thearena | [closed] would a rose by any other name

Entry tags:

[closed] would a rose by any other name

Who| Rose and Roland
What| What kind of arena would it be if Rose didn't find the roses? Also: knitting buddies.
Where| In the forest.
When| Sometime during week two.
Warnings/Notes| Nothing expected.

Rose hates the arena. In fact, she hates much of this place, but right now it's the arena that's most soundly got her ire. General things like the Capitol's whims to bring her here kind of fade into the background against the gross, grungy feeling of wearing the same damn wizard robe for a week straight, having no showers, and having to rely on what survival skills her and Dave can scrounge up between themselves.

If not for her knitting needles she'd be dead weight. Well, maybe not hers - it was Merlyn who conjured them first. Meeting him was fortuitous in a slew of ways (and actual wizard out of well-known legend), but very few here would have known otherwise that these were he weapon of choice before coming here.

They also make a good set of needlewands, but after learning the punishments magic use brings, she's been keeping their usage to a minimum. It doesn't hurt that a certain someone may have related a vision about that.

But the long and short of it is that she's filthy, tired, and sick of playing wilderness survival; and to top it off, everything reeks this week in a way that can't be put to lack of plumbing. That's part of why she's found herself in the forest, the other being an incorrigible need to explore and learn all she can, not to mention worry Dave by sneaking off. It's not that she doesn't care about him - quite the contrary - but she feels she'll never learn all she wants if she lets him play the overprotective brother the whole arena.

The thing is, it reeks in here, too, and she's starting to think she'll never escape it when she comes upon a rose bush. Not just any bush, either, but one all in white, with neat tags that (once she draws close enough) look to have names on them. Not yet knowing what they might do, but too curious to leave, she peers over the bush in search for one with her name.

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"I wouldn't." Roland's face is drawn in distaste, in a way that can't be accounted for by the smell. In fact, the folded up rag wrapped over his nose suggests the smell is less of a problem for him than it might be, though the herbs in it by no means do enough to mask that stench completely.

He stands a little ways from the rosebush, on the opposite side from the girl. At his right side hangs an old shirt with its sleeves tied around his neck in the manner of a purse, and at his left the handle of a knife sticks out from the scarf tied around his waist. He is reaching for neither, only standing there, and more of his attention is going to the roses themselves than to the girl inspecting them.

"No matter what may be written on those little notes." Is it obvious he hasn't come close enough to read the names? He could, certainly, if he wanted to.

He does not want to.

A person. Rose runs into them often enough on these trips, and she rises slowly now upon hearing him, not trusting enough despite the supposed concern in his wording.

He looks weird, she notes first. Probably no looker behind the thing he's got tied 'round his face, and she can't bring herself to care what it's for right now. She sees his knife, and she sees he does not hold it, and so she takes her knitting needles only loosely when she takes them from where she's wedged them through the fabric of one wide, dangling sleeve. She wants no harm, but she doesn't know him, and this is the arena.

"There are names on them," she answers plainly. "I was looking for mine."

Edited 2015-06-09 15:22 (UTC)

"Then find it if you like." Roland waves his left hand dismissively. No point in arguing, is there? "If you think you're ready for another one of the gamemaker's tricks. Are you? I'll be honest, I fear what I'll find if I see the rose writ with mine."

Although she is a stranger he thinks very little of saying so, admitting to an emotion like doubt or fear. It shows on his face too, a little, as he looks at that rosebush and realizes there is in fact one with his name on it, somewhere. The memories that particular flower hold for Roland are close now, closer for all the careful presentation involved with this and the damned mystery surrounding it. And the fact that one of these is meant for him.

Those memories are dangerous ones, though, and he does not want them here. So he looks around for something else to turn his mind to, and finds what the child had brought to hand on seeing him. Huh.

"You were going to fight me with those?" Despite the words themselves, his tone is not at all skeptical. It's intrigued. So is the noise he makes a moment later, a brief, interested grunt. "Won't be able to bring them back with you to the Capitol. Too sharp."

Tricks, he says. It's interesting, because she knows the Gamemakers have anything but their best interests at heart, and has already seen the kind of thing they pull. They set a rafter on fire when Merlyn summoned these needles, and they sent bats after her when she flew up to join him. They've already made this arena miserable with the stench of this week, and who knows what may yet come to bear?

Still, she doesn't know this man, and she's curious. Progress was never made by staying in neat, safe lanes - not for her. But by that same lack of knowledge, she hesitates to crouch. Possibly for good reason.

Her eyebrow lifts. "Not without reason." She lifts them up, hold still light, to better show them. There are marks on her sleeves where she's wiped blood from them, long and straight lines, though it's only wildlife that's taken their points. "Provide me with none and I will gladly keep them to myself."

She hopes deeply that he won't.

Unlike him, though, she is openly curious at the next part. "Are there no knitting needles at all there? It would be a shame if I can't keep up with the hobby. The mundane one, not the fighting."

Edited 2015-06-10 16:56 (UTC)

Perhaps if Roland were younger and a great deal stupider he wouldn't have taken the threat - no, the statement - seriously. Not from this particular source, a source who is young and fair and whose look in another setting might even be called sweet. Or perhaps he would have. Perhaps he always would have treated the statement with the seriousness that he ought to because he'd been that child once, standing against dangerous men who'd thought their experience would be enough to protect them. He's learned - from both sides, now - very well that it does not.

That blood on her sleeves could well be staged, put there to make other tributes think twice, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't intend to start any fights, anyway. In any case those thoughts become less relevant as she continues.

"You knit?" he asks, and past the rag wrapped over his nose Roland's long old face lights up a little. Obvious statement, yes, but that shoulder's been making sleep come a little harder, and if he survives this arena long enough for that lost sleep to add up, making more obvious statements than usual will be the least of his problems. "You can carry needles, aye, so long as they're dull and weak. Perhaps once we get back to the Capitol you'll teach me some new patterns. The ones in their magazines are all-" Panem is watching, Roland. Be polite. "-a little more complex than I can follow. So long as the needles you have there aren't weapons, you'll be able to bring them to any district you like."

What is with this arena and people who knit? Not that she's complaining - finding people who share her hobby is a rare bright spot among the rest. Her shoulders ease down in a lessening of her guard, and with them she lowers the needles.

(If the bloodstains have made for warning, it's more a happy accident than intent.)

"Yes," she says, as if it's equally necessary. "I've only been learning since..." Her brow furrows. What month is it here? "A few months ago is probably the easier way to put it. But I've made a number of things in that time, and more challenging patterns might be fun to try."

Maybe she could get some nice wooden ones. They wouldn't be the same, but she likes the thought better than plastic.

After a silent pause, she approaches him, steps slow and hopefully nonthreatening as she circles around the bush.

"Can I ask about the districts and what knitting you've done already? This place is dreary enough that some light conversation would be nice to pass the time."

He grunts, watching her approach. It's always possible that she's only talking so he'll let her get within stabbing distance, but if there is one thing Roland has always trusted through his long and violent life, it is the speed of his own body, the accuracy of his reflexes. And she's right - light conversations are, to Roland, usually best left to other people, but one may now be just the thing to take his mind away from the place the sight of those roses keeps trying to send it to.

"Ask what you like, so long as we do it somewhere else. This bush is bound to attract others. A walk around would do." And it'll give him a chance to try and keep her on his good left side, though if he can't do it without being too obvious he won't try too hard. "Let's cover those districts first. What would you ask me about them?"

"Sure," she agrees easily, and lets him take the lead, so ending up on his left side like he wants. There's not one attempt to attack him; she doesn't even fold her arms.

Once they're more into the trees, she says, "Anything you could tell me, really. I've only been here since the start of the arena, and what little they told me before putting me on that platform was woefully inadequate for understanding the whole of this place. What are the districts in this context?"

This is notably briefer and more controlled than the explosion of questions he'd gotten from the boy Kurt, when they'd met after the cornucopia. Of course this new tribute has had more time to get used to being one, but Roland thinks the difference lies just as much with that as it does with her mind and manner.

"The districts themselves seem a little like baronies, if those exist in your world. Less autonomy, but just as much difference between all of them in people and culture. Like the baronies of my old home, they unite under the sigul of one - the Capitol in this case, where we stay while the gamemakers prepare the next arena." He waves back and forth between them, making clear which 'we' he meant. Even as he speaks, though, he keeps alert, because in arenas of course you always have to. And not only for other tributes.

"In this context, I meant the different levels of our tower. I mean, our barracks. We're each of us assigned a district who gets the spoils and honor when we win, and they arrange our quarters in the same way. You won't need to know all this just yet, though. What've you been told so far? Other tributes explained anything else?"

Edited (sorry, had to nitpick) 2015-06-15 14:43 (UTC)

Rose has plenty of things she could ask, but she also has a sense of pacing. The topic of Districts could lead to plenty of knowledge in its own right, or specific things to question, and so she waits and listens for what he'll tell.

"A bit medieval for my world, but I think I understand what you're getting at," she says. More distinct than states from the sound of it, though she doesn't bother to launch in about those. They aren't important, and he hasn't exactly asked. Baracks also evokes a certain image in her head different than she's bound to find, but she gives a hm of interest and a nod of comprehension.

"Not particularly much about things outside," she goes on to answer. "Most of the tributes I've run into have brought other topics with them, though one did inform me the Capitol has good stores for buying yarn. Mostly Dave - my brother - explained the gist of the arena itself to me. That what I was told about this game is correct, that if I die I will be revived, and that we are each of us being televised for the benefit of a viewing public. The rest was a bit more personal, about timelines and things like that, and inquiries of who is or isn't here."

Even as she speaks her eyes are cast outward and watchful. She knows too the dangers of this forest, and would rather not be ambushed by some hunting beast in the middle of a good conversation.

Medieval is not a word Roland knows but, as it doesn't seem important, he lets it be. The same with those other, more personal topics she mentions, even that one about time lines. No business of his, and of little interest to him, besides. "That's the meat of it. As for the rest - the Capitol isn't a place that can really be explained. I'm sure you'll see." Because telling her she may well not be revived after this arena, as she seems so sure she'll be, would be pointless. What good would it do her?

"I'll answer any questions, but I think you'll be able to figure out what you need to know." He says this not because he has no patience for finding some safe way to explain Capitol politics, but because with the impression of the girl Roland's got in his mind, he really believes that she will.

"Who mentioned the yarn, by the way?" This he asks with real interest. Being kept prisoner and forced to fight to the death by a cruel and rotting kingdom is not nearly so interesting, clearly, as finding other tributes who also like to knit.

It's probably better he doesn't ask, because as frustrated as she is, it's easier to ignore when the topics only brush by. It helps further when he compliments her, and the corners of her mouth flick upward. "A vote of confidence already? I'm flattered."

But she gets the point: it's probably one of those places that can only be understood in seeing it, like trying to explain the ocean to someone who's only ever lived in a landlocked place without a picture for reference.

"I think I'll wait for the surprise," she says before moving on. "It was Merlyn, if you know him. He'd conjured some yarn and the knitting needles I have now, and we had a nice chat after I convinced him to give me them."

"I know him," Roland says, having replied to her comment about being flattered with a quiet snort. The idea of him turning willingly to flattery, after all, is a wild enough one that it deserves some sort of reaction.

Before he continues on, he hesitates. Perhaps this isn't a question he should indulge himself in, not about a man whose self righteousness is likely going to get himself or someone else killed. This Merlyn is not the one whose stories he grew up with, anyway. But he wants to ask. His tone changes when he does, sounds honestly curious and touched with awe. "...Did you see him work any of his magic? I'd hear of it, if you did. It'd be good to know if his magic is anything like the Maerlyn of my own world, and a fine sight to hear about, in any case."

Her eyebrows lift with a glance to him, then her focus returns outward. "You'll have to tell me about the one from your world. I didn't really see him use it, as such. He almost did; he held out a hand and started to say 'mirror' as though to conjure one, but thought better of it. Not worth the punishment." She shrugs, holding no blame for him. "I wasn't there for the conjuring of the needles and yarn. I only heard the former clatter against the floor before peeking in to see what the commotion was."

Roland grunts. "Merlyn, being prudent. Maybe the man can learn after all. The one of my world... hmm. There're the tales of his time with the Eld, of course, but he appears in tales even before. Long before. He was wise, and clever. Perhaps too much so for his own good, for some of his clever creations are said to have played a large part in his corruption, and eventual service to the red. At least, depending on which of the tales one believes. The one in this world seems fairly different from the sorcerer I grew up hearing of, but mayhap similar. Maerlyn seldom set magical traps unless he needed to, but he understood them well enough - if this one's the same, he might have some insight on some of the traps in this place. That rose bush, for instance. If you see him again you might do well to ask after it, if you're still thinking about taking a rose for your own."

She frowns now, not heavily but clear. "I wouldn't bet on it. He seems the kind of stubborn that comes with age, more set in his goals than in sense." And she'd have a great deal more to say were they not being watched by the cameras.

Roland has an interesting story to tell, though, and she listens quite attentively as he goes through. At the end she makes a thoughtful noise.

"I might, if I do see him. But for now, what are the Eld and the red? I can already say he differs from what the legends told in my world, but that's not saying much when they're centuries old and I had little reason to believe him real before coming here."

"Hm. It's possible he had no twin in your world, for if he did you'd know him. Arthur Eld, who built the kingdom which eventually turned into the land in which I was born. Maerlyn spent a great deal of time helping him in the tales, and became the sorcerer of his court once there was one. He set himself up that he should oppose the forces of the red - him, his men, and all of us who came after. But the red isn't any specific enemy. It's more a symbol, if a very useful one. Your world seems a little different from mine, because most in mine at least half-believed Maerlyn was still around somewhere, even if they thought most of the tales exaggerations. I think now a lot of them were less exaggerated than I used to believe. And your Merlyn? What is he known for, if not helping to build a kingdom?"

"Ah, I didn't understand you," she says, realizing now at the explanation. "He helped Arthur too, though we didn't call him Eld. There are a great many stories and legends and retellings about him and how he became king of Britain - 'the once and future king', it's said, though I doubt anyone puts real stock in it. I wish I had some references in front of me; there were debates and scholarly reckonings of which characters came into the story when, or where they may have originated, and whether Arthur Pendragon was ever a historical figure at all."

She continues, "Merlin of our stories did help him, yes, being a powerful wizard who held place in engineering Arthur's birth. But I don't think any of ours got at the details of the Merlyn here, not from what he told me."

"Once and future king. Huh." It's an interesting title, that, and he thinks on it a moment before he continues. "I remember Merlyn told me he'd spent a very long time in a cave, which matches up with one of his later stories in my world, although I didn't ask after it at the time. What did he tell you?"

Rose nods, saying, "He told me about that, which wasn't so much the strange part. I'd rather say the fact he's been living backwards through the span of several centuries was the unusual part." Her lips quirk, amused at her own phrasing. "Starting from the century I last lived in and going through hearing his own legends until, finally, he got to the point where they ended, going in reverse through the whole thing."

"You know, I wouldn't be surprised, although I've never heard of that happening even when time in my world was at its strangest. Dealing with magic as much as he did is going to have consequences. Might make his Arthur's title make a little more sense, if he had any control over it. Course, it makes for a good story, too. Especially when there's a young woman around to impress."

Rose laughs as soon as he says it. "I don't think he told it to impress me. If anything, he seemed relieved at how easily I understood the metaphor he used to explain it--he'd had trouble with others." Her posture straightens as her mirth eases. "If anything, he was predestined in reverse to cause his own legend. I haven't lived the same life as him, but I have been at the crux of enough stable time loops to know that trying to do anything different tends only to put you in the right position to cause the very outcome you were trying to prevent. The strange thing is rather that this place has stolen us out of our normal timelines."

She has thoughts on that particular issue: a lot of them, none particularly happy. She pushes them from mind.

"I should tell you, you're addressing the wrong audience if you want to warn about the dangers of magic. My robes might not have been my choice, but I can't say they're inapt."

"Hm," he says and then looks over, surprised, as she continues with the rest. "Oh, those are meant to be sorcerer's robes, aren't they. Are you any good?" Ordinarily with one this young he'd be wary of bragging. He'll still be watching for it, but with this particular child he doesn't think it too likely."

It's a good thing, maybe, that she'd changed topics. Roland has thoughts on that particular issue too, most of them speculations on how powerful the Capitol's machines must be, and that isn't the sort of talk really suited to be watched by the whole of Panem.

She looks back at him as she thinks, taking a solid moment of consideration for her answer.

"I suppose it depends on your position and view. I know what I'm doing with it and have put it to great use in the place I was before this, but here and now the Capitol sees fit to assault me with bats just for daring to float up to a rafter." She shrugs lightly, though it serves another point of aggravation for her. She'd be doing better if she could just use her magic freely here.

"My magic is different than his, too. He can seemingly conjure items out of nothing, but that's not within my purview at all. Mine is - how should I put it? - largely focused around offense and movement. I have a few abilities as a Seer as well, but those come from a different source than what powers my needles."

Roland takes note of those things, and of the fact that, like most of the other children he's met here, it sounds like she has combat experience. "I'd be careful using either - my friend Alain was struck by lightning for using his own abilities, even for a second."

He's distracted from going on by a rustling noise. It's not necessarily close, and not necessarily dangerous, but he slows a little and crosses to the girl's other side anyway. Before, keeping her on the side that has a working arm had been a cautious move; after a certain length of time talking to her and being sure she isn't going to attack him, that move becomes a stupid one. Once he's done, he casts a glance at the trees around them and continues. "Your bats seem a stroke of luck."

Rose hears the rustle, and it's impossible to miss how Roland moves. She takes her needles back into either hand as precaution. Her eyes sit on their scenery, scanning, while he volume drops lower.

"Trust me, I've been sparing," she says. "I haven't used them at all since the bats came along, and Merlyn told me the set his rafter aflame for summoning the yarn and needles." Not enough to burn through, luckily, but she had no doubt they would have if he'd gone through with conjuring the mirror.

She flicks him a glance, just brief, before looking outward again. "Do you see what that noise was?"

He's taller than her. While they're still among the trees, he might have a better vantage.

He shakes his head, looking toward the noise - and more, the smell. Now he's paying attention he can smell whatever it is, something stronger than the normal scent of a wild animal. Something like rot.

"Stay on my right if you can," he murmurs, and is still looking in the animal's direction when it steps out of the bushes and into a clearing a little ways away. It's tall, taller than anything similar he's ever seen. Its tusks are half the length of his arm and it's those from which that smell of rot is coming; strips of something hang from them, along with the bones of some small animal caught on one tip.

Roland angles his left side toward it, but does not yet draw his knife. There's no point, though, in trying not to draw its attention, because in a second- yes. There. It sees them. And given the look of the thing, whether it is going to simply let them pass by is not even a question.

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[closed] would a rose by any other name

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