singillatim | ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ɪs ʙᴜɪʟᴛ ʙʏ ᴋɪʟʟᴇʀs

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ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ɪs ʙᴜɪʟᴛ ʙʏ ᴋɪʟʟᴇʀs

Who: Sandor Clegane & You
What: a catch-all — ft. open mini-event top level
When: the month of October
Where: around Milton

Content Warnings: profane language, violence, period-fantasy typical ignorant bullshit likely, possible mentions of child death and assault (from Gregor)

sᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ɢᴇᴛ ᴜsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ

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He's been hearing this shit off and on since those fuckers tried and failed at waging war against an entire town — the crack of thunder, the sound of explosions. Canonfire, only smaller, and with neither canon nor fire. There hadn't been time in the heat of the battle for him to learn, study, or understand what it was the men were wielding, though he's pieced a few things together from context.

It's a kind of weapon, just like the big metal heaps around here are meant to be a kind of carriage, only different. A projectile thing, he thinks, ranging in sizes that vary from short-sword to hand crossbow. A coward's weapon, but a deadly one. He might not respect the men who'd choose it rather than a sword, but he'd have to be fucking stupid not to respect the lethality of the weapon itself.

He doesn't like bows, either, but he knows how to use them. Knows their strengths and weaknesses. He's not a stupid man, and he doesn't like being caught unawares in a fight — so when he hears that same thunder-crack on the outskirts of town one bright afternoon, he follows it — wary, at first, in case someone's busy trying to kill someone else. What he finds is a somewhat familiar looking nonce leveling one of those weapons at makeshift targets, and he spends a quiet moment observing in the background before he strides up.

One hand on his hip, the other on the hilt of his sword, he nods at the weapon in Fitzjames' hands and, without preamble or proper introduction, demands, "The fuck do you call that thing?"

Edited 2024-10-04 18:06 (UTC)

If there was one good thing about the entire recent ordeal, it's the number of resources that had been available to collect. In addition to the weapons--the rifle and a decent knife--James is also now better dressed, with a dark green knitted sweater, indigo scarf, and black fingerless gloves helping a great deal in the cold weather. But even still, the relative warmth of the early afternoon is a factor in choosing that time to practice, and the good lighting doesn't hurt either.

It's fortunate in a sense that the Forest Talkers had been so prepared to kill so many people, because it meant James had been able to collect enough ammunition to not have to worry about allotting some of it to practice. The weapon is new to him and his vision still poor in one eye, so he'd rather use some bullets now than be a terrible shot and waste the bullets in an emergency later.

He's taken a few shots by the time Sandor approaches and is now more comfortable with the mechanics of the rifle, though he hasn't quite figured out the aim yet, at least not for anything as small as the can he's using as target practice; he's getting a hit every other shot or so, which is not at all the accuracy he expects of himself. But fortunately for his ego, the shot he takes after sensing Sandor's lurking is one of those that strikes the can, knocking it from the tree stump it had been positioned on.

The rifle is lowered both to rearm it and not to point it at Sandor when he approaches, though James doesn't miss the hand on the hilt of the sword. Still, aside from the brusque tone and lack of manners Sandor doesn't seem overtly threatening, so James isn't particularly worried.

"A rifle. Have you ever encountered any type of gun before?" Most people here are from the future in comparison to James, but he is aware there are a few from earlier points in time, or places very different from his world entirely. He's not sure if Sandor's question is because the entire sort of weapon is new to him, or just the particular design.

Mayhaps he's made a mistake here, choosing this particular person to explain. He is, in Sandor's esteemed opinion, dressed like bloody girl. It also just so happens that he's the only available person to ask about it, unfortunately, so options were pretty limited. At least the fucker managed to hit his target, means he must know at least a little about the thing.

He'll have to do.

Sandor's own manner of dress probably does plenty to confirm James's theory; aside from just the sword at his hip, he's also wearing recently re-trimmed and re-lined armor, complete with a cloak thrown over the shoulders. The whole thing's positively medieval, archaic even by Old White Boat Men standards. Fuck if he's going to update his style to match everybody else, though, when armor's been consistently keeping him alive for years.

His lips turn down unhappily at the question.

If he had, he wouldn't fucking be over here, would he? — he elects, instead, to focus on asking more productive questions. Best way to keep this conversation short.

"Rifle, gun. Which is it, what's the difference?" Which is, quite obviously, a no. He's trying to determine if this is a all short swords are swords but not all swords are short swords situation, and whether rifle or gun is the broader category.

The clothes were a practical matter as James had arrived in this place very underdressed for the weather, but if the particular choices also happen to be a tiny way of exerting some influence and control over his appearance, which has generally been so unlike how he prefers it to be for what feels like months--has it been months?--now, then all the better.

Sandor's armor is definitely a big tipoff that he might be from an earlier time period, but then again he could just have reason to wear armor, or even found it here and decided to use it. James really can't imagine trying to move around wearing that much metal, especially since it really won't provide much protection in this place.

"A rifle is a particular type of gun." So yes, short swords are swords sort of deal. James doesn't bother adding that rifle is also a category of various weapons--a category that has recently broadened for James with the addition of this new type of rifle--as he neither thinks that will be useful nor that Sandor would appreciate it.

But with any luck he knows what a bow and arrow is, so James attempts to elaborate. "Guns fire small metal projectiles, using explosive powder. It's similar to a bow and arrow in a sense, but the physical strength needed to draw the bow is replaced by the explosive, and only the equivalent of an arrowhead is fired."

( He's been having dreams, lately. It starts as the same one, every few nights. The girl, the house, the children. He stands beside her, staring up at the charred remains of a burned-out husk taken by fire.

He had a sister once, is the thing. When he was very young, in the days he still believed in knights. When he was a child, and he was still capable of pretending. He played at being a knight, and she a Lady, or a Princess, or a Queen — or whatever nobility happened to be on her mind at the time. She'd be taken prisoner, kidnapped, attacked by dragons, and he'd gallop in on a stick horse and save her. She'd been younger than this girl in his dreams (and so had he, for that matter), but his mind draws the connection anyway.

He'd lost his sister to the same force he'd lost half his face. He'd been no fucking knight back then, and he couldn't save her any more than he could save himself.

Nor any more than he can save this girl, as his legs stand rooted and unmoving while older children call her a freak and hurl their stones. The burning, furious desire to stride up and snatch a little brat by their shirt collar rolls through him just as hot as the fire that took her house, that took his face. But every time he dreams it, he's frozen, and he can do nothing.

It seeps into his mind like a poison, and soon, even on nights he doesn't dream of the girl, he dreams of the house. He dreams of it being on fire. He dreams of being trapped inside it with her, too busy trying to claw his own way out to pay any mind to her screaming, or his sister's screaming, just a few doors down. The guilt and the fear mingle, grappling for dominance.

Daytime finds him drawn there, eventually. The itch in his mind is obnoxious, infuriating, he can't shake it. He can't fucking stop it. And so he stands before it, arms crossed over his chest, staring darkly and contemplatively up at the burned out shell. Stewing, visibly. Silent, and brooding, and staring, for minutes that stretch into hours. )

A rifle is a gun; he grunts a soft sound of understanding, his eyes still tracking over the weapon rather than the man holding it. Studying the specifics of it while Fitzjames rattles out his explanations. Projectiles — he'd gathered as much. Not the specifics that they were made of metal, but it's not particularly surprising. Explosive powder is an interesting development, and he presses his lips together in a tight line.

"Black powder," he says — it is and isn't a question. "Like a canon. Only smaller."

They've got that where he's from, thank you very much. Just a little more technologically advanced than simple bows and arrows. Not yet on the level that they've managed to transition from canon to hand canon, but they're likely on the cusp.

"How do you reload it?"

Seems to him that might be the most obvious weakness in an attacker with a rifle gun.

[Chloe’s been having the dream too, but she's had her own experiences with the house: wandering into it unprepared because Methuselah - who had been there, he knew - hadn't given them adequate warning; the fire that had sprung up around them; her near escape with Billy Gibson. Hickey had told her there had been ghost children inside, but she hadn't seen them. The dream girl’s relatives, clearly.

The mother and daughter aren't buried in the cemetery, and Chloe hadn't seen anything in the newspapers she’d looked through. What had happened to the girl? What had she been capable of? It's those questions that draw Chloe back to Milton House.

One of the new guys is standing there staring at it.]

I wouldn't go in there if I were you. Haunted.

( He doesn't startle, but there is a swift sharpness in the way his eyes cut to her, in the subtle movement of his hand a little closer toward the hilt of his sword. It does not ever make contact, he relaxes before his fingertips can alight upon the hilt, but the wary, mistrustful tension in his shoulders remains.

Suspicion lingers in the furrow of his brow, in the way he looks her over from top to bottom in a way that reads judgmental rather than salacious. Checking her for weapons, not checking out her figure, but a thoroughly searching look nonetheless. Evidently he must deem her not much of a threat, because eventually he pulls his eyes away from her to settle them on the house again. )

No such thing as ghosts.

( He grunts, unimpressed. If those were real, he'd have a fucking legion of them haunting his ass by now. )

James nods once at the comparison to a cannon; it's a good one, and an easy point to start from.

"The rifles in my time are loaded much like cannons, with powder, wadding, and shot placed into the muzzle." It's more complicated than that, but close enough, especially since this isn't a muzzle of his time. "This version is far more simple and far quicker. Power and shot are combined into a single piece, loaded here." He tilts the weapon to better show Sandor, demonstrating how the bolt works as he loads another bullet in to replace the one he'd just fired. "It can hold several shots at once, and so one can fire far more quickly."

[He probably can't see her handgun, holstered at her lower back under her impractical red jacket, but she is wearing a tactical knife openly in a sheath at her thigh. Nothing compared to a sword, though.

Chloe grimaces, looking back at the house too.]

Maybe not wherever you come from, but here… there's something in that house, man. When I was in there it caught fire out of nowhere, and look at it.

[Yeah it's a shell of a building now but it doesn't look like it's burned recently.]

[ Levi doesn't share that same dream, but still he has enough of his own to dwell on, especially after receiving that little gift from home last month. He sleeps poorly as it is, usually just a couple hours at the time, both wary of unsensed danger and body unbalanced by years without natural daylight. ]

[ And when he can not sleep, he wanders. So it's no wonder if he ends up near the spot Sandor does at the same time at some point. He notes the man seems to be standing more firmly, his injuries likely improved since the last time he saw him. That's good. ]

[ The look on his face isn't particularly relieving, however. ]

[ Levi observes the man from a distance for a bit, but finds no explanation for the way he's fixated on a burnt ruin of a house that looks like it's been that way for months, maybe years. He thinks he can make a guess, though, even if it may not be entirely accurate -- the giant guy has burn scars, after all, and they've all heard voices from home just a few weeks ago; maybe it is persisting for him. He approaches, slowly and deliberately in the open, stopping just far enough to not be perceived as an immediate threat. ]

You look more constipated than usual.

[ Hello. Wanna talk about it? ]

In my time; although he didn't approach this man with any intent to learn a single fucking thing about him personally, he can't help but file this piece of information away. Another man displaced from time, not quite in line with this metal world they find themselves in now. New electricity, new technology, things that are, sometimes, only barely comprehensible to him. Seems they've got at least a little bit of something in common.

For as rude and as brusque as he is, there's an attentiveness and a sharpness in his eyes as he watches the demonstration. Single piece, loaded here. Several shots at once, quick fire. The frown pulls at his lips a little more; these things have less of a weakness than he'd been hoping for. More lethal by far than a crossbow, if it can hold several projectiles and be reloaded far more quickly. He doesn't fucking like it.

He gives James a jerky nod.

"Go on, then. Let's see it."

Shoot the bloody thing, so he can get a better look close up.

( He can't see her handgun; he knows they exist, but they're a new enough phenomenon for him that he doesn't know instinctively where to look for it. He's seen more rifles than any other type of gun, and those are far harder to hide. This is a lesson he'll have to pick up on later, and probably from learning it the hard way.

That little pig-sticker at her thigh doesn't scare him, though, so her threat level's ranked disproportionately low.

He considers her commentary, his eyes narrowed at the house as she talks. It caught fire out of nowhere; the trill of frigid discomfort that runs down his spine at the concept is more than enough to rectify the lack of fear he feels for ghosts.

At length, somewhat distantly, he mumbles: )

Didn't plan on going in there, anyway. Nothing left to see. It's a pile of rubble.

( Which probably begs the question: what the hell is he even doing out here, then? Even he isn't so sure. )

( Though Sandor does not turn, does not glance, it's clear by his lack of reaction that he'd sensed Levi's deliberately telegraphed approach. Were it a complete stranger, he'd have likely turned to clock them, scope them for weapons, gauge whether or not they were a threat.

But he knows this one. The likelihood of a man intent on healing him turning around and attacking him unprompted later is low. Pointless, wouldn't make sense. If he were inclined to make a move, he'd have done it while Sandor's leg was still fucked all to shit.

Hardly a beat passes between Levi's observation and Sandor's flat retort of: )

Fuck off.

( It's intended as a rebuttal over constipated, rather than as an order to actually leave — though he doesn't bother making that clear in the few contemplative seconds that follow it before he speaks again. )

What d'you know about this shithole?

[ ... Oh.

This guy.

A part of Bigby isn't too surprised to find the other standing there, glaring at the house as if the house caused him some sort of personal slight. Even though Bigby knows it can't have - ever since it started randomly bursting into a fake fire over half a year ago now, it doesn't really seem to have done anything to anyone anymore. And yet the other is standing there, staring all the same.

He kind of wants to leave this to be someone else's problem, but depending on whether or not the other has chilled out, it might leave them with more trouble than it's worth.

So he resigns himself - stepping over close enough to be able to talk to the other, but not getting all up close and buddy-buddy with him either. ]

Trying to pick a fight with a house now?

Yeah. No offense but you look like you'd go through the stairs either way.

[Chloe hadn't wanted to walk on them and she's a lot smaller.]

Methuselah put us onto this place back in the spring, but he didn't warn us about anything.

As prim and dignified as James likes to act, he's still part of the navy; even amongst officers there are the somewhat rougher types, and even more of them when it comes to the midshipmen, mates, and ABs. Since Sandor's clearly paying attention to the answer when he asks a question, James is entirely willing to ignore a little rudeness. For now, anyway.

However, he does consider refusing the implicit command just on principle, but James is not generally one to pass up the opportunity to show off. He's hit the target twice in a row now, and so feels a little more confident that he's gotten used to the gun's aim.

"Fine. Take a few steps back."

It isn't really necessary--the weapon has a bit of a kick, but there's truly no risk that it would cause a shot to go wide enough to hit Sandor--but it adds to the show, and it also lets James take direction of the situation once again.

( Oh.

This fucker.

Bigby earns himself one brief once-over, a fleeting up-and-down glance as though Sandor's putting him through an on-the-spot assessment. Whatever he'd been looking for, there's no indication on his face as to whether or not he finds it as he turns his eyes back to the house in question. )

Why, were you planning on eating it first?

( He fires back dryly, flat and unbothered. Mister wolf who eats everything and everyone for centuries whatever the fuck it was he'd set like an absolute batshit madman a few weeks back. )

( -you look like you'd go through the stairs; he turns to level her with just the flattest, least impressed look of all time. Except, she's bloody fucking right, so he can't even come back at her with anything. Weak-looking shit support of a husk doesn't seem like it could hold a normal man, let alone one of his mass.

The look fades away back into something stoic, guarded, maybe thinly contemplative as she carries on. Methuselah; that old cunt. Been hearing a bit about him.

He's curious, even if he's not keen to admit it. )

Put you onto it, the fuck does that mean? What do you know about it?

A few steps, he says — Sandor takes exactly one unimpressed stride backward. Probably helps that he's got longer legs than your average man, but he's not backing up like a fucking coward for the purposes of this demonstration. Just shoot the damn thing. If it were that dangerous to be in proximity, people bloody well wouldn't line their faces up next to it to shoot half the time, would they?

"Just get on with it," he mutters lowly, with a gesture that's completely unnecessary seeing as James is already lining up his shot. What a fucking nonce.

He eyeballs body language. Hand placement. The way James aims, the way he readies the weapon, the way he finally fires it. It isn't as dissimilar to a crossbow as one might expect, he thinks, given the two very different ways they function mechanically. This one's deadlier, sure. Seems like the next step that follows it, perhaps, some hundred or so years down the line in Westeros, maybe. Whenever some batshit man like Qyburn has an idea while taking a shit.

[ Likewise, the coarse greeting receives no particular reaction from Levi in return, the swearwords rolling off of him like water from a duck. He did set the tone with his own introduction, after all. He simply waits a few moments longer for some sort of an elaboration -- and does receive one. ]

[ There's a guess to be made whether the man is talking about this world in general, Milton, or this particular burnt house he's staring at. The gut feeling tells Levi it's the latter, unfortunately that just happens to be the topic he knows the least about. ]

Not much. It used to be a normal town, though. With normal people. The first of us that got here, they... found a lot of bodies to bury.

The one single step back earns an unimpressed look, but it might be easy enough to see that James is just slightly amused underneath it. He'll accept that compromise, and can't help but have a little appreciation for the sass of it.

James lifts the rifle, braces it against his shoulder, and lines up his shot. There's no rush, so he takes a moment to be sure of his aim before firing, which turns out to be a good choice; his bad arm is the one supporting the gun, and having been practicing a bit now, he's starting to feel the weight of the weapon. It's only for a moment, but just after lining up the shot, the muzzle of the rifle dips slightly before he realizes and compensates for it.

When he does fire it's another hit, and he lowers the gun to smirk just a little in Sandor's direction.

Very funny. [ And yet it's not a full offended very funny at that. It sounds a little exasperated, sure, but Bigby sounds gruff and exasperated at the worst of times. People have certainly said worse to him. This is hardly anything.

If anything, the fact he's not offended is made clear when he bothers to add: ]

Wouldn't go in there if I were you. [ A warning he would have left behind for someone he truly couldn't stand, but his opinion of the other is.. well, more neutral at this point. He thinks Sandor's a pain, mostly. ] It's made people randomly hallucinate fires when they did that before.

[Chloe’s so used to garnering that reaction from people that she just smiles back mildly. She's right, isn't she?]

Oh, you know. “A great tragedy, a black mark on our town’s memory, oh I can't talk about it, it's too sad,” like of course people would be curious about it!

Didn't see much in there besides a few family photos myself, but one of my friends said he saw child ghosts.

[Rorschach never liked sleeping much even before he'd come to Milton. After more than a year of sporadic strange dreams, he liked it even less. He'd been having dreams of the girl and the Milton House. He remembered holding the ghosts of what he had to assume were her brothers when he'd gone in, holding on until the fire was gone and he remained somehow untouched by it.

He saw someone standing in front of it on this day and he stared at Sandor curiously. He'd seen the man walking around but not up close. Rorschach was glad for the fabric face he wore, for it kept his blatant staring less obvious if he kept his head facing forward and only looked a little off to his side. Aside from being a full foot shorter than the Hound in height, the most striking feature about Rorschach was the mask he worse. Pure white and covering his whole face, the black marks on it moved around slowly, often forming into symmetrical patterns that just as soon dissipated into new ones. He stood there, hands in the pockets of the trenchcoat he wore constantly, alternately glancing at the house and at Sandor.]

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