thecapitol | The Crowning of Cullen Rutherford

The Crowning of Cullen Rutherford

Who| Everyone who's anyone.
What| The Crowning of Cullen Rutherford.
Where| The new Rutherford Castle.
When| Friday, late afternoon into the evening.
Notes| This event is mandatory for all Tributes to attend. Even if you do not tag in, your character will attend this party. Peacekeepers will be on high alert, so no funny business.
WARNINGS| Please warn appropriately in headers.

The crowning ceremony takes place in an approximation of Skyhold, a large fortress with a castle with a sweeping main hall, gardens, and two levels of courtyard. Flags and banners hang everywhere, some with heraldry of the Inquisition, some with the heraldry of the Templar Order, a nod to Cullen's old days as a Templar. And of course, just as prominent everywhere you look is the seal of the Capitol. Just in case anyone forgot where they were.

The medieval fashion (or as close of approximation to medieval as the Capitol as gotten) that had come in with the 13th arena is back in full swing. There's plenty of fake armor to be seen, and foam swords resting on Capitolite hips. Sweeping ballgowns can be spotted as well, and a few more savvy people seem to have come dressed in a strange red and gold uniform. The avoxes do their best to blend in to the environment with drab brown peasant outfits.

In the main hall, tables filled with medieval food have been set up on both sides of the walls, filled with approximations of medieval food--As far as the Capitolites are concerned, that means normal food, but with a tendency for venison and large turkey legs. There are even dainty little cakes for dessert. Along the walls, above the food tables, hang multiple pictures. Featuring in this galley are every native of Thedas that had come to Panem at one point or another, all of them dressed in dour blacks of funeral wear, save the four remaining Thedasians. But of course, there are plenty of pictures of the Victor, starting with Cullen has a chubby blond child, going into him as an awkward young Templar (there's even a picture of him talking to a woman that the title identifies as Warden Amell), going through unfortunate hair cuts, and of course, various pictures of him in Panem, capturing a variety of touching and painful moments.

It all culminates when you get to the end of the hall, where there rests a massive throne just for Cullen. And behind it, the largest picture of them all, a massive portrait of Cullen. Adella stands next to him, holding an infant in her arms. Maxwell and Tabris are, for some reason, also featured in this family portrait, and you have to wonder if the artist in question didn't perhaps ship the ever popular Maxullen, because Maxwell's hand was looking awfully chummy on Cullen's shoulder.

The bottom courtyard has been set up with stalls, where you can buy foam swords and shields, little mabari plushes, and even a lion helmet. There's also little wedding toppers, shaped just like Cullen and Adella, and framed pictures of most of the art that hangs in the main hall. The nearby stables have been stocked with a variety of mounts, from the standard horses to more exotic harts, a strange dragon-like creature, and...no one is really sure what this is, but it...looks interesting?

In the upper courtyard, there's the Herald's Rest, a real, rustic tavern, with a woman playing a guitar and singing various songs. All the songs seem to revolve around how great the Capitol is, which kind of offsets the mood, but it's the thought that counts, right? It doesn't help that the bar has been outfitted to serve all kinds of modern drinks, but who wants plain ale, anyway? Outside of the tavern is a practice ring, where people can put to use their fake swords and shields, either trying to maul each other, or a target. Several peacekeepers offset the aesthetic feel in uncompromising white, carefully watching all participants to make sure that everyone is playing nicely.

If everything is just a little too busy for you, the garden is left in quiet peace. A woman dressed in red and white robes will occasionally begin speaking, extolling the virtues of the Capitol, and President Snow in a lengthy monologue.

There are a few actors wandering around, appearing as various people who have made an impact on Cullen's life. There's the mysterious Warden Amell, a man in full armor, and a woman dressed similarly. These two will wander around, swords in hand, ready to smack anyone with foam swords and accuse them of being blood mages. One actress is dressed like a certain Marian Hawke who had at one time been a tribute. She darts around the fortress, stopping people and regaling them with highly exaggerated tales of things that Cullen has supposedly done. There's even a few creatures running around that people may recognize from the last arena, such as the tastefully almost-nude desire demon that will occasionally try to sidle up to people--usually to be driven off by one of the people in armor.

There's one more addition to the party--dogs! A very specific kind of dog. Several dogs simply wander around Skyhold, trying to steal people's food and begging for attention. Next to the throne are four particularly handsome ones, each one with a collar baring the name of one of the four Thedasians left.

If wandering around Skyhold and competing with swords leaves you dry-mouthed, you're in luck! Dotted around the area are fountains that all pour a strange, bright blue punch. Listen closely, because the fountain seems to be humming a strange tune. If you have a careful eye, you might even find the one that has red punch pouring out if it, humming an oddly sinister tune.

Well, what harm could there be in going ahead and trying it out anyway?

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"Mm." Roland gives a brief nod, and since she seems friendly enough he takes a couple steps closer. "That's what they're for, more or less. Think they're small, huh?"

He thinks on his old guns, pictures them deliberately for the first time in what feels like a while. 'Small' isn't the word he'd use. However. "Suppose they'd seem so, if you're used to a longbow. How's your aim?"

"Pretty good." She was average among her people but she was the only one here so why not brag a little "On Berk we're trained to use bows as soon as we're strong enough to hold the string back. We used to have to use them to fight dragons until we started riding them."

There was also the more practical uses such as hunting or the more somber uses such as saying goodbye to the dead via flaming boat to the afterlife.

He's nodding when she mentions learning to use bows. It was the same way with his tet and their teacher, back when he'd been very young. But what she says next distracts him before he says so; he straightens, clearly looking much more interested. "You rode them? Truly? Even in the old tales, I've never heard the like."

She's not sure when she took over for Hiccup being the number 1 dragon fangirl of Berk, but since it was the one thing that made her sound impressive to most people she continued to harp on it even if her skills were mediocre at best.

"Yeah, the son of the chief of our tribe figured out how and I was one of the first vikings to ride a dragon. My brother and I had a two headed one named Barf and Belch. They could make explosions bigger and more beautiful then any dragon." She sighed nostalgically.

"I hoped I'd see them once I realized Berk was in the arena. But none of the dragons I knew were there...I mean I knew what they were I just didn't know them personally...does that make sense?"

He nods. "You knew yours like a man'd know a good horse." He looks across the creatures in this mock-stable for a second. No horses in sight. Far too common for one of the Capitol's parties, likely. "How did you convince 'em to let you ride, and follow your order? The ones in my world - at least, to hear tell - were far too proud for that. Any man who'd try might find himself well roasted in short order."

"Oh there's like this whole thing." She explains eagerly having gotten much better at the telling with practice. "First you gotta show them you're not armed. No weapons or they get skittish. Then if you have any fish give it to them, but not eels they hate that stuff! Dragon nip works too they get soooo relaxed with it."

"But you don't need the fish or nip, that just helps. If the dragon is peaceful enough you just hold out your hand and keep eye contact. Let them know you don't wanna hurt them. And if they agree they'll push against your hand and let you pet em! After that you just kinda...work your way onto their back when they let you. The more often you ride the more relaxed they get about it."

Roland listens closely, looking thoughtful after she finishes. "Huh. Who'd have guessed it'd be so easy? Any man who tried that on the dragons which were once in my world might be very lucky to survive the attempt. Somehow I suspect the dragons in that arena were the same. Didn't try that on them, did you?"

From the shit eating grin on her face it's pretty clear he nailed it.

"Almost got eaten like five times before I figured out they wouldn't be tamed. So then I got chased around for like...two weeks and finally got eaten when I ran out of bullets."

It's almost odd, the casual, easy way she speaks about her own death, and a death which was likely fairly painful. Almost because, well, this is Panem, isn't it? It'd say something about her, if most of them hadn't started to speaking like that.

Roland dismisses the thought, focusing on her actual words instead. "Does that mean it's shooting 'em that kept you alive? I wouldn't've thought bullets would do much, even the more powerful ones. What parts were you aiming for?" There's curiosity here, but mostly it's professional interest that's got him asking. Like one businessman asking another how to wield his clipboard most effectively.

Or, well. Nevermind. Perhaps 'gunslinger' is not a profession which lends itself well to metaphor.

"Erm...well the face mostly. Eyes, mouth. Sometimes a dragons got soft spots you can aim for too like the Scauldron." She actually looks guilty bringing that one up.

"When it attacks it's mouth gets all huge and swollen up with water. So if you shoot it then the water leaks out and it can't attack as strong."

Most of the time though he's right, the bullets were a distraction at best and an annoyance to dragons the rest of the time.

"Fair strategy," he nods, moving over toward the stables to lean on one of the doors keeping those odd creatures in. He's not really paying attention to the creature itself, and only glances over at it for a second when he feels it starting to chew on the cuff of his jacket. Well, a stylist designed this jacket. It's no loss. He lets the thing keep chewing, focusing back on Ms. Nut and the conversation. "How many did you take out?"

She thinks for a moment, did she actually kill that Scauldron? No the other girl did that...

"Like...two." She confessed. "And they weren't that big. The rest I just used bullets to get away from." Among other things like hiding under fallen trees or jumping in the ocean.

"At least I didn't go hungry."

"Two is nothing to be ashamed of. Not even two of the smaller ones. A beast less than the size of a house can kill you just as easily. More, maybe, can fit in smaller spaces. I'm not trying to coddle you, either - it can be dangerous to downplay your kills like that."

Did you ask for advice, Miss Nut? No? Well, you get it anyway. Such are the joys of spending any time at all with Roland Deschain.

"The quicker a man forgets that the bigger and more impressive kills aren't necessarily the most dangerous ones, the quicker he gets dead when he least expects it."

The advice happens almost on automatic, though. Roland's mostly thinking on something else. "Wonder what happened to those guns," he murmurs. "Dragon ate 'em, I expect, but after that? Suppose there's no telling." This is not a fact he entirely likes, that may be clear in his face. But it is a fact, or at least a likelihood, and there is no use in arguing with it.

She's getting a lot better at taking unsolicited advice these days. It's easier then when she first arrived and thought she knew everything.

She even smiles.

"Yeah, I guess I forgot that...it's been awhile since I've actually killed something on purpose."

Whoops, slip of the tongue there. Hope her sponsors weren't listening.

"Yeah sorry...I mean maybe I dropped em while I was being eaten but I figure they'd just clean em up with the rest of the arena. Maybe bring em back in another arena down the line you know? Especially if they're yours. They like to leave out a few special items every now and then to make people really fight for them."

"Meant to tempt me into taking on more risk in hopes of holding 'em again. Aye. Sounds like them." Roland's gaze is distant for a second, not quite troubled at the idea - he has been in this damned city for a long time, and knows these people, and it is no surprise - but not quite comfortable with the thought of those old and noble symbols of his office used with no more respect than you'd use on hunks of meat in a trap. No matter, is it? He'll likely not feel them hanging heavy and familiar from his hips again. He's resigned himself to that. Doesn't need them anymore, does he?

Nevermind. "Time'll tell," Roland says, with a little shake of his head. "You don't care for setting out to kill? Animals, or men?"

Imagine, there was a time he'd hardly think to ask that of fair young girls in elegant dress. But this is Panem. No matter how the tributes all started, after a while they all start to have certain things in common.

"Eh...it's like..." This was something she'd been struggling with a long time and she still had no clear answer. Might as well run it past him.

"OK so...death has always been a part of my life. It's just what happens on Berk. If the dragons don't get you the weather might, or maybe you just get unlucky or something. And we were raised to raise and kill our meat, to fish, to hunt boars and fight dragons. And yeah, kill all of those things. And I used to be like...super pumped at the idea of killing a dragon. Like a real woman you know?"

Because clearly a real woman could handle a dragon all on her own.

"But then we started riding dragons and now, even the dragons that are trying to kill me I mostly just have my dragon blow them up and we all fly away. Banged up and burnt but alive."

"Then I get to this place and it's supposed to be like i've died and gone to valhalla. All I have to do is party and fight and life is great! Except sometimes the fighting doesn't feel like fighting. Sometimes the people don't wanna fight, or maybe they just don't wanna fight fair..."

She looks distant for a moment thinking back to her most recent kill in the arena. A kind woman who had only been trying to help her and was sacrificed all so Ruffnut could escape with her life.

"So it's not like valhalla where everyone's a warrior and everyone likes to fight. So it doesn't feel...right I guess? But they're weak little wussies so I should feel good about fighting them. It's easy and maybe it'll toughen them up. There shouldn't be any room for weakness in Valhalla! But this ain't Valhalla."

She blinks back into the moment and looks to him imploringly "Does that make sense?" Because to her it was a tangled mess.

Roland looks down to where the creature is still chewing at his sleeve, pressing at its face to try and figure out how to disengage it. As he does this, he is thinking. It's not that he needs the time to figure out her meaning, that was very clear. But he works over the words anyway, thinks about them. She's vulnerable here, and he could press either side of the issue and maybe go some ways toward convincing her - either that this isn't her world's afterlife and she shouldn't play along at all, or that all she needs to do is be as harsh as possible toward all those tributes who never were warriors and couldn't be even if they wanted, make this whole place even more like her Valhalla.

The former might get her killed, for good this time because that doesn't seem like the kind of action the gamemakers much like. The latter is exactly what those gamemakers most want, and the idea of helping them when he doesn't have to, even in a way as indirect as this, makes him want to vomit. Or kill something. He wonders, for a second, if that last bit is what people tend to call ironic, then decides he doesn't care. More important issues to work his mind over, here.

"Aye," he answers, eventually. "I've wondered whether this wasn't some kind of afterlife, too. Almost seems fitting." Roland shakes his head, looking up and at her. This isn't about him or about his sins.

"Seems like you've decided this isn't your Valhalla," which is a word he pronounces very carefully, half expecting that damned translator chip will twist it into Panem's language in his mouth even if it didn't in hers. "Seems like you need to decide now what you'd like to do about it."

"You'll have to keep killing, of course. Even Signless, the Peaceful Victor, or whatever it is they call him, killed in those arenas sometimes. But what you want to is still plenty important here, even if you can't act on it."

You won't catch Roland saying that often, that what a person wants is just as important as what they've got to do. This is a special case, though. Special circumstances.

She takes a moment to process his words, the girl was never the brightest. But she thinks she might catch his meaning.

"What's important to me..." That's a new puzzle for her to work on.

"I guess there's nothing for it right now then. None of the things I want can be found at this party, and I can't leave till I'm allowed by my escort." The last words turn sour in her voice and she rolls her eyes.

"But after that, I guess we'll see huh?" Then she smiles at him appreciatively.

"What's important to you?"

Roland, sometimes a slow thinker himself, doesn't mind waiting for her to come to some conclusion. It's a very reasonable one, too, once she comes to it, and then it's his turn to think. People, of course, keeping those people who are his own alive despite anything this damned Capitol decides to throw at them. And maybe, someday-

Well. Someday will take care of itself. It usually does. All he is concerned with is keeping those he cares about alive today.

Can he say that out loud, though? Well, he could. Isn't wise.

"The killing is necessary, sometimes," he says, sticking to their topic of the arenas. "But there are other things, too. One of those dragons I had a part in killing - this may seem unremarkable to one of your world, but I rode it. Captain Jack and I, we were caught on it in flight and steered it down. I'll never forget that."

He shrugs. "That was important. That was a story well worth telling. Is that what you mean to ask? What's important in the arenas, other than death?"

She listened, more then usual she listened. Often her mind would wander when people spoke but it was becoming easier and easier for her to focus. Maybe death was sharpening her mind some.

She smiled all the same, that crooked smile.

"I think stories are important no matter where you are, aren't they? Stories become legends after all. And legends last longer then any man or woman or dragon."

"So maybe what's important is to tell a story worth telling?"

"Mhm. Could think of it that way. The tales in my world have men still speaking the names of Tim Stoutheart and the Eld, and years after those men each met the end of their path. Some say the arenas are part of that, the making of a man or woman into legend."

Roland personally thinks the 'legends' created in their arenas are more like a naptime story told at the bed of a very stupid and very spoiled child, and has trouble conceiving of the idea that anyone could think of them as true legend. But, again, here is a thing that Roland can not say. There's bending the rules of common sense, and then there's outright breaking it.

"Is that what you'd do, then? See yourself into your own story? What kind of story would that be, Ms. Nut? What kind of legends do they tell of men back in your world?"

"Legends of men and women who defied nature, who fought alongside gods and who discovered things no viking had ever discovered before." She muses. "Like our great uncle who discovered an entire island and claimed it for himself, or our cousin who's armpit hair was so legendary he could braid it."

Apparently the legends of Berk aren't always as impressive as dragon hunting.

"I guess I wanna be known as a Viking who always did what she wanted. Who was wild and free and could bring chaos and explosions wherever she went. You know...a fun legend."

He nods, looking thoughtful. "Sounds like exactly the type of thing the arenas were built for, doesn't it?"

"Well...sort of I guess." But something about that didn't taste right to her. Her brow furrowed as she tried to figure out what it was and that took her another moment or two. Thank goodness for his patience.

"But the arenas...they can be chaotic and dangerous but the brave and the strong don't always win. It's not like in war where every person who dies a warrior is respected. It's more like...a really violent popularity contest or something. Because you don't have to be strong or even smart to win. You just have to...exist."

But even that didn't feel quite right and the look on her face expressed how puzzled she was.

His thoughtful look fades some, turning into faint surprise. "Miss Nut," he says, almost gently. "How much is it, exactly, that you know about war?"

She is very young, isn't she? There are so many people - so many tributes - in this place who are so young.

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The Crowning of Cullen Rutherford

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