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.