faderift | all hail the new kids

Entry tags:

all hail the new kids

WHO: Legolas & whoever wants to meet him o/
WHAT: Legolas's first week in Skyhold.
WHEN: Starting the arrival of new Rifters at Skyhold and spanning about a week. All these elves, man.
WHERE: All over.
NOTES: No warnings! If you'd rather a specific prompt, you can hit me up in a PM or a pplurk @

perfectassassin

( arrival. )
Legolas arrived to Skyhold not only with the other "Rifters," but also with a pony tagging along in his wake and not particularly willing to be parted from him, not even, it seemed, for the stables. They made quite the sight, a tall elf and a short pony, so, so clearly not of this world, neither pleased nor impressed to be where he was.

( exploring. )
There were things to do first, when no other task occupied him in this new place, of course he had to explore and familiarise himself with this fortress that was, whether willingly or not, to become his home from now on. He was wandering the halls and courtyard, perhaps needing to be guided away from certain parts that are not freely available, and especially not to the Rifters. It did not help that he did not part with his weapons, the long white knife still strapped to his waist, the quiver full of arrows and bow still at his back.

( archery range. )
The white war bow felt as much a part of him as his hair and fingernails, as his arms and legs, and so it felt as natural as breathing to bend it, nock an arrow to the string and send it flying at the mark. Unmoving, unchallenging, boring, but much like breathing was always, this was not always about being challenging. It cleared his mind, it soothed some nerves.

He held a handful of arrows in his hand, a couple lodged in the mark already, and in a quick succession, barely noticeable to the naked eye, he shoot the remaining arrows. Thud, thud, thud, they all hit exactly where he intended. There was enough space for two fingers between each, all in a straight line in the very middle of the mark post. There were more arrows in his quiver, but Legolas still jogged up to grab those he shoot: those were good for practise, the shafts made of wood he found in the surrounding forests, the arrowheads made of bone, and fletching with whatever feathers he could find, very mismatched.

After he was satisfied - the post he was using all but shredded to splinters -, he spent a fair amount of time cleaning his gear. The bow, the string, the arrows, and his knife as well even though he had not used it. This was a foreign place, that he was but beginning to learn all about, his weapons had to be in top shape at all times. Just in case.

Though exhaustion was quick to catch on, now that he was capable of feeling it quite this way. Calmed nerves opened the doors to drowsiness, when he was already tired, and he might have fallen asleep where he sat whetting his knife. Head bowed, long hair framing his face.

( ooc: three options here: while he's shooting, while his cleaning, while he's dozing off! Also the shooting is what Lars Andersen uses, so think this. It's super fast, plus it's basically one gesture of nocking the arrow and releasing it, instead of three. )

( library. )
The library, unfortunately, quickly turned out to be rather useless, at least in this moment in time. While he knew the commonly used language of the folk of this world, their letters were still for the most part foreign. Legolas sought out maps, he sought out anything that he could understand with his currently limited knowledge. Curiously, some books he had found had notes written in them, things scratched out or added, but all of them were in a similarly incomprehensible alphabet.

It was one of such that he was trying to decipher, taken by the curiosity to find out just what those notes said, when another bout of exhaustion took him. He fell asleep, sitting with his back resting against one bookshelf, long legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankle.

At the very least, he did not disturb the dead silence of the place with snoring.

( for: thranduil. )
There was a measly couch in the room they shared, and this couch was exactly what they were currently occupying. Thranduil seated properly, while Legolas himself stretched across the length of it and used his father's lap as a pillow. Their exhaustion was clear at a first glance, sluggish motions, droopy eyes and slow conversation interspersed with yawns.

Still, neither of them gave in.

Legolas bit back a yawn, swallowed it whole stubbornly and he caught himself reaching to rub at his eyes. The hand in his hair, petting, playing with the strands, was not making staying awake much easier, apparently. It wasn't the first time, but it still wasn't a particularly easy thing to do at all: simply allowing himself to fall into the darkness of sleep. Not even when he felt as safe and as content as he only could be in this place.

Instead of giving in, Legolas hummed a song under his breath. It helped a little to stay awake, at least to him, having to focus on the words and the melody.

( for: aragorn. )
Even with all the people in Skyhold, it was thankfully not too terribly difficult to find a private spot or another. There were parts of the ramparts that did not have any guard posts, out of the earshot of all and with a nice view of the surrounding areas to boot. The air was crisp still, but thankfully Legolas managed to procure a cloak warmer than his clothing was originally. It kept him warm well enough, which was a strange consideration after a lifetime of never having had to worry about it.

"As you suspect, my friend, I do wish to hear all of it," if Aragorn had been here for a time already, surely he had learned a lot. Legolas wanted to hear all of it. "I have but thin threads, too little and tangled too greatly to comprehend this world." Things overheard on their journey from the Dales to the Skyhold, things witnessed, things he was told and things he figured out himself.

( for: martel. )
It was one thing to just hear about it, but it was something entirely else to actually experience it first hand: the discrimination, disrespect and general poor treatment of the elves in Thedas. Even with how vastly he differed from the native elves, it did not spare him the mistreatment, all the more so as he did not hide who and what he were. The elegant point of his ear was in full sight of all, with his hair drawn back by braids, and he admitted to it freely.

There was no shame at all in being an elf, but there was plenty of pride — pride and joy, Legolas had not once in his life wished to be something or someone else — in it instead. So he made himself deaf to the snide and rude comments occasionally thrown in his direction, when he dared to foray into spaces primarily occupied by the Men, who, truth be told, all too often acted more akin to orcs than Men. Yet while words were nothing but hot air puffed out of foul mouths, actions were something else entirely and those were harder to ignore—

Especially when he got cornered and, worse yet, touched on the elbow or hip, or anywhere at all really, along with those leery remarks. Legolas stood his ground, deadly calm at first and staring coolly, no matter how revolting the stench of ale mixed with sweat was to his nose. He had his bow and arrows, which there was not enough space to use, but he also had his knife.

But first things first: he grabbed the man's hand in his own, grip firm, painfully so, and he twisted it away from himself, much to the man's surprise, alarm and in seconds also despair. "First, you will be parted with your hands, so no elf ever again will suffer their touch," Legolas spoke slowly, clearly, and he squeezed harder the palm he held, verging now on breaking the fragile bones, while his other hand reached for the knife at his side, "Then, you will be parted with your tongue, so you will no longer be able to spew such filth."

( for: solas. )
It was something Legolas noticed quickly, the more tired he would grow, the longer these halls seemed as he walked them now and again to just explore and learn. His steps would barely carry him closer to his goals, feet heavy as if laden with iron and stone. Still, he carried himself with the usual grace of his folk, only slow, as if was the land of dreams he was walking and not reality, with half-lidded eyes and distracted gaze.

It was a miracle, sometimes, that he would reach the places that he wanted to go to, or return to his father's side after the night fell, when he got like this.

Legolas caught a yawn, quelled it almost violently with a involuntary nose wrinkle and a little frown to the set of his lips. But the sigh that followed he allowed himself. Chilly gust of breeze brushed past him, making him shiver but not quite drawing him out of this sleepy stupor. He was far too gone, though he was still attentive enough to catch some motion with the corner of his eye — outside, he stopped to look out of the window — but he never saw what it was, a bird more than likely, because darkness took him then: his eyes fell closed, his body went lax.

( for: galadriel. )
Legolas knew better than to ask openly, not more than was proper for concerned kin that is, but he kept his ears open and he guided conversations in just the right directions. And it wasn't all that difficult to find out the part of the building, and after that: the exact room where Galadriel was held. No longer a cell, oddly so. After all there were very few, or really, none other, rooms with guards stationed at the door, or with the sole window looking out also watched by another pair of eyes.

Two ways in, both watched, and as far as he knew, Galadriel was not allowed visitors. No doubt, they'd dig their heels in if an elf of her world, that knew her, that had care for her, tried to see her. And, more than that, it'd likely put him under a much greater scrutiny and that was something Legolas would rather avoid at all cost.

In the end he opted for the halls, at night — after having rested well, earlier in the day himself — a fair amount of time before the guards changed their shifts. It was an hour when all that the Men needed was a gentle tug towards the darkness of sleep, when already drowsy after a duty filled, yet boring day. Yawn one, then another, one guard rubbed at his eyes, while the other was slowly sliding down to the floor, back on the wall. It scraped, grated for a couple of seconds, and then all was silent again. Neither could later attribute their failure to stay awake to the indistinct whispers that stole into their ears.

Legolas stepped silently over a pair of legs stretched across the hallway, the guard's chest rising slowly with each breath taken, chin drooped. The other guard was in a similar position, but head tipped back instead and... snoring. The door made a noise when opened, but thankfully not loudly enough to bring attention to itself or wake up anyone that should stay asleep. He was quick with it anyway, open the door, get in, close it behind him softly.

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"In truth? I do not know exactly how it works. Those that fall through say they were dreaming or something close to it one moment and the next? Falling through to land in Thedas." A beat, and Zevran gave Bill a sweep of his eyes, momentarily concerned. "I suppose if he has walked all this way he did not land badly, which is fortunate. IT is a hard climb under normal circumstances- worse if a horse or, in this case, pony is favoring a leg."

It did seem as though the little horse was well and good. Curious enough as Zevran had not thought ponies capable of dreams. Perhaps in the way that dogs dreamed, of wide fields and things to chase, sweet grass to eat.

"But as far as I know? Yes. Bill is the first. Perhaps a medal might be fashioned for him as it is no easy feat." Edges of humor lingered in the lilt of Zevran's smile. "Now I have his name, might I have yours to match?"

"To sleep, and, perchance, to dream," Solas replied, offering a warm smile in return to Legolas' tired one.

"It is not as fateful as you believe, I assure you. It can even be pleasant. Have you been given a space to stay? If not, you're more than welcome to take your rest in my quarters."

His thoughts strayed, struggled to stay on the right track. One moment he felt the dread of the upcoming darkness and the next Solas's assurances soothed, made him even curious about these dreams. And thenow, another thought came on the heels of it: where did he rest last? Where was this room that he and Thranduil called their own? The exact route back there eluded him. So in response, Legolas shook his head.

"I fear I would walk off the ramparts long before recalling the path that lead...," not home, it wasn't home exactly, though it was where his heart was, if Thranduil had not left on an errand or a whim. "Ah, back."

"My quarters, then." Solas said, before gently leading Legolas down the hall. It wasn't far, after all, and it would be better than Legolas just passing out against a window somewhere.

"I have spent much of my time sleeping," He said, almost amused, as they walked, Solas' hand hovering behind Legolas to offer support if he should require it. "It is how I can travel into the Fade - how I have studied and learned so much of our history."

"That's wonderful to hear." Eirlys' gaze becomes very far off, as though she's trying and failing to imagine such an idyllic place. "I'd love to hear all about it. Perhaps not now, especially since I woke you and I know I wouldn't be ready for long descriptions in that state, but some time, if it wouldn't be an inconvenience to you."

"Perhaps it ought to be fashioned, indeed! For the greeting we have all received was hardly filled with pleasantries," Bill snorted just then, nudging Legolas's with his muzzle. Asking for a snack that Legolas didn't have quite yet. Soon, though, soon he would make sure to procure something for the both of them and for his father, and he said as much in Sindarin, a quiet murmur as he stroked down the pony's head. Another snort was all the response, but Bill did not wander off in search of food.

"He is well, merely grouchy a touch— it has been too long since his last snack," then turning back to the stranger, Legolas offered a small bow with his introduction, his hand resting over his heart, "I am Legolas, son of Thranduil." His mouth quirked into a more mirthful grin, then: "Now so the exchange may be complete, will I have yours?"

Perhaps, so, but it was still blood loss, and the mess was another issue, although a minor one, all in all. But if he could make sure that she wouldn't accidentally trip over anything more while holding her head up, and injure herself more, then he would do it. So for the time being, he would stay with her, and perhaps later walk her to where she could get cleaned up.

The words made him quirk a smile, a sad one though.

"I only know darkness when I sleep in the fashion of the Men," unbeknownst to Legolas, it was simply because he still didn't quite remember them after waking up. "Nothing pleasant has been lost at all, and I prefer to avoid this darkness if I can."

"Ah, that does seem to be the way of things for Rifters, alas. To the general public you are all quite strange and the only thing of note falling from the fade as of late had been demons. They will overcome this sentiment in time. Allow me to even the scales somewhat, yes?" For Bill an apple he'd taken from the kitchens for himself was offered, for the elf? A swept bow, an easy smile.

"Zevran Arainai, at your service. Welcome to Skyhold."

'Sleeping in the fashion of Men' would, in most other circumstances, be a confusing enough statement that she'd suddenly twist her head. This time, she just makes a sort of strangled noise through her plugged nostrils and keeps herself from waving any confused hands about.

"You don't always remember dreams, at least. And that's better than remembering bad ones. Though, um, do men and women sleep differently, where you're from? Because if so, maybe you should sleep in the fashion of women, if you don't like the way you do it currently? It won't do you much good not to sleep."

Pot, meet kettle. As if Merrill herself hasn't refused sleep and food in years past, working tirelessly on an eluvian, her dreams only encouraging her to work on it more.

"Doing it in a bed would be more comfortable than the library floor, too. Probably."

"From the Fade," he confirmed, unable to keep the fondness from his tone. His actions betrayed him if his voice did not, gently sweeping Legolas' hair behind his ear, and tugging the blankets back around them. Only elflings yawned, stretched as he had- it was impossible for those motions not to reawaken the same concern he had felt when Legolas was much younger.

He brushed a hand over his own front in an attempt to smooth out his sleeping shirt, and brushed over a wet spot with his palm, halting to check that what he felt was real.

Thranduil brushed his thumb over the corner of Legolas' mouth, raising a brow- and then yawning himself, the reaction somehow contagious.

"For all their haste and foolishness, their need is great," Galadriel explained, though it sounded thin even to her own ears. Legolas, however, had not been pressed as she was, his opinions were still forming, and her woodland kin were more dangerous and violent than she was wont to be. It was best, therefore, to help him understand what she had learned.

"I have not met their enemy, but I have seen the shadow that stretches into these lands. There are none who know the depths of what they face and, as they stare into the abyss before them, they are fearful of what it contains. They do not recall darkness, not truly, and it is the deepest darkness that awaits them." Galadriel said, her cadence evening out as she drew farther from the edge of sleep.

"They are terrified of spirits, of their own dreams, and that terror hounds their every moment. I pity them, despite their foolishness, and I would ask you to as well." She reached out, then, and settled a hand very lightly on Legolas's shoulder. She knew him not at all, but this was important. "Our kin are at the mercy of these humans, to strike out against them, even righteously, would do them great harm. Until they are uplifted, we must abide and endure."

Thranduil would see the wisdom in this, surely his son was not so different.

“Is she well? Does her spirit suffer due to her confinement?” He might not agree with her—he might not feel anything more for her than the barest affection due as family, but she was another elf, and they did not fare well in confinement. He met Legolas’ gaze, held it—his son had always been clever and quick, and Skyhold’s walls had plenty of footholds, if someone needed to steal into a room and pass a quick message.

You have allies. You are not alone. He and Galadriel might not have understood or agreed on many policies, but he would never leave her alone and rotting and in danger when he had the means to keep her safe—or at least try. He knew Legolas would feel the same—possibly more impassioned. How had it been for his son, venturing out of Mirkwood and into the Golden Wood, feeling what a healthy forest ought to feel like? He should have grown up in a realm as free and bright as that.

Legolas didn't like the sound of it very much, to abide and endure the blatant slights that came in all the various forms: verbal and physical. He had neither the temper nor the patience for it, especially so after having lived among the folk of Gondor, among those who had helped rebuild Ithilien together with the elves. The Men of Arda were respectful, they were kind, such a contrast to the foulness that spread far and wide in Thedas.

Still, he did understand the reasons behind it. The backlash for his actions would be primarily against the elves of Thedas, and though he would do everything in his power to protect them, he was but one elf and together with Galadriel and Thranduil, there was only three of them. Not a great number, though still a formidable force.

His jaw tightened, "It will be a great test of patience," and those he had failed before, "But so be it."

But, no matter, he had little time left and still many questions to ask, many things to find out.

"I must flee soon," he glanced towards the door, but no sound reached his ear but for the gentle snoring, "New guards will come, as their watch changes, and they will discover those asleep and they will come to make certain you are still caged, My Lady.

"Tell me, if you would, what is it that was born in the Seeker's mind to see you imprisoned?"

The elf's attitude endeared Legolas to him thoroughly. A bright spot in a place that seemed quite dark from the moment of his arrival, and though Zevran spoke of demons coming from the rift still, it would all be somewhat easier to stomach with pleasant companions.

"Well met, Zevran, or as we say in Arda, êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn." Melodic and smooth, made even more so by Legolas's fair voice. He nodded curiously to the journal tucked safely under Zevran's arm, "Were you taking notes of those arriving?"

Legolas could only hope that the words spoken right there and then would not only sound coherent, on his part, but that they would remain in his memory for the time when his mind did not feel quite so sluggish. At the very least, he could still process what Solas was saying to him and answer.

"How is it done, travel through the dreams?" He shook his head a bit, walking a little slow, but... steady enough, as far as he could tell. "We... only walk the paths of our memories, those filled with happiness and beauty and this soothes the fëa, this refreshes the mind, except, it seems, here."

Indeed, his patience for counsel, and unasked for at that, was at its limit, and so was his patience for remaining in this place where his mere presence still invited looks wary and hateful. Or simply of the unpleasant kind, all for his outburst earlier. Understandable, in a way, but there'd have been no need for it had the Man kept his hands to himself, and his words deep in his throat — perhaps to choke on them, even! — so he did not feel terribly shamed, merely... annoyed.

"Enough to last me some hundred years, for sure," he answered cheekily, but not wholly unfriendly. Yet all the same, he was reluctant to let this Man, Martel, to walk away just yet. A rifter, much like himself, and one who seemed to have been here for a stretch of a time. Surely he had knowledge and information that could be of use, and surely, making an ally or a friend out of him would benefit him rather than hinder. "But simple conversation I would still welcome, if you would spare me not only your fist but also your time now."

He gestured towards the door leading out of the tavern and into the fresh air. The stench of this place, and the many eyes fixed on them, did not make for a good spot.

"I would appreciate that greatly, I — Legolas, son of Thranduil," a touch of good-will here, a small bow of the head, but his smile was small and soured by the circumstance.

Legolas himself hardly had the same love of books as Ellana just showed, but he would still remember this place and return once his knowledge of the writing of Thedas was more useful. Right now he would gain nothing from attempting to read any of those, but there was surely information to be found that could be of use. And even that aside, he disliked the feeling of being ignorant, and though his preferred method was to learn from other folk, he would not scoff at a book if necessary.

"Thank you," his gaze followed her, noting the books idly, "I may have to return here, then, when all that is written in those tomes will make sense to my eye, at long last.

"Though the cobwebs and the dust will not make the most pleasant of neighbours." At the very least the spiders were of a regular size here. "Shall we go on?"

"The lettering is wholly foreign, the shapes unlike Tengwar or Cirth," Legolas picked up one of the books and opened it on a random page, fingers gently tracing a line of meaning unknown to him, "though there had not been a barrier in the spoken language, a strange matter, and one I could not explain to you if I tried."

His smile was sheepish but genuine.

"I will learn it, before long, yet it is a great test of patience."

"To share tales in word or in song is beloved by all the elves of Arda," and it was not too great of an exaggeration at all. There was not an elf Legolas had known in all his life that would decline such a request. "I would be happy to offer you those I know, a repayment for your care and kindness."

He caught a yawn, stifled it, and smiled, sheepish. Perhaps, indeed, right now was not the best time, but— "I am Legolas, son of Thranduil, who is it that I ought to seek out?"

It was, indeed, a lot, and some of it a little confusing, all the same Legolas thought he understood the gist of the matter, the thing that she wanted to convey. They differed greatly, in appearance and attitude and history. But, it seems, they were still kind, in spite of all of that had befallen them as people. Legolas listened intently, nodding even when he couldn't wholly comprehend one aspect or another, these little things were not big enough to throw him off of the right track.

There was sadness in all of it, though, and she voiced a similar thought that lingered in Legolas's own mind: was Arda truly the sole world where elves lived free, respected and revered? Feared, even, but no other folk — other than the filth of Morgoth and Sauron — ever dared to raise their blades against them.

"There is not one attitude towards the elves, where I come from," he began, "We are... feared, we are respected and revered, and hated only by the filth of the Dark, the scattered servants of Morgoth and Sauron, both of whom had been defeated. We have not known slavery in our lives, though we had known great violence and pain, all the same, brought by the hands of those enemies, yet also...," it pained him to admit that, but it was the truth of the matters, "other elves."

He shook his head, brushing aside those sad thoughts.

"But that is all in the past now," and in his time, Middle Earth and its future looked bright again, "and the time of elves among the free folk is ending, most of my kin has sailed already to where no such grievances will ever touch upon us again."

"Those differences, indeed, can be so vast and varied," there were times when he had trouble coming to terms with them, truth be told, and they'd take a while to get used to. Even just that more worlds, as such, existed in the first place. How? He had no answers and somehow he doubted anyone here would have any either. "Kindness, at least, prevails across all the worlds and existences."

And so did cruelty, but it wasn't the time for such gloomy thoughts.

"Perhaps, as well, we ought to practise and train together as well," he offered, "I have some skills in other, various, arms just as well."

Watching that gesture, Legolas flustered a little, and his own hand followed in Thranduil's wake over the corner of his mouth. One then the other. Bowing his head, he murmured his apology, followed by a laugh and the shaking of his head.

"Ah, it seems that sleeping is a skill in its own right, when the reins over the body are so wholly out of my hands," what other reason there could have been for him... having drooled all over his father's shirt as he napped on his chest? How utterly embarrassing, something to make certain would not happen ever again— on a shirt, or even the pillow.

Still, embarrassment or not, he caught Thranduil's yawn too with the corner of his eye, "If you still wish it, you may rest a while longer, I will keep watch, I have taken enough rest by now."

"Well met, then, Korrin," then, adding easily, the elven greeting but in the speech common to here, "A star shines upon this hour of our meeting."

And now it was time to take her up on her offer, because questions Legolas certainly had many and he would like answers to all of them, or at least as many as she could offer him comfortably. His curiosity was great, his time here brief, and to learn from another was his favourite way. He would not scoff at books, if he had to dip his nose in them, but this? This was vastly better.

"I confess these terms you use, they are most unknown to me, Tal-Vashtoh or simply Vashtoh? What do they mean?"

These words were followed by a distinctly long moment of silence on Legolas's part, his confusion was slow to show in his face. The pinch of eyebrows in a frown, before one of them raised in question, making for a peculiar expression overall. He stared for another moment, mouth parting to take a breath, to say a word or two, yet none came on those first few attempts.

Finally, though, the source of the confusion hit him. One of the few differences in the way they spoke in Arda and here, it seemed, and one not overly troublesome, no, no matter the long stretch of utter bewilderment that Legolas had just gone through. He laughed, then, when he realised it all, a mirthful, friendly chuckle.

"The Men! The Second-born, or Edain, as we call them," he had yet to learn the terms humans or shemlen, this was the best — and only — way he could explain it, really. "Ah, as different from the First-born, us, the elves or Quendi."

Well, that was rather poetic. Korrin smiles and files away that saying for later use. Araceli might like it, at the very least. As to those questions, she response easily, no awkwardness or hesitance on display. It's a nice change, with rifters; most natives tend to lump her in with the Qunari and avoid on principle. Few really want to learn more.

"Tal-Vashoth literally means 'True Grey Ones', it's the term for former Qunari who leave have been exiled from Qunari society. Vashoth, 'Grey Ones' , are born outside of the Qun to begin with. Everyone else forgets or ignores all that and just call us all Qunari, though that just means being part of that particular society; it's not a term for the entire race, whatever they think."

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Page 5 of 6

all hail the new kids

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