thecapitol | But you, my son, have not found inner peace.

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But you, my son, have not found inner peace.

Who| Altaïr ibn La-Ahad & Roland Deschain

ka_sera_sera & possibly YOU
What| sparring and (as always) scoping out allies/enemies
Where| Training Center gym
When| aug 13 (holy backdating, batman!)
Warnings/Notes| not-dad issues, #assassin lyfe

He did all his climbing in the city, memorizing every street and scalable building. But sparring practice was still best done in the gym, even if the dummies made poor partners. He had been hesitant to ask outright for someone to spar with, having kept mostly to himself for a while. He was still reeling from the shame of his defeat in the mini arena, and wasn't sure he could strike up conversation without feeling like everyone might jeer at him. His Brothers back home certainly wasted no time doing that when he was demoted.

His traitor's cuff, however, weighed more heavily on his mind. In the last full arena he had broken the Creed and murdered someone who was (mostly) innocent. He was sure his actions had had something to do with the strange sword he picked up, but he did not excuse himself. Al Mualim would never have. If he was here, he'd have Altaïr put to the death for squandering his second chance at life.

His slashes at the training dummies grew more insistent as he tried to compensate for the disquiet in his thoughts. His knuckles shone white as his shirt--the parts that weren't dampened with sweat, anyway. Al Mualim had berated him for lacking the peace of mind prized among their Brotherhood, but it was difficult to be zen about things when the old man had lifted him so high only to cast him down. Or perhaps Altaïr had done all that himself, and twice over, at that.

When his sword stuck firmly in the dummy and would not be pulled out, his muttered curses were lost in translation.

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It isn't so rare, seeing someone letting their anger out here in the name of training. Even if this were not such a troubled city it is a large one, and contains as many reasons to passionately destroy a training dummy as it contains people. Ordinarily Roland would let a stranger go about his business, and trust that stranger to handle that business however he likes. This stranger, though, is a fellow tribute, and Roland feels enough fellowship for those that he decides his stranger might do with a little piece of advice.

"Take some care," he murmurs, walking over to the murdered dummy and gripping it to help the man yank his sword free. "The more money these people have to spend repairing these in our name, the higher they hold it over our heads later."

He yanked his sword free. In his frustration he even considered scaring this stranger off with it, but pettiness seemed silly now in the face of more serious things, like crippling self-doubt. He lowered it.

"Are you referring to how the people of the Districts pay for our meals? Yes, I know of it," he snapped bitterly, glaring at a spot on the wall. He wasn't sure how credit cards worked exactly, but he was familiar with unfair taxation. He was about to expound on unjust kingdoms, but thought better of it. He knew the Capitol put mechanical ears as well as eyes in the walls. He didn't even know if this tall (he and Altaïr were of a height) stranger was sympathetic to the Districts' plight.

"Mhm." Roland studies that bitter expression, trying to decide if there's going to be any more outbursts, either of action or words. Neither, apparently. "How they used to pay for them, anyway."

He steps back from the dummy, considers, then holds his hand out toward the man. That's another thing those two mechanical fingers are good for, for all their frustrations - shaking hands tends to go a little bit easier. "I'm Roland Deschain. Cry pardon for the interruption, but it looked like you could do with one."

He didn't like having his name broadcast any more than his face. Assassins were supposed to be hidden blades in the crowd, nothing more. Part of their success was due to remaining practically invisible until it was too late. Now an entire country knew what he looked like.

"Altaïr."

He made no comment on whether he did or didn't need an interruption. He was trained to hide things like self-doubt, affection, or hesitation. Cautiously he extended his hand and shook what looked like fingers in a metal cestus...? Weren't weapons and armor prohibited? At least he could count on the Capitol to prevent the death of a Tribute on their own premises should Roland decide to attack him. That was the only good thing about having cameras everywhere in a building full of people encouraged to kill each other.

"Why should the Capitol let go of something they've held onto so tightly since their war? I am sure the Districts still pay in other ways, just as they always have."

"Aye," Roland says, taking that 'why' as a hypothetical one. "I'm sure they do," And that is all there is to say about that. The Capitol is as it is, and the districts are as they are, and of course the districts are the ones to pay for it. Because no matter how strange the place to which Roland travels, there are some ways in which the people there are always the same. This is a truth which does not surprise him.

"If you like I'll leave you now to your own business - but I could use a sparring partner, and I think you could use a target for all that anger which might give you a little more challenge. Care for it? Any weapon you like," he tosses his head toward all the different ones laid out along one of the room's walls. "Matters naught to me."

He really will leave without hesitation if the man doesn't take his offer, and his tone and manner might say as much. But neither is he lying. There're only so many things a man can practice in these training rooms by himself, after all, and Roland has done most of them.

"It is not wise to bring anger to sparring practice. Once, I was almost killed by someone who did."

He kept his voice even and matter-of-fact. He chose not to elaborate on the time Abbas had lashed out at him for telling the truth about his father. For one, it was a delicate subject. For another, they had been mere boys. And finally, Abbas had been nothing but a pain in his ass since then.

"But it is true that practicing alone does not hone skill. Are you any good with a blade?" He gestured with the hand holding the sword. "Or, pick up a knife or a mace if you wish. I must test my sword against all manner of weapons and situations."

Roland had not stated a weapon preference, which was interesting. Perhaps he'd tried them all. Altaïr hoped so, since he needed to expand his skill set. For now though, he was content to warm up with the sword he was holding, get a feel for this man.

Now a mace, that's interesting. It'll limit him, not wanting to break any of the other man's bones with it, and presumably not being able to make up for its lack of speed with a shield of any kind. He studies the wall, picks one out. "Any weapon'll kill you if you use it without discipline. Anger's no different."

He hefts his new weapon. Small, as these go, and hopefully a little quicker for it. Its end is about the size of an orange, and has a few dull little spikes sticking out. Not heavy enough to kill, unless he actively tries for it, and its handle ought to be long enough to deflect a sword blow, at the right angle. It'll do. "What rules do you usually lay down? When does the bout end?"

Yes, yes, enough about his anger already. Altaïr knew enough about discipline to last him a lifetime, thanks to Al Mualim. He ambled towards Roland, moving his sword in circles to loosen up and readjust to its weight. It was edged on one side, gently curved, and lightened by grooves cut out of the thickest part of the blade, made for quick slashing. It was barely sharpened, like the sort used for students or European tournaments.

He thought back to his training in the sparring ring in the front courtyard. Trying to maim each other like Abbas had done had been out of the question. They had both been punished for that fight. Otherwise, he and Roland were free to do as they wished. There had been time limits only because other novices needed a turn in the ring. Altaïr did not think short rounds would help them get used to fighting in the arena.

"When someone yields. Or first blood. Or perhaps we will run out of time and need to eat. Of course, in the arena, we will not be so fortunate to stop fighting for food."

He allowed himself a grim smirk before lunging in a feint.

That last sounds like nothing so much as a challenge to him, as if the other man would be only too happy if Roland decides to keep on until one of them is unable, and Roland replies with a grunt as he steps quickly to one side to avoid that lunge. The end of this weapon may be relatively small but it's still heavy, and so it's better to keep it crossed over his chest and sitting on his opposite shoulder until he really needs to use it.

"If you think I'll keep on here 'till the Peacekeepers come to arrest us, you've another think coming. You know as well as I that this thing'll break bones before it draws first blood." In other words, sir, Roland does not plan to yield and so you seem to've stacked the odds a little in your favor, there.

Edited 2015-11-23 20:49 (UTC)

"There are no rules against deception in the arena. Or in life, for that matter," he neatly excused himself. He knew very well his sword was more likely to get a bit of blood on it first. "Be assured, I will yield if you break my leg. At that point, I would not be able to escape. Although," he paused speaking to lunge his other hand for a grab he knew would miss, then circle around to test his blade again, as an idea occurred to him, "it would be an interesting exercise to disable each other without trying to deal lethal blows. There is no knowing who the real enemy is in an arena. Taking someone down without killing them is a useful skill. Shall we try it?"

Yes, this idea was better, and even a bit more of a challenge. (Had this man intended that?) Altaïr had been trained to kill once he entered a fight. He was not afraid to skirt close to invalidating the Gamemakers' claim that Tributes must fight each other. It was part of his outspokenness, the best he could do in a place with cameras everywhere.

If Roland had known when approaching this man that he's the type who apparently goes into training bouts ready to kill -

Well, he still would have offered. Possibly a bit more eagerly. Stupid idea, of course, because the two of them are valuable. Their bodies, at least, are valuable, and if the men using those valuable bodies wrecked them Roland's sure the gamemakers would have something to say. Something neither of them, or at the very least, Roland, does not want at all to hear.

But a partner who comes into this ready to kill, it couldn't be a more different from the last real bout he's had in this room, the one with Firo after that crowning which had turned into something more like boyish tussling and teasing than anything close to practice. It'd been... It'd been nice. It's a memory Roland approaches cautiously, gratefully.

But here, here and now, he feels alive. In spite of the blunt weapon he holds, Roland feels sharp.

"Then we're agreed. First blood, no killing." He agrees to this with satisfaction, because making the man bleed without maiming him - although he is sure the other man will show no such restraint - that'll be a challenge. He'll have to try and use that sword, somehow. The latest time Altair tests his sword Roland blocks it, and when he flicks his mace away he tries to catch the sword's edge with the mace's head, wants to see if he can turn it, just a little.

Nothing serious now, though, just wants to try it. Wants to try and keep Altair from knowing he's trying it, too, so he quickly follows that up with a swing at one of the man's feet. Not aimed to the middle of the foot, just to the side, just enough so it may look like he wants to make Altair dance.

It was almost a lazy parry, trying to turn Altaïr's sword. Just warming up? He slid the sword smoothly back with a flick of his shoulder, but then Roland was coming in for a swing at his feet. Warming up more. Clever. The corners of his mouth began to turn up. Altaïr did indeed dance, an almost lazy circling away of feet as he kept his sword up and his free arm guarded.

"Have you had to do that? Defeat someone who might have been an enemy without killing them? Was it worth it?"

He wasn't going to hide his fancy footwork; in fact, he was quite proud of it. He weaved back with a swiftness that surprised guards every time and swiped at Roland's chest, with a kick aimed at his knee for good measure.

Roland dances too, which he expects is what Altaïr wanted to see. At his age, the knees are probably an even more vulnerable spot than they ever were so doing any less to avoid the hit would have been a bad choice. Not that Roland minds much. There's something in this, in showing your skill to an enemy and seeing theirs in return, having the chance to test those skills instead of focusing only on finding the first opportunity to make a quick kill. So he doesn't hide his own nimble feet, either, jumping back and landing on one foot for an immediate hop in another direction, wanting to try and avoid both the weapon and the foot.

"Mhm." He says it absently, well aware how effective words can be in distracting an opponent. He could outright ignore the words, of course, but his opponent now is no Capitolite, seems skilled of body and quick of mind, and thus deserves to at least be acknowledged. Even if his last question was so subjective, so abstract, that Roland hardly considers it worth asking. "Worth it. Depends on what you mean by that. Haven't you ever had a reason to spare a man's life?"

Roland's mind is elsewhere as he says this, thinking on the fact that Altaïr's kick could have been an attempt to herd Roland in one direction or another. And it might not have been. Either way, it seems a tactic worth trying and so Roland gives his mace a wide swing. The weapon is slow, the move will keep his arm occupied and his posture open for long enough to be a risk, but he's hoping to cover enough space that Altaïr only has so many directions in which to go, a few of them in the direction of walls or, at the very least, training dummies that might be worth trying to back the man into.

"When one acquires the skills we have? Every day." Amidst the trained attacks and skillful dodges, that much was obvious. The world was full of men who found power and abused it. Altaïr moved with more discipline than someone his age should, and Roland was more nimble than anyone his age had a right to be.

"What I mean is, was it agreeable to you, personally, to show that kind of mercy?" He was wary of asking more specific questions. That might get them in the wrong sort of trouble. He had paid the price of indiscretion before.The wall closed in on his back, but he did not see walls as impenetrable barriers. They could be tools.

He sidestepped backwards in exactly the direction Roland pushed him in, but much too fast for a simple evasive maneuver. Then he was running on the wall and leaping off it to fly at Roland with his feet tucked for speed and sword poised to stab.

(ooc: Tell me if I'm having Roland avoid too many of his attacks, I'm not sure how to play this in a way that acknowledges both their skills but still keeps the match from ending too soon. So yeah if there's anything I can do to keep this going while doing better at acknowledging Altaïr for the badass that he is, let me know.)

Roland doesn't waste time being surprised - although that move is a surprise, and a pleasant one, too. It'd be damned unpleasant if this man were an enemy, but here and now he is not, and there is a definite pleasure in seeing such skill so easily used.

The question is out of his mind for the moment. As the man does not back against the wall but instead backs up it Roland does not hesitate to wonder things like what or how, he only starts raising that heavy mace up in his hands, which is what lets him have it up by the time that sword comes his way. It'd be sensible to aim for the hands. More chance of throwing off the weapon that way, they're a bigger target. But damaging a man's hands is a last resort, not suited for a match like this, and so Roland uses his mace as it was never intended to be used, holds it upright in an effort to use its long metal handle to try and slap the blade aside. That's all he has time for although he's ready to move back, to try and maneuver around however Altaïr recovers from that leap because if Roland ends up with his own back to the wall, he won't be able to fall back on Altaïr's particular trick.

It'd be useful here, Roland knows, if Altaïr is the sort of man who mislikes being ignored. He's decided to treat the man with courtesy and he hasn't changed his mind on that, but some expect their opponents to talk their way through every moment of every fight. Roland will never be the sort of man who can easily distract his opponent with words, but accidentally offending them with long silences has done him some good in the past. Maybe not much chance that'll work here, but he can't waste the attention it'd take to think on words until they pause to eye one another again. He doesn't know what sort of man Altaïr is when it comes to talking, but as there's no choice but to ignore the man for a few moments, Roland supposes he'll be finding out.

[ ooc: I kind of expected Roland to block it, so it's all good! ]

He circled like a cat thwarted from a pounce but still wanting to pace closer for the kill. Rather than being offended, a smirk turned one corner of his scarred lips upward. If his opponent fell silent, it might mean surprise and a need to reevaluate.

"Take all the time you need to think on your answer. I know you must also consider the new paths I might use."

Walls, crates of supplies, observation decks, benches, raised sparring platforms, pillars, dummy storage boxes, obstacle courses, rafters, climbing ropes and nets... If Altaïr needed to use them, he would. This skill was most useful when putting some distance between him and enemies, but it could also serve as it did moments ago.

"I will even wait for you to make the next move," he added, the picture of politeness while knowing it to be a slight. However, it was also a bit of a trap. Altaïr was very good at countering.

Roland nods, apparently not minding the slight at all. Instead of acting insulted he straightens up, letting the mace hang at his side and rolling his shoulders, swapping the mace over to his other hand and shaking out his arm, to all appearances taking that 'I will wait' as an invitation to take a little break.

"Is mercy to an enemy agreeable to me, that's what you asked? Hm, agreeable." If it sounds like he's tasting the word, trying to get the feel of it, that's because he is. "Preference makes no difference. It never has. A gunslinger doesn't kill where there isn't a need. That's all. 'Agreeable' is a trap men lay for themselves in their own minds."

Almost before he's finished speaking Roland tries to dash toward a more open space. There is no true open space in here, of course - now that he knows more about what this man can do, the space of this room is entirely changed. What Roland can do is try to move to a place where there are fewer directions from which Altair can come. A dummy on one side, an obstacle course on the other, boxes about twenty feet away and rafters above. That'll be the best spot he's going to get, he thinks. If he can get there.

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But you, my son, have not found inner peace.

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oh my god this is late, feel free to ignore if you want to drop

nayyyyy I love the idea of these two doing this and will backtag forever

lol Roland pls

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