Darkness walked with as frozen and solid a stance as the mountains above, horn dipped in the blue of ice. Both golden harks trained forward and watched the solid and strong movements of the creature which made its way. Body was tensing from the relative calm it carried upon hearing of possibly hot springs. It was not in nerves, the golden wants me to be sure to tell you sure. Nah, but in the manner of which this beast carried itself, there was little welcome in it. Was there any way the swan could have voiced her dislike of the golden son without his knowing?
A flutter of wings far beyond. Of course. The swan’s pet. But take care now. The dark one nods to each and then openly takes in the golden son. Shoulders roll out under inspection. This cold stare which wisps over him leads not to feelings of exposure, but challenge. Care now. A swan’s sweet voice to her Lord. A spanish neck dips slightly in return. Rising still to its height. Careful. Play for keeps. Shoulders pull back in, and body bends slowly to a less, soldier like stance. The golden son had not been eyed with such looks in many a days, and it brought back bad habits. Well, bad habits to display in front of a creature you are about to take as your lead. Or want them to think you are taking as your lead.
Deimos. Lord. Rulers never forget their titles. The name fit the black heart. Movement, one hark trailed it, but she soon came into view. The swan moved to stand next to the black. Her face high, but pursed. Damn, was he answering to mom and pop or being welcomed to a herd? Judgment day already? And look an angel from heaven, and demon from hell come to tell him his fate. The suspense if maddening if only he didn’t know which place he was going since he was three.
Screech and hustle of wings. Inner body tightened. From the corner of those earth eyes the griffon, landed upon the swan’s back. God, could it shut up for one moment? With every cry it broke a bit of concentration, and here is when it was needed the most for a hard question was leveled at the golden son. Who is he? Ah, what is he not would be simpler. He is not your knight in golden armor. He is not the pillow under your head. He is not someone who’s seen the light. He is not man’s best friend. He is not glass of water in the desert. He is not a rolling play ball. He is not anything he claims to be. Oh but how to simplify all this. “Thranduil, at your service…” Play for keeps. “…my lord”. A slight dip of the head, raised in reverence.
It was grinding him inside. Escape this funeral and he could skip out for some lighter company. The Basin herd seemed to be respected, revered. It should be, the picky entry requirements were enough. The title could give him the security and weight he needed to stir some small fires, though the golden was beginning to think, perhaps he ought to hold his cards closer for longer than he thought. Delay did not settle on the youth well, but if it meant he could stir up better fires later then perhaps he could curb himself. To that end, there were so many more responses to this, sorry, his? lord, but lips remained closed. Perhaps he’d take a note from dear swan over there, and put a tinge more value on the information he let out to this dark character. Being passive was not usual for the golden boy, but keeping his mask was. So paint a reserved but pleasant face, and let the coming storm blow over as just simple clouds. For now.
"blah blah blah."
OOC ::
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