Crash Course
Like the empires of the world unite
Cocoa spheres settle upon them, glittering, gleaming, flecks of gilt to reflect his metallic hide— shrouded inquiries, dancing across the Machiavellian soldier, the devilish, the ironclad, the rancorous and segregationist, the one whom had brought a wing as a prize to the lady Psyche, the DarkEmpress, whom had bled and sweat and curved his way into the innerworkings, the Plague, the disease as so named by others whom knew of its existence, and yet it was not a plague, but a revolution, a cleansing, a anti-virus to rush through cruor and rid of tainted kin and mutated flesh, to inflict demise upon those whom would deem themselves equals of the lineage of Cinnoru— to wipe taint from once saccharine waters. A glint of gilt gleams in the morn air, as the daemon nestled upon the Queen's leapt into the skies, cawing, screeching, salutations and warnings, eloquent speech spoken from the Impersonator, tilted domes and diplomatic measures, and when the beast responds with dipped dome and solvent, silver speech, mocking, perhaps, he allows a grim smile to grace his impassive features, rich, guttural, gravelly, yet far from grating. "I fret I am no diplomat. I serve as a soldier— the ways of bloodhounds elude me."

He remains hushed, harks dancing to and fro across his dome, listening, waiting, a dauntless, imperial, a sentinel to ward the starved of death to their own demises, to trap foes within prisons, to rip, to cauterize, to terrorize and slay upon a field of battle, to wield scythe and sword in immaculate sways, to inflict his nefarious longings, his sadistic cravings, his loathing in the art of lacerations, asperous, ominous, and yet no dagger is yielded towards the gilded, cerulean once more to cocoa, introductions given as Thranduil, for he is of pure make and kind, and unless he shows himself as a peril, as a leech, a parasite, he shall treat him as brother, as kin within the mountain. "Well met, Thranduil."

He shall allow the doe to sing, to weave lyrics, poems, riddles, will allow her to bring forth their kingdom, their law, their rule, will allow her to spin lace threads and tantalizing dishes, rankings and leads, Reaper's whom dwell upon a throne and GildedBlade's who are swathed in pyre, but it is the step of hooves that bring crepuscule gazes upon a terracotta and alabaster girl, emerald spheres and dainty stride, wonders as to if she shall step towards his scythe and meet extermination upon his blade, if she comes with sword and shield, if she wishes to meet demise on this eve, and his listless stare flashes to the glass wielded crown upon her dome, the spun royal and onyx, the translucent tidings, trailing, crafted down her spine to her dock, and he restrains a snarl, keeps a taciturn air and unemotional dome, but now there s ire in his claret, for she dares to wear the crown of his species when it is certain that she is naught, for his do not have trailed glass down their spine, wrapped around their tail, do not have meticulous craftings to wield their swords, are born with them, are blessed, and the jester before him sends a chill of fury down his immaculate spine.

Stone, obsidian, callous and composed, he keeps his attention upon her, only dancing his gaze to the porcelain doe and the gilt of sinew once in order to determine how things fare, whilst the jester spins new diplomacies, new political speeches, new cordial welcomings, bemused, uncertain, for what are the Falls; and her title wavers in his impenetrable catacombs, files, she complements his homeland as a subject may his Lord, stating that they are of vigorous standard, of glorious capital, magnificent, splendid, worshipping.

She is uncrowned.
Fit for the slaughter; and he allows his hardened stare to soften, mere a pinch, to please the servant, whilst insidious curves within his mind, merciless, wicked.
A devotee and a laborer, a pilgrim whom deems them superior, they the superior race, and he would latch onto her ideas with firm grip, ice, jagged lips and stained flesh, feather swaying with the wind in his tresses.

A servant is good for many things, a thrall.
And she is wholly, utterly swathed, complacent, true to the belief, for he, they, are.

And I'm like ooh, ooh

The sun was still moving in the sky, time was passing, but to Thranduil it was slow as Christmas. Their responses were kindly, and considerate, and in every way respectable. A soldier fit the brute, but the term bloodhound was bit…harsh considering that turn of phrase caused the golden to recognize the copper smell that lingered on Crash. Blah. Still all within the norms. The youth had to remember there was a difference between his feelings and his mask. The brute had not taken offense at all to the golden son’s slight, or then had that been Thranduil playing his role too well? Or the brute having his own role? Ah. And the swan, she was guarded, but not cold. Again time would tell. Just as he settled down there came a firework. He heard her greeting before he saw her. A heat rose in his chest at his blindness, the same as had when his sense had been blind to the scents of others. The golden kid still had a lot to learn. Still harks spun to catch a feminine greeting. He drew a smile on his mask and turned slightly to see her approach, yet keep the others in his side view. She was a pretty thing as well, slender and graceful. A coat of red splashed with white and her head crowned with a purpled hued clear horn. It sparked along with the other- Wait, what was that… Crystal like glass lined her spine down to her tail. Curious, he’d never seen that before. Nares caught whisps as she stepped closer. She did not smell as the others did. Now with the contrast the golden could pick out the differences. The brute and swan were rustic and earthy, yet cold, and this new lass, was sweet and clear. At last, the unknowns were clearing out. Her greetings to the others were kind, but her step had some hesitancy, yet sass. A confidence. Curious.

The Swan Princess spoke up. She welcomed the new lass and with a kindest smile, again, how civil. Yet now the crystal crowned lass was not so smooth. For a moment the air was filled with something else. He kept watch behind a smile and relaxed features as she stood in the awkwardness for a moment. Her eyes shifted between them, her body not at ease. She seemed to get very excited about meeting them, but then something came over her. A calmness, and serenity. The golden boy recognized that, he was feeling it to. A mask. What was that little one hiding? She spoke some kind frivolities and complimented all the right people. He dipped his head at her compliment. Pleasant. That did not cross most minds of those who knew that name well. It seemed he had indeed out run his reputation. Brilliant. Perfect place to make a new one. Though not necessarily better one. Most certainly not a better one. Words interrupted thought as the princess asked another question, but not to him, towards the red and white lass. She spoke with a smile but something moved in her eyes that made Thranduil shift. It was not an odd question, but still, curious one. Her voice had been as soft and warm as the breeze around them. There was no reason to doubt but still… The swan was more focused now on the new lass than on him. The bloody griffon landed next to the lass and the golden could not help that his ears twitched back slightly. Damn it he did not like that small creature.

He had asked the Swan a question and as much as he hated to turn away full attentions from the oddity before his chocolate eyes, he must be as civil as they were all (hopefully) pretending to be. Yet as the horned head turned to view the grey lady he caught sight of the brute, and boy was it hard to not notice. He turned his head fully to the swan but he could not help taking in the draft. She began to answer, but for the life of him he could not focus. Thranduil heard it all half way (besides he really had not cared, he wanted a stir ). Crash was the center of his attention for the moment, try as the golden kid liked to pretend he was not. The draft soldier was rigid and staring down the new lass. It was not a polite stare either from the niceties that had previously floated. It would had not been anything odd had he not just moments ago been so friendly as to call Thranduil brother. He was driving a hole into the mare and like the swan (who was still chatting away) had most of his focus on the red lass. Crash was composed and collected, but stone tight. There was something about this new mare he did not like.
‘For that has always been the way’. Wait, rewind. A gilded blade, cold mountains, profession (seriously, him a ‘professional man’?!), and only unicorns. It was finite and stubborn, matter of fact and cold. It was not over indulgent, or extremely detailed. Ah, so that was explaining it, the swan valued information. Overall the phrase though was completely superior. That was it. That was the look. The red and white lass spoke and he turned back to her, pausing on Crash who still stood like a British Queen’s sentry. Abishia. Falls. Fine lands. Mighty beings. She was not from the Basin. She was not from the Basin. It clicked, Crash was not being rude, he was feeling superior. A continued polite smile kept his lips as his mind raced. Why was the Abi not sticking up for her lands? This should be a my horse is better than your horse fight but she was giving in. She felt inferior. She was hiding something. She felt inferior. Shit. She was not a pure unicorn. It clicked. Crash had been the first to notice and now the golden had. Yet then that also meant the brute and swan and all their lands were…racist.

Speech broke the silence which had not lasted long as the swan let her pet play. It was some foreign tongue that rolled from her. The creature screamed up into the air and the golden resisted a shiver of annoyance, instead letting it flow through his tail in the form of a flick. He forced himself to chuckle at the swan’s words (purposefully making no more mention of it) but he was up to slightly more important thoughts. There is one thing you must understand first, Thranduil was not a racist. He would do this to anybody. Perhaps even more to his own ‘race’. To the golden son no one was above another, they were all worthy for him to attempt to utterly destroy them. In fact, such feelings he had heard, but not encountered before. It almost made the creature laugh, for the more he thought about the stupidity of basing superiority on species. Honestly, it was based on many more things. So while he knew it may be taken as an indication he was, the golden could not resist trying to push this past civilities that had so far bored this afternoon. Besides, if he could get into the Basin, and they had such personalities as soldier boy and swan princess, he’d have a lot of fun. Still a shame, he could have had a rather good evening with this little lass. His smile curled a little more and he focused fully on Abishia. “Ah, but don’t sell yourself short deary.” It slid out over his tongue like honey. “You are a mighty creature yourself…” Finally the beast moved forward (he was not one to stand still all day anyway). He walked towards her, his face a curled smile, eyes dancing, but the appearance of every intended kindness. Lion tail though swishing the vanilla locks around like cat waiting. “Especially with your horn and crystals…they’re so..” And then he walked past her, giving her room, but continued to come around her. One eye on her hinds, hooves and all. “…so, clear, like glass.” He rounded her and came up beside her, pausing and looking forward to the draft brute. “Don’t you think brother?” Dripping again with more sarcasm as he spoke to one who would never be his kin but he did not give the brute time to explode yet, jumping to his next sentence. “I’ve NEVER seen anything like them…” Continuing to walk on before stopping by the Basin pair and turning his head back to look at her, smile now more clearly wicked “…you must tell me who gave them to you, for they most certainly…” He swung to face her and stepped once more closer to her. Practically giddy now, for he could hide his delight at trying to expose her no more. “…are not nature made.” One hark was trained on the pair to his side, but the rest of his attention was on the red and white lass. He really would have to thank her later, she, the spark, that saved his little game.


OOC:: I just have to say it kills me as a lover of Abi to do that to her. XD

"blah blah blah."