thearena | the guests are coming through [OPEN]

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the guests are coming through [OPEN]

Who| Éowyn and OPEN
What| Éowyn attends Wednesday's feast; attempts to train a horse on Friday
Where| The castle; the forest
When| Week 2, Wednesday and Friday.
Warnings/Notes| I should probably register that I don't know jackshit about taming horses. So. Yeah.

i. the feast
She has struggled with the stench the last few days. Even the sterile emptiness of the Capitol is starting to look like a fondly-remembered haven. She's smelled some awful things in her life, and she has a strong stomach, but it still robs her of any hunger.

Even so, she heads towards the feast, drawn not by the thought of food and drink and comfort, but the knowledge that others will go there, too. True, that makes it dangerous, but it also makes it her best chance of finding those she's been seeking - her friends, her allies, those from her own world. She means to find them and fight with them, but even if she can only see them, and be sure they are alive and all right...

So she finds herself on her way across the drawbridge, a lanky, filthy figure nonetheless carrying herself with grace, one gloved hand on the hilt of the sword she took from the smithy that morning. Rohan's white horse is still visible on her tabard and cloak, although she's besmeared Panem's gold eagle beyond all recognition, but that's almost all that makes her recognisable; her pale gold hair is strictly tied back at the nape of her neck, her face spattered with soot and mud and blood from the cow she slaughtered last night. Her grey eyes peer out from that mess, sharp and aware, seeking a familiar face. They must be here, she tells herself. They must.

ii. the forest
When she hears the hoofbeats and the whinnies, her heart stops, and all else is forgotten. Éorl's blood runs hot in her veins, and horses call to her almost as strongly as open skies and wide grasslands do. Éowyn forgets the ever-present stench, forgets her imprisonment, forgets the danger for a moment in the shadow of one thought: I can ride again!

She has never broken a horse from the wild - Rohan's horses are bred true and trained from birth, as they always have been - but she knows how it can be done. With patience, with restraint, treating them like a skittish colt again. Offer them food, give them space. Let them grow to know you, to trust you, train them to the saddle and then train them to the rider.

But that process takes weeks or months, even with a horse already broken. She knows some things cannot be rushed. But she also knows she simply doesn't have that much time - and there is another way to train a horse to its rider, one more brutish and less safe. She's never tried it. But it can be done. Just ride. Ride, and hold on, until it learns it cannot be rid of you.

She tracks the horses through the forest, keeping downwind, not resting until the herd stops at the edge of the woods to graze. There, she begins to ready herself. She strips off her tabard and cloak - their flapping will only make the horses more skittish - leaving her in a thin tunic and britches. From the cloak - looking up every few moments to check on the herd - she fashions a kind of knapsack, knotting it around her tabard and the goods she was sent from the Capitol, and fastening it securely over her shoulders. Her longbow, she leaves where it lies - she has no skill with a bow, and a longbow is hard to carry while riding - but she takes the arrows and quiver, tying them into her knapsack with the rest. Just because she can't use the bow doesn't mean she has to put the weapon in an enemy's hands.

She's just getting to her feet, eyeing the heavyset grey stallion nearest her, when she hears the twig crack behind her, and turns sharply to face whoever is approaching, knife in her hand.

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He nods, eyebrows furrowing in a dark look. "Yeah. I half expected to see the place full of corpses or some kinda huge fight." More than half expected, actually, but he doesn't want to sound like too much of a pessimist.

"I can try some and let you see if I start frothin' at the mouth or somethin'. I bet I've eaten worse."

"And risk you?" She sounds horrified at the idea, as indeed she is. She's sworn to herself to protect him, as much as that can be possible. At the same time, though, she's too shrewd to seriously suggest leaving this kind of bounty untouched, even if there is a risk...

"We collect it," she suggests, after a moment. "Collect what will keep, find a place to store it. Watch those who eat, and see what becomes of them."

The response Firo feels he should give is a cool shrug, because, hey the stakes are such that the risk isn't too bad, right? But hearing just how shocked she sounds at that, the only gesture he can manage is an apologetic and ashamed cringe. "Sorry."

He nods quickly. "That's a good plan. They'd still eat it anyway, so it's not like we're hurtin' 'em, right?" Firo's not the kindest or most scrupulous person around, but he does have some regard for his fellow humans. And deliberately avoiding hurting someone is a little way for him to feel like he's rebelling.

He makes his way closer to the table, poking at some bread.

Éowyn nods, following him, and looks down at the food for a moment. "...Hold this," she says at last, unslinging her bow and arrows from her shoulder and pushing them towards him. With them out of the way, she unfastens her cloak, slitting it away from the tabard with a knife from the table and knotting the corners together to form a makeshift bag. "There. That ought to hold more than we can carry otherwise."

Firo obligingly takes the materials for her, watching as she readies the sack.

"Smart. I gave away the parachutes I had when Phil and I hid our supplies, otherwise I'd offer that... Are you sure you're all right givin' up your coat?"

It got cold last time. While he doesn't think they'll use the same gimmick twice, it's good to be wary.

Éowyn shrugs, taking her weapons back and slinging them over her shoulder. "If worst comes to worst," she says, almost carelessly, "the fabric of it's still there, and usable. Besides, if you're aflame in any case, there's no reason not to light a fire for warmth."

She nods to the flame over his head, and starts to look over the table, seeking out dishes that won't rot or stale too quickly. If they choose wisely and ration it, she thinks with a little twist of satisfaction, they could eat for a month off this spread, and not go hungry.

"True." With that resolved so easily, he smiles and sets his eyes back to their mission. Honestly, part of him is just happy for the reminder that she's willing to work with the flame rather than abandon him for it. Not that he would have thought she was the type, but who could blame her?

He reaches for a promising looking dish and unceremoniously dumps its contents into their sack. "You been anywhere else in this place? Me and Phil checked out a bit a' the creepy place downstairs, but didn't stay too long."

The castle is massive, though, and he wonders what else it may hold.

She shakes her head, considering for a moment before dumping a loaf of bread into the sack. It wouldn't keep, but she was longing for fresh bread. "I've spent my time in the woods and the fields, in the main," she says, reaching for a plate of boiled carrots. "I know them better, and they seem less likely to become a snare. Though the forest is a poor place to be at night, I've found." It was like the tales they told of Fangorn - not the truth of those tales, but the stories she'd been scared with as a child, where the shadows clasped for you and the very trees thirsted for blood. But she was a woman grown now, not a child, and she would not be frightened away by them.

"I've mostly stuck to the town down there, but... I see what you mean about snares--it'd be easy to corner somebody in those houses." But alleys and narrow choking points were where he'd grown up and he felt more comfortable with walls around him.

He wrinkles his nose as he inspects some lumpy pudding concoction and tosses it back on the table. "Yeah? I bet some creepy stuff goes on there."

"I've never really seen that many trees outside a' Central Park. But, you know, there's all those weird fairytales that take place in the woods--Hansel and Gretel and all, right?"

"I know them not," Éowyn admitted. "Not by such names, in any case. But that forest seems a place for such tales, to tell you the truth. You could swear the trees are reaching out for you, and I have seen queer lights and figures. Still, the smell is less bad there." It was further from most of the wells, which helped a little. The stink was still unbearable, but a little less strong.

She frowns at a flagon of wine, sniffing it. "If we but had a bottle for that..." Though maybe it was better they didn't. The last thing they needed in a place like this was to be drunk.

"Trees, huh? 'Cause we needed more things out to get us." While he tried to laugh at his own comment, there was a note of genuine dismay in it. "You know, it might not just be your imaginationg... I wouldn't put it past 'em to actually send the trees after us--there were crazy murderous geese in here last time."

Firo, on the other hand, seemed to find absolutely nothing wrong with imbibing a bit while in the Arena. He pretended to nod mournfully as she inspects the bottle. "Oh, too bad. We'll just hafta finish it before we leave here."

Given time, it would probably be better than the water.

Éowyn half-smiled. "'Tis not so strange a notion. In my homeland, there are such creatures. Ents, they name themselves, the herders of the trees. For many centuries, we knew them not, and the forest where they dwelt had an evil reputation among our people. Even brave men shrank from the borders of that woodland." With a little laugh, she examined a plate of nuts, then emptied them into the bag. "Truth be told, after the stories I was told as a child turned out to be so wrong, I ought to fear little in that forest. But it is easy to be caught unaware, on the cusp of sleep, and find yourself jumping at shadows. Don't drink that," she added, a little more sharply, and frowned at him. "Poison or no, I will not carry a drunkard."

"Tree herders..?"

He dropped the bottle like a flinch, even as he was already pouting at her words. Years of working with his Family had him accustomed to taking orders. "I wouldn't ask you to carry me. And I'll have you know it takes way more than this to get me drunk."

"...I was kinda tipsy my first Arena, though. They took us out right after the big Crowning party. Didn't really warn anyone."

"I think you told me of it, when first we met," Éowyn said with a little nod, relaxing. "Forgive me. This place has me settled as on a knife's edge, I fear. Ill would I fall so soon, after all, and shame myself by my failure." There's a little more to it than that, but she isn't about to go into a full detail of all her fears and woes. They are her own.

"If we carry the jug," she added after a moment, "we might take it with us after all, to drink somewhere a little safer."

"Don't worry about it." His expression became more serious. "And there's no reason to be ashamed, okay? Most people do fail." Including himself. Despite what he was telling her, he actually did feel somewhat disappointed in himself. He didn't know if he'd be more disappointed if he made it out.

He shook his head and replaced the bottle on the table, opting for something jerky-like. "I'll live."

She smiled at him, genuinely grateful for that reassurance. "I think it hardly helps that they returned my people's standard to me," she says, half-joking but with a serious look in her eyes, and brushes one hand over the white horse on the green quarters of her tabard. "They could scarce have found a better way to remind me that I carry my people's pride with me here. And I am glad of it, but..." It hardly leant itself to relaxation.

Clearing her throat, she leant over to pick up a dish of what smelled like onions, putting the lid on it and lowering it into the sack. "In any case. What will come, will come."

His eyes followed her hand, carefully studying the design. Despite her dismissal, he found words coming out of his mouth anyway. "It's pressure, huh?"

Introducing himself as a Martillo Family capo was a habit that had somewhat carried over to this place, though his Family's name meant nothing to these people. But he'd been wondering if he should distance himself from it, for fear of bringing them shame--he assumed that was like what she was talking about.

"You're not gonna make your family--your people, I mean--" he gets stuck on the Family stuff sometimes. All the time. "--look bad or anything."

Truth be told, it's her family that concerns her almost as much as her people. Family has always mattered to her, nearly as much as it seems to matter to Firo; it's that stubborn loyalty to them which kept her at Edoras through her uncle's decline, and which fires her pride. Still, he's not wrong about her people, either, whom she loves dearly and fights for.

"Pressure," she agrees, with a sad little smile. "Pressure, in truth, I am not used to bearing alone. And it has been made clear enough to me that no-one here cares one whit for my house or my kingdom, but even so..." She shakes her head, looking into her sack of food. "I imagine many here must feel the same."

"Yeah. It's not just like a habit you lose." He shakes his head, the words coming out bitter. It both cuts and baffles him how these people seem to think they can slip out of their family ties as if casting off a piece of lint.

For no other reason than to release some aggression, he flicks over an empty cup and watches it roll around. "How the hell're we supposed to forget what we've fought for at home, huh?"

For all the lip service they have to pay to supporting the Capitol and the Districts, Firo knows there's only one thing he fights for. He assumes that it's the same for her, after what she told him of her life.

"Maybe we aren't," Éowyn says softly. "Maybe that's part of the point." She won't say more than that, not when they know they're being watched, but she's thinking it: Maybe a people so cruel as to find murder entertaining gain entertainment from our homesickness and losses, too. Maybe making us suffer to fit their mould is a part of the fun. She presses her lips together, lifting a dish-cover and frowning at the meat under it.

Despite doing some terrible things to people himself... Firo'd never even considered something that awful and his head snaps up to look at her, startled and horrified.

"That's sick."

He shakes his head. "I knew a guy who liked stuff like that--takin' away what people loved most, anything to hurt 'em. It's just--"

He doesn't know where he meant to go with that, so he just looks down at the table. Whatever he has to say about Szilard probably shouldn't be said when he's comparing them to the Capitol.

"If what they seek is to get a rise out of us - to anger us, that we will fight the stronger - it makes sense." Éowyn chooses her words carefully, trying to keep herself from ranting, but she can't stop the heat from creeping into her voice. "But it is only a theory, no more. I may be entirely misled." Although it does seem in character for their captors, who think pain is entertainment.

She shakes the thought off, clearing her throat, and sweeps a couple more dishes into her sack, then straightens up. "That should be enough to last us. Come, let us find somewhere safe to store it, and to wait out the feast."

His mouth straightens into a line. He tries to shrug, as if he's nonchalant, but the movement is stiff and cagey. "I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss it."

Turning to business, though, it something he's kind of glad to do. He looks back up at her, his face softening a bit. "Somewhere deeper in here, you think? It'd keep it safe from the elements and all and people might not poke too far inside."

And he just kind of doesn't want to venture back out with the trees and the fields and all, admittedly.

Éowyn nods, her own lips pressing taut. "This is a fortress," she says after a moment, looking around, "and must have cellars for stock and storage. Food will keep better there, in the cool." She nods again, turning to Firo with a little twitch of a smile. "Perhaps we may even find some place from which we can see or hear others come. There are other friends I would seek, and I doubt not the same is true for you."

Shifting the sack onto her back, she brushes her gloved hand over the sword at her belt, as if to check it's still there, then looks around the room. "Lead on, my friend."

The corners of his mouth turn up just a bit in spite of himself--he would really like if they could collect their friends, however unlikely it seems. "You bet."

There's a nondescript, heavy-looking door at the end of the hall that Firo thinks is pretty likely to lead to a basement of sorts. He starts for it, but glances over his shoulder at her with a smile. "...I'll be honest with you, I kinda feel like Lady of the Shield-Arm is more qualified to lead, but all right."

He doesn't think about it so consciously, but a small part of him hopes that reminding her of the fantastic things she told him at the Crowning will help assuage those worries she displayed just a few moments ago.

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