Throne of Shadows Application

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1. Player Information
Name: Caru
Username: icarus_suraki, cateyed.crow@gmail.com, icarus_suraki (Plurk)
Current characters in ToS: Randall Flagg | The Dark Tower et al. | unflagging

→ N.B.: I've spoken with one of the mods about the, um, inherent complexity of playing...basically two halves of a pair of mortal enemies. I do admit and acknowledge this playercesting. Yup. I'll even put it in writing. The moderator I spoke with said that it would be acceptable for me to put in this application as things stand presently.

But--and I'll get into this a little more below--as they function with and against each other, it's not really guaranteed that they'd ever cross paths in-game. Furthermore, given the canon point from which I'm pulling Roland, he has other things on his mind and isn't yet hell-bent on finding Walter/Marten/Flagg (not yet, anyway). And for his part, Flagg hasn't entirely given up on bothering Roland, but he is more inclined to strike around him than at him directly (as more or less demonstrated in-game already). And, likewise, being aware of the when from whence Roland was taken will make him change his tactics (to say nothing of the fact that, well, it's not wise to poke at vipers) and probably even frustrate him since Roland won't yet be after him at this canon point (that comes, literally, a few pages later). So while the two will almost certainly know or come to know of the other's presence in-game, an outright conflict, confrontation, or even conversation seems unlikely in the extreme (and I aim to keep it that way).

If it becomes awkward, difficult, or annoying for me or for any other players to keep this up, I'll reconsider this arrangement toute de suite!

Reserve: Reserve is here

2. Canon Character Information

Name: Roland Deschain
(Sometimes "Roland of Gilead." He is only "Ro" to his family, his ka-mates, and his closest of close friends, so don't even try it.)

PB: I'll be using a combination of comic art and this handsome chap, Rhuan Favoretto (who isn't quite a perfect match, but he's got the eyes~)

Journal: begin_at_the_end

Age: Why you gotta ask this? Okay, so...time is basically broken where he comes from, and it has been since he was, like, in his late teens or early 20s. That, together with, y'know, ongoing civil war and stuff makes it difficult for one to get a really clear fix on his age. At best guess, he's somewhere in his middle 20s, maybe a bit later. (He's gonna live a helluvalot longer, though.) And he looks it, too. (That'll change later, but not by much.)

Appearance: "Old long, tall, and ugly" (Eddie's description, let it be known) is certainly, by this point, long and tall. He's not quite old. He might be getting onto ugly, but there are a few people who would disagree. But, okay: he's tall. He's noted as being taller than his father, taller than average, and tall even for Gilead where they apparently breed 'em tall (probably because they children there have enough to eat, but I'm digressing). Okay, so, he's tall, probably topping out at 6'4". A flashback in book 1 describes him as "lean and lank and quick on his feet."

He's been raised with a direct eye towards physicality and physical activity--he's basically a soldier, technically more like a knight. As such, one would expect him to be agile and fit. And he is. He's not wiry and thin by any means, but he isn't exactly...musclebound either (think of, like, a swimmer, if you want a likening and the way they tend to have, you know, shapes). Although, at the moment, he (and everyone who was with him--though most of them are dead now) has been roaming around fighting a counter-revolution for the preservation of justice, goodness, order, peace, and all that good stuff. It hasn't been going well. And nobody's really...in good shape. So he is, at the moment, thinner than he would otherwise be and has almost certainly also lost some muscle-mass because of it. Not scrawny, by any means, but not as strong and filled out as he would "really" be.

Also, ergo, as a twenty-something guy in the middle of a counter-revolutionary war, he's kinda scruffy. Scabs and scars and callouses and bruises and messy hair. He wears old jeans and boots and seems (for whatever reason) to wear leather gloves a lot at this point in time (hawt, I know). But, seriously, fuck hygiene beyond the basic necessities required to keep one up and going. Don't you know there's a war on?

Still, he does have a certain bearing. It's his upbringing. He's the last remnant of the ruling class of the greatest city in his world, the son of a king (to simplify the terminology a little), in some ways a king(-in-exile) unto himself (self-imposed exile, perhaps). But he's also a Gunslinger--a soldier, a warrior, a knight. Startle him in the right way, and he'll dip for his guns, even if he's not wearing them. Go too far and you'll see how fast he is with those guns (and I'm not joking when I say he's the fastest and best ever). He can be still and calm and move slowly, but he's fast when he needs to be, and never twitchy. Things that must be done slowly and with care are done slowly and with care. Just because one can be fast does not mean one must always do everything fast.

It's worth noting...he's got his fair share (hell, more than his fair share) of scars--both from childhood and from more recent years. None in particular is...standout or specifically important. But he has a lot, from one scrape or punishment or problem or escape or adventure or another. He's been hit, stabbed, cut, shot, bludgeoned, you name it. But it hasn't killed him yet. Hell no. Remember, he was raised to fight, he was raised to be a Gunslinger. One gets the distinct impression that his was a rough and difficult childhood complete with physical punishments (it's a hypermasculine world here), though with a dose of tough love. But it mostly means that he has scars.

Dark brown hair with some early threads and streaks of gray (they've been there since he was in his teens). Blue eyes--actually let's go back to the eyes for a while, though, because they're important. Lots of characters comment on his eyes. Lots and lots. This comes up several times. It becomes a "thing." He has pale blue eyes--they're likened at times to faded denim or a desert sky, though they're darker blue when he's younger and take to fading after a few hundred years of running around. It's quite a striking, pretty color. Which is nice. They're pretty eyes. Aww (boys always get the pretty eyes--what gives?). What's important is the look those eyes give: they get called "bombardier's eyes" later in the story. The point is what it means. They're sharp and hard and focused. You will not pass twice before those eyes if he chooses not to let you pass. (Jake, bless his little heart, likens them to Clint Eastwood's eyes in a poster for The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Which seems a fair likening--especially since, you know, by book seven, the illustrator clearly went "fuck it" and just drew Clint Eastwood. So, yeah.)

Funfact: when he's listening to a story or someone's relating something to him and they're just taking too damn long (he's a little short on patience sometimes), he has a particular twirly finger-gesture that he makes. It's the "hurry up please" sign. Not a big gesture, not a formal one, but it happens. It's kind of his "thing."

Also, he is not (at this point, anyway) missing any digits--yay, fingers and toes. Awesome.

History: Okay, so. This guy appears in eight novels, some short stories, and a series of comics. The comics are considered official canon (generally--there's some weird slushy room in there sometimes, but whatever: time is broken and there are different worlds and stuff), and document more of his early life.

He'll be coming into the game from kind of like chapter 2 of "The Journey Begins"--he has survived the Battle of Jericho Hill (as he does), has returned to the ruins of Gilead, has buried Aileen, and is about to walk down into the old kitchens in search of...anything when, pow! The Grasp happens. Whoops.

The Wikipedia entry on Roland in general
Comic background specifically (alas, not all linked as one might wish)
The Dark Tower fandom wiki entry (please note: the DT fandom wiki sometimes has gaps, holes, weaknesses and errors--as seen here, this one is missing notes on the last few books, but it goes into greater detail with regard to earlier events)
Dark Tower fandom wiki entries on the comics generally (again, not perfect, but I think it'll basically suffice here)
The Journey Begins really outlines the point in canon from which he's coming (so I'll link specifically to that too).

Whew. I hope that does it.

Powers/Talents: Well, he's human. So he's got that going against him. (Ha ha.)

His real talents, though, lie in his skill with a gun. This is what he was born to, this is what he was raised to. In his own world, he carries "a pair of revolvers (sometimes referred to as 'the big guns' by other characters) that are described as long and heavy, with blued steel (originally from his world's Excalibur) and sandalwood grips"(although it's also noted that there are extra plates that have been added onto them for better balance, as he's taller than his father). They're close enough to IRL Colt .45s that ammunition from "this" world works in them. Roll with that. Obviously, he won't have these in-game :c This will not make him happy, but, hey, who wants him happy?

But it's fair to say that he knows more weaponry than that. It's clear that he's been taught how to use any number of other types and kinds of weapons--the usual litany is "sling[shot], spear, bah (essentially a crossbow), and bow [and arrow]". And he probably knows others. It's a safe bet. Hell, he uses a motherfucking falconry hawk as a weapon in his "test of manhood," okay? He can make anything a weapon. He could probably kill someone with a spoon if he wanted. Shit, be probably has. Much later in canon, he's not at all surprised that Susannah can master the sharp-edged killer Frisbees Oriza plates because, well, she's a Gunslinger and they just pick up on how to use weaponry really fast. See also: Alain's immediate infatuation and expertise with an abandoned machine gun (maybe you don't want to see). Instincts!

His aim is superb, almost superhuman. His speed is unparalleled and likewise almost superhuman. He is the fastest even among the fast. Even his reloading is fast. (Reportedly, the "finger trick" he uses to reload is not actually a sight that one wants to see--whether because it's terrifying or disgusting, one is not certain.) Also, ps: DUAL-WIELDING. Yeah, that's right: he can shoot right-handed, left-handed, or both (and he does). That's why he has two guns.

He can also do a nifty little thing referred to as a "howken" (as in "how can you do that?" I guess) where he rolls a bullet or a shell over his knuckles in such a way and in such a pattern and with the right kind of patience and suggestion that he can hypnotize someone. Usually it's to get them to remember something that they can't or won't recall. It's a useful trick. It can get around magic mental walls, but it can dredge up forgotten things.

He also knows things--I'll get a bit more into this later, but he's been taught quite a bit. It's fair to call him well educated, but it was hard-fought and hard-won (his mental aspect is certainly slower than his physical aspect). If he's got a weakness, it's kind of all things brainy, okay? But, as a note: he does know at least two languages (High Speech and Low Speech) and by the end of book canon, it's clear that he knows a few more (doubtful that they'll turn up in-game, but I'll mention this factoid all the same). Remember that he's been trained as a knight, essentially, which means that he needs to know the ins and outs of society, protocol, and culture. Like...he knows how to dance, okay? I'm gonna level with you: he knows dance steps--for his own culture and level of society, yes, but he knows them. Likewise, one can figure that he knows things about How Governments Work and How People Work and What To Do When There's A Revolution and How To Negotiate and Battle Plans 101 (although he's more inclined to play things by ear, let's not fuck around here--more later). All these things were supposed to be useful when he was sent out not as a fighter but as a representative--wearing his guns but carrying the olive branch.

All this civilization has fallen by the wayside or been destroyed. But it's down in there. Somewhere. He still knows it. It's just that fighting and shooting are the important parts right now. Good thing he's the best there's ever been.

Personality: "Roland Deschain was the last of Gilead’s last great band of warriors, for good reasons; with his queerly romantic nature, his lack of imagination, and his deadly hands, he had ever been the best of them."

The classic canon descriptor for Roland is that he's the kind of man who will straighten the pictures hanging in a hotel room.

What a strange, nigh onto stupid gesture. Who would bother? What does it matter? (Why is he in a hotel room anyway? Who let this killer cowboy in here? Why is he shooting all the other guests? What the hell?) He would bother and, even if the symbolism completely escapes him, it's just something that ought to be done. It's not about setting things to rights or about perfection or about the space itself. It's just something that needs to be done. It is about precision.

On first encountering him, it is clear that he is not someone with whom to fuck (I don't mean that literally, I mean it figuratively: don't fuck with him). He comes across cold, detached, and essentially ruthless--or at least relentless. This initial understanding isn't wrong, it's just not the whole situation. He is, or at least can be cold, detached, ruthless, uncaring. But what one has to understand is that these aspects of his personality, these surface projections, are born out of a long, hard youth filled with more trouble and death than a young person ought to endure. In some ways, he has cultivated these traits, though some have always been inborn. What they reflect is his underlying practicality and pragmatism. These are the projected traits that will help him survive, and so they come to the surface first.

He is practical. He is pragmatic. He is sensible. This state of mind is maybe the most basic part of his personality. If things need doing, they need doing. That's quite simple. But he's pragmatic to the point that necessity and what needs doing takes precedence over nearly everything else. He is serious, he is blunt. He is apparently humorless (humor happens only later and only with those who know him). He is grave (which is a great pun, when you think about it). He is stoic, and this part is important in more ways, but we'll leave it here for the nonce.

(Also, he's also kind of also the Ultimate Boy Scout. He has his satchel of things [his gunna] and he knows what's in it, where everything is in it, and what everything is good for. That's practicality + training. As an aside about the bag, although the bag appears a bit later in canon: the drawstring around the top of it has been worn through in several places, but he's repaired it with carefully constructed and tiny knots--he is that kind of person, the kind who'll use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without; who'll tie tiny knots in a cord because he, first of all, can tie those tiny knots, but also because he still needs that string. This is how his pragmatism works. And it extends to what's in the bag: well-used things, necessary things. Rarely, if ever, does he pick up some object without having a very good reason for it. This is not King's Quest. You do not need to pick up everything.)

He is a survivor. Above all, he is a survivor. And maybe it's because of his pragmatism. He knows what to do and how to do it and he doesn't get caught up in a lot of philosophies about it all. He just keeps trucking on. Or maybe it's just chance. In later years, he'll have a mule who'll keep going through a desert because, for the mule, living has become a habit. Maybe it's the same idea: living in a habit.

But that's not really fair or wholly true. Because, in point of fact, he is relentless too. Once he sets in on something, he does not stop, he does not let go, he does not give in. Not once, not ever. It takes an act of God (or at least an act of ka) to deter him or sidetrack him. And even that sidetracking is likely temporary if he has his way. That's a kind of survival too. He does not give up and he does not give in. He will press on regardless, almost suicidally. He is relentless. Now, one might think that setting goals and going after them bespeaks to a kind of awareness of the future or a looking towards the future (which, as one shall see shortly, is not exactly his modus operandi). In truth, the fact that whatever it is one wants is in the future is kind of immaterial, because one wants whatever it is now. Herein the idea is less patient waiting and more hurrying along. Something is needed, so something must be done. Herein again one can see his stoicism showing, too, because he is not afraid or ashamed to use something or someone to his own ends if it gets him where he wants or what he wants. He will close off his emotions for the sake of what he wants. He will kill friends (or let them be killed, but it's usually more at the former than the latter) for the sake of what he wants. It's not that he doesn't care (he does), it's just that something else was more important and this is the way to get it.

He has a kind of wolfish awareness of the now (not to get too poetic about it, but...). Think of it in those terms, though, of a wolf or a hawk and the way a creature like that might face the world. He has learned from things in the past--both formally and experimentally, but it must be said that the experiential learning sticks more firmly with him (up to and including hearing people from his past in his own head at convenient moments--and inconvenient moments, but these voices are stirred up by similar situations or problems and serve as a kind of additional instinct, these spontaneous memories). He knows these things, he relies on these things that he knows, he moves through the world understanding these things in relation to the present. Some of the things he knows are as good as instinctive to him. To go back to the hawk metaphor (a likening which does appear in his own canon, with the idea being that one can't friend a hawk without being half hawk one's own self--or at least hawklike in mentality and relation to the world): the hawk knows instinctively how to survive, how to hunt, how to kill, how to maintain itself, how to raise more hawks, &c. What it doesn't know of hunting and killing, it learns from other hawks and from its own experience. What he knows is instinct or nearly instinctive or is the focused result of training his instincts in certain directions (as one might train a hawk). The hawk exists in the Now, in the moments of flight and striking. It focuses on what it must do, what it needs to do. It answers to calls, yes, and it knows what is expected of it, but it's still as good as wild. It knows what it knows without consideration for the origins of that knowledge and it acts on that knowledge without consideration for the origins of that knowledge. Indeed, it barely considers the fact that it knows these things. These details are inconsequential. What matters is the act, not the knowledge. What matters is the fall and the successful strike. Calculations are immaterial. Nor is an anticipated result the only measure of success. This is an existence within the present without bearing heavily on the past beyond such as the past exists and in that past are the origins of all things. These things could be traced back to their roots, yes, but to what end? Or to what purpose? What benefit is there in the present of knowing the roots of things when there are needs in the present that these roots cannot answer?

Likewise the future, to him, is unknown and all but unconsidered. Yes, he considers it in certain regards: fill up the waterskins now while there's water so that one will have water in the future; collect what food or supplies one can when one finds them so that one will have them to eat and use in the future. But that is roughly as far as his consideration of the future goes. He doesn't consider what will be done when the waterskins are empty again. That's a problem to be solved in the Now (or when the hazy, unknown future becomes the Now). Nor does he obsess over what to do when the waterskins are empty again (which is probably to his benefit, since he can be obsessive in his own right). Again, think of the hawk. The hawk knows that it must hunt or it will be hungry and answering that hunger is instinctive. The wolf will hunt and eat what it can of its kill and then, perhaps, for some days will stay near the carcass to feed on it. That is anticipating that there will be hunger in the future and that there is something to be done in anticipation of it. But it only looks so far as the presence of the one kill. The wolf does not store up carcasses for the future. (Consider the lilies of the field...) To what end, anyway?

What he really suffers from is a lack of imagination. Which is kind of a difficult concept to grasp if you're an RPer and kind of inclined toward, y'know, imagination in general. But he doesn't take pleasure in speculating about things. He doesn't have an inclination in pondering or reflecting. He doesn't like to consider a million different possibilities. He doesn't see much point in it, it isn't what he likes to do. And it means that sometimes even metaphors go over his head, bless him. Lacking imagination, well, it's difficult to think about the future abstractly and in terms of possibilities--both plausible and implausible.

He is instinctive, which is akin to but different from being intuitive (for the record, he's not really Touch-y, the Touch being the local term for sort of generalized psychic or telepathic or empathic abilities--I mean, maybe he's got enough so he's not completely dumb to it and someone using it on him will work, but...yeah, no, he doesn't really have it).

It may be more fair to say that he is instinctive and perceptive. And, oh man, let it be known that he is perceptive as hell. This is at least partially taught (one needs to know these things if one is going to be fast enough to survive, okay?). But he's observant and, to some degree, detail-oriented. Not obsessively. But he observes everything. He knows what's going on, who's where, what the dangers are. He will notice subtleties and nuances and small gestures or small things. The larger, abstract implications of something might be lost on him (hell, he doesn't care anyway), but he will notice small things and he will even grind his way on down to the meanings or connections of those things--not in the abstract but in the concrete. Here is where and how he can puzzle things out: if this, then this, therefore that, meaning this--in a line from action to action.

He is not, however, what one might call overtly (note that: overtly, which is different from "overly") bright. Things escape him. Things go over his head. He misses intentions and references and jokes (another aside: he does know a helluvalot of riddles, but riddles are different from jokes: riddles are serious business where he comes from and the learning of them is more of a litany, a ritual, than a matter of "thinking around corners"--he's not good at "thinking around corners"). He himself admits that he has "no imagination." Metaphorical likenings strike him as pointless, aimless, or just dumb. He gets things wrong. Studying is not his forte. (Which is all kind of to be admired because, really, what's more humanizing that getting stuff wrong? Precious little.)

But, alongside this, what must be known is that he is not stupid. At all. Straight up. He is not stupid. Cuthbert Allgood (bff5eva!) admits to this (saying that the gears in Roland's head turn slowly, but grind extremely well). Hell, even Flagg admits to this (noting that "Roland is almighty Christing clever; trig-delah is he"), which is really saying something. He just doesn't have a kind of typical intelligence. He doesn't think in a way that makes one look at him or listen to him and think "Oh, wow, he's smart." Not that you'd necessarily listen to him and think "He's dim" or "He's slow" (although he's accused of this enough when he's younger, it must be said, and admits outright that book studies are difficult for him--again, he's better with instinct and experience rather than abstractions or general knowledge). He's not sharp-tongued or inclined to jokes or fond of puns. He's not the one to show off what he knows for the sake of showing it off. He's just...not. But what he knows he knows and he knows he knows it. No, he will not get a slanting referential pun. No, he cannot make instant and casual jokes. No, he can't even get foreign words right (sometimes to his great frustration, as with "aspirin" ending up forever as "astin"). But if you drop him into some weird backwater edge-of-the-world town, he can win over the entire population with a flawless performance of their local folkdance (and I am not making this up because you just can't). Or, more tellingly, he's the one you want to call when you absolutely, positively have to kill every motherfucker in an entire town. Because he can and will (or will in the future in his canon, at least). Clever? Yes. Skilled? Yes. Book-smart? ...not so much. Witty? ...definitely not. (If he makes a joke, it's probably unintentional. He is the greatest straight-man ever.)

It's not that he refuses to learn or doesn't care. He does care and he does try and he tries hard. And, really, he does like learning new things, even if book-learnin' was sort of difficult for him. (Hell, maybe it was just the subjects that he was studying were too abstract for him. It's entirely possible.) Take, for example, his wide-eyed and carefully considered hearings of stories--especially the stories of New York from his later ka-tet. The characters liken him to an anthropologist in the way he just scoops up the information, digests it, analyzes it, and draws conclusions. He is deeply, deeply interested in their world, their customs, their culture, their past, the things that makes a people who and what they are. Sure, it takes a little longer than it would take a "classic" hero to comprehend the information, but it must be said that his comprehension goes deeper. It's not a snap-to, "I've got it!" kind of a situation. This understanding, not just drawing conclusions. Remember: the gears turn slowly, but they turn well. Once he gets something, he gets it, and to a finer degree than others might.

Along with all this, it should make sense that he's kind of bad at working angles or at being a schemer. For one thing, he's a little too honest--things are and therefore things are, and he's just a little blunt and frank about it all. He can scheme and he admits that to himself on occasion, but it isn't in his nature. He'll obfuscate sometimes, he'll hide the whole truth--it is worth recalling that he has been taught to be a diplomat and a politician (in the classical sense), and he can perform in these roles and certainly has in his lifetime and if there's one thing a diplomat can do, it's say just enough but no more.

It's just that his nature is inclined to practicality. He is not inclined to ponder the great mysteries of life and the universe if pondering those mysteries won't solve a problem. If considering the universe (after he learns the term and the concept, which is another issue unto itself) assists in a project, okay, cool. Let's ponder. But he's not wont to reflect overly long, nor does he take much particular pleasure in pondering, musing, or thinking in ways that don't lead to an end. Like I said: lack of imagination. It makes it tricky.

Does he think long on things? Yes. If he's thinking, they will be "long, slow thoughts." But he is also scarred and haunted by the sheer number of deaths that have happened around him--mostly the deaths of those close to him more than the deaths for which he is responsible, but there's some overlap. These memories rise up to the surface from time to time, usually brought on by particular places, situations, or circumstances which are somehow similar.

Similarly, abstract speculation is difficult at best for him. Put him in a strange situation--or, in particular, in a dangerous situation--and he'll piece out what happened or what is happening best when he cuts for sign. He can follow a trail, but he's not good at either scheming nor at unraveling schemes when they're in the abstract. Put a series of clues in front of him and he'll follow them, one to the next, especially if it's going in a direction he likes (towards the Tower = want, away from the Tower = not want). He can and does puzzle out the truth in a situation, he knows what to look for, he knows what signs he's seeking (or knows what the absence of a sign means). But his way of thinking sets him solidly in the functional, real world. Abstractions like "political power" aren't as significant in this frame of mind as things like peace, war, destruction, or human suffering. Make an abstract more concrete and he can get it. Even his musings on the deaths of his ka-tet, on the Tower, on his quest are all relatively concrete. No imagination! OMG!

And also, by this same token, morals kind of escape him. They're abstractions that don't reflect the reality of his existence in a, let us be honest, crapsack world. They're good in a time and place when one has time and fortune enough to consider morality, to consider what things are right and good and joyful things always and everywhere. But in a world, in a life, in a culture that's pretty much hypermasculine and prefers strength to weakness, it's a matter less of Good than of Strength, more of Revenge than of Bad. He might have developed some...eventually...had things gone better. But darkness was settling over his world from before he was born, so maybe it was all inevitable (I'll get back into that a litle later too).

This amorality is how he can be a real and true anti-hero. He is not, in the terminology of the classic American Western film genre, a white-hat hero. Nooooooo. He is not a black-hat villain either. He's a brown-hat (if there are hats anymore, because...his is, indeed, a crapsack world and hats may have vanished into the aether for all we know, rule Discordia). So, metaphorically speaking, in keeping with the genre shorthand, he's a brown-hat because he's neither strictly Good or Evil. Yes, he's part of (maybe even the center of) The White--the forces for Good. He's not wholly good--nor wholly bad, for that matter. He's sort of...as good as one's gonna get. But he isn't so good that he avoids killing--he is made for killing and will kill in excess if he's in the middle of a fight. He knows how things work, socially and culturally and politically. But he's not quite firm in his beliefs or understandings of what is Good and what is Bad. "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you" stands, because it can justify revenge if one thinks about it. He can be decent, he can even be kind (or close to it). But you have to understand: he is not a nice guy.

Okay, so now we're going to get back down into the importance of that stoicism. Because it's not necessarily a natural inclination (it is and it isn't). Pragmatism is his natural inclination. Stoicism is just important. He is emotional. But he has learned how to control a goodly part of his emotions--to his benefit, really. He sits on most of his emotions--because they won't do him any good. He has to keep them under control in order to do what must be done. But he does have them and, especially when he's young, can react very strongly. And he can react strongly as an adult--I mean, swearing both revenge and to demand an answer and restitution from whatever being or divinity rests at the top of the Tower is pretty emotional, yes? Yes. It's wise to both have these emotions and to have learned how to control these things because otherwise he'd probably be little more than a mindless killing machine.

Furthermore, let it be known that, as mentioned above, he can be totally fucking obsessive. This is more than relentlessness. This is more than just determination and perseverance. This aspect of his personality is present in his youth, though it becomes more pronounced as time goes on (as his journey goes on, really). For now, it's a kind of relentlessness and a kind of "I Want." But the ease with which he falls prey to the magic pink crystal ball (and the difficulty with which Alain and Cuthbert stage an only partially-successful Grapefruit Intervention) says something about his inclination towards obsession (and the Wizard's Grapefruit didn't help matters, since it fired up more ideas about the Dark Tower and his finding it, but that's the Grapefruit's fault, right?). Hell, it's even safe to say that he's got a straight-up addictive personality: he gets addicted to love (might as well face it), he's getting (more and more) addicted to the Tower or to his quest to find it. I mean, it's obsessive, it's never-ending. It gets worse as he gets older, but it's still very much in his personality, to be inclined to addition and obsession. But it's still more of that existence within the present, with concrete goals, and with series belief in those things. It's like hunger or thirst: something in the moment, a need that must be met.

What's really good about all this concrete thinking and relentlessness and belief is that it allows him to believe, wholly and fully, in things--up to and including the supernatural. He is totally cool with it. Actually, no, that's not quite...accurate. Because he's not...cool with it, exactly... Um. Okay--what I mean is that he can accept something like a vampire, a wizard with magic powers, an elaborate Wizard of Oz-themed illusion, a door to another world, the Dark Tower itself as being well within the bounds of possibility. What is, is. What he observes, he knows. The relative possibility or impossibility of something isn't quite the issue here. Is the thing dangerous? Useful? A means to another end? That's what matters more. He's curious enough to explore things like doors to other worlds (I mean, see book 2, &c), and these things are surprising--mysterious doors that can only been seen from one side! Weird! Time to poke around and see what there is to be seen. The implications are not important so much as the thing itself is important. Some of this, of course, comes from the world in which he lives, which has things like magic and illusions. Doors to other worlds are somewhat rarer, but they fall within the same realm of possibility.

By this same token, it explains the ease with which he believes in great, grand, grandiose things like Heroism and Romance. Shit, man, he's basically a descendant of King Arthur--he's allowed to believe in that kind of thing. He won't let this part of his nature out very much--this is a goodly part of the emotions that he works hard to keep hidden. It's kind of a secret. But it's very, very much there. It's a funny twist: deep down hidden in the heart of him, he is a romantic in the classical sense: "But his eyes never left hers, and in them [Susan] saw some of Roland's truth: the deep romance of his nature, buried like a fabulous streak of alien metal in the granite of his practicality... [h]e accepted love as a fact rather than a flower". I know, I hear you out there: like, what the hell?--no, seriously, like, what the hell? But here we go: in actuality, it ties in with his practical nature and his relentlessness. He, unlike many, is perfectly willing to accept things like love, romance, adventure, heroism as simple fact and not as fantasy or dreams. They are facts to him and therefore acceptable and real. Lacking imagination, once he experiences something, it must be true. It cannot be something he imagined. That's just not possible. It's a matter of perspective.

And now we get to talk religion...ish...stuff. Kind of. Sort of. It's more at belief, but... So...religion. Religion, in a formal sense, isn't...really his thing. There are some formal, codified religions (and cults and suchlike) in his world, and he's come into contact with some of these things even from the time he was quite young (and, once the actual novels begin, it becomes clear that he's spent some time learning from the Manni, who are basically dimensionally-unstuck Quakers living in their little Quaker communes, but that is for the future relative to where I'm pulling him). He has a general notion of God, of Divinity (canonically referred to, as one learns later, as "Gan"), and he's generally angry at the Divine Powers for his crapsack world being such a crapsack world (can you blame him?). Indeed, one of his initial urges in seeking the Tower is to arrive at the room at the tope and demand of whoever or whatever dwells there either for an accounting or for the ledgers to be destroyed or at least for a word of explanation, whether what exists at the top of the Tower (and he never thinks it's empty, not really) is compassionate or vengeful. And the fact that he thinks of the Tower itself in literal terms, as a literal place, as a literal and real and actual thing is different from quite a few other characters who think of it in metaphorical and abstract terms (motherfuckers doubting the existence of the lynchpin of the whole of all the universe--pffft). You know, they demythologize it so that it becomes a symbolic concept, not a literal thing that is standing there. Of course it exists. Why wouldn't it? He just...believes in it.

But more than God, more than Divinity, what he believes in is ka, which is a complicated canonical philosophical concept that is often likened to fate or destiny, but which is difficult to accurately explain. In practice, it can be explained as anything from fate to destiny to divine purpose to divine intent and the concept actually varies from person to person. It can be thought of as purely fate, that everything is written or set and that all creatures and beings move along that track without will or choice. It can be thought of as luck (but, as Roland himself says, luck is what fools call ka). It can be thought of as divine guidance or divine intervention, but the divinity is not as personified or anthropomorphized as in angels or even gods--it's a kind of benevolent animus of the universe, perhaps. It can be thought of as the penultimate shaking-out of order in the universe, that every act both of one's own and of everyone else brought everything to this moment and that there was no alternative. "A man seeks his own destiny and no other...will or nill. Any man who could discover his own fate and elect therefore some opposite course could only come at last to that selfsame reckoning at the same appointed time, for each man's destiny is as large as the world he inhabits and contains within it all opposites as well"--Cormac McCarthy.

This overarching belief in ka is about as far into abstraction as he'll go. More to the point, it explains something of how, when things happen, he'll accept them, whether good or ill--sometimes with an acknowledgement that "It's ka" with the same kind of acceptance that might come with "Thy Will be done." It's something like fatalism, but it's also an intense belief in the ultimate triumph of the White over Red, of Good over Evil, of his own success, of his own quest. It's not optimism, it's not blind cheer, but it is a kind of faith. He believes, intensely, in his path, his role, his place, his purpose, and his connections to the greater chain of being or web of existence. This is his place in it. The wolf hunts the deer; this is his role. He has settled into it, he has taken it on. And in some respects, this role may or may not be entirely who or what he is. He has taken it on, he was born to it. Sometimes one wonders. (What's funny is that sometimes, you know, everything will be against him and we, the readers, are sitting here like, c'mon, clearly this is the universe telling you not to do this--but, hey, there goes that relentlessness again and he just won't stop. Or he'll ignore the contradictions or contrary movement of...everything. So it goes.)

So, carrying forward from that, it is important to note that Roland isn't heavy on plans. We already know that he's not inclined to be a schemer and we already know that he has no imagination. But the fact that he's not much into careful, detailed, long-range planning speaks, again, to his instinctiveness and, again, his pragmatism (I keep using that word). So far as he's concerned, he will rely on his knowledge and instincts to carry him through. He does make plans (see: the battle against the Wolves) and think ahead. But he's not big into working out every minute detail. He doesn't create backup plans for his backup plans. He doesn't even really create backup plans. Hell, maybe he can't. He's not happy-go-lucky, hey-it'll-be-fine. It is never fine. But he figures he'll find a way out of it. He prefers to think on his feet or to at least have sufficient room to think on his feet, to change his plans, to rework things.

Maybe it's worthwhile to note that, um, he's kind of crazy. And, later on, he'll even describe himself that way. It's already beginning even now. It'll only get worse from here. A lot of these descriptions sound rational, but he's not wholly rational. He is a creature of instinct and sometimes that instinct is wild and sometimes his urges and wants and desires (see: The Tower, especially) are more than a little mad. He's kind of losing it. And no wonder. How can anyone expect to endure what he's endured and not be a little mad.

So now that I've made this guy sound like a total asshole, which is fine, I'm gonna backpedal a little and just kind of...fill in a few gaps. Understand that he is not a friendly, happy guy. Very often, he seems to have precious little patience with fear--he can even seem overtly angry or callous when dealing with cowardice and self-pity. But, at the same time, there are numerous instances when he's willing to help, to hear a problem, to try and find a solution (which usually involves him shooting something) and that's his heroism coming through. He believes in it, he participates in it. He's the hero (anti-hero, okay, but still a hero). Yeah, he does his little finger twirley thing when someone tells a long story, but he still hears the story. He's still a representative of the White, the forces of Good in his world. Indeed, at this point, he's effectively the last representative of it at all. And he's devoted to its preservation, such as he can preserve it (he's a lousy one to be left last, but that's ka and he is ka's bitch). He can be equally devoted to those close to him. He can be beyond devoted to those close to him (one need look no further than his original ka-tet to see that, and the damnation he heaps on himself for accidentally killing Alain, and the depths of understanding that flow between himself and Cuthbert, and the lengths to which he'll go to honor Aileen's last requests.) Will he let them fall into peril? Yes. Will he try to avoid that? Generally. It's not that he wants that, it's just that it happens and sometimes he has to make a choice and he chooses in certain ways. It pains him to do this, but it comes across as what must be done, what was inevitable, what sort of just figures for the way the world is working.

The funny thing (maybe it's a funny thing) is that he's still a leader. Maybe some of it was thrust upon him. But, truth be told, he's always been the leader of his little group. Even when they were kids, he was the leader. No, he doesn't have the classic markings of a heroic leader (if anyone's sort of "classic hero" material, it's Cuthbert, because he can get in the snappy one-liners and everything, as opposed to plodding, bludgeoning Roland). But he is a leader, and he is fine with being in that role. He's devoted to those close to him, such as he can be. It takes a very long time to get close to him. Later on, he'll even find that he's not a bad teacher, and that he's even fond of teaching but in the way that he was taught himself in "the Way of the Gun." He knows what he knows. And he can pass this knowledge on when it lies in the physical and concrete realm. Snappy, flashy leader? No. Serious, thoughtful leader? Yes. Charismatic, even, in a quiet way (hell, Susannah will later think he reminds her of John F. Kennedy albeit without the imagination). He's still a king. I'm not even kidding when I say to think of him a little like Aragorn from Lord of the Rings: a leader, unexpectedly, but born to it. A better fighter than a thinker. But a master at his art.

So after that rambling, somewhat incoherent personality section (which was ironically interrupted here near the end by my having to kill a large spider...because fuck me, right?), what we have here, really, is an interestingly ruined figure. The son of a king, perhaps a king in his own right, a leader by chance and by nature, a defender of good and right, but moving through a world that's moving on from all these things--for good or ill. And by that movement around him, so too must he change. The strife in the world around him, even if took longer to reach his own country, has struck him and deeply. Now nothing is fixed, nothing is right, not even time. What good does it do one to think about either the past or the future when there are more immediate struggles at hand? He's practical and pragmatic. Never the brightest, lacking all imagination, but still an absolute master as his art. He exists best in the physical world, operating in the Now, relying on his instincts. He can be cold, detached, impatient, and ruthless, but this as much because these are the best ways in which to survive. He is set on his goals and believes firmly that his goals are his destiny and nothing will set him from that path. There's an intensity to his character, whether in peace or war. He believes fully in heroism and in romance and in destiny and most of all in ka and especially in things others would put aside as fairy tales. He moves through the world because he must.

He's an unlikely hero, but he's all that's left.

Why would your character be chosen? The kingdom has fallen, but Roland is still the son of a king (for lack of a better shorthand for it all). His father was dinh (which usually gets likened to "king" but it has a mental/emotional connection almost akin to "father" in the sense of "father of a country" than just "leader" in a political sense) of Gilead. Roland was dinh for his ka-tet--he's a leader of his closest circle, he's the leader of the band of escapees from Gilead. He's not a typical leader, but he is still a leader. He's a knight, remember. He knows both politics and battle. And he has incredible skills--don't ever forget how unbelievably fast he is.

How much does your character know about nonhumans? It's safe to figure he knows some measure of things: he knows legends and stories, first, which are often a lot less legendary than one might think. There are vampires (he met some of those), there are shapeshifting Skin-Men (whom he has dealt with himself), there are monsters kicking around, there are Not-Men (who are really just men wearing cloaking devices to make them invisible), there are spirits and demons, there are incubi and succubi who inhabit circles of stones. So, yeah, he knows at least a measure of things about nonhumans, based both on stories (which are rarely wholly fictional) and on experiences with nonhumans and monsters.

Why this character: Why did you decide to play this character? What about them holds your attention? Do you think that you'll be able to keep this character voice and still find them interesting after playing them for awhile?

A year and a half ago, on a whim, after having only just gotten into the fandom, I made an account for this character and tossed him around on a few memes and in a 4th Wall event at a game. And I played him very badly. Like...you have no idea how badly, but it was bad. No, I am not going to send you links. This application isn't penance for that. My point is that, in the time since those memes and events, I've thought back on how I played him and realized that I missed a lot of opportunities for this reference or that happening, to say nothing of doing very badly with his character in general. And it's bothered me as to why I did so badly, why I wasn't thinking, but why I still created that account. Still not penance, though. I mean, what was I thinking?

The point is that I've had a peculiarly long-standing fascination for this character. Which is funny because I started reading the novels and didn't expect to even really like them. I was (and still am, for the record) happily RPing the classic Clint Eastwood Spaghetti Western character "The Man With No Name" and, upon my initial encounter with the Dark Tower novels decided, right off, that Roland was pretty much an expy of The Man With No Name and shame on you Mr. King for writing a rip-off.

And yet, I kept reading. So, that happened (and so did a lot of feelings...like, whoa). And I found myself kind of fascinated by this main character who, really, doesn't behave or act or even seem to think very much like a really typical main character. It's like he was involved in the story and had main character status thrust upon him. He's reminiscent of other characters in other media (Spaghetti Westerns most obviously, since any number of characters in these films are perceptive, driven, serious, pragmatic, incredibly skilled, basically amoral, and intelligent in atypical ways), but not a perfect analogue to any of them. Call that authorial creativity, whatever. It made him interesting.

But I think RPing him will be a challenge for me--a good challenge, though. I generally gravitate towards more typically, obviously, overtly intelligent characters (Cain Hargreaves and Sherlock Holmes in another game, even The Man With No Name in that same game, Flagg here in Throne of Shadows). And that's...not how he operates. He has an entirely different frame of reference, an entirely different kind of worldview. And I'm interested in seeing how that works, how I can write it, what happens with it--especially with the latest metaplot developments in-game. He'll be useful for that. And I want to see what'll happen with him around.

Additionally, I'm taking him from early in his life (relatively speaking). This means that he hasn't progressed very far at all in his quest (like, he's only getting started). This kind of canon point allows for a lot of different changes, a lot of different growth. His obsession about the Tower is not yet wholly and fully formed. It's there, "looming like a thunderhead," and he is set on finding it, but his foot is not yet on the road. He's buried the last of his companions and is, briefly, at a loss for which direction to take (but only for a few pages). He's getting going, though. He knows what he wants, he is set on revenge, but he doesn't know where to go yet. It's a set-up for interesting interactions with a little more flexibility while still maintaining the character as he is, should be, and will be (it's a very big case of "the child is the father of man" here, or, "as the boy, so the man"). I think, since he's a little bit in between times, he'll provide a lot of opportunity for interaction while still having sufficient amounts of internal conflict (his Tower addiction is starting to grow, okay?).

Also, somewhat selfishly, I think it would be fun for the crew as a whole to have their fearless leader in the game. I'll admit to the playercesting. I absolutely will. But please know that it's done with a very clear intention in mind. Associated characters and side and kickside sidekick characters are fun and awesome. But sometimes it really does require having the main character knocking around in order for those associated and side characters to really display their full range of knowledge, emotion, background, and connections. It helps to have more pieces of a puzzle together.

4. Samples
First-Person:
[Voice Post]
No.

[Well, that's abrupt. But for such a simple word, the intention is clear. And there's more than the obvious hanging on this word. It's as much threat as refusal. But the tone is even and level--not calm so much as controlled.]

You've brought me here. You've taken my guns.

[And this last carries the same sense of threat as that first "no."]

And y'say you've brought me here to court your prince. If he'll have me.

[Some might laugh at this. He doesn't laugh. There is nothing funny here at all. This is quite possibly the stupidest thing of all time. Of all time.

Still, if one is or has been acquainted with certain others who have already been likewise brought into this world as potential suitors, why, yes, it might just sound more than a little familiar. If one has been acquainted with this selfsame certain person, albeit a goodly bit older, why, yes, it might just sound more than a little familiar there too. There's something old in the way he says these words, something out of another time and place.]

No.

[There's that intonation again.]

Y'may say that you've brought me here for him.

But he won't have me.

[//voice post ends]

Third-Person:
He thought, at first, that he had fallen down the great stone stairs (the same stairs that once he and Cuthbert, thick as thieves and close as brothers and always had been, had hidden under in their youth to eat ill-gotten and forbidden suppers, where even with a mouthful of sweetness they'd come upon the bitterness of age--a time that had begun with fingers sticky with berries and ended with bread under a hanged man's shoes) to the kitchens. What else could explain this?

Another scavenger among the ruins was he. There was little left. But he was without trail and without direction. He was bounded for the moment by his own needs--hunger and want. With Billy (lacking a better name for the creature, why not call it what it is?) at his heels, he had descended to the old kitchens.

He had found only more ruin. In the huge kitchen where Hax (that same man once hanged and left with bread beneath his shoes for the birds and for his treachery) had once held his fuming and aromatic court, a grotesque colony of Slow Mutants nested, peering at him from the merciful darkness of pantries and shadowed pillars. The warm steam that had been filled with the pungent odors of roasting beef and pork had changed to the clammy damp of moss. Giant white toadstools grew in corners where not even the Slow Muties dared to encamp. The huge oak subcellar bulkhead stood open, and the most poignant smell of all had issued from that, an odor that seemed to express with a flat finality all the hard facts of dissolution and decay: the high sharp odor of wine gone to vinegar.

He had stood at the top of the stairs considering what dry stores or what preserved meats might be left over. Things the Slow Mutants wouldn't favor or understand. Things he could carry. Because he knew now that he was on the brink of a long journey. He had taken its first steps, but the true journey was now to begin. He would turn away from this place and he would set out west west west as far as he could and to the very ends of the earth. He would find his way because he would find his way.

And so he had stood at the top of the stairs and then he had woken at the bottom of the stairs.

But that was impossible.

He had not fallen. He was not pushed. He knew himself far to well to suspect that anyone or anything could have tripped him without his realizing it, without his even reaching for his guns, without his turning to face whoever whatever stood behind him. No.

And so, on this strange, cold, stone floor, he lay still. He lay still as death (and he'd seen enough of death to understand that look).

By and by, by and by, with all the silence in the room around him, he opened one eye in a narrow slit.

He could tell in a glimpse that this was not the floor of the ruined kitchen. Which made no sense but didn't matter. He was not where he expected. The hows and wherefores were immaterial. Magic, mayhap. More of Marten's games and jokes, for he was still about in the world.

Now he heard a soft step on the stone. And in the blazing speed that was his and his alone, he took to his feet and reached for his gun--

--which was not there.

Then came the sick horror. It was like waking without a limb, like waking without touch or sight, like waking without fingers but instead only dumb paws to batter uselessly at anything once-skilled fingers could turn. That his guns, that his father's guns, that his father's father's guns, that his guns that had been passed along the line of Arthur Eld for thirty generations to come to him the last at the last could have vanished from his keeping in such a way was impossible.

But there were other things at hand. And had he not learned first without his guns? Had he forgotten so quickly? There came a voice into his mind: You're slow, maggot. Better to be a dead fool.

He closed up his empty hands--marked with the blood of both foe and friend--into fists. He was never wholly without strength.

And then the one who'd made that soft step that brought him to his feet spoke and his fists only clenched tighter. But he stood, quietly if impatiently, hearing it all out, and watching in all the corners for what might strike next, what might come next. But nothing did. And silence fell for a moment.

He turned the story over in his mind. And he felt the inevitable frustration of delay now on top of everything else.

At last he spoke:

"No."

And though his voice was level and the tone even, the word was heavy with threat.

"You've brought me here. You've taken my guns. And y'say you've brought me here to court your prince." The faintest of pauses as he considered the whole of the story. "If he'll have me."

He stood still. Mayhap he should have spoken more elegantly. Mayhap this wasn't the time or the place.

"No."

And again the word held in it such great promise of threat as well as refusal. There was death in the word, in the way that one himself might refuse death, and in the way one himself might bring down death on others. His will was firm.

"Y'may say that you've brought me here for him." Again, the slightest pause.

"But he won't have me."

Because Roland Deschain, of the Line of Eld, of the White, the last gunslinger of Gilead, the last of the true, would not be bound to this prince and his servants and their whims--nor would he be bound to anyone, nor to anything, save that which he chose.

Third Sample:
With darkness one soul rose wondrously from among the new slain dead and stole away in the moonlight. The ground where he'd lain was soaked with blood and with urine from the voided bladders of the animals and he went forth stained and stinking like some reeking issue of the incarnate dam of war herself. The savages had moved to higher ground and he could see the light from their fires and hear them singing, a strange and plaintive chanting up there where they'd gone to roast mules. He made his way among the pale and dismembered, among the sprawled and legflung horses, and he took a reckoning by the stars and set off south afoot. The night wore a thousand shapes out there in the brush and he kept his eyes on the ground ahead. Starlight and waning moon made a faint shadow of his wanderings on the dark of the desert and all along the ridges the wolves were howling and moving north towards the slaughter. He walked all night and he could see the fires behind him.
--Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian

The desert lay great before them. The night before he had escaped death and the fires for the dead and the dying but one among them had caught him with one bloodied hand that gripped at him as though he were not alive but life itself. This was Aileen with whom he had danced once in a time and in a place that was a thousand worlds away when her eyes had glittered under the sparklights in their crystal shells and did not glisten as they did now with the orange and greasy fires lit to burn the dead. Lit to burn their own. From among them his sister (in soul though not in blood though blood was mingled with blood well enough here and her hand stained his ragged shirt all the more) had clutched him.

He had carried her away with him and in the last of the brush before the plains and the desert began had built a travois from what he could find. There was a tree felled by lightning there at the edge of things and he took branches and rags and made to carry her.

After a time they came upon a wagontrain that had been set upon and destroyed. The dead lay in drying stains of their own blood and they were swelling in the noontime sun. One lay on his back and his eyes were drying in the sun and sand stuck to his eyeballs but for now these eyes also still held in dark reflection a perfect sun in each orb. They were merchants on their way to market (there had of late been children playing in other towns and places, there was marksmanship being taught, and these had been the sounds of hope--in some quarters). They had been killed with blade and bolt and dart in ways that both the litter-bearer and the one he bore both knew well and they saw in this small battlefield again the hands of their enemies.

There was a boy lying in the shadow of a bucka tilted on its tongue. A billybumbler was watching him and rasping small sounds and words. The boy was the last survivor of this ruined band but he was not to be its survivor long. He squatted beside the boy and heard him breathe with blood in his throat and then go silent. He closed the boy's eyes.

The bumbler spoke in its growling mimicry of human speech and made its accusations to those whom it knew or hoped would hear, these two wanderers on the desert plain. Here then was the last true survivor and witness to this carnage and it spoke such as it could. Roland in his slow way had not understood the barking answers. Aileen had and murmured it to him. But they were not surprised by the answer. They had been set upon by Not-Men of the last rampaging bands still roaming in these wastelands.

He dug the murdered merchants graves and laid them in them and covered them over with stones. He mumbled prayers more out of habit than belief but they were said.

Then they went on, now three and not just two with the billybumbler's neat steps stitched alongside his own. They went on as their shadows grew longer and the daylight failed.

He had not listened as he should have when she died. The night then had been full of insects and even the fire had not kept them at bay. He had not heard the dart when it had burst through the brush to strike her. He had heard her breathing and heard her stop but he had not heard the dart. That he could and should put down the one that shot it was done without further consideration. He let them lay dead, these same men (Not-Men but not spirits for they were not spirits but men and subject to the same pains and injuries as all men), and tried to draw out the poison from the dart. But the poison had already seeped too deeply. And she died.

He was a poor litter-bearer but he had carried her. Now he was a poorer pall-bearer. She had asked it of him that he carry her with him and he thought her a fool for asking it of him but he carried her. She wanted to go back to Gilead and to rest. She would be buried among her fathers and mothers, she said. They had been two days away then. She had bled quietly through her bandages and her shirt. But he carried her.

He had been first when he was young, and then he had been alone, then she had found him, and now he was alone again. Save for this beast that trotted alongside him with its mournful golden eyes and its barking words which were not mimicry at all but speech of its own kind. He didn't care. Still he carried her.

They struggled all day across a terra damnata of smoking slag, passing from time to time the bloated shapes of dead mules or horses. The rocks trembled in the sun, rock and no water and the sandy trace and he kept watch for any green thing that might tell of water but there was no water.

He went on bearing her with him. Because what more was there to do? Because she had asked it of him. He walked and she was borne with him.

In the afternoon they came upon a crossroads, what else to call it. A faint trace crossed another and went on in opposite directions without purpose and without end. He looked for some guidance in the landscape but there was none. Down below them was a village on the plain. From a distance it looked like a decaying brick kiln.

He drew her slowly through the little mud streets. There were goats and sheep slain in their pens and pigs dead in the mud. They passed the doorways of houses where people lay murdered in all attitudes of death in the doorways and on the floors, naked and swollen and strange.

In the center of the village was a plaza with trees wherein huddled vultures. At the far end of the plaza was a church and a dying mule stood swaying in the doorway. The roof of the church had not wholly collapsed though charred beams hung beyond the doorway and long beams of light fell through the roof and the broken skeletons of the high windows in the wall. He kicked and shouted at the mule and it fled. He went up the stone steps and brought her with him into the church and let her lay a while in the cool under the roof and rested there himself. The altars had been pulled down and the tabernacle looted. There were figures of saints dressed in doll's clothes in niches on the wall and some of these had been broken and some leaned against the walls of their niches as though they themselves were weary of intercession. He rested there. After a while he made a shroud for her from the altarcloth.

The billybumbler waited with her when he asked it of it and guarded her against the vultures who had begun again to gather nearby with their wings outstreched in attitudes of dark benediction like monstrous priests of some forgotten faith. He went from house to house like a beggar. The doorways were low and he had to stoop to enter them. There was little left though sometimes he found plates of half-eaten food now swarmed by flies. There was burned and useless bread in a clay oven.

By and by he found a clay jar of beans and some corn more suited to horses. But he took them to a fire that still smoldered in the ruins of another house and warmed a little of the food there and saved the rest. He crouched there among the shadows of the buzzards and in the footprints of dogs or wolves as another scavenger among his own kind now picking the last of the meat from the bones of this village.

The wellwater from the well in the plaza was still sweet and had not been poisoned by the fleeing barbarians and he drew up enough to slake his thirst for now and to fill his waterskins for the rest of this long walk.

He went back to the church. The mule had died in the interval and now the vultures were regarding it with careful consideration. They gathered around it and stepped and huddled together and made a sacrament of it before they would feast.

He took her up again and they went on.

They stopped in the dark because it was dark. They scratched out a place to sleep in the thorned brush and in the gray lava dust to sleep if sleep there was to be. He lit fires against the dark because fires were lit against the dark. (And for the comfort of fire. For each fire is all fires, the first fire and the last ever to be. For fire does contain within it something of men themselves inasmuch as they are less without it and are divided from their origins and are exiles.) He made food from habit less than want and ate little of it.

The night lay long before him.

The next day he would arrive alone with his burden and find the city before him again where all were gone to death. The walls had fallen and weeds grew in the courtyards. Bats roosted among the great beams of the central hall and the galleries echoed with the whispers of swallows. The fields where Cort had taught them archery and gunnery and falconry were gone to hay and timothy and wild vines. A colony of Slow Mutants nested in the remains of the great kitchens and they peered at him from the merciful darkness of pantries and shadowed pillars. The halls smelled of moss. Giant white toadstools rose in corners where not even the Slow Muties dared to encamp. Below and deeper there stood open the massive oaken bulkhead of a great cellar from which issued forth a scent that seemed to express the sharp finality of all the dissolution and decay beyond: the wine had gone to vinegar.

He stood without the walls a long time listening to the silence before he entered.