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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

It is rather late when Merrill finds the library, the sun hidden behind the mountains and the torches lit. She has, once again, gotten lost -- were it not for the fact that she recognizes the library, she would likely still be wandering around the halls and the ramparts, trying to get to her actual destination. Still, even in the library the lights are dim, torches no match for the sun and many of the librarians and archivists in their beds sleeping. Long shadows reach from the bookshelves, and it's one of these shadows and her own exhaustion that leads Merrill to completely miss Legolas -- or, at least, his legs -- as she passes through.

Well, it leads her to miss them with her eyes, at least. It does not help her at all when she steps and trips over him, feet finding what her eyes couldn't. There's a startled yelp as she goes down, fingers grabbing blindly for another shelf and missing, resulting in Merrill ending up on her side, half on Legolas and half on the floor as her staff clatters away, stirring up several of the ravens in the rookery above.

"Oh, ow- oh, oh goodness, are you all right?" She's not actually certain about herself, but as she's the one who literally stumbled across him, she supposes it's only polite to ask.

After her usual training, Korrin heads to the archery range for a little practice. She's not a battle archer in any sense of the term, but she's always found archery to be relaxing in its own way. A little time at the range every now and then keeps what meager skills she has from falling into complete disuse, too.

However, the elf currently demonstrating his own considerable talent snares her attention. The Vashoth's eyebrows raise as she approaches, awed by the speed and accuracy of his arrows. She pauses nearby to observe, putting off any practice of her own for the time being.

Thranduil worked at picking out the braid that kept Legolas’ hair from his eyes, glad for the repetitive motions. Combing was a social habit; it reinforced bonds and allowed for intimacy between family and friends. Their hair was some mixture of sacred and forbidden—those who had touched his numbered, perhaps, in two digits. He had been far freer when he was younger, far more careless. Legolas, he was sure, had a lower number.

“Rest, leafling. I will keep watch.” Sleep was such a wasteful thing—had no apparent purpose, beyond restoring energy they never should have lost. They would lose hours to it, hours that could be spent writing, reading, planning—though the Fade has its own temptations, and space for education.

“You are warm? Comfortable? Full?” All these things they now needed to worry about, take into account.

Kain is passing by, about to head into his own training session nearby, when the archer practicing catches his eye. He doesn't normally stop to watch just anyone, but the technique that he's using really does catch his eye. There are archers back home on his world, and here as well, so the bow itself is an incredibly common weapon... Not used like this, though.

He watches a bit longer, realizing he's lingered a bit longer than he'd planned to. Still, it was worth it to see that skill. He can always appreciate other fighters, especially those with skills in areas he himself has no ability in.

"Incredible technique."

(following this)

Sam's not far from the rooms above the gardens, and as soon as he finds out where to go he's moving just as fast as his little hobbit legs can take him. Once he reaches the door to the correct room, though, he slows, suddenly hesitant. He's never met Legolas' father, and it's been months since he'd seen Legolas himself. Even when they'd been on the Quest together, Legolas had been a bit distant and otherworldly - being an elf and all. His father must be even more so.

Quietly, unsure of himself, he knocks a few times at the door, and waits, heart pounding.

Every once in a while, Hermione felt the need to leave the confines of the library, lest she come to regard it as some sort of prison. That wasn't the case and she hoped it never would be, but the occasional change of scenery usually helped her appreciate the silence and the familiar comforting smells of the old books.

It explained why she often found herself not too far away from where other people were busying themselves training. Well, that, and because it helped her, reminding her that though her magic was still awry there were all sorts of people who were ready and able to protect Skyhold.

On this particular day, Hermione happened to find herself among the archers, and one specific archer caught her eye. That he was an elf didn't matter; she didn't even notice it until he finally seemed to be wrapping up with his practice. The pointed ears were only recently becoming a sign of elvish origin, and Hermione still wasn't used to them being so tall.

She didn't notice that she'd been standing there, simply hugging the books she'd bought with her to her chest. At least, she didn't notice until he was done, and she tried not to feel flustered in the event that he'd noticed her while she'd simply stood there watching him. Talking would probably help, and so she offered him a small, sheepish smile as she remarked, "That was very impressive. I've never seen anyone shoot like that."

Sleep was a wasteful thing, the need for it was also frustrating and how it could sneak up on one so stealthily. It was also frustrating and somewhat frightening, a descent into darkness, into dreams wild and out of control, and for all the rest of the physical world, they were vulnerable. Legolas didn't like that one bit, and yet he still could not fight sleep in places where being vulnerable was, more than likely, most unwise.

At the very least, he still managed to startle awake at the first nudge and the weight of another body falling half on top of him. He jerked away with a gasp, eyes flaring wide open, unfocused and still with the haze of dreams clouding his gaze. Until they fixed on the stranger, and not just any stranger but another elf, that was currently occupying his lap in some manner of speaking.

Legolas blinked once, shaking out the drowsiness. The book that flopped against his chest when he fell asleep tumbled off and to the side. "Ah! I am well, unharmed," he shifted, carefully untangling them to get back on his feet and help the other elf up, "It is you who sounds to be in pain, are you hurt?"

Throughout his practise, Legolas remains fully aware of his surroundings. Of people coming and going, stopping by to watch him, or talking in the distance. It would do him no good to completely shut off the outside world, but it's all something he keeps in the back of his mind, attention split between the shooting and any potential threats incoming. There was none, and he finished without an interruption. Only then, when all arrows he held in his grip were lodged in the trunk ways away, did he turn towards his audience of one.

It was with a smile, of course, a smile that could not hide his surprise at the woman's appearance. Of course he had seen such folk around here, already, but it was still a shocking sight, something he was going to get used to for sure.

"Greetings," he offered politely, clearing the surprise from his features and simply keeping the smile, "I should hope there is enjoyment in watching me shoot! Or am I, perhaps, keeping you from your own practise?"

All changes Legolas did not like in the least. His entire being was changed, and perhaps they were not ways many would consider significant, but they were, to him. And every moment spent this way was unpleasant. But at least he was not alone in this, and Thranduil's presence was a comfort beyond any other.

Legolas hummed his agreement, a small, pleased purr that rumbled in his throat, eyelids drooping low, hooding his gaze. "I am not the only one to need it," he remarked out loud, still resisting simply falling under. Thranduil was hiding his exhaustion, much the same way Legolas was, and while Legolas still couldn't see it, he knew Thranduil had to be tired. This plight they shared now, like they shared the need for food and for keeping warm. "Perhaps it is I who ought to watch over your sleep first?"

A difficult task, with how heavy his eyelids were, but Legolas stubbornly believed he could do it.

It doesn't look the most comfortable place to sleep, nor the warmest. Eirlys would probably have left him to it nonetheless were it not for the knife in his hand, which looked dangerously close to slipping out of his grasp if it weren't moved. She makes her way over, hovering behind Legolas and tapping gently at his shoulder.

"Ser? Let's find you somewhere else to sleep."

The reaction to her appearance isn't terribly surprising to Korrin, of course. Most natives of the South rarely see one of her kind, so she's still an oddity to them even in Skyhold. That this particular elf's height and bearing mark him as an outsider only makes further sense. She has yet to hear of her kind existing in any other world but this particular one.

Nodding politely in turn, the tall, horned woman flashes a smile. "Not really, no. I visit the range sometimes just for variety's sake, but I'm a mage. What I can manage with a bow could never hold up in actual combat. Your own, on the other hand, are truly impressive. I don't mind postponing idle practice when I can see someone with true skill at work."

“I am your ada.” He let the Sindarin slip in to their conversation without thought, possibly spurred on by his tiredness. “’Tis my obligation to keep you safe, and you—you need the rest.”

His own voice was slurring, as if he was young again and drunk on too much Dorwinion. “I will wake you in an hour, perhaps two—and we might trade off, little leaf?”

All lies, of course. Legolas would sleep until he woke naturally, and then it would be Thranduil’s turn to grasp at four or five hours of—nothingness. Utterly useless, non-productive uselessly. At least when Legolas slept, he resembled himself as a brand-new elfling. Even if he did drool. Speaking of which, Thranduil swiped his thumb over the corner of Legolas’ mouth.

Legolas never lacked confidence in his abilities, but it'd be a lie to say he did not enjoy compliments - who didn't? His lips stretched into a smile when the last arrow whizzed straight out of his bow and into the already thoroughly abused trunk. He held his stance but for a second or two longer, before lowering his bow and turning to face the stranger that made up his audience currently.

"My thanks," he bowed his head a little, gracious and grateful, and still smiling with his eyebrows arched, quite obviously pleased, "Years dozen or several hundred, I do not think compliments are something any could grow tired of hearing."

He continued soon after, with curiosity colouring his voice, "Are you an archer yourself as well?" Truth being told, this man did not look so - or at least, he was not prepared for archery practise - but in a foreign world, Legolas was not going to make snap judgements at all.

It didn't matter where exactly he procured the planks, what did matter was that they could be used to fix the hole in the roof of the measly room. The entire fortress was old, occasionally falling apart in places, especially those that were not already occupied. Legolas was not the most skilled in carpentry, but one did not need all that much skill to cover a hole, or so he thought anyway. And thus, he was not there to witness the conversation between Sam and Thranduil, he dropped back inside some minutes later, but... just in time to be the one to answer the door.

He flicked off a splinter of wood that got stuck in his sleeve, manoeuvring in the small room between the two other occupants and opened the door. The sight of Sam, on the other side, was most unexpected, to say the least. Eyes wide, Legolas couldn't help but smile, but it dropped quickly when he read the distress that surrounded Sam like a cloak. "Sam! Oh, had I only known!" He stepped aside, permitting Sam the entrance. "But now I must wonder, how had you known where to find us?"

Bewildered, he turned to Thranduil, rushing to make proper introductions. "Father, may I introduce to you one of the Nine Walkers, one of the Fellowship of the Ring, one to accompany the Ring Bearer to Mordor itself-- Samwise Gamgee--the Brave."

Legolas offered a smile in return, his own warm and friendly, most endeared by the fluster of the young girl facing him. Had he minded people watching him, he would have had found a more secluded place, so the staring didn't bother him in the slightest. Quite to the contrary, it pleased him in little ways when he noticed he made people stop and look and watch for a time. The compliment warmed him even more; though he had not lacked any confidence in his abilities, it was still nice to hear them every so often.

"My thanks," and he bowed his head a little, an elegant, gracious gesture and just a touch exaggerated for nothing but the fun of it. "I have had a great many years to practise and hone my skills, hundreds of them, should you believe it! Yet no amount of passed years will take away sweetness of compliments."

And no amount of passed years could make him respond with anything but kindness to kindness shown to him.

Sleep was the strangers just before he succumbed to it, and right upon awakening. The world was hazy at first, no matter how it happened, whether he woke up on his own or startled by someone, and he felt his body too sluggish for comfort. It was no different then, the tap gentle enough to not speak of threat, even if the voice belonged to a stranger. Legolas didn't wake up with a start or a jump, but blinked his eyes open blearily and looked around.

"Ah, what-?" When his gaze focused, he remembered where he was at least, and on the heels of that realisation, he figured out just what had happened. He looked behind him over a shoulder, smiling in gratitude at his saviour. "My thanks, kind stranger, this drowsiness of sleep seems to catch me at the worst times."

It's not the first time he's run into someone who's fallen asleep in the library - he's done it several times himself. It's common to have found a person asleep at a table, head resting on arms on top of parchment or a book, endangering the pages with drool because they've been researching. Finding someone sleeping on the floor in one of the many nooks? It isn't unheard of, but certainly rare considering the unkindly cold floor. Thankfully Sam had been mindful enough to have noticed the legs before he had a chance to trip on them.

For a time he considers on just stepping over, getting what he needed, and letting the man sleep. On closer inspection though Sam realizes the person is a Rifter, if the green shard in the hand was any indication, and that he was not familiar with him. Placing his current book under an arm, he slowly reaches down and lightly taps the man - elf? - on the shoulder.

A little nap, as these were called, couldn't hurt, Legolas thought. And he was exhausted, there was no denying that fact, as much as he loathed it. Still, he stared intently at Thranduil, frowning slightly at the suggestion. Something told him it would not be so, but he knew better than to fight Thranduil about it. He had no energy for it either, only made a mental note to do his best so simply wake up within those two hours, or three at the most, so then his father could take his rest.

His sleep, at least some hours of it that would return the easy assuredness to his voice, the strength that Legolas always admired.

"I accept this trade," he shut his mouth briefly at the swipe, wrinkling his nose a little, "And I will hold you to these te-," yawn, "-erms!"

"Hundreds of skills, or hundreds of years?" Hermione asked, vaguely aware that she was more likely than not simply talking for the sake of talking, lest she ended up feeling as foolishly flustered as she probably looked. There was no reason to feel flustered; he was an elf, a rather nice elf (not that she'd met any that hadn't been), and one who just happened to be an excellent archer. The fact that she considered archery a much more civilized sport than, say, Quidditch, had no bearing on the matter.

Chuckling a little, she shook her head and asked, "Surely you don't mean hundreds of skills related to archery? You are remarkable, but I don't think I have even a dozen skills in general, never mind in any specialized area of expertise."

In a lightly teasing tone, she added, "And as for hundreds of years, I'd find that hard to believe. You scarcely look as though you've reached your first century."

It didn't take long for Ellana to run into the other elf that had arrived from the rift, and on spotting him coming from the other direction, she had to stop walking, breath caught in her throat. Obviously he was much taller than an elf from her past, but the white-blond hair, complexion, and blue eyes were very similar. It put her out of sorts for only a moment, however, and after composing herself, she moved forward to introduce herself.

"Hello. I heard of your arrival from the rift. My name is Ellana. Would you like help finding anything, or are you just exploring?"

The ranger indeed had been lingering at the ramparts for a time now. Whenever Aragorn needed to escape from the hustle and bustle alone, he would come here. He found comfort in solitude but today he's not seeking it. The hour of Legolas's arrival couldn't have been a better one, especially given the circumstances they find themselves within. While he's grateful for the arrival of his companions, Aragorn cannot help but find this to be an ill omen. The fate of Middle-Earth clings upon a thread and now its champions have been whisked away by a force unknown.

"There's almost far too much to tell." Aragorn answered quietly as he gazed out towards the horizon. Despite the obvious differences between Arda and Thedas, Aragorn could see some startling similarities between the two lands. The Frostback Mountains reminded him greatly of Ered Lindon, the Blue Mountains far west of Eriador. Aragorn had traveled there for a time following the footsteps of other rangers who've successfully traversed the rocky region.

"And yet I do know where to begin." He commented with a hint of dry humor in his tone. Now wearing a darker replica of the brown long coat he once worn, Aragorn looked very much the same as he always had. Of course minus the dim glow of the shard embedded within his hand.

Ah, sleep -- it seems no matter the elf, there's a complicated relationship with it. For elves like Legolas, fear; for elves like Merrill, history. And there is magic, of course, danger and power and knowledge -- but currently, Merrill is far more occupied with being awake, the very present fact that she's on top of someone and seems to have smashed the side of her face against the ground.

The other elf, at least, is a bit more graceful upon waking than Merrill is and helps them both up. He's taller than she is and she has to look up to get a proper look at him, smiling and starting to wave her hands. "Oh, I'm fine, really-"

Which is, of course, when a fat droplet of blood falls out of her nose and is promptly followed by a stream. "Ah- oh, okay, it's a bloody nose, that's not so bad-" Either having forgotten that she's wearing her scarf around her neck or not willing to cover it in blood, Merrill quickly raises her hands; one to catch the blood, the other to try and stem the flow.

It's not unusual to see someone else at the range, so Garris thinks little of it when he sits down in the back, flopping down onto a nearby rock, and works on his bow a bit before he starts shooting off some arrows himself. At the steady 'thud thud' of arrows hitting the post, his maintenance slows down to actually watch the man use his bow, the rhythm a bit off from how he's heard/seen other shoot.

Now that he's actually paying close attention he can see the handful of arrows in the man's hand, and, with a practiced eye, sees them flow between his finger tips up onto the string then sailing across the distance. Interesting.

He waits until the stranger runs off to collect his arrows to get up, and move over to where the fellow had been standing before. When he returns, Garris has his brows up with curiosity. "Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"

Thranduil lowered himself back down on the chair, caught halfway standing when Legolas had appeared and reached the door before him. He settled back down, and returned to combing out Bill’s mane. Sneaking a pony into their room had been frightfully easy, but the poor thing was half the size of the smallest horse in the stables. He simply could not be left to his own devices and—Legolas had asked it of him.

The Elvenking was surprisingly weak when it came to his son.

He peered around his son, and smiled at the—the hobbit, that’s what the little mortal was. And this, this hobbit, this was the one who had helped destroy the Ring? Helped more than his son?

Why, he was so small, but mighty! Mightier than he seemed. For him, Thranduil stood, and bowed his head.

“You may indeed, Legolas. It is an honor to meet one of those who accompanied my son, and who ended the tyranny of the Enemy in Middle-earth.” He bowed at the waist, showing the respect Sam was due.

That's... an interesting way to put it, and Kain is curious, but for now, just responds with, "After several hundred years, I'd hope people could at least come up with new ones." He smirks a bit. Whether or not the other had meant it seriously or not is hard to tell.

He glances over to the tree and the arrows sticking out of it. Yes, that's definitely someone you want to have your back in the heat of a dangerous battle. "I'm not one myself, but I can still appreciate skilled archery when I see it. I'm a dragoon... My fighting style favors a lance, so I can always use the cover of ranged weaponry when I'm charging in." Except for the time when he himself is a ranged weapon, sort of, but he'll get to explaining that momentarily. "Or jumping in, I should say."

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 6

all hail the new kids

library.

Archery range

no subject

Archery Range

For Legolas and Thranduil

Archery range

no subject

no subject

no subject

archery range

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Library

no subject

no subject

exploring

aragorn & legolas

no subject

Archery Range

no subject

no subject