cogi qui potest [OPEN]

[knittingbackwards]

Who| Merlyn and OPEN
What| Merlyn accustoms himself to the Arena and sets things on fire
Where| The castle, main hall
When| The first night
Warnings/Notes| TBD

Merlyn had to say that, so far, he was not taken with this place. The village stank quite hideously of rot and decay, and the whole place was bitterly draughty. At least his outfit wasn't too bad. It was heavy, of course, but to a man used to weighty robes, it wasn't too bad at all. He did resent that they had taken his hat away again, though. Was it so much to ask that he be left with a skullcap, at least?

But all that was purely cosmetic. The real problem, of course, was that he was here at all. He had no intention of participating in their barbaric Games, no matter how they might browbeat him. At the Cornucopia, the moment he had felt his powers kick back into gear, he had abandoned his plans of running; squatting down and making himself small, as he'd once taught the Wart, he had turned himself into a blackbird and flown for the rooftops. He'd been mobbed by crows on the way, but he was a deft flier, and they had lost interest around the time he darted in through one of the castle's arrowslits.

When the sun started setting, he was settled in the rafters above the Great Hall, an old man again. He had taken off his heavy gloves, tucking them into the pocket of his leather apron, and was sitting with his skinny legs dangling over twenty feet of nothingness, considering the fire flickering over his head.

"A queer kind of trick," he announced at last, to whoever might happen to be watching. "You might have put less thought into firelight and more into better architecture. Why, even the Castle Sauvage is less draughty! I should give a great deal for less fire over my head, and more in the grate!"

He got his wish a few moments later, when he grew bored with contemplating his surroundings and attempted to conjure up some knitting to keep him occupied. No sooner had he stuck out his hand and said "Knitting!" than the rafter he was sitting on burst, rather unexpectedly, into flames. Yelping in a very unwizardly manner, Merlyn dropped the yarn and needles that had just appeared in his hand. They clattered to the floor far below as he scrambled back and beat at the flames with his apron. Echoing around the chamber, along with the flapping of leather, the occasional ..."by-our-lady..." sounded out.

When he finally managed to smother the fire, he looked down at the hall below. More specifically, at the bright blue yarn in the middle of the floor. "Drat it!" he snapped, and started to shuffle along the rafter. It was going to be a long climb down, for an old man.

Comments

[thinksfast]

Pietro had already made his way all around this rotten place twice, every nook and cranny had gotten an eighth of a second's attention. There might have been a few things he missed along the way, but probably nothing worth seeing. What he had seen was that this castle was the best joint to be found, which didn't count for much, so that was where he decided to pack it in for the night. Better than somewhere out there.

Although, he had to admit the random ball of yarn hanging out in the middle of the hall wasn't what he was expecting. It looked clean, which meant it stood out and Pietro's hand darted out to collect it. He quickly looked around and finally up to see the old guy in the rafters. Also not what he was expecting.

The rafter itself looked kind of burnt which explained the smell, but not how the guy ancient enough to be a walking corpse wound up there. Weird. Maybe he was a mutant too, humans that age were so fragile they'd likely break trying to climb up there.

[knittingbackwards]

"Oh!" Merlyn looked down, just as he was edging onto the stone sconce that held up the rafter, and saw the white-haired figure below him. Sitting on the edge of the stone, and steadying himself on the wood of the rafter, he leant forwards a little, his long beard dangling. "Oh, splendid. Much more convenient." Then, raising his voice, "If you wouldn't mind. The knitting supplies are mine. Toss them up here, would you? There's a good chap."

Of course, it was quite possible that whoever it was might decide that the needles stuck into the ball of yarn made good enough weapons to keep. Or that they might forego the yarn altogether and try to shoot him with a crossbow or a gun or whatever other nonsense the Gamemakers might have provided. But Merlyn had come to the conclusion that, in a place where what the ruling class wanted was conflict, maybe the best form of non-violent revolution was to trust. Openly. Obviously. For the full view of the cameras.

"I mean," he called, "I can come down there. But I'm afraid it would take some time. The rheumatism, you see. These by-our-lady castles are awful for it."

[thinksfast]

The call from above makes Pietro's curious look turn into a frown as he considers the guy and the yarn.

"Yeeeaah....I could do that. Easily, too, but Idon'treallysee what's in it for me, you know?" He turned a smirk up to the old man. "So, how bout it, gramps? What'chayagonnado for it?"

He really didn't have any interest in the yarn or even the needles, he still didn't think he'd need a weapon for this, but this wasn't a charity case, in fact, he couldn't even think of the last time he'd done something for someone else without getting something out of it. That's just what made sense, what was the point in doing something for nothing?

Although...

"I supoose you could tell me how an old guy like you got up there in the first place and that'd be good enough. It's not like you've got anything I want, anyway."

[knittingbackwards]

"I was a bird at the time," Merlyn saaid, rather sulkily. "T. Merula, the common blackbird, if the classification interests you at all, which I suppose it doesn't. It seemed like a sensible place to land. I was just about to get myself properly settled, too, and then the dratted beam caught light and I dropped my by-our-lady knitting. Drat it all," he added, in conclusion, and waved a bony, age-spotted hand. "There. I gave you my explanation. Be a good chap and pass up that knitting. My knees will be quite pained by the climb down, and I really oughtn't to keep asking favours of the body-changing kind."

[thinksfast]

Asking favors? What kind of nonsense was that? However, Pietro's neck was starting to hurt from having to look up all that way, so better to save the questions for when they were at least on the same plane.

From where he'd been standing in the middle of the hall, Pietro vanished as he dashed across the hall and up the side of the wall, turning at the roof so he could run onto the beam and across to the old guy, all in the span of less than a second.

When he stopped, he was tossing the ball from hand to hand, careful to avoid the needles. Before he could even open his mouth to speak, there were two loud cracks as lightning harshly struck the roof and a bolt even smashed into the front entrance way. That damn lightning trying to get him again. Although....now that he thought about it, every time he tried to run either lightning or stupid forest animals came after him and this guy just said the beam had caught on fire when he'd done whatever, so maybe something didn't like them using their fancy tricks. It was something to think about...and likely ignore.

"So, what, are you a mutant?"

[knittingbackwards]

Merlyn looked at the young man over the top of his glasses, his bushy eyebrows drawing together. If he was startled by the speed with which Pietro moved, he didn't show it. (In all honesty, though he would never have admitted it, his eyesight was too poor to have registered movement at all, and so he was assuming that the boy had merely teleported; something which, in the grand scheme of things, was far from unusual)

"A mutant? Why, no. At least, no more than any member of a species can be said to be a mutant; I am quite sure my genes show some variation from my parents', whoever those good people may have been." He holds his hand out for the wool, looking up at the damage the lightning had done to the roof. "I am a wizard, young man. Merlyn, by name."

[thinksfast]

"Merlin?" That actually caught him off guard. Was that like his mutant name? Or did he actually mean he was a freaking wizard or something? Except he said he wasn't a mutant.

He was about to toss the ball of yarn over but thought better. Merlyn was old as heck, if he fumbled the yarn and dropped it, Pietro would have to go get it and that would be a pain with this place trying to zap him. He placed it in the old-timer's hand instead.

"Like the wizard Merlin?" He was fairly certain he was ready to not believe the guy, but he had to make sure first.

[knittingbackwards]

"Exactly like the wizard Merlyn," Merlyn said patiently, taking the yarn and tucking it away into the pocket of his apron. "I am a wizard, whose name is Merlyn. I am, in fact, the wizard Merlyn. Have you any questions," he added a little nastily, "or should I continue sitting here and stating the obvious until your beard grows as long as mine?"

[infinitemayonnaise]

Nitou has not been having a good run so far. The wizard costume they'd stuck him in was generic and cliche, and by this point, it was also pretty singed. He hadn't made much of a move to remove it or otherwise rework it into something more practical to move around in, mostly because it was doing a pretty good job of hiding the worst of the burns he sustained when he'd gotten hit by lightning in the Cornucopia. (There would be no hiding the way the fake beard he was wearing had been halfway singed

He didn't want to go too far from Gary and Haruto, true, but out of the three of them, he could walk the best. At least, he thought he could walk the best. He wasn't limping nearly as badly as the others; that had to count for something. And they needed supplies, and maybe, just maybe, he'd find some in the castle.

Granted, he'd just been hit by lightning, so when the falling yarn is accompanied by fire somewhere up in the rafters, he is understandably alarmed. "Holy crap!" He hadn't realized anything was in there to be a threat.

[knittingbackwards]

"Oh." Merlyn leans over the edge of the rafter, frowning. "It's you. The fellow with the Chimaera in his belly. Do be a good chap and pass me that yarn, will you?" So what if Nitou's twenty feet below him? The so-called 'wizard' is still young. He can throw. And it would save Merlyn either climbing down or conjuring another ball of wool, neither of which he particularly wants to do. Not while he can so easily get the first one back.

Taking out his glasses, he settles them on his nose and squints down at the young man below. "You look rather burnt," he comments, not without some irony. "I must have missed quite some excitement out there." He'd been more concerned with the crows attacking him when the Cornucopia had caught light, and frankly hadn't noticed.

[infinitemayonnaise]

"I got hit by lightning!" Nitou looks down at that yarn and limps over to pick it up. He's sore all over and not moving nearly as well as he might under normal conditions, but he's not about to admit this. "It got kinda wild out there, yeah."

And, because Merlyn's got a lot of magic going there, he glances down at his stomach as he stoops down to pick up the yarn. There's a hissed whisper at it, too. "Dude, shut up!" For the Chimera in there is loud and hungry and has realized that the old man is just full of magic.

Nitou makes a face as he tries tossing the yarn back up to Merlyn. It's half confusion at knitting at a time like this, and half pain because his injuries still hurt.

[knittingbackwards]

"Drat!" Merlyn snaps, as the yarn falls several feet short of his outstretched hand and drops back to the floor far below. "Drat it all, drat this whole by-our-lady place!" Scowling, he settles back on the rafter and considers his options. Of course, he could just stay up here and conjure himself another ball of yarn, or do something other than knit. But on the other hand, even from up here he can see that Nitou is in a rather bad state, and that does tip the balance a little.

He sighs. Well, in for a penny...

"Hold on," he orders, looking down at the other wizard. "I'll be down there in a moment." And with that, turns his eyes up to the ceiling, wondering what this little foray into magic is going to cost him (because he isn't stupid, after all, and has noticed the pattern).

What it costs him, it turns out, is the rafter he's sitting on, which gives way with a solid crack. With a rather unwizardly yelp, Merlyn falls, along with the heavy oak beam, and barely manages to finish the change before hitting the floor. He becomes a moth at about the level of Nitou's head, but at that size, the impact of the beam hitting the floor is enough to send him flying.

He lands up against the wall, an old man again, and rubs his head, which is bleeding. "Well," he says to the room at large, "that could have gone better."

[infinitemayonnaise]

"But--" Before Nitou can insist that he's fine and he can get it, that beam's coming down, and Nitou's flinching back out of reflex. "DUDE!" The moth surprises him, as does the transformation back. "You've gotta show me how to do that!"

But the enthusiasm is short-lived, because the old guy's smacked his head pretty good. "You okay?" He holds up a tattered corner of his robe. "I've been making bandages out of this thing."

[knittingbackwards]

"Ugh." Merlyn lifts his head, then frowns as the room spins around him, and falls back against the stonework. "Perhaps not, now that I come to think of it. A contusion of the brain, mild trauma of the diencephalon. Concussion. That's the word. I may have given myself a concussion. Oh, dear."

[infinitemayonnaise]

Nitou looks down at the scrap of robe he's holding. "I don't know if I can bandage that up, man." He holds up two fingers, because this is what television has taught him that you do when someone might have a concussion. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

[knittingbackwards]

"Two." Merlyn may be slurring very slightly, but the flat disdain in his voice is still perfectly clear. "A fact which I could tell you no matter how bad the concussion, unless I was actually unconscious at the time. Ugh," he repeats, for good measure. "Give me a hand up, will you?"

[honeyibrokeharlem]

The yelling draws a certain amount of attention.

Bruce was just exploring the castle when he hears the commotion. He goes to investigate, and he sees smoking rafters, yarn all over the floor, and an old man beginning to climb down from the ceiling.

Not the weirdest thing he's walked in on, all things considered.

"Do you need some help?" He doesn't like playing the game any more than anyone else. He sees an old man struggling, and it's his instinct to offer help.

[knittingbackwards]

"No, no." Merlyn is far enough down the wall that he thinks he can probably do this, although the heavy boots they've dressed him in are really not designed for climbing. "No, I'm quite fine. Just thoroughly irritated. Just an old man in a gladiatorial deathmatch who apparently can't even keep hold of his by-our-lady knitting without nearly being barbecued. Quite fine. Just marvellous. Drat!" This last in response to his foot slipping, sending a scree of mortar down the stonework.

He makes it a few more feet, then, about twelve feet above the floor, gives up. Grumbling under his breath, he shoves himself away from the pillar he's scrambling down, and becomes a moth midway, fluttering out of the way as the rafter he was sitting on comes crashing down towards him. He can't talk in this shape, but somehow there's just an air of "by-our-lady!" about the fluttering grey shape.

He changes back a few feet away from Bruce, dusting himself off sulkily. "I can't say," he says, scratching his balding head, "that I am particularly taken with this place. A man could start to long for the troglodytic boneheads of the Castle Sauvage, I tell you!"

shuffles in late

[wickedgoogly]

The thing about having a brother who's suddenly years older than you and also stuck in a death game is that he's overprotective as hell. It's strange and cloying, and honestly to be expected after his attitude to a certain past plan of hers, but it's not inescapable. That's how she's managed to sneak away.

And honestly, her intent isn't to worry him, but to explore. She's wanted to explore this castle since she first set eyes on it, and was only waylaid from the task by the revelation that Dave was here at all. She got no further than the courtyard before she had to turn back, eventually finding him back at the village.

In any case, if there's something interesting in this place, she feels it must be here.

She's not far in when she hears the commotion: echoing voice, a distinct clinking against the floor, and a great deal of flapping around. And frankly, it's absurd enough that she can't resist the desire to look. She peers into the hall from a side door, and after a bit of looking realizes the sound is coming from above: an old man on the burning rafter, in apparent distress. But what was the other noise? She checks the floor, and - yes! - yarn, but more importantly knitting needles.

"Give me your needles and I'll help you down," is how she calls out her greeting as she strides into the hall. She's dressed a heavy, hooded wizard robe, though she abandoned the wig and false beard early on. Her costumers never saw fit to give her the crystal ball.

Whatever the old man's answer, she's headed straight for the needles anyway.

[knittingbackwards]

Giving the smouldering wood a final, rather irritable slap with his apron, Merlyn leans over to peer down at the girl in the wizard robes. Oh, she got wizard's robes, with a proper hood no less, while he was stuck here in ridiculous by-our-lady trousers without a by-our-lady hat! Looking rather sulky - not that she can probably see, when he's so high up - he polishes his glasses on his sleeve, puts them on his nose, and looks down at her again.

"If I were to give you my needles," he says, rather acidly, "there would be very little point in my coming down there at all. I may as well stay up here, out of the way, and conjure myself some more." Then, scowling at the blackened oak of the rafter, "That is, if our by-our-lady jailers can refrain from setting me on fire for it, next time."

[wickedgoogly]

Rose stops beside the needles, fingers itching to grab them, but she looks back up to the man instead. And for the first time, she sees him. He was there before of course, and all his attendant features, but it's the combination of this and what he says that makes it all click in place. Long beard, an old face, something to his quality of voice, talking of conjuring: he's a wizard. She has to lift a hand to cover her mouth as it spreads into a wide grin.

It would explain why knitting needles and a ball of yarn were here in the first place when she's seen not one hint of them before. It might explain the strange fire up above, if what he's saying is true. But a wizard - a real wizard... Okay, she knows she's presuming, but if there are other people here with strange powers enough if that guy with the chimera in his stomach was right.

A wizard.

She bends down slowly, trying to stifle her mirth into something more presentable, and promptly fails as she slips onto her knees and into a burst of giggles.

"Tell me, you - you conjured these?" she asks, grinning helplessly still as she lifts the needles into view. "Magically, as one naturally clad in my robes might?"

[knittingbackwards]

"Hmph." Merlyn peers down at her. It would be nice to say that the peering is due to his wizened, scornful ways, but actually, it's just shortsightedness. Maybe settling in the rafters wasn't the best idea, after all. "I did. I was rather worried he might not be obliging, but, as you can see, it was a successful experiment. One which I would like back, if you please. It is very draughty up here, and very dull, and I should like some knitting to pass the time until our hosts get bored with their barbarism. Or until I fall to it, I suppose.

"Although," he adds after a moment, settling back on his rafter, "it would hardly be quite right to say that one is ever naturally clad in robes at all. Much as I appreciate them, and they certainly do add to the appearance of the thing, the only thing one is naturally clad in is one's own skin. As we can tell," he adds to the air in general, with sudden venom, "from the fact that I am quite unnaturally dressed in this ridiculous attire. I mean, what is this supposed to be? A smith's garb? Can't get the castle right, can't get the clothing right... as a friend of mine once said, it's like chewing on tinfoil. Horrible."

[wickedgoogly]

Rose's grin wins its battle and cements firmly into place. He is exactly the kind of wizard she always liked to imagine, old and wordy and well-bearded. He is only lacking the robes, and she might offer to swap if not for the cameras and the fact that she's 13 and not suited for his proportions.

Her giggling dies out shortly, though, leaving a calmer mirth in its place.

"Swap naturally for usually, then, if you'd rather linguistic accuracy in my statements."

She rises back up to her feet, one hand patting dust from the knees area while the other keeps the needles firmly clutched. Then she grabs up the yarn and tucks it into one of the wide, dangling sleeves.

"You see," she says, looking back up, "while I can certainly understand your desire, being a knitter myself, I think I have a greater need for these than just passing the time. The knitting needles, that is; I'll happily return the yarn. In fact, I could show why I might need them if you'd like me to bring you the yarn now."

Of course she could just tell him, but this way is more fun.

[knittingbackwards]

"Hmph," Merlyn says again, and strokes his beard thoughtfully. He'll still have to conjure more needles if she takes them, of course, and perhaps it would be easier just to produce more yarn along with them. On the other hand, he is an immensely curious kind of character, and she's piqued his interest.

After a moment of this quiet, dignified musing, he nods, harrumphing quietly, and settles himself more comfortably on the blackened rafter. It's quite possible, given the nature of the place, that he'll regret this decision - that what she means to show him is something dangerous. Maybe he was right about the danger of using knitting needles as weapons. And maybe he wasn't.

Either way, if it all goes horribly wrong, at least he'll learn something from it. So he nods again, looking down at her. "Certainly, if you'd be so kind."

this got kinda long between the magic and punishment

[wickedgoogly]

Oh, no. He does the beard thing, too, the same beard thing she's put in her writing journal, and she wonders suddenly if he doesn't have a name like Frigglish or Zazzerpan. It would just complete the image. She's smiling already, and this time she manages to stifle any stronger reaction.

God, she's never going to get over this.

And while Merlyn isn't wrong - knitting needles make for fine weapons, and she has a solid hand for their application - it's not what she means to show him.

Swapping her hold so that she has one needle grasped firmly in either hand, she raises them. If there is uncertainty on her face, it's mild; Doc Scratch did imply it was nothing about her old needlewands that granted her the power she held. This should work. All she needs is a conduit.

And with a breath, it does: Purple light limns her and her makeshift wands alike as she rises smoothly up into the air. She's done this before, and it works just as it should, even if it sends up a bright marker of her power above her head. (That she's not concerned about; she heard about it already.)

What concerns her, instead, is the sudden influx of bats. Perhaps some were hiding among the stonework; perhaps they simply fled in from other rooms; or perhaps the Gamemakers had them secreted away somewhere.

"Oh, shit," she says, and her smile promptly turns to a frown. She's less worried than annoyed, but it's not hard to put two and two together to gather what the cause was, and even less so after Merlyn's earlier comment about the fire. "Hold on."

And clutching one arm close (the one with the yarn still tucked in the sleeve), she uses the other to swat, slap, and divert. It's once one gets pierced through on a needle that they finally get the idea to disperse.