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08-30-2015, 12:24 PM
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Thranduil
The problem with throwing darts, is that if you miss, they can quickly be picked up and thrown back. Though he didn’t expect who would pick it up. He first though distracted by that unfortunate point by the black and blue doll herself. She turns, her height coming up to hold herself. A hark twitches to see her change. The golden listens to her ramble on. It was a clever tactic, not really for what she said but for how long and slow she progressed through it. His trigger finger falls back, and arm lowers, he was finding little to draw the gun on. Not that she made much progress backtracking. He understood what she spoke in those twisting words, but her tact was, well humorous. Not that he was laughing. But he was thrown off into a much more pleasant track. In the break through the dart had been picked up and was thrown back in the form of a sweet but cold voice. A first only a hark is given to the healer. His main attention still on the newcomer, the one he was still learning. But he shouldn’t have been so quick to assume this healer was anything like sweet thing. Under Deimos The dart stung as it hit. Crowned head snaps to her with harks pinned. His lips draw a thin line, and tail whips against his legs. Under? Under!? The Laurelin was under no one. Not as Lord especially. It was rather ironic. The very reason she though him under the Reaper was the very same trigger about to get him in trouble. The healer though was quick, smart, and sly. Something totally unexpected, and very much unappreciated. Haldir, hiding still under the cloak, lets is worry seep into his bonded. With them turning to leave the golden says only. “Of course.” What is that? He wasn’t jumping on them? Wasn’t ready to challenge and pummel the littler healer? Either he had morals enough not to beat the herd’s healer, or Deimos’s words held more sway that might have been thought. Whatever the cause, he doesn’t pursue it. His jaws, tight for want of some satisfaction, but its clear it would slip away this time. Tail lashes around him, but in a sarcastic smile he turns to the blue mare, who’s name he didn’t even hear, not care for. “Take care.” Turning away he still grinds his teeth together and slips off and out of the Arch. So much for getting out of his fowl mood. OOC:: Identities: Caleb, Cashmere "talk talk talk" |
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