thearena | (OPEN) a soldier on my own

Entry tags:

(OPEN) a soldier on my own

Who| Ragnar Lothbrok and OPEN.
What| Arriving in the middle of a arena never provides the best opportunities or the best mindset, particularly when said arena is nothing like anything the one has ever seen before.
Where| Various locations throughout the arena.
When| End of week two to the end of week three.
Warnings/Notes| Violence, gore, death | a few scenarios are under the cut but feel free to start your own.

[SCENARIO A: ARRIVAL]

The wound he had received before his awakening hadn't been so bad that he thought death would come to collect him, that his gods would take him from his world and into another. When his eyes opened it would either be amongst his homelands, looking down upon his dying ruler, or in the halls of the afterlife, dining amongst myth and legend. It was neither, it was a hard surface that he laid rigid upon and then a rush of madness. Amongst the conflict and the uncomfortable nature of the situation, anger in his eyes, confusion dilating his pupils, there was a rushed explanation and all he could do was stand there in mild shock as the dark green fabric was secured over his form and the final words hit him; a battle to the death. He felt the sharp sting of the injection, escorted to a pedestal and received one final nod as a stranger placed his arm ring around his wrist. It was the only thing he could feel before the world began to move.

His mind was swimming with the details of the situation, he barely even had time to think about his fate back within his home world, the fate of his friends and his family before being lifted upwards. Ragnar Lothbrok held his breath and as he began to see the faint glimpses of light he found himself looking out at the stars, a plethora of stars. Nothing like he had ever seen before. It took him a moment to get over such a experience, to see the sky in such a manner, he can hear his own breathing as feeling overwhelms him and he is blown away by the quiet of space, the beauty of it.

Time was of the essence though and Ragnar had heard what those people had said this was. If anything, he wasn't keen on death and this clearly was not Valhalla. Despite the fact the helmet around his head felt like it was blocking him, he made due with the fact it was there for a reason and quietly he searched, looking for anything that resembled a way to enter the buildings beyond the dusty surface. Once found, it took him a moment to figure out how it worked but as the doors shut behind him, he took note of the stack of helmets that lay at the entrance. It was a tentative movement to take his own off, a bit of a struggle, but once it was he laid it down as silently as possible, trying to calm his breaths as he walked carefully, eyes ever aware and staring at the differences of this world compared to his own.

[SCENARIO B: SEARCHING]

He's seen the creatures in the corners of his vision and he's taken to keeping silent, hiding from them. The clothing feels tight on his body, thin and weak, uncomfortable to what he was used to wearing. He feels restricted in his movement but figures it's the least of his worries as he moves along the what seemed to be abandoned, pieces of the area broken and items lying around discarded but none of use. The northman knows he needs a weapon and needs it quickly if he is going to see another day, have any chance of defending himself against whatever and whoever lingered out there in the recesses of space. It's taken a great deal of his willpower to ignore his curiosity.

And then he sees it.

A familiar sight, several rounded objects strew about the floor. Potatoes, something that for once looks like it could be from his world as upon his farm the crops grow quite well. It's not exactly what he is looking for but Ragnar is well adept at survival and knows that food is important as once one was hungry only weakness would spread. Stilling his breath he rounded a corner, ducking behind a storage unit and looked out towards the food was discarded. It could be rotten for all he knows, or a trap, and silently he wonders if he'll take the risk. He's about to move when he hears it, footsteps echoing softly off the metal walls. His eyes widen, searching out in the darkness. He might not have anything to fight with but he has his body, and if anything he knows how to wield it.

[SCENARIO C: FIGHTING]

Running was not always the brightest idea. Heavy footsteps created a lot of noise and summoned the call of any other creature out for blood. Yet in this moment in time it's all he is able to do as he moves through the corridors of the upper levels looking for sanctuary from the four legged hell spawn that was on his heels. Sharp teeth had already caught him once, his arm bleeding through the fabric of the suit he wore but again, one wound wouldn't stop him as he had suffered worse before and carried on. Keeping his arms close to his body he weaved around the objects that lay haphazardly in the wall, the debris from the crumbling station that contained him. It was only when he began to make his path more difficult that he gained some speed, trying to take tight turns around corners.

His breath was short, his mind focused and when he saw the open doorway he made a quick move.

Pressing his body against the wall he waited for the noise to pass but it was only then he was aware he was sharing a room with another, his bright eyes looking out intently against the figures shadow and tensing his body immediately. He was ready to fight, adrenaline rushing through him and slowly he pushed himself off the wall and approached the other with no intention of fleeing.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The food ran out yesterday, and that forced Molotov out of the lab she'd been hiding in since her partner's death.

She's bedraggled, clearly sick, with dirty bandages wrapped around her middle. The medical supplies she'd won at the Cornucopia, and the others she subsequently stole off Eponine's corpse, those were long gone. There was no more antiseptic, no more gauze. Fever's setting in, leaving her paler than normal and a bit sweaty, but she's not delirious.

And she has a knife.

Pressed to the wall, she makes her way down the hall, and then she sees them. More potatoes. Manna from heaven, at this point, even if she hasn't eaten anything else in two weeks. At least they'd been cooked for the first week.

Molotov peers around, squints into the darkness as she stands still, then she makes a rush for the food, intending to simply scoop it up and head back to her hidey-hole.

She has a knife. The glint of the steel in the dim lighting is enough to catch his attention and he holds his breath. Ragnar thinks about his options immediately, his mind working quickly to digest the situation. He can attack, try to unarm the woman and take the knife or he could go about it with more tack. He could see the state she was in, the bandages around her torso, the state of her body, the sweat that reflects akin to the blade that caught his attention in the first place and the pale nature of her skin. It's obvious this woman is a fighter, that much is true. She reminds him of the woman from his own world who are more than capable of handling themselves so he knows that he has to be careful as he is unarmed. When she moves though, he has to make a decision and he has to make it quickly.

She makes a rush for the food and Ragnar stands up from his hiding spot immediately, making himself known. If he can see her movements he has a better chance of meeting her halfway despite the fact he only has his body to work with. He looks to her grabbing the food, his one chance of gathering anything and he takes a few strides forward, keeping his posture straight, capable and eyes set upon her.

"Wait." He calls out softly, pulling back intimidation and the desire for aggression. He'll try one way then another, one manner then if it results to violence he could at least say he could try. Rolling his shoulders he keeps his arms at his sides and doesn't make any sudden movements, not saying another word until he can figure out what her move will be.

In this moment, Molotov wishes she had the speed gel. It was lost somewhere, when the gravity was going haywire, but it could have been helpful now, as she rushes for the food. There's a slide on the floor as she grabs for what's there, and then she's back on her feet with a grimace of pain. When she hears the voice, she is already several steps back down the hall. Her arms full of potatoes, the few that were there, Molotov glances over her shoulder, free hand tightening around her knife.

"I don't know you," she says, almost as if she were accusing him of a crime, and narrows her eye. "What do you want ?"

Bright eyes watch her movements intently, seeing her slide down and by the time he gets a full view of the figure she is already headed down the hall. His call works though and he remains still, never taking his gaze away from her, his breaths even and calm, trying to remain passive as he possibly can will himself to be, nonthreatening at the moment. There was a time to act and a time to wait and now was a time to wait as he had no idea what was happening, where he was, what was going on and only the basics of the situation. If death was to come to him, he did not fear it, his culture intent on lacking such a worry, knowing very well if one dies in battle where they should go, sitting at the tables with their gods. He would go down fighting, knife or no knife, even if the odds were intensely against him at this point.

She seemed fast, she seemed pained though, the grimace heard at her return to her feet, and he kept an eye out for any weakness that could be obvious.

"I have only arrived." Came his accented reply, straightening out his posture carefully. "I only wish to know what this place is."

She's sizing him up. She doesn't even try to hide it -- there's not enough time or safety for games here, there is only the Arena and whether or not she slays this giant.

"It's the Arena," she answers, hesitantly but terse all the same. "Outlive everyone else and you win. Die and you lose. We're in space, this time."

That is a terrible explanation, and yet Molotov deems it enough, not looking away as she starts walking backward, ready to run when she hits the corner.

"Sorry you showed up in the middle of it. It is always easier when you get to arrive in the Capitol instead."

Her eyes upon him, he doesn't move, he allows the movement as if he had a choice, she had every right to look and figure him out. Broad, physically fit and of his era in appearance, he watched her in return, eyes never leaving her face but always wary of the blade she held in her hand. Whatever move she made whether in retreat or attack, he wanted to be prepared for and if anything Ragnar makes sure to keep on his toes about the scenario, already having dived in head first without knowing truly what was going on, only the basics, only the minimum. Yet, she replies, a small victory but he gives her a small bow of his head in thanks for even considering informing him of anything.

The Northman listens; an arena of life or death, in space. Space was a notion beyond his time, he knew of the stars and the alignment they had with his gods but to exist there, as they did this moment, was mind boggling. Still, he kept his worries to himself and remained neutral in expression as he replied, watching her step backwards and only taking smaller steps forward.

"Have you won before?" He murmured, stopping after a few paces. If she wished to flee, he'd let her. There was no sense in fighting someone at the moment who was at least willing to give him the time of day. He knew how to survive but this was out of his realm of expertise, even using his body in a fight, which is something he knew how, wouldn't be as on par with the distraction of such a new world, the feeling of moving in a different way. Because you're very much alive to me if death is the only result of this place."

Molotov immediately backs up when he moves forward, like a skittish horse, but she doesn't sense the danger as being strong enough to break into a run and damage her midsection more than it already is. Her grip on her potatoes tightens as her eye narrows. If worse comes to worst, she could always throw one -- she's pretty sure she can peg him in the head hard enough to at least daze him.

"I wouldn't be here if I had." She says it like it's obvious, like it makes any sense at all. "I was impaled last time. You only stay dead if you die outside of the Arena. In the Capitol."

It's clear that she is skittish and so when she backs away he slowly halts his steps after a few more, watching her intently though and keeping an eye on her weapon, the hold she has on the food and the wounds upon her body. He's lucky enough to have just arrived, lacking any decreased state but he knows very well what he needs to survive and one of those things happens to be food, water, and if he could ever find it a weapon. For now though, she's not running off, she's simply giving off those rather obvious hints to keep his distance and so he does, exhaling slowly and keeping his hands down by his sides. His eyes meet her own, the narrowing of brow obvious but his expression remains relaxed despite the small furrow at the news she shares.

Now that doesn't make any sense.

"So you do not truly die." It was more a comment than a question. "How is that possible? Surely death is the end."

"Look, I don't make the rules here," she says irritably, although it is more of a general agitation than anything specific to this newcomer. She is agitated at this situation, the state she's been stuck in, how bad it all is. "You die in the Arena, you come back to life in the Capitol. Oh, and you will really die, there isn't anything untrue about it. I've seen it happen so many times already. You just... get revived, I suppose. No scars, no marks, nothing at all."

She's taking another step back.

"Do you want anything else?"

Julian’s spent practically his whole time in this place scared and hungry, and it’s taken a toll on him. The chances of Julian surviving here, despite how he tries to tell himself otherwise, aren’t good and deep down Julian knows it. He was jumpy when he first got here, but the fear and hunger, combined with increasing confusion and anger about why he was even stuck in this stupid place, have made Julian even jumpier.

So, when the scent of blood hits Julian, he’s instantly tensing up, growling low in his throat already. When the man, the source of the smell, enters the room and starts to walk towards him Julian hisses loudly. Such an inhuman sound is strange coming from someone that looks as if they’re human, and it’s something Julian probably would have gotten in trouble for back home. Back where he’s not supposed to appear abnormal to people who actually are human.

But this isn’t home, the same rules don’t apply, and Julian doesn’t even know if who he is dealing with is human. Besides, Julian cares more about not dying then he does about seeming abnormal. When the growing fear, caused by having the stranger approach him, starts making transformations happen against Julian's will, he doesn’t waste his energy trying to fight it. His once brown eyes change to green, pupils turning into slits, and his teeth turn pointed, canines elongating into fangs that are too large to even really fit in his mouth properly. He bares his newly transformed teeth and hisses again.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The words are understandable but garbled due to the teeth.

Edited 2015-01-02 04:13 (UTC)

His eyes are immediate to the figure within the room and his shoulders tense, his posture threatening. He has heard the basics about what this world was all about and he's not taking any risks. The other looks young in age, his face is softer around the edges, suggesting a different lifestyle to his own hardened one. He doesn't look like a threat and if anything, his aggressive move forward is hopes that he can chase him away, a strong step but then the other hisses, like something possessed, something demonic. The sound is loud to his ears compared to the silence, it's like the creature that chased him before arriving in the same space. It was beyond abnormal to him, and though there were stories in his myths and legend of world creation that spoke of such creatures it halts him for a moment.

Eyes look to the others own, they change from the brown to a green, the pupils slitting and his teeth changing, pointed like the creatures of the wild, the carnivores that inhabited his homeland. It was obvious there was something different about this person, a larger threat that he had him figured at first glance but Ragnar had fought bears, men wielding weapons with nothing but his shield and he if anything the shock on his face is minimal, a simply widening of the eyes, the halt in his steps, but is swept away by a narrowing of the brow, a darkness that lingers in his own gaze, a bloodlust. The blood drips down his arm and onto his hand, pooling around his palm and fingers.

The other speaks, but it's murmured, it's not completely understandable and in his own accented tone, Ragnar replies. "What are you." More of a statement then a question and with a move he knows that he has already made his steps and therefore continues to make them, his hands moving to reach for the others collar. If he could keep his teeth away, he could try to talk, reason, and figure out what was going on but he wasn't taking the risk.

The man holds himself differently than the few people Julian’s met here. It’s threatening, intimidating, and puts Julian even more on edge. While the other people he’d met had looked tense as well, to Julian they had never quite looked as much as they were about to hurt him as Ragnar does. They had spoken more too, and it had reassured Julian. Of course, he had been a cat then. He should have just stayed one. The silence in the room only scares Julian even more, and all he can do other than hiss is stare at Ragnar with unblinking eyes.

For the moment Ragnar halts, and Julian sees the slight widening of his eyes, Julian has the hope that he’s managed to scare him away. He glances at the man’s arm. Maybe the injury will be a enough for the man to leave him alone. To not want to risk it. When he sees the man’s expression change, though, the hope quickly disappears. It looks like all he’s done is make things worse, and Julian curses under his breath.

“I’m a…” Julian tries to answer, even if it’s not really a question, but now the words aren’t even remotely understandable. They come out just sounding like growls, so Julian doesn’t bother trying to finish the sentence. Instead, his attention focuses in on the hands now reaching for his collar, and Julian’s whole body goes rigid. His fingers change to fit fingernails that turn into claws, and this time the change is under Julian’s control. He feels like he has to do something to defend himself, doesn’t know what else to do, so he lashes out with one of his now clawed hands.

The hiss this time doesn't throw him off as much the first one does. If he is going to get down to the bottom of this, he can't show fear and he's not about to back down. His intent at first is not to kill, the other has not attacked him outright, if he could pacify and gather information it would be far more beneficial and besides, he had looked completely human until his approach and then he was changing like something the Northman had never seen before in his entire life despite being in battles constantly, living in a much different culture, different era. It was something of their myths, not something ever seen, only in stories told of creatures living beyond their world and in another.

Unfortunately though for the others hopes, it's not enough to frighten him away and if anything it makes the movements more aggressive than they would be.

The words he speak he cannot comprehend, the slight notion of a reply but they are mumbled and akin to a beast growing beneath the figures skin. It isn't human to Ragnar and even more he's intent on ending the situation in his favour. Tension in his body, eyes intently focused he made a grab of the collar, taking hold of the cloth there tightly, knuckles whitening. There is an immediate refusal to let go and as the claws grow from the other, he is taken off guard for that second he see's the pointed objects replace his fingernails, and the other lashes out, catching the side of his face, dragging. He sucks in a breath at the sharp sensation, the prickling of blood and makes a move, violently shifting his body to the side in attempts to bring the man down onto the ground.

Julian’s hand is shaking as he takes in the mark he’s left on the man’s face. Julian doesn’t want to hurt anyone, has never used his powers to do so, and the blood he sees prickling up leaves him with a sick feeling in his gut. He wishes he could talk, could explain without the words being distorted beyond comprehension. But the man's not backing down, still grabbing at his collar, and the panic Julian feels overrides everything else. Julian starts to lash out with his other hand, but then he’s being thrown to the ground, landing harshly on his back with a loud yowl. Claws scratch against the ground as he moves to pick himself up, bright green eyes still wide as he desperately tries to think of any way he can get out of this.

((ooc: sam will be coming in after this, as long as that sounds good!))

The fight's making enough noise that Sam knows he's going to be walking in on something when he rounds the corner, and he's got a switchblade in his hand as he does. At first, for a split second, he thinks about just backing up and hoping they haven't noticed him, leaving them to each other.

But one of them is a kid, or might as well be, and unless he's got some kind of secret weapon, this fight is incredibly one-sided. And, given the way the kid's reaction to being thrown on the ground is to yowl and look terrified, Sam's going to go out on a limb and say he doesn't.

This is absolutely not going to be the best decision he's ever made. But it's not the worst, either, and he's got a bite on his ankle that may or may not be spreading an infection that's going to kill him anyway, so maybe he's feeling a little bit reckless.

Sam charges in, one shoulder down and aiming to tackle the guy off of the kid.

It was never his intention to harm the other, disarm was one thing and that was what this struggle was about. Yet as the other lashed out more, in turn he had to force more of his weight on getting him to the ground, holding tight the fabric around his neck, his knuckles white with the grip he maintained even though blood was now running down his face along with the wound on his arm. A breath escaped him as he felt the other struggle, falling to the ground and quickly he aimed to throw his legs on either side of him. The figure beneath him said nothing, Ragnar felt like he should but to stop him was the first step. Just when he felt that he might have a hold of the situation the Northman opened his mouth but any words that were to come through were silenced by the feeling of another body ramming into him at full speed.

It seems that he can never get a word in in this place.

The action does what it is meant to do, it throws him off the other and he is forced to let go of his collar in defence of himself. His arm burns as he hits the ground but he holds his breath, not releasing any sound of pain. His body tenses and as soon as he feels the ground, the other atop him. The whole idea of simply getting the other to speak is completely thrown out of the water and now Ragnar is in attack mode, honing his instincts and wanting to quickly gain control of the situation. His hands immediately move, reaching up to attempt to grab hold of one of the mans arms and the other at his jaw with a quick upward thrust, legs immediately around his own, trying to turn the balance and put himself back on top.

In the back of his mind, Julian registers the sound of footsteps approaching, hopes it’s not someone coming over to make things even worse than they already are. The person he’s still trying to struggle away from is his main priority for right now, so he doesn’t pay much attention to Sam until he’s tackling Ragnar. As soon as Ragnar’s thrown off him, Julian is scrambling up and away until he’s standing a few feet away. It’s then that Julian can actually take in who the newcomer is, and Julian recognizes him as the man who feed him earlier when he was in cat form.

That still doesn’t explain to Julian why he would suddenly jump in, and even through the panic Julian is left feeling confused. Julian remembers being told pretty clearly that only one person can survive in here, and he doesn’t get why anyone would risk that to protect someone they hadn’t even really met before. He’d try and ask, but Sam is definitely a little busy right now, and Julian doesn’t think the words would even come out understandable.

Julian slowly starts to back farther away, figuring that even if it’s confusing at least this is his opportunity to get away from the mess. But Julian doesn’t like the idea of someone dying for him, wants to make sure Sam's going to be okay, and it’s what makes him hesitant to leave completely.

His second not so awesome action of the night is not getting the hell off as soon as he'd tackled the guy to the ground. Because now the guy's got a hold on his arm and his legs - even if Sam'd managed to avoid a hit to the jaw by tucking his face in and to the side - and he's grappling hard just to keep his position.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices that the kid is still there, and curses softly. "Get out of here, kid!" he shouts.

Sam can't keep watching to make sure he leaves, though, because he has to put all his focus into this or he's going to end up on his ass. ...he's pretty sure he's going to end up on his ass anyway, actually, because that brief look away had made his position slip a little.

He gives up fighting, changing tactics and letting up a little, like he's focusing on making sure the kid's getting out of here. It puts the guy on top of him, and his head bumps against the metal floor in a way he's not thrilled about, but it also means Sam can grab his knife with his free hand. As soon as the guy's on top of him, he stabs upwards, aiming for his stomach.

The clawed boy is no longer a concern, he wasn't a concern to begin with and despite the blood on his cheek from his attack it stung little compared to wounds he had in his lifetime thus far. He wasn't a threat, this man on the other hand had a much better hold of the situation of battle and now words where futile. There was no reason to explain himself and the entire situation, it was too far gone and he wasn't about to back down. The other was protecting him, but maybe jumped into the situation too soon, there hand't been time to even it out and now he was on the move to make some damage. Let the younger run away, his subconscious focuses on him idly knowing he could be an issue if he were to attack but he wasn't sure he was even capable with the fear he had distributed prior. The majority of his attention was on the man that he now had flipped onto his back, listening to his head hit the metal floor with a satisfying knock.

The knife though, that was another story and it wasn't until the glint of the blade caught outside the corner of his eye that he had time to react. The knife was halfway in when he caught the others wrists with a free hand, moving to press the weight of his lower body and chest on the other and looking at him directly in the eye, trying to force his hand back all the while with his other hand going to keep the man pined, legs twining around his own. The sharp sting of the blade caused him to inhale sharply but if didn't halt him from attempting to then headbutt the other viciously in return for his actions. If he could disorientate him, then he could try to truly gain the upper hand.

The blood trickled from his gut and he could feel the warmth slide out and over the others hand, over the hilt of the blade, over his own hand as he kept his grip tight on the mans wrist. He could push through this, but was unsure for how long. All of his energy now was on him, trying to get away from this, using his body as the only weapon he had.

At first when Sam shouts, Julian just stands there, still in shock and still trying to decide what to do. As much as he only wanted to get away before, things are a bit different with the addition of a new person. He briefly considers helping fight, but he doesn’t know how to do that, especially with how terrified he still feels, and would only get in the way. Staying seems to be a hindrance too, as Julian notices the quick attention that Sam gave him only resulted in him losing his spot on top. He sees the knife, hopes that will be enough for Sam to be okay, and decides to get out like he was told to. Something smashes to the ground when Julian backs up abruptly and bumps into it, but he doesn’t even bother to see what it is before he turns and sprints away, movements now inhumanly quick.

It was definitely stupid to try and stay human. Once he gets far enough away he’s turning back to a cat as soon as possible.

It doesn't take too much thought for Sam to know he's in a really bad way right about now - which is good, because he's already a little unfocused from that first bump to the head, and the head bump only makes things worse. If he weren't a little desperate, if he could think a little better, maybe he could see another way out of this, but as it is, he's pretty much pinned his whole strategy on the knife. He needs to get the guy off of him, and the only way he can think of doing that is to force the guy to get up to get away from the blade - or to slice it through him, at the moment, he's honestly not picky about which one.

The best thing he's got going in his favor is his upper body strength, and right now, he's really goddamn thankful for the EXO-7 and training to be able to fly.

Sam's other arm is still twisted and pinned back, and he can't afford the effort to try to free it, so he puts all his strength behind the hand holding his knife. He arches his back, pushing himself up off the floor and up into the guy on top of him, using that to try to put more weight behind thrusting the knife up.

Brock's been up and down the spaceport. In the ceilings, in its belly, in its walls. He's scoured every inch of the place, and he hasn't found any more supplies than when he started. So, the logical solution at that point would be to backtrack -- to see if he'd missed something on his first run through.

When everybody was scrambling in at the beginning, trying to get away from the vacuum of space and the death that waited a good chunk of the Tributes out there, they must have dropped some of their shit at the doors. That made the most sense. Brock's certain that most of the people here are more concerned with immediate survival than longterm, and he's pretty confident that nobody is going to think to come back to the beginning, not when it's so steeped in death.

It makes him feel a little weird, lowering himself to scavenging, but a person's pride has to be sacrificed if they want to live, sometimes. He's poking through discarded helmets and packs with his feet, not willing to get down to the ground on the off chance that some weird alien is hiding in the rubble just waiting to attach itself to his face. He's trying to avoid that.

But when he hears someone coming, he looks up.

The helmets had been scattered every which way, there was a trail of them along the corridors that the Northman travelled. Having just arrived, it was almost an overload of sensation, or processing since he had never seen anything like this before in his entire life. The stars shone brought over his homeland but nothing like this which such colour and magnificence that he had ever laid eyes upon, it was a distraction, the shape of the building he was within, the use of metal, the feeling of the floor beneath his feet, the sensation of the clothes upon his body. It was all new and all he had from his home world was a small pin upon his dark green uniform that was in the shape, design and colour of his shield.

Even that was strange in it's existence, like a broach, crafted out of far different manners than he was aware of.

Still, he kept his feet as silence as they could be, sticking to the edges of the hallways but when he heard the rummaging he went still for a moments time, his eyes looking out down the expanse before him, the curve in the flooring that he stood upon. The smallest sound of glass against glass, a helmet hitting another, shuffling. All Ragnar knew about the world he had been brought to was uncertainty and something about fighting to the death, anything was a threat apparently but he was smarter than that, he knew things were not always as they seemed and without a weapon, Ragnar only had his body. So taking in a breath he continued his steps and straightened his posture, rounding the corner until his eyes laid sight upon a rather broad man looking at him, a look about him that pulled at his heartstrings, the idea of home swelling over him as he seemed the same build as his companions, his complexion alike.

"Anything useful?" His accented tone sounded, making sure to keep an eye on his body movement, eyes upon the others own intently. If he was to move, Ragnar could react but he would rather take his time, figure out what he could before resorting to whatever this place was about.

Though Brock had been expecting someone to come round the corner, he had to admit he hadn't been expecting someone like this guy. Most people he had encountered so far, with a few notable exceptions, had been kids or people who just kind of fired at him without warning. (Incidentally, he was still smarting a little from the way the guy with the metal arm shot lasers at him. Not physically, but emotionally, maybe -- seriously, why hadn't he thought of lasers first? It was such a waste!)

He let the silence settle, let an unspoken warning of lethality fill the air between them. Brock had no issue whatsoever with killing. But the fact of the matter is, he was busy right now: if he could finish what he was doing without bloodshed, then he could maybe make off with some supplies. Otherwise, he was just going to waste more time.

That being said, he really wasn't finding anything useful. "Not yet," he finally answered. His tone was even enough with no real terseness behind it, though the way he kept his eyes on the stranger should have easily communicated his wariness.

For the Northman the issue wasn't killing, it never had been, it was information, he needed to learn as much as possible before making any moves. Strategy was at the height of his culture, their military strategies, the way they fought but right now Ragnar had nothing, no weapons, no shield, no companions, and all he had was the arm ring around his wrist that he had arrived with and the minor knowledge about how the game worked, the little he was told against the struggle he put up once awakening in the strange, metallic room. The silence lingers and he doesn't mind it, he watches the other man intently making sure to give him his space, for both the figure and himself. If there was going to be movement, he wanted to have time to react. He could use his body to an extent but the air felt different here, the surroundings odd and modern, beyond anything he had ever seen, so it was pitted against him in state and environment.

Exhaling slowly, when he answered there was a small wry smile that curved at Ragnar's lips as he looked over to the pile of helmets that were scattered about. "It seems desolate enough." His accented voice murmured.

And in that it was. The whole place seemed empty, void of life and quiet, almost too quiet for his liking. Where nature was normally filled with the sounds that accompanied it, when there was silence it was never a good sign. Still, he watched the man and looked over for a brief second down the corridor he stood within.

"How long has this being going on? The whole place seems raided."

Brock could tell that this guy wasn't to be fucked with, either. There was something in the intensity of his gaze that made it very clear. The Tributes were largely composed of children and do-gooders, from what Brock could tell, and it was rare to see someone who wouldn't bat an eye at carnage. Not that there was an abundance of carnage right here and now, just inside the airlocks, unless you counted all the space helmets littered about -- but he could tell that this man was a strategist, a fighter, a killer.

It did nothing to alleviate his wariness, even though he was also relieved to meet somebody here who was on potentially equal footing. It was enough of a rarity -- an actual challenge -- that he was thankful to have some reprieve from watching children die and being forced to slaughter the weak.

"That's a loaded question," he answered, glancing down the corridor, too. "I lost track of time for how long we've been... here. But they've been doing this whole murder orgy thing for decades, so far as I can tell."

The answer was obvious, but he had to ask it anyway, looking him up and down. "You new?"

There is a respectful distance between them and he keeps it that way, eyes only drifting to the side slightly to regard the helmets once more, the stacks of them ominous, like spheres of hollowed out skulls, clear and empty, void of life. It was dark, but if that was the nature of the game then so be it, after all, he knows himself to be a skilled warrior and won't go down without a fight, he won't hesitate to defend himself and while Ragnar is a man of honesty and strategy he knows well to watch ones back in situations like this so that is what he is doing by drawing his gaze back to the other, again taking not of his stature and wondering how it would be to face off against him in battle. He could imagine it would be a good match, he could imagine it might be brutal but that is what war was about. He had killed before, countless times, since he was young and now he would kill again. Everyone would get sick from the sight of blood now and then, but this was apart of his life.

That didn't mean he was a bad guy, just a product of his time and knowing to such situations. There was always time for allies and enemies and right now knowledge is his priority. He doesn't have a weapon, only his body to defend himself with but he does have his words and if he wants to learn anything he has to keep a level head. Still, his eyes remain intensely on the other, listening to him speak and following his gaze when he looked down the empty corridor.

"This isn't your first though, is it?" He replied, arching an eyebrow, the smallest wry smile on his lips. He seemed like he had been in such situations before, whether within his own world or here. Still, as much as he would like to blend in, it was obvious by the state of him that he was indeed new to all this, confirming his question with a nod. "Unfortunately. Little was said, it was a rush until I ended up here and then silence."

Brock just let out a forceful, mirthless scoff at that, shaking his head and prodding another few helmets with his foot. "I can't believe they'd throw people in the middle of all this shit."

Then again, why was that any more surprising than taking people from different times, worlds, universes, whatever -- all to make them kill each other? He needed to stop trying to subscribe logic to the actions of the Capitol. It was fruitless.

"Me, though, this is my first time. But they stuck me in at the beginning, so..."

He had some time to adjust to the idea.

Deciding that there was nothing to be found here, no haphazardly abandoned supplies or anything even remotely useful, Brock stopped rummaging and turned to look down the corridor, pointing. "Name of the game is survival. Kill or be killed. A bunch of men enter, one man leaves." The Thunderdome reference was probably not going to make any sense, judging by how many blank looks he regularly got when he tried to make pop culture references, but it was habit. "If you're alive at the end, you don't gotta do it anymore."

So they say, anyway.

Thor may be one of the only people in this Arena in possession of a keen interest for hunting the beasts that prowl the dark halls and depths of the port. He's more than capable of it, with his powers, and he does need the practice. With his powers he's eager for a fight that doesn't involve other Tributes and interested in keeping his senses keen. He is deprived of Mjolnir, but there are other ways to harness his power. Ones he isn't properly in tune with, of course, but he's learning.

For now, however, he's doing nothing but release some pent up energy. Thor enters the room at the same time as Ragnar through another door. Or rather, the muttation he'd been chasing is flung into a wall before Thor enters, rendering it unconscious and unassuming when Thor pads up to it and gives it a nudge with his foot.

He casts a glance toward the stranger, inspecting him with a stern stare before he decides he isn't terribly worried about him. "It is dead." He assures, like he was even being asked about it. "I've not met you before." He doesn't know if Ragnar is of Earth, but he's become accustomed to extending his hand when he's addressing strangers. He probably does it too liberally when it comes to Arenas, but he figures if he has them by the hand then they would be a fool to threaten him.

"Thor. Odinson." He introduces himself, another thing he's become accustomed to, but he still hesitates in search of that glimmer of recognition.

The body of the creature lays upon the floor, lifeless. Moments before he thought the small, deranged looking beast had gone around to the other entryway to open to the room. His chest rose and fell heavily, the blood collecting on his arm, dripping down onto his hand. It's a minor wound, he's seen worse in his lifetime, all the battles he has fought, the creatures he had hunted on his own but it was not only this world that was completely and utterly different to his own, but the inhabitants of the strange structure. Still, the creature is flung, it lies on the floor and he's watching it intently with his bright gaze until a food comes into view. The foot nudges the beast, and Ragnar looks up to see a figure of a man standing before him.

Immediately he tenses, immediately he's on edge because he's been told so little about this place, but what he knows is that it's a world of violence, of fight or flight and while Ragnar knows how to pick his fights, he's not about to flee at the first sight of someone, particularly when the shape of him, the colour of eyes and attitude is somewhat familiar, akin to his companions back home. Taking in a slow breath, while he takes that aggressive step forward he stops as soon as the other speaks, his voice not sinister, just stating the facts. Still, it didn't stop Ragnar wishing he had his axe, his shield, not the pin that was upon his uniform, a full-bodied one that he could hold to.

The other mans hand was out, he was looking at him and his eyes glancing from the others extended hand to his face he hesitantly took a step forward, approaching him and only pausing in his step when the other stated his name. His eyes widened, his breath halted for a moment and he look struck. Tentatively he reached out but instead of grasping his hand, he grasped his forearm, how the people of his culture greeted one another, ignoring the fact his hand was bloodied.

"Thor Odinson." It takes him a moment to speak, awed by the name of the others lips, the glimmer of hope in his gaze. Still he tries to sound steady, as he looks upon the others face. Could it be a dream, a vision, but no, he seemed very real, his arm strong under his equally strong grip.

"Son of Odin."

Where Ragnar is wounded and bruised, Thor is unmarred. His regenerative abilities work at a slower pace here, but he hasn't suffered a terrible amount of injury even in his scrapes. He does, however, look a little tired. It's not the longest he's lingered in an Arena, but it's been a hard one all the same.

Now that he's reassured of peace between he and the stranger, he can focus a little more on trying to puzzle something out about him. He's new, that much is clear. There's a familiar look about him, one that he can't put his finger on until he takes his hand like that. Thor replicates the movement enthusiastically and the moment of clarity in the man's face seals the deal on his line of thinking.

He must be a viking. He hopes he's a viking. He won't make a fool of himself assuming, so he approaches the subject with caution.

"God of Thunder, Defender of the Nine Realms, Hostage of Panem." He adds, starting with a proud smirk and ending with a wry expression. He knows he isn't technically a God, but he also knows better than to fool with a man's faith. "Tell me your name." It isn't a question, it's a friendly order.

Edited 2015-01-05 02:32 (UTC)

The wounds don't bother him, he's suffered for worse and it shows by the way he holds himself, doesn't wince at the movement to bring his arm up to clasp the figures forearm. A breath exhales, quiet, studious, his eyes intently on the others face, watching him carefully, uncertain if he was actually seeing the individual before him as a the god his namesake allowed him, or a vision, akin to the times he had seen his Allfather on the fields of battle. Normally those moments where not as palatable, despite how real it seemed, the sight of the gods, they came and went within a blink of an eye, brought their signs than left. This was different though, he was as real and solid as any other individual.

Human.

When the movement is replicated, Ragnar holds strong to the others arm, like a lifeline, something of his culture, something familiar and for the moment he doesn't let go, making sure to meet the figures eyes in respect. Their culture was not one for bowing, for dipping ones gaze like others would in the presence of such a idol, eye contact was respect, the upmost and it spoke the truth instead of hiding a look, something that could be taken as sly, untrustworthy. As the speaks, his accented tone similar to the Northman's own, he cannot help the twist in his chest at all of his claims. Panem though, that is different. He's not heard of that title. The voice of Floki sounds in his mind, from an event that wasn't so far in the past: It’s true. Thor is beating his hammer. The lightning is the sparks from his anvil. But he is not angry with us! Don’t you understand? He is celebrating! He wants to show everybody that can’t sink this boat. He loves this boat!

At the order, he realises his grip has tightened and quietly he withdraws his hand to stand before the other, squaring his posture. "Ragnar Lothbrok, is my name." Comes his simple reply, lacking words to say at this moment. His reaction, any knowledge he might have, could solve the conflict if this was all actually true. If he was his god, then such a name could be recognisable as a member of faith and tongue, a warrior knowing and working alongside such grand myths.

Edited 2015-01-05 22:44 (UTC)

It's hard to say whether he's being sized up or admired at this point, but it is partly his own uncertainty that leads him to consider the former. He hasn't felt like himself here, not for a long time. Without his hammer at his side, his hands feel empty and listless. The return of his powers helps, but only because it fuels the hope that he may regain a shadow of what he was before he came to be here.

There is no shame in being mortal, not anymore, but there is shame in the fact that he has been here so long and has yet to contribute any real change. For every warrior they give and take, he feels himself steeping in his doubts ever more.

Yet. It's hard to feel anything but proud at this moment. There's such strong familiarity in the other man that he could almost feel like a distant relative or friend. Thor sees no harm in treating him as such, so his smile is wide and warm.

"A viking, are you?" He barely needs to ask. The quirk in his brow indicates that he's rightly amused, but there's an edge of annoyance to his voice. The Capitol would do well not to meddle with those he considers his people. "And new. I've not seen you before." He doesn't need to ask about that much. "They do you great injustice, throwing you in like this."

The stories, the tales that surround the other, they are well known as any of the other gods in their culture. Thor is a stronghold for the storms of their lands, the troubles at seas, his renown for fishing the world serpent from it's home and creating the seas. The longer the Northman watches the other, the longer he begins to doubt that he is completely human, that is ordinary. Granted compared to modern culture, his homelands are extraordinary, their religion, their way of life, how they existed and attacked without fear due to their strong belief. They would lay down their life's in the hands of the gods, and that was that, there was no fear of death in their home and even now Ragnar is not afraid of death here, just confused by what is happening.

He has seen the Allfather before, his lord Odin. Now he was possibly seeing another and if anything it felt like a fevered dream that was consuming him. As much as he desired it all to be a dream, this all felt too real to be something to envision in ebbing consciousness back home. It didn't make any sense, didn't line up with his thoughts about afterlife and was nothing like he had ever seen before. When the other smiles, he feels a wave of warmth slide over him, it's comforting, like the presence of a father or brother. For the first time since waking up in this strange world he feels a moment of hope, clarity and cannot help the ever so slight smile that tugs at his lips, watching the others face. Yet, there was still the uncertainty that lingered in his eyes despite the loosening features of his face. How could he be certain that this individual is who he says he is, particularly after his last sentences, what would a god being doing in a place like this.

"Yes, a Northman." Came his reply, mentally looking for ways to test the others knowledge to compare his claims. The figure speaks and he is quiet, he is listening to him intently and for noises of possible dangers that surrounded them. "I come from Kattegat, but now I am in a place that is nothing like my home."

Shifting his posture slightly from one foot to the other, he does not look in harsh judgement, but twists his face to show an openness to his thoughts, brows furrowing, though a slight, curious smirk at his lips. There was always time to speak about what this place was, yet Ragnar had more pressing matters on his mind before jumping into questioning about this world he stood amongst.

"Give me proof of who you are."

It is difficult to be a stronghold in a place like this. Without his powers, without everything that makes him Thor, he's no more a hero than any other man brought forward to fight for his life. His attitude as of late has been defeated, this isn't the war he fought back home. This isn't won by the strategies he knows nor the strength he's earned, but he's too stubborn to say it's beyond him completely. There are things he is capable of, but it's only through the help of others that he can feel himself being of use again.

Perhaps it is not so bad. Perhaps because it's impossible to be a pillar without the foundations below you and the weight you choose to carry. If he's strong, it's because he refuses to break for anyone. Not for the Capitol and their insidious intentions and not for the people he wants to keep on his shoulders. It's difficult to feel powerful without his power, but he feels his strength as a leader best when he's presented with the people who know him better than a good many of his friends here.

"The wars here are not the battles you knew, Ragnar." He reflects his own thoughts back onto him, his smile staying faintly on his lips. "They are capable of dark deeds and a sorcery I've not known before." And so he understands Ragnar's uncertainty, because it's an uncertainty he feels himself.

"I suppose you know me best for my hammer, but it is no longer in my possession, you see?" He quirks a brow, his smile becoming wry. He slams a hand against the wall, as if trying to kick start something. A faint rumble can be heard, like weak thunder, something courses through the power lines and makes the bulbs in the light overhead flicker. It isn't much, since he has no direct access to the source of the electricity nor a proper rod for guidance, but there's something intimidating about it all the same.

It wasn't anything like the battles he knew. The battles he knew were fought in groups, companions that fought alongside one another and worked together as a unit. Rarely was it something one-on-one like it seemed in this situation, man pitted against man. It happened every now and then, when the battle was long and the men running low, or when announced, a claim to revenge or pitting personalities against one another, gaining power, but the battles he fought had purpose, where apart of his culture. This place was nothing like home, nothing like his lands and the games nothing like he had come across. Though, that wouldn't stop him, once he could wrap his head around it if Ragnar was going to die it would be a warriors death, worthy of his gods, worthy of individuals that stood before him. It seemed needless though, for pure sport. There were animals for that.

Not humans.

Still, when the other mentions it he looks to the side, despite the small smile on the mans lips. A small tsk at his breath, he doesn't doubt a word that he says. The arm ring around his wrist is the only thing linking it back to his home but he has no one to swear it upon, not in this place, not with such a darkness ebbing around what little he had learned. The whole world was overwhelming, unlike he had ever seen but at least the other was a constant, he knew he existed and when he aims to prove it his eyes are immediately back on him, watching intently. The hand hits the surface and he is quiet, listening and then the sound of thunder, even in a place like this it was apparent. He hold his breath, the lights flicker and his eyes never leave the other. The storm lessens and he grins, rolling his shoulders a small roll, a chuckle sounding in his throat.

"Evidence enough lord." Came his reply, playful, not feeling the need to apologise, it was what anyone would do when faced with such a quandary. "You talk about sorcery, how can men influence the gods in such a way, surely you hold more sway."

It is less than Thor could give, truly. He's still a prideful creature, even with his more recent developments in consideration. He no longer allows pride to rule his decisions, but he still takes great pleasure in seeing fear or excitement in the eyes of those he would seek to impress. But it is morsels in place of a feast for good reason. The Capitol cannot know how much sway he holds, he cannot allow them to catch wind of his intentions before he deals them out.

It is fortunate that he has satisfied Ragnar with the sample of his abilities. The use of the title brings a more sincere smile back to his face, it's something familiar and nostalgic and almost out of place here. He's grown so used to not hearing it that it seems like an old memory.

"So be it." And it stops, the light shines solidly and the sound fades and Thor folds his arms over his chest. "You would know as well as I where that is concerned." Also known as I don't know. "They've harnessed all manners of powers and beings. Their secrets are well kept." All he can do is look sympathetic, then change the subject. "How long have you been here? Do you hunger?"

The smile that graces the others face brings a certain warmth to him, it pulls a his heart and makes him feel at home, that he could close his eyes and smell the smoke of the hearth fire, hear the sound of his children's voice, see the smile of his wife. He was far away form that now though and it could be the only thing keeping him rooted right now was the fact that he still had the arm ring around his wrist, a reminder of home and the existence of it, as well as the fact he could possibly have just met one of the gods he had been speaking to his entire lifetime, acknowledging, sharing stories of, passing down the myths and tales of their legend. It's a peaceful moment and he feels his body relax despite the injury on his arm. It's nothing to him, compared to what he has sustained in battle before. The bite stings though, like that of a snake's venom so he looks out the great windows to the depths of space and then towards the other, not afraid to meet his eye.

Respect was the biggest honour one could offer. If he could, he would swear his fealty to him, the arm ring now useless due to what had happened before he arrived here, the attack on his home by the man he had sworn his oath to before. That would take time though, his heart believed him, but his mind still had some hesitance. At his words though, his smile fades slightly and he focuses intently on him.

"Such secrets cannot be kept for long." It was a general reassurance to himself more than anything, but he knew the faults of man well enough. "To even bring down the gods to participate in their game is confusing in itself. Why purpose does this serve them? Fight to the death, but for what." At the subject change, he is quiet, hesitant to move onto the next subject but he allows it with a small nod of his head, slight amusement on his face which was out of place for such a scenario that he was in, still, to him it was humorous enough how slim the pickings had been in this strange place.

"I've lost sight of the sun, I cannot count the days but I can tell you that I've found one raw potato."

There's so much Thor is curious about, he's eager to discuss Ragnar's origins. He's known for sometimes that he's worshiped by cultures that are not so prominent in the modern world, to hear stories from the people who thrived back then would be to relive his glory days. It's like meeting an old friend, a relative. Ragnar is already his family, as far as he's concerned.

Thor's eyes glean over the wound with concern apparent in his expression, but he allows Ragnar his pride and listens to him speak rather than doing something humiliating like fussing over him. For the moment, anyway.

"Perhaps not, but to suggest as much is to tempt fate. And you'll find fate is rarely on our side here." It's a gentle warning, coupled with a glance upward. Speaking too ill of their captives can bring about all manner of problems in the long run. Not that it will matter soon, of course. Not when he saves them. "Entertainment is the only reason we are ever truly given. What could be more fascinating than pitting a god against his people?" He lifts his large shoulders in a half hearted shrug, but he moves on.

"Come with me. We will find you food and bandages for your wound. My allies have amassed supplies, they would be happy to share." He steps toward the door, beckoning for Ragnar to follow him when he does.

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(OPEN) a soldier on my own

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