thearena | [open]

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Who| Roland and you?
What| crochety old cowboy makes a fire, terrorizes some birds, and drops things out of a tree
Where| in a small cave, then near the river outside the caves and in the pine forest/cornucopia field
When| before and during the cave bloodbath thing
Warnings/Notes| nothing yet

a.
The cold by this point isn't really a surprise. When it starts Roland's managed to find a little cave to settle into, and wills himself to be as still as possible to use less energy. Still, sometimes he has to venture out to find firewood, head down, spare pieces of leather wrapped around every possible bit of exposed skin. He moves carefully, trying to focus more on the cold than on the vague memories it brings. Somehow Susannah is the gone friend Roland finds himself missing the most often, and before he dismisses the thought, he wonders if he'll ever get used to surviving arenas on his own without her. If he's lucky, he won't.

Later, he makes a fire. It's got to be near the cave's entrance, so he picks a time there's less wind. It's either let the smoke be visible or let it choke the whole of the cave, because the heat is something he does not want to risk doing without. If that attracts attention? Well. At least a fight would give him something to do.

b.
By the time he loses his handy cave spot it's gotten warmer, though he's in no state of mind to appreciate it. Voices he doesn't recognize move by, followed swiftly by voices he does, other tributes calling out names he doesn't recognize. Even before one of those unfamiliar voices swings around and changes, starts calling out to him in tones far too familiar, it's pretty clear that something is wrong.

Using their families against them is an old trick even for the gamemakers, something they've done before. Can he keep that in mind as Alain's young, strong voice calls out to him, ends in an abrupt choking noise he remembers even better than he'd thought? As a young woman cries out to him in pain, as he shivers and realizes he's gripping the stone of his necklace so hard its chain is digging into the back of his neck? He tries.

Even a long while and a few voices later, he knows it's a ploy. It's only that he forgets he's been trying to stay out of whatever trap that's being laid, springs up even as a boy's cry echoes off the walls around him. "Go then," says the boy, sounding calm and resigned and Roland shoots to his feet, scoops up a handful of dust and pebbles and gives a huge, wordless yell, flinging them at where the voice came from. There's a squawk, sounding odd after all the human tones, and the bird launches itself away, flapping in startled circles for a second before going for the cave entrance.

"Yah!" he yells, and chases it out. Come pass by and watch him, a lanky figure highstepping through the river, yanking his long legs up and over the snow to try and keep up with the bird's pace. He yells things like "h'yah!" mixed with the stuttering, stilted mess the chip in his head turns his own language into, though the occasional "thee, wicked spirit" and "heed my order!" does make its way through, punctuated by rock flinging and a good deal of wordless yells.

He throws another rock and it hits with a crack. A bird falls, and the others around it start squawking even more loudly, milling around in confusion. Come pass by and witness: Panem's newest, angriest scarecrow runs through a field waving his arms, yelling incoherently and really freaking out a small flock of jabberjays. He's doing good work.

c.
It's later that day and he feels tired, wrung out. He drags his feet through the forest, looking thoughtfully up at the trees, and eventually tries to make his slow, weary way up one. When he tries to settle on a spot where a few strong branches spread from the trunk of a thick tree something slips from his backpack - a first aid kit, judging by the sound of it hitting the branches below. When he sits up to try and see, one of the thin, soaked, battered things that used to be Ugg boots snags on a twig and slips right off his foot, falling quickly out of reach.

Roland gives a loud, heavy sigh, and lets his head fall back. He might be able to do without one, but he sure as shit needs to go down and retrieve the other.

This has been a wonderful day.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The birds are horrible. They are Arwen's first real taste of the anguish inflicted on those trapped in the Arena and, after hearing so many screams and cries for help from the area around the Caves, she needs just a bit of breathing room. Some peace and quiet, where she's not going to hear her mother's voice begging, no, pleading for help. Five hundred years is a long time, but some hurts cut too deep to ever fully heal.

Also, if she's on her own for a just a little while, then she can cry without worrying anyone.

However, her quest for that perfect place to settle down and have a little breakdown is prematurely ended when a boot drops from a tree onto the forest floor, not far from where she's meandering. Which is odd (boots generally come in pairs) enough to draw the elf's attention. It doesn't appear dangerous, so she retrieves it and looks around, to make sure this isn't some kind of stunt, and up.

Huh.

"Would this belong to you?"

The boot is held in the air so he can see it properly. Any other questions, such as why he's sitting in the tree, will have to wait. Getting his footwear back to him seems more important at the moment.

He takes a look at her, grunts, and levers himself up again. Remembers himself enough to use actual words. "Aye, lady." Roland swings himself around carefully, settles one damp, booted foot on one branch and one bare, scarred foot on another. It hadn't taken as long to relearn how to climb without his right foot's big toe as it had to realearn walking on it, but he doesn't start making his way down yet.

"If you're the type to fight over that, or the medical kit on the other side of this tree," because she's going to spot it sooner or later, "say so now. I might just let you take them." His voice is as slow and weary as his movements, and though he's used that sort of thing before as a lure it isn't one now. Much as he may suffer later for the lack of gauze and bandage and painkillers, right now keeping them is not a priority. Or maybe it ought to be - enough to at least climb down again and try to get them. He hasn't decided yet.

She watches his progress, not sure if he's coming down or climbing to a higher branch. Either would be telling - he does not trust her, or he does, or it isn't a matter of trust at all if he needs the boot. After a long moment of indecisiveness, Arwen moves to the base of the tree and sets the footwear down, then peers around the trunk to find the kit he'd mentioned.

"This one?" She retrieves it just as easily, staring at the package in fascination, before setting it down next to his shoe. "I do not wish to fight, my lord. Only to return your things."

Maybe if she moves away, he'll come down? With that plan in mind, she backs up a few feet, and then a few more, until there's enough personal space around the tree to make even a silvan elf more comfortable. Not that she's assuming he is, because, even at that distance, she can tell he's human. Or he's not giving off any bad signals, which she interprets as much the same thing.

Her obvious care decides him, and Roland starts carefully down. If he hasn't got the energy to go up again afterward, he'll deal with it then. "I'm not your lord. And unless you're from my world - which'd surprise me a bit, given those ears - you're no bondswoman of mine."

He focuses on making his way down for a couple seconds before glancing briefly back at her. "Didn't interrupt you at anything, I hope. I try not to make a habit of throwing my clothes around."

Eddie - whose voice, of course, Roland has recently heard - would have made that comment into a joke, most likely. He'd've added some compliment to her beauty, grinned and taken it no further than that, because he'd always been too deeply in love with Susannah to-

Roland's climbing stops. He takes a breath, squeezes the branches under his grip and is glad for the rough bark of them, for the strong smell of the sap. All the better to focus on, bring his mind back to the alert, careful place in which it ought to be. It works and he breathes out, relieved, shoulders sagged and head hanging a little.

Edited 2015-02-26 15:22 (UTC)

"No, I am only trying to --" To what? Not offend him. She looks perplexed for a moment, a little crease appearing between furrowed brows. "I do not know what else to call you."

This is not a problem she runs into at home. Most of the people she comes into contact with do have titles, though not all choose to use or reveal them right away, but ... but it doesn't seem to matter here, at least in how others want to be addressed.

She waits for him to say something else, but Roland looks preoccupied in climbing down, and disturbing his efforts doesn't seem like a very good idea. After looking around, and finding relatively few places to sit comfortably, Arwen drops into a crouch. The snow isn't exactly made for sprawling in, especially with the thin clothing everyone is dressed in.

Eventually she speaks up again. "I was looking ... I just needed some time alone." She doesn't like crying in front of an audience. "Are you alright?"

He grunts and glances back at her, climbs down a little more, then jumps the rest of the way, most of his weight going on his whole and booted left foot. "Damp, angry." He leans against the tree to pull his ragged right boot back on, considering his own state. "Full of grief I'd thought long past. For this place, I guess I'm doing alright. If I can get a little drier."

He straightens, watching her, and only someone either very observant or who knows him fairly well would be able to see the bit of hope in his face. "I won't keep you if you're still looking to be alone, but you're welcome to a fire once I make it. As thanks for leaving my things."

It seems prudent to wait until he's all the way down, safe on the forest floor instead of perched on a branch that might not hold his weight should the wrong move get made. Only once he is down, and concerned with the boot, does she straighten up.

And casts a look over her shoulder, in the direction of the caves. She isn't that far from them, and easy enough to find should anyone come looking. "Sharing your fire would be ... nice. Thank you."

He could kill her, she supposes. That is what the tributes are supposed to do, and her soldierly skills are laughable when compared to actual soldiers. But believing the worst of everyone she meets only invites paranoia, and Arwen would rather avoid going down that road.

"I am sorry you grieve. Is there -- can I help?" Not her place, and he might revoke the invitation, but she has to try.

For a moment his eyes move over her face. A genuine offer, looks like. "Sharing my fire will do," he says, and for a second his eyes crinkle up at the corners, his look tired but warm.

But genuine or not, he can't keep that look up long and it fades as he looks back down, crouching and rooting around to pick up fallen twigs. "Some company for a while. These arenas are odd. Isolated - at least, just lately. Those damn birds don't help." He tosses his hand in a quick, irritated gesture toward the caves, where he reckons most of them probably still are.

"I'd hope you managed to avoid 'em, but it looked like they were seeking us out deliberately." He frowns down at the stick he's just picked up, because anger isn't doing him much good just now but that doesn't mean he isn't.

The smile she gives in return is small, and a little watery, due to still being a little bit on edge from the birds and memories of the people they imitate so well. "That I can, and will do."

She can also help gather firewood. Adequate logs for a proper fire are scarce, she noticed that on the day she arrived, but there are a number of smaller ones, easily collected and gathered into an armful to set down near where Roland is concentrating his efforts.

"It would seem so." She doesn't sound entirely sure, mostly on account of not having thought of that before, how someone would deliberately set such a horrible trap. The Arena keeps taking her by surprise. "Did you hear them too? Voices that should not ...." Arwen stops and shakes her head. "Forgive me. I ask entirely too many questions when I should be listening."

Edited 2015-02-27 04:35 (UTC)

"You've done nothing that needs forgiving." He moves to gather a little more wood, thinking on her question. Even if he hadn't been in a position to see the birds leading other tributes on as soon as he'd heard the voices and so to easily connect the two, Roland does not have the kind of imagination necessary to doubt the evidence of his ears and mind; to ask whether someone else had heard the same thing would never have occurred to him.

"The voices had a cause, lady-s- s-s-" The gamemaker's machine in his brain catches the word of his world, sai, and as it always does twists it into something completely different. "Sir." He grimaces, giving his head a quick shake. "Pardon. They had a cause. How much do you know about what you heard?"

It could be that Arwen wants to make sure she is not losing her mind. If someone else heard the cries, not even necessarily the one she did, then the experience has happened. Really, truly happened, instead of some phantom trick meant to poke and prode at her mental senses. There are those in her world who would, and have, tortured people that way.

But Roland is being rational, and that puts her more at ease. Perhaps more than it should. "I heard ..." The elf trails off to pick up a couple of branches. "Magic, or sorcery. Voices from our memories, meant to drive us mad. I know what I heard should not be possible. It must be the same for the other tributes."

He nods. "The Capitol's specialty seems to lie with machines, rather than magic - and where one of those grows, the other always seems to fall by the wayside." After a look around and a little movement out of the way of any branches that might dump snow over their fire, Roland begins to clear snow off a likely patch of ground.

"At least it always did in my world. In any case, I know that it was the same for the others as for you. I saw enough of them passing me for the deeper caves." He pauses, going still a moment. "If that goddamned bird had led me that way too I think I would have followed it. All the way into whatever lies in those caves, just to get a better shot."

After another moment, sitting quiet and thinking about that, he finishes brushing the snow away and begins crossing their sticks on top of one another. "I'd never ask about what exactly you heard, but how did you escape? I saw enough being led with those voices, which I only avoided because I startled mine."

Arwen looks down at his question, staring at the ground while he continues his preparations. The answer he seeks is a hard one for her, one that produces some shame when she thinks about it.

"I fled." After another moment, the elf sighs and finally selects another branch, adding it to her armful. She brings them over to the area he is leveling out, and sets the load down. "Away from what I did not want to hear."

Roland gives a nod, then spends a moment taking a fire board and spindle from his pack and working to make a spark with them. More difficult to spark a fire with this than the flint and steel he's used to, harder with his hand as it is. "And here we both are," he says, trying to roll the spindle with short enough movements that it doesn't roll right out of his grip. "I thought those birds left me be because I killed a few, but they aren't following you either. Perhaps they've just shut up now their work is done."

There's no acknowledgement on his end that running as she had is the slightest bit shameful. Not that it isn't, but she's done the hard work of acknowledging it.

The work on making that spark is abandoned for a second as he reaches a hand over the pile of fuel to shake. His right, because even now that one tends to move first despite the missing first two fingers that make it his second choice in pretty much everything. Including lighting fires. "Roland Deschain, of District Four. Suppose we're well met, much as we can be."

It is shameful, to run from what you do not want to face, but it is also instinctual on some levels. Arwen knows her way around a sword because her father taught her, but she is not a warrior. She heals, she supports, she knows her place in society as a non-combatant. That is not to say Arwen will not fight for what she believes it, it's just a different kind of fighting.

This kind turns her stomach, and she wants to believe that other tributes feel the same way. "It could be that they follow those who follow them. You resisted, and I ran, so perhaps they have found others."

The elf falls silent, watching his movements. It is only because she has seen others make the same gesture that she knows what to do. But it still takes a moment's hesitation before extending her own hand and curling her fingers around his carefully.

"Arwen of Rivendell, also of District Four. Well met, my lord."

He keeps his grip light, automatically matching the strength of hers for a single shake before he goes back to the business of the fire. "Haven't seen you. Either you've only just arrived or we've managed to miss one another. Do ladies in your world speak so to all the men they meet? In my world, calling me your lord would be considered a pledge of fealty."

Ah, a spark. Good. He spends a second or two just encouraging it to grow and then glances back up at her, expression dry. "And somehow I doubt I'll ever be hearing one of those again. Certainly not here."

"I have not been here long." She watches his efforts to get the fire going, wishing - not for the first time - they had an adequate firekit of elven make to do a proper camp site. "Ladies of my world use respectful address when meeting others for the first time, unless those strangers have already proven they are undeserving."

Every soul on the road has potential, in Arwen's estimation, and that is probably why she gets escorted most everywhere.

"Also, the inflection and word usages differs from person to person. This language we speak now is not ... as nuanced, I fear. Would you prefer I called you something else?"

She makes a noise of agreement about the birds, hoping the man is correct.

He considers, although he does it while watching the fire very closely. He's neither cold nor wet to be in actual physical danger, but having decided it's worth the effort to be warmer and thus a little less miserable, he is dedicated to seeing it through. "I would. My days of being anyone's lord are far behind me. Forever, I think."

A slow breath takes him back to the here and now, away from those old days, and Roland focuses back on Arwen. "But if formality settles you more, ah- the titling of my world's barred to us too. Most of it. Call me gunslinger, then, although my name'll do just as well."

Roland sits back, eyes the fire, decides it'll do well enough on its own for now. To keep his mind off the matters that led them both here, he has to keep talking. He casts around for a topic. "Riven-dell. It's a lovely name. Does the place match it?"

Not unlike Roland, Sigma wanted to pretend he was above being frightened by the Jabberjays. He had heard his son's scream come out of a rabbit many Arenas ago, and thought he knew better than to fall for the same trick twice. Still, the Doctor makes an active effort to escape these birds; he follows away from the sites of their roosts, but they like to give chase. He's just short of withdrawing his precious hunting knives and picking birds out of the sky (and, likely, losing them in a tree) when one screaming harpy suddenly falls silent. Spinning around, Sigma finds Roland flailing about, rocks in hand.

The other man appears wild with anger, but somehow Sigma could trust him not to turn on him. He observes a moment before approaching cautiously, displaying his palms. A calm (or calmly nervous) antithesis to Roland's rage. "...Nice shot," Sigma remarks.

Edited (arg sorry I got confused) 2015-02-28 03:58 (UTC)

Roland spins, eyes wide. It's been, probably, a long time since he's been so closely approached without knowing about it. But even now, a corner of his mind knows that's the price for letting anger run away with him, as it has now; what he ought to have earned from the lapse is a shot in the back.

What he gets is a familiar figure, one being very careful to show its hands in an expression of peace. The hand that's still got a rock in it has already started to blur forward as Roland turns, but that combination of posture and familiarity makes a quick enough impression that he can abort the throw. The rock falls lamely from his hand and rolls away, and Roland knows that if he acknowledges the man now, the anger is going to leave.

He doesn't want to let it go. Just a second longer, just a second - long enough to scoop another rock from the ground and, with a yell, swing it toward an unlucky jabberjay which falls dead on the spot.

Roland stands there, panting, head bowed. "If I kill enough of them, they might leave," he says after a moment, voice dull and slow. "No point, is there?"

Even if Sigma had been struck, he would have given Roland the benefit of the doubt. He watches the rock roll away harmlessly and smiles in relief - before Roland takes out the last of his aggression on another jay and Sigma flinches reflexively. If Sigma had not gotten a true taste of Roland's skill in the Arena during the Puzzle Room, he was certainly getting one now.

He had learned that most Tributes hated to be pitied, but Sigma feels sorry for Roland. The Gamemakers were a mean lot and had even managed to rile up the quiet, cautious Roland. "...I doubt we would be rid of them for long, no. But would say there is a point," he shrugs, "if it makes you feel better." Sigma offers a small smile in spite of things. "I rather despise these things, myself. They have been following me all damn day and I am ready for some peace and quiet. Would you like some assistance?" Sigma gestures to his knives, sheathed on the side of his backpack.

Edited 2015-03-07 03:00 (UTC)

He looks back enough to watch the man speak, snorts, his eyes moving from Klim's hand to the knives. He looks over the smile too, and no part of his face so much as twitches in response. It'd been a long time hunched in that cave, hearing those voices and using the feeling of the stone of his necklace - tucked now under his shirt - to steer his mind toward memories of a more recent voice instead, a long time working to remember the touch of another living hand. And then his son's voice, go then -

The anger is draining fast, as Roland'd expected it would. Something will fill him up in its place, of course. In a while.

Roland looks away again and takes a couple steps, movement his feet want to turn into pacing. He stops them, half-turned, and flicks his right hand in a brusque gesture toward the flock of birds. "Please yourself." The hand lowers, squeezes the bridge of his nose between its two remaining fingers and its thumb. "They followed you all day. Suppose you're a stronger man than I. Don't know how you bore it."

Sigma's smile fades as he observe's Roland's body language. The Doctor had a difficult time conveying his feelings - and an even harder time when the Capitol would soon be watching his every move for signs of weakness - but he had meant to be empathetic. Sigma settles back on his cold stone mask and withdraws one of his knives, watching the birds in the sky with catlike intensity.

"It has nothing to do with strength, unfortunately. It is because I am familiar with the trick," he admits carefully. There's an ambiguous hint that he may have done something similar, himself, but it goes unconfirmed. "Many Arenas ago, there were Jackalopes that would scream in a voice they knew would affect you. Much harder to catch and attracted more predators. Compared to that, these birds are a mere nuisance."

He realizes he might have trivialized Roland's grief, and stiffens in embarrassment. He adds quickly, carelessly, "Of course, when either of them can cry in my son's voice, it is sometimes difficult to show restraint." This time he has his fingers in his own wounds, and perhaps Roland's, now, too, but it's something he hadn't said outright before: that he knew exactly what Roland was going through.

Sigma takes aim, and with a flick of his wrist, a hunting knife slides easily through the breast of one of the feathered pests. Somewhere in Panem, a man who did his old job would have to work harder to produce another bird.

If Sigma has trivialized anything, Roland seems to care about that just as much as he had the empathy. Not enough left in him to respond to either. It's old instinct that tips his head back up and turns him to watch Klim throw, rather than real curiosity. The lower, trained parts of Roland's mind note the look of the man as he aims, the accuracy of it, but his gaze is only really there once the Doctor mentions his son. His head twitches toward Klim, visibly a little surprised, but is it such a bad thing that that reaction was so obvious? It isn't as if the other man doesn't already know Roland has some reason there.

"Next time I'll be ready," he murmurs, setting toward the fallen bird. He crouches to pull the knife from it, wiping it carefully clean over the grass. "But I-"

No, he isn't close enough with this man to speak his doubts, to say he needs to be ready, but he isn't sure he will be. "Suppose I ought to try and keep from making such a spectacle in the future."

Looking up and around won't show him where the cameras are, he knows that. Does it anyway. "Here," he says, tossing the dead bird in front of him in Klim's direction. The ones he'd downed are a little further away, more near Sigma. "Share a meal with me. As thanks for stopping me from going any further."

Sigma jaunts towards the bird corpse until Roland picks it up, after which Sigma waits a few paces away. He had already trusted Roland with his life once before, and is content with letting him handle the knife. He watches him clean it quietly, behind solemn eyes. Roland doesn't need to finish that sentence.

"That might be prudent," Sigma agrees, if only from a competitive standpoint. Raising hell over the small things was a good way to get oneself killed - now that Roland mentions it, Sigma wonders what would have happened if someone had beat him to Roland. Would he have blown his own cover to help defend him? He certainly liked Roland, but that wasn't something he could answer from outside of the moment, not after he'd forced himself to kill Ruffnut. He'd faced a gauntlet of tests of his character in the most recent Arenas, and he did not expect it to stop after he petitioned out.

As for sharing a meal with someone else, that is something Sigma can easily accept, curiosity about Roland aside. He perks up at once: "I would be happy to, Mr. Deschain," he answers cheerfully. "If you might show me to where you were planning to set up camp, I can start a cooking fire," he offers - no matter how many Arena's he'd been in, Sigma had always found starting a fire to be a hassle, and wonders if Roland feels the same. Doing the chore for him might give Roland some time to cool off from his frustration.

"Was planning on camping back in the cave." Roland responds to the man's enthusiasm by, wonder of wonders, actually turning one corner of his mouth up for a second. The idea of doing anything other than this, of not spending dinner alone, is enough to penetrate even this grey mood, at least a little. He stands, looking around, and heads to scoop up the other downed birds. "I'd settle for a place the hell away from here. Not going back across that river any time soon."

He glances at the flock overhead, which is beginning to settle as their panic dies down, and his steps get longer, taking him away from the birds at speed. With luck, the things will remember and avoid him for a little while. "If you'll allow the use of your knives to do it I'll prepare those birds. If they're safe to eat, of course." The words are absent, his attention elsewhere. He rubs a hand over his chest, feeling the comforting solidity of the necklace under his shirt, and lets out a sigh before he realizes he's done it. These arenas are a pain in the ass.

Sigma nods, content with that answer. "I could not agree more," he says ruefully. "As for my knives, you are welcome to them." He could only hope that, if the birdmeat wasn't toxic, there would be more to the carcasses than skin and bones - he chose to be cautiously optimistic, as the game would be over rather quickly without anything to eat in the freezing temperatures ahead. He joins Roland in gathering their dinner, and once the task is completed, falls into stride with him as they walk towards the caves. Getting out of plain sight is an appealing thought, though he knew, one way or another, that they were never safe from the Gamemaker's schemes.

As they walk, he cannot help but notice Roland's idle hand at his chest, and Sigma looks away immediately, wondering if he had seen something he perhaps should not have. There was a similar weight around his own neck, hidden inside the folds of his jacket. Whatever was troubling Roland was deeply personal. "Are you on your own so far, Mr. Deschain?" Sigma asks without looking back at him, pretending to be looking out for company. He's a little concerned he might find an ally of Roland's waiting for him ahead, one that did not think much of him... which was not a difficult bill to fit. More than that, though, the thought of Roland bearing this winter cold alone makes him a little sad. Sigma is used to being ostracized; a man as kind as Roland should not be.

Edited 2015-04-22 21:11 (UTC)

If Roland knew the thoughts in Sigma's head now, his expression now would be fairly different. He's been accused of many things in his long, strange, and often violent life, most of those accusations true; kindness has rarely been among them. All his expression is now, though, is dry, because if ever there was a question that reads more perfectly than that one as a prelude to an attack, he has not yet heard it.

But, as Roland's already decided, there's been plenty of chances to attack already. If Sigma wanted him dead, one of them already would be. So he answers without hesitation, rather than waste time second guessing his own decision. "Yon birds," he says, tossing his head back toward them, "are the closest I'm going to get to any I've once traveled with." The memories those voices had stirred up are still fresh and his voice is a little tight, a little grim, but not dangerously so. Now that his emotions are back in his control, they are going to stay that way.

"Save one," he adds, and his fingers itch to reach up and touch that spot on his chest again, still needing the feel of it solid in his hand after what this day turned into. He redirects them, pulling at one of the straps of his pack instead. "But he's recently won free of these arenas and I wouldn't call him back. No matter how much of a pain it is to keep traveling on my own through these things." Nothing about this could be called traveling, not in the purposeful, true way he'd used to do it. Feels similar, though. If a little more tense.

"A little farther, unless you think we ought to go on, then we can stop and see about these." He gestures to the bodies of the birds, then goes smoothly back to the other topic. "And yourself? Anyone you need to look for, now things are peaceful for another little while?"

It's an unfortunate suspicion to have confirmed, and Sigma's stomach tightens a little. Cold was not easy on old bones, and if he had been forced to spend his first Arena freezing to death alone, he would not have come out the same man he was when he went in. How unfortunate for Roland that he has been alone so far this Arena. Losing someone from the Games- even as a Victor- was hard.

He suspects he knows the identity of Roland's ally, as only one of the recent victors have been male, but Sigma will not put words in Roland's mouth. He nods empathetically. "When you come to be in as many Arenas as I have, friends come and go, one way or another. It is never easy." It's no peace for Roland, but at least his ally was 'safe'. "As for me, I need not search for the few I have left. The Initiate can take care of himself," he explains, and not without some hint of pride. So long as he had his wits about him, the Initiate was a fierce competitor, and Sigma had always been of the opinion that he, himself, was the burden between them. "...And, Eponine is already gone, poor girl. I try to look out for her when I can, but with her strong personality, she winds up out of my reach quickly." It was more difficult to admit that than he had expected, and his energy leaves him, a moment. His words had been deeply affected with concern. He eventually shrugs it off. "I anticipate some company will be a pleasant change of pace for the both of us." And, perhaps, make the end come just a bit faster - Sigma was ready to be done with this.

Edited 2015-04-24 00:05 (UTC)

It's Roland's turn to see more than he was perhaps meant to, but unlike Sigma, he does not look away. Not until a moment later, anyway. He sees, understands, and does not stare. "It's hard, loving. Especially the young. They'll learn their own lessons; we can do aught but be there afterward. Sometimes not even that."

He takes a few more steps, looks around, and turns to head toward two trees that've grown leaning close against one another. As shelter goes, that'll do for a while. "But Initiate-" Roland pauses, pleased to find himself beginning to smile. As surprises go, find a connection so unexpected is a good one. "I'd think someone looking out for him would have just as much cause to worry. Do you know, last time I saw him he was leading me into a stampede?"

He shakes his head, stopping as he nears the trees and taking another look around. "I'd think it strange, if we didn't all live so close together. What's that saying, the friend of my-" Stop. Take a second to try and untangle the web of connections here and remember what they're called. Hell, he'd bet no human alive knows the proper troll terms for it, anyway. "-of my lover's sweetheart is my, ah. My traveling partner, I suppose."

Roland squats, leaving the mess that sentence had turned into behind, and sets the birds he'd been carrying on the ground. "If you'll prepare the fire, I'll prepare the food. Unless you'd rather?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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I am soooooo sorry :'D At least I'm graduated now!

It's all good. :D Congrats!

Thank you :3

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