thearena | cogi qui potest [OPEN]

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

"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."

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."

"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."

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?"

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."

"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.

"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?"

Well, that was something at least. Either this guy was lying or this place was more interesting than he'd thought. However, any sign of being impressed is hidden under the sneer he gives in response.

"I don'tsitstill that long. You have fun growing roots and collecting dust though! I'm sure no one'll spot a relic in this place, so you're good."

He gave a wave saturated in false cheer and zipped back down the way he'd come and out into the castle, his last sentence vaguely echoing like the words had been dropped and then left behind so fast they didn't know where to go.

"Seyagramps!"

He just had to have the last word.

"Children," Merlyn muttered under his breath, and started to cast on stitches. A scarf. That would be nice and simple, and a good idea if the nights got cold around here. "I knew I retired for a reason."

cogi qui potest [OPEN]

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