faderift | 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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So used to the antics of hobbits Legolas already was, that he had not batted an eyelash at Sam’s behaviour. Of course he would be beside himself to see Bill, given the way they parted ways, or… even besides that, for the simple fact that Sam cared a great deal about the pony. If he had known him, it would not have mattered if it was a day, a week, a month or several that had passed since he had last seen him.

And of course it hadn’t.

Legolas was still smiling, eyebrows arched with some amusement all over anew. Of course Sam would deny himself having had a great role in the destruction of the One Ring and Legolas shook his head.

“As facts say, though, it was indeed Frodo and yourself who had achieved this,” Legolas stepped closer, closing the door, and put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. Warm and soothing, he squeezed gently. “Relax, Sam, you may speak to us as you would to friends.“

He was a dear little creature, to see to the pony first and then to Thranduil and Legolas. Sam’s sweet manner was endearing, as was how he behaved towards Legolas.

“I am not your lord, Samwise—" Thankfully, Legolas had made him aware of all the little details he would need to know to conduct himself. “—nor am I your king. Address me as Thranduil, in friendship, and in thanks.”

He gestured to one of the seats at his table—there was one for Legolas, though his son was just as like to perch upon the table as he was to sit—and the scant offerings thereon. He had squirreled away a few biscuits from breakfast, and the snowmelt made fine drinking water. A poor offering, compared to the tables he had laid in the past, but it was something. “Sit, eat. Tell us of your troubles.”

He was still confused - neither Frodo nor himself had achieved anything much yet, as far as Sam was concerned, save for walking so long and so far it was a wonder their feet hadn't fallen right off. But then Legolas leaned close, squeezing Sam's shoulder and speaking to him reassuringly, and he gave up asking for the moment, merely returning the Elf's smile with a grateful, somewhat watery one of his own.

Thranduil's own reassurances were less easy to accept. Sam darted an uncertain look his way, swallowing hard. Legolas was one thing, being a sort of friend as it were, but the other Elf was so tall and so grand, he couldn't quite bring himself to speak to him with such familiarity.

"Y-yes, Mr. Thranduil, ser," he mumbled instead - the best he could manage. Thankfully a distraction was near at hand, and the best kind. Sam looked at the biscuits with wide, hopeful eyes, and hesitated only briefly before giving Bill an affectionate pat on the nose and hurrying to the table. He scrambled up onto the chair, sitting on his own feet with his legs tucked up underneath him to have a hope of reaching the table, and looked from one Elf to the other.

"My troubles," he repeated, and sighed heavily, the weight of all his anxiety and worry crashing down on him again. "It's - well it's as I told you before. It's the Lady Galadriel." He turned to Legolas, eyes pleading - Legolas must understand, Legolas had been there in the Golden Wood just as Sam had. "They've taken her - they've taken her away and locked her up!" Tears sprang unbidden to his eyes. "Oh it's the awfullest thing. That cold dark cell - and they oughtn't've done it, why even she said so, that she'd done nothing wrong - and of course she didn't, she couldn't. But they won't listen." He wiped away messy tears, shaking his head in misery. "I thought Moria was bad, and Mordor sounded worse, but I never dreamed there'd be a place as bad as this - so lovely and fair on the outside, and full of Elves and good food and - and gardens and all, but it's rotten on the inside, rotten to the core and no mistake, if the Lady Galadriel can be locked up so undignified, and without even so much as a by your leave."

The fate of Galadriel was known to them, but in a manner most vague and unclear. There were still more questions about it than there were answers, and nothing was certain beyond the simple fact that she was, indeed, imprisoned. For what? By whom? On what basis whatsoever, with her not being of this world at all. That was not the reason, else they would have faced the same fate upon coming into the keep, and Sam would not have been able to reach them so freely.

There were few answers in Sam's speech, many of them coloured by the very strong emotions. Rightly so, for Legolas was of similar opinion: for a Man to imprison the Lady Galadriel, or any elf, truth be told, it was a despicable thing, unbelievable. And that done on a whim, no less? It did not paint Skyhold, its inhabitants, and those who lead the Inquisition in a particularly positive light.

Listening intently, Legolas stood by Sam's side all this while, his hand still on his shoulder, still a reassuring touch. And no matter the thoughts flittering through his mind, he kept his expression gentle and understanding for Sam's sake, temper kept firmly in check. He could do that easily, for Sam was not the source of his anger, only the unfortunate messenger.

"You have spoken to the Lady, then, after her imprisonment?" He asked quietly, glancing briefly to Thranduil.

“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.

Sam nodded in response to Legolas' question, but the miserable expression on his face as he did so was response enough to Thranduil.

"Yes, I've seen her," he said, casting his eyes down to the table. "That was before, you know - back when she could still have visitors. Now they've moved her, and they say no one can see her at all." He sniffled, and wipes the tears from his cheek with the back of his hand. "It's been so long now! What if they never set her free?"

"They will." He'll create a situation where they need to, through persuasion or by any other tools he's able. He owes her that much, as another elf. Thranduil looks to the window, to the sun and the trees.

"Legolas is very, very skilled at being quiet and quick. If he is willing, perhaps he might pass a message to the lady from you...?" If Legolas felt the desire to engage in some sneaking.

all hail the new kids

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