in a smile that doesn't touch her eyes, "but not spare you."

She is relieved, however, to see that he knows the basics. She is not opposed to teaching - has been doing just that with Firo, Gary, and Bayard - but it isn't what she wants to be doing just now. Teaching takes patience, steadiness and gentleness. All her patience, just now, is tied up in not waging open war on the Capitol.

So she attacks fast and hard, not pulling her punches; her shield comes up to counter his feint, her sword to match the second blow, and she presses the attack, trying to catch his sword with her own and striking out at his gut with the edge of her shield. There's a vicious kind of satisfaction in being able to fight - really fight, against an enemy standing solid in front of her, even if he isn't the one she's angry at. She fights with skill, but not finesse, like a soldier rather than a knight, nothing flashy or impractical about it. She looks, from her fighting style, less like a lady of the court and more like someone who would kick you in the crotch and cut you while you were doubled over.

"You are new-come, then?" she asks, pivoting away and slashing low at his knees with the blunted practice sword.

Imagine I have a fighty icon (it's on my list)

[witbastard]

This suits Fitz fine; he's much better at fighting like a soldier than fighting like a lord, and it's a relief to feel that she's tough enough that he doesn't need to reign in and stick to formal swordplay. He catches her sword with his as he dodges back, trying to push her swing further to the floor as he slashes upwards towards her belly.

"Difficult to tell, in this place. The lights are so bright there seems no day or night. And I was unconscious for a time." He breaks off to focus on warding off her attacks, and continues after a moment, "No more than a day or two. I suppose I am new enough."

A

[contrarianlibrarian]

China waits until the man comes closer into view before speaking up from her seat in the common area. "Hello."

She shuts the book on her lap as she looks him over, eyes quickly assessing him as she would one of her wares.

"May I welcome you to Panem? Assuming you that are new, of course."

It's entirely possible that he isn't the new Tribute 11 is to be expecting, but she finds that unlikely. There are always visitors from other floors, but she tries to keep up to date on all the faces.

[witbastard]

When she addresses him, Fitz stops moving, but neither relaxes nor sits, standing stiffly with his hands flexing by his sides, ready to attack or defend if necessary.

"That's a kinder welcome than the men who greeted me in my cell thought to give," he observes rather bitterly. His voice is hoarse - his jaw shifts slightly as he tries to soften his dry throat. "Where am I? And why?"

[contrarianlibrarian]

The corners of her mouth turn down slightly. "They didn't even tell you that? They truly are becoming lax--my apologies for that."

She shakes her head at the sorry state of affairs. Beckoning to the far corner of the room, she calls forth an Avox, murmuring to them to please bring the gentleman some water. She looks back to him.

"Would you care to sit? The news may be received better if you allow yourself to relax."

The Avox is quick in returning, silently offering the glass to him.

[witbastard]

Since he has no intention of telling her why the Peacekeepers were interrupted in their task (it's bad enough he managed to introduce himself to his enemies by massively failing to fight them and then having a seizure at them, without everyone who might want to hurt him knowing about it), he doesn't bother to explain. Nor does he sit, although his legs aren't the steadiest right now, and drinking what she offers him would be sheer stupidity, much as he wants to. He pretends not to see the glass being offered to him. His hands are shaking with tiredness anyway, which he disguises by clenching his fists hard; he'd probably slop water everywhere, based on how his day's been going so far.

"Today I was spirited from my companions without warning, by no mechanism I have found, to be locked in this...place," he points out. "I doubt sitting will do much to relax me. Why don't you explain, and I'll receive it how I will."

Training Center - let me know if this is okay!

[whatisay]

Jason doesn't come to the gym in the Tribute Center to train, and it shows in the way he's dressed. He's in a suit with its sleeves rolled up around his elbows, hand jammed into slacks, dress shirt tucked but mussed. He's looking for another one of his Tributes again, and since no one seems to know where they are he's tracking their location on his phone, watching the little red dot that symbolizes them somewhere on this floor. His cigarette's trapped between his teeth so it doesn't fall as his mouth moves.

He's not even paying attention to Fitz when he's addressed. His head snaps up midway through him muttering to himself about how he doesn't get paid enough to herd cats and how if he had his way he'd get a cattle prod or at least a lasso to deal with these animals, and he pauses.

"Tell me you're joking." He greets Fitz with a sneer, not removing his hand from his pocket. "Do I look like I'm some offworld barbarian who's going to start slashing around with sharpened metal?"

[witbastard]

Fitz almost has to laugh at the absurdity of it. His mouth curls slightly, and he carefully replaces the sword in the rack, remembering that he mustn't seem threatening, and takes in the older man's odd suit and superior sneer.

"No, I suppose not. You look like the sort of barbarian who prefers others to do the dying for him. You're of this place, clearly. A little honest sweat is beneath you."

[whatisay]

"Is that so?" Jason's drawl is lazy, almost casual, a veil over the flare of disgust and bitterness that bursts up into his voice from the simmering cauldron of his pissy mood. If Fitz were the first Tribute to say this, Jason would be annoyed. As it stands, what little walls stand between Jason and fury have been worn thin by this same accusation over and over.

He tucks his phone away. "And what would you know about my honest sweat?"

[witbastard]

"A sight more than you, I'd warrant, for I doubt you've shed enough to know what it is." His smile is hard, and his eyes speak his dislike. He always did have a short leash on his temper, and though he knows he needs to be careful, and has been warned enough about the consequences of speaking out, Jason's attitude galls him. And he would prefer to feel anger than despair.

C

[needlebearer]

Arya looks from Fitz to the sword in his hand and back again. The sword gripped in her own hands is small and slim, suited more to fencing - the closest she'd heard Water Dancing described to here - and agile combat than swinging and hacking with brute strength.

"Have you much training?"

[witbastard]

Fitz looks at her, considering. She's just a child, but, he reminds himself, probably not much younger than he was when he first started killing for his king. And she holds her sword confidently. He won't do her the disservice of patronising her.

"Some. I trained under Hod the Weaponsmaster for some years, and I fought in the Red Ship Wars."

[needlebearer]

"I trained with the First Sword of Braavos - the best swordsman in the world. And then when I got here I trained with Cassandra Pentaghast and Aragorn." She's sure the names and titles will mean little to him, but she hopes they'll sound impressive nonetheless. "Can girls fight where you come from? I mean, are they allowed to?"

B - LET'S GET THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD

[69problems]

One of the unexpected upsides to being a mentor is the sudden upswing in time one can devote to learning the layout of the city one has publicly adopted as one's home. Signless knew the Capitol well enough before but now that he's had months uninterrupted to explore it he navigates it with the same ease as the natives around him. If he cared to think about it it might bother him to realize that, with his gray skin and strange eyes and horns, he looks just like a Capitolite who's taken body modification a little too far in pursuit of emulating their favorite offworld tribute. It might also amuse him: he started the troll craze and now he blends in well enough in the Capitol to look like a victim of it.

There are still things about him that read as distinctly un-Panem, though, and chief among those right now are his relatively simple, flowy outfit and the gently rustling paper bag he holds in one hand. It's full of crickets, because he feels the occasional treat is something he deserves. It keeps his spirits up.

It's the hand with the bag he lifts in greeting and in an attempt to catch Fitz's attention. After two years in Panem he can spot a new arrival from a mile away, and Fitz is the only one standing still instead of scuttling from storefront to storefront.

"Hello there. Am I right in thinking you're a little lost?"

[witbastard]

Fitz takes a long, deep breath, and adjusts his mind to the fact that everyone here looks like they've sprung out of a fairytale or a nightmare. He can deal with this. Even if this guy is grey and has horns. This is fine.

He's quiet for a moment, thinking how to respond. Unlike other people he's met, this man is clearly from the Capitol, and it seems impolitic to say what he's really thinking, which is that this kind of decadence is disorientating and excessive, and the streets are sterile and inhuman, and the glitter and glamour of it built on the blood of the Districts taints everything with a bitter stench that no amount of perfumed air can wash away. He moistens his lips, and tears his eyes away from the shifting colours of the crowds.

"Not lost, exactly. Only fascinated. I'm a newcomer here, and I've long been living in the country. Such opulence, such glamour, is all very new to me."

It's probably the best road to take. He looks like a starry-eyed country lad amongst all these fancifully dressed people, he may as well play the part.

[69problems]

He nods, not with the glassy-eyed non-understanding of a Capitolite but with the air of someone who has heard this before and perhaps said it themselves once.

"It was like that for me when I first arrived here. I spent most of my life in the wilderness traveling from village to village. We passed through cities on occasion, but never anything like this."

Over Fitz's shoulder he spots a Capitol girl with bright pink hair and curling (fake) horns in a familiar and still incorrect shade of purple. His black lips thin a little. Dealing with fans is something he's resigned to at this point, but he'd like to be resigned to it on his schedule.

"Walk with me? I'll answer questions, if you have them. The novelty has worn off after two years here."

C

[letthemburn]

Iskierka still isn't entirely certain what to make of the training center. In theory it's a perfectly fine thing to have and she can easily get behind the idea of having somewhere to hone ones skills in the downtime between arenas besides. The probably lies in the fact that most of things actually in the room are built more for people who happen to be humanoid in shape and Iskierka very much isn't, largely on account of being an actual dragon.

Not a very large dragon, mind - she stand about as tall at the shoulder as a reasonably sized horse - but a dragon none the less. And just in case that wasn't enough, the assortment of spines and spikes that make their way down her spine and over her back seem to be gently steaming.

"I would not mind, I suppose," she answers, wings half-spreading and then settling back onto her back in a gesture that's meant as a rough equivalent to a shrug although whether or not Fitz picks up on that is another matter entirely, given that it's only the roughest of approximations. (One of the problems of being quadrupedal and not having quite the same shoulders to most everyone else.)

Re: C

[witbastard]

All the breath and all the cockiness goes out of him at once, in a whispered, almost reverential, "Eda and El!" A dragon! A true dragon, in the flesh! His sword arm drops limply to his side as he gapes at her.

It takes him a second to realise how rude he's being, and he quickly gathers himself together and bows. "Your pardon. I only...it...we've been searching so long. To find your kind, in my world. The dragons...the Elderlings...I...forgive my rudeness."

[letthemburn]

Truth be told, the staring doesn't bother Iskierka at all. In fact, its the closest thing to the reactions she'd have gotten at home she's seen since her arrival (or at least, the closest thing to the reaction a non-aviator would have, and she hadn't quite realized how much she missed that, until just now.) Admittedly, some of the things Fitz is mentioning mean nothing to her - and she's certainly never heard dragons referred as Elderlings - but she understands enough to get the general idea and the reverential awe goes a long way to helping besides.

(She is, after all, generally of the opinion that people should be awed at the sight of her.)

"It is quite alright. If you have been searching as long as that it is only understandable to be surprised."