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01-17-2015, 11:24 AM
It took a great deal of composure and control not to laugh. The Thief’s high and mighty declarations, his specious regards, his lofting, lilting designs, were all being pierced, punctured, and scattered by the appearance of the little fawn. The Reaper didn’t know what he enjoyed more: to see a faltering, a chink, in the gilded stag, or to see him blubbering and muttering in discontent. The juvenile smirk, worn fondly in his youth and hardly since, chiseled its way through the entirety of his lips, locked and encased in case a chuckle yearned to float out from its compound. He said naught, choosing to bask in the glory of the moment instead, watching the tiny creature dash in and out of the waves (much like his own children had, rampaging and promising potency in future means and measures), until it decided to plant itself in front of his frame. Very carefully, stiffening, unyielding, rigid and taut, he lowered his cranium to stare directly into the eyes of the deer-child, extending his maw for one brief moment, catching the scent of the tiny creature, and bestowing it one childish rite with a short snort. Only thereafter did he recline his skull back to its former position, gaze pinpointed upon the rambunctious animal, and tones delving into their mocking fervor. “How fitting for you.” The meaning of his statement dissolved into the briny, salty air, and the darkening shades of his ire, of his worth, of his malice and menace, sharpened back into the scene, for Thranduil offered information. It’d been of little to no surprise the Thief’s time there had been shortened and erased; the golden had a way of making himself either a general nuisance or prying provocation. The snicker drew back into the King’s features, morphed from amusement into nonchalance and Machiavellian upheavals, pondering over the information the brigand had managed to gather in his short stead. Walls, explosions, and a promise of peace with hypocrisy lining its core (he could remember the last invasion, his General prowess in the heat of battle, watching as the winged mare fell at his gallows’ invocations; and now they’d have to wait even longer to even stretch themselves in one massive crusade) – like a hollow promise, like a vacant decree. How many times had they been given those? The monster’s stare narrowed into fine, blue slits, speculating and barbaric, tones plunging into a dangerous sibilance. “They mean to keep us out,” he brewed, just a smidgeon, just a hint, of all the mires and double-standards so woven and beaten into their cores from the days of the Edge, from the season of wandering, from the moments they yearned to snatch their children back from pious vagabonds. “Yet, when we do the same, we are proclaimed racist.” Even if it held the tremors of truth, it still awakened him to the preaching of the sanctimonious, how they could bear the same ideals but be heralded as victorious and glorious, while they were the treacherous, the despicable. “What reasons did they give?”
@[Thranduil]
