Roland Deschain (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ka_sera_sera) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2015-03-15 08:07 am
ka_sera_sera) wrote in thearena2015-03-15 08:07 am
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Who| Roland and Zed
What| roland tries to get a yeti drunk so he can kill it. zed happens. eventually roland falls to his death (again)
Where| in the mountains somewhere
When| last week of the arena, maybe friday or saturday
Warnings/Notes| drinking, death
He doesn't stop to doubt whether this is a good plan. It isn't. But he's working with what he's got, which happens to be: One deerhide coat, and extra scraps of hide he'd tanned along with it. Too many medical supplies. Fishing hooks and improvised cord of braided sinew. A couple of improvised shale daggers, small and, due to the type of rock he'd had to use in place of a blade, maybe likely to break if used in a fight. Alcohol. What kind he isn't sure, but by the smell it's got one hell of a kick. He hasn't drank any of it; anything Capitol gives them here Roland treats with deep suspicion, and there'd be no point to drinking this except to make himself stupid and vulnerable. He isn't so desperate as that to entertain the lazing masses watching them back in Panem, but that does not mean he is not going to use it.
So. Bad plan. Roland is aware of that. Maybe even a ridiculous one, something a certain person of his long-ago acquaintance might have laughed at, and loudly. But as with a lot of what he's done in the last couple arenas, this is an act born of need. It's been far too long, he thinks, since anything of note has happened to him here, and so far as the people of Panem are concerned their tributes are only worth anything if they can put on a show.
Roland's steps are slow, careful, measured. It isn't hard to track these things, because they aren't concerned with sneaking anywhere. It wasn't hard to slip up this mountain unnoticed, and it isn't too difficult to stay ahead of the creature he'd found. He can stay slow enough to do it, and he can stay quiet. The creature can be seen through the trees, a small speck of white, and after some observation he's sure it's going to follow this particular path.
He reaches up, stretching all six foot of him onto the tips of his toes, because these creatures are damned tall. The sinew cord, already weighted and thrown over a strong branch, is tied with neat, efficient knots around a scrap of leather, which in turn cradles a bottle that Roland is now working to open. It isn't that he is paying no attention to his surroundings. In the arenas, he pays the space around him careful attention even in his sleep. But he is not expecting to see any other tributes so far up, and in this moment, his position is vulnerable. He begins, in this awkward, tip-toed position, to get the bottle open, and the smell of it leaks instantly out into the cool mountain air.
What| roland tries to get a yeti drunk so he can kill it. zed happens. eventually roland falls to his death (again)
Where| in the mountains somewhere
When| last week of the arena, maybe friday or saturday
Warnings/Notes| drinking, death
He doesn't stop to doubt whether this is a good plan. It isn't. But he's working with what he's got, which happens to be: One deerhide coat, and extra scraps of hide he'd tanned along with it. Too many medical supplies. Fishing hooks and improvised cord of braided sinew. A couple of improvised shale daggers, small and, due to the type of rock he'd had to use in place of a blade, maybe likely to break if used in a fight. Alcohol. What kind he isn't sure, but by the smell it's got one hell of a kick. He hasn't drank any of it; anything Capitol gives them here Roland treats with deep suspicion, and there'd be no point to drinking this except to make himself stupid and vulnerable. He isn't so desperate as that to entertain the lazing masses watching them back in Panem, but that does not mean he is not going to use it.
So. Bad plan. Roland is aware of that. Maybe even a ridiculous one, something a certain person of his long-ago acquaintance might have laughed at, and loudly. But as with a lot of what he's done in the last couple arenas, this is an act born of need. It's been far too long, he thinks, since anything of note has happened to him here, and so far as the people of Panem are concerned their tributes are only worth anything if they can put on a show.
Roland's steps are slow, careful, measured. It isn't hard to track these things, because they aren't concerned with sneaking anywhere. It wasn't hard to slip up this mountain unnoticed, and it isn't too difficult to stay ahead of the creature he'd found. He can stay slow enough to do it, and he can stay quiet. The creature can be seen through the trees, a small speck of white, and after some observation he's sure it's going to follow this particular path.
He reaches up, stretching all six foot of him onto the tips of his toes, because these creatures are damned tall. The sinew cord, already weighted and thrown over a strong branch, is tied with neat, efficient knots around a scrap of leather, which in turn cradles a bottle that Roland is now working to open. It isn't that he is paying no attention to his surroundings. In the arenas, he pays the space around him careful attention even in his sleep. But he is not expecting to see any other tributes so far up, and in this moment, his position is vulnerable. He begins, in this awkward, tip-toed position, to get the bottle open, and the smell of it leaks instantly out into the cool mountain air.
no subject
Still, he tries. Giving up is one skill he has never quite perfected. Hell, maybe he's made enough of a mess of this that the gamemakers will bring him back for another arena solely for the amusement value, and things will turn out alright regardless.
One hand takes his necklace in a tight grip, locks it there so as to make sure that particular hand will never open again, because if that treasured gift falls over his head now he is likely never getting it back. "GO FUCK YOURSELF!" he yells, loud as he can so that damned drunken mess lying wherever he'd been dropped will hear it. Then he shoots.
His old skills are still good, and even while being shaken and with all the blood rushing to his head, the bullet hits the thing's wrist and it very quickly loses its grip on Roland's ankle. It drops him, screaming anew, and he wraps an arm around its leg as he passes by.
It's the longest fall he's had in his time in Panem, but only by a little, and with some luck he ends up moving fast enough that the cameras won't be able to pick up his noises of fear.
He is falling headfirst. In actual, measurable time, things are over this time for Roland fairly quickly.
no subject
With that, it's time to go after the rest of his vodka stash, at which point, his all-too-human liver is finally going to give up on him. Good job, Zed, good job.