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)
thearena2015-11-06 07:17 pm
ka_sera_sera) wrote in thearena2015-11-06 07:17 pm
Entry tags:
[closed]
Who| Roland Deschain and Clint Barton
What| fighting, death
Where| the crumbling city
When| week 6
Warnings/Notes| death, nothing particularly bad anticipated
Roland does not come here because he expects it to be safe. Given the terrain, all broken down and uneven and made up almost completely of hiding places, this is one of the least safe places he could be. But the arena's getting on now, and though he thinks he's been entertaining for the spoiled children watching back at home, there's always the question of whether he's been entertaining enough.
He does intend to be entertaining. He intends to be brought back to life, after, return to the Capitol and to the man whose necklace matches the one hidden around Roland's own neck. Roland intends to live.
Didn't get too far into the city last time he'd ventured here, as he'd decided the dragon he met at its edge had probably been excitement enough. But he isn't surprised by what he finds here - shadows, the noises of dripping water, scurrying things. Roland knows that something larger'd come near a few times, because his awareness of that sort of thing, already very keen, is at its height here. He hadn't chased any of those noises. One can court a fight, after all, without being an idiot about it.
The extra change of clothes his district had won way back before this arena in that parade hangs from his side, all knotted up into a makeshift purse. His two weapons, a shillelagh and a jagged pipe, are wrapped into its straps and ready to be jerked out in a moment. He's obviously wary, not making any secret of the way he checks every corner of the space in front of him, one quadrant at a time.
Something moves, heading his way. His hand blurs, and in a second he's looking down at a rat, its back broken under the tip of Roland's shillelagh. He grimaces, sighs. "Not quite the greeting I was looking for," he murmurs, knowing that even that much noise, in a place so still and echoing as this, is going to carry. Roland isn't one to talk to himself, but he is one to test out a few of those noises he may or may not be hearing, a few of those flickers of shadow which have caught the corners of his eye. Make a little noise, see what happens.
What| fighting, death
Where| the crumbling city
When| week 6
Warnings/Notes| death, nothing particularly bad anticipated
Roland does not come here because he expects it to be safe. Given the terrain, all broken down and uneven and made up almost completely of hiding places, this is one of the least safe places he could be. But the arena's getting on now, and though he thinks he's been entertaining for the spoiled children watching back at home, there's always the question of whether he's been entertaining enough.
He does intend to be entertaining. He intends to be brought back to life, after, return to the Capitol and to the man whose necklace matches the one hidden around Roland's own neck. Roland intends to live.
Didn't get too far into the city last time he'd ventured here, as he'd decided the dragon he met at its edge had probably been excitement enough. But he isn't surprised by what he finds here - shadows, the noises of dripping water, scurrying things. Roland knows that something larger'd come near a few times, because his awareness of that sort of thing, already very keen, is at its height here. He hadn't chased any of those noises. One can court a fight, after all, without being an idiot about it.
The extra change of clothes his district had won way back before this arena in that parade hangs from his side, all knotted up into a makeshift purse. His two weapons, a shillelagh and a jagged pipe, are wrapped into its straps and ready to be jerked out in a moment. He's obviously wary, not making any secret of the way he checks every corner of the space in front of him, one quadrant at a time.
Something moves, heading his way. His hand blurs, and in a second he's looking down at a rat, its back broken under the tip of Roland's shillelagh. He grimaces, sighs. "Not quite the greeting I was looking for," he murmurs, knowing that even that much noise, in a place so still and echoing as this, is going to carry. Roland isn't one to talk to himself, but he is one to test out a few of those noises he may or may not be hearing, a few of those flickers of shadow which have caught the corners of his eye. Make a little noise, see what happens.
no subject
In any case, the wound at his side he'd gained at the Cornucopia hasn't done him any good. Especially when it split open again not even two weeks ago. So by the time Roland rolls into the city, wary and jumpy and causing noise, Clint's hidden in an alcove, carefully checking on the bandages. He freezes at the sound of metal meeting flesh, and the soft, muddled murmur of someone not so far away. With his hearing, he can't quite make out the words. Nor, unfortunately, can he place the voice.
His best bet is to stay hidden, to stay out of side and reassess. They're running low on time and Tributes, by his count, and the last few weeks are always an even more desperate scramble to survive and fight.
But this place isn't safe, and Roland isn't the only one seeing shadows. Clint's eyes are sharp, sharper than most, and he catches a bit more than he'd like. It's enough to keep him on his toes, and to want to leave this place as soon as possible. He doesn't have anybody to watch his back here, and it's slowly eating at him. So he hauls himself out of his hiding space, carefully scanning for hint of whoever was speaking. If it's someone he knows, maybe they could figure out an alliance. If he doesn't, well, maybe they could make one anyway. And if not, well, the spear he'd fashioned and lashed a knife to will simply get another use then.
no subject
Nevermind. The gun which he's spent his entire adult life carrying may never again meet his hand and that is the end of it. He has what he has, and the fact is that no part of this city is going to work to his advantage, not unless he gets lucky. And despite that phrase the Capitol likes so well, anyone who pins his whole strategy on the odds being in his favor is going to find very soon that they aren't. Roland isn't quite doing that. What his whole strategy is pinned on is his ability to improvise.
He has, at least, had the foresight to not come here during the dead of night. Sunlight's falling on him even now and he looks down, kicks the dead rat into the shadows and walks up to it, hunkers over it, bows his head as if investigating the thing. The perfect target. To someone who doesn't look too closely.
(ooc: tell me if I should be a little more direct here and have Roland just hear that Clint is there)