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04-03-2015, 07:34 PM
At least the mare was willing, pouring convictions and promises into her speeches. There needed to be a drive, a zest, a fervency for actions, no matter if it was brandishing a sword into an enemy’s chest, driving harpoons through their spines, or political designs, manifested and machinated for particular plots, wiles, and schemes. Where she yearned to address these aspirations and ambitions was another thing entirely, and he tilted his head for a fraction, a quiet, scrutinizing study, a reticent monster brooding and brewing over decisions and tasks meant for the sable and lavender femme. Healing, mending, and assuaging was already declared unsuitable, so he mulled over which ranks needed to be filled, where she could be the most useful, if she deigned to her creeds and oaths as readily mused. There were an overwhelming lack of scholars, but would she adhere to Gods’ and philosophies (he’d never truly considered the rank himself either, too emboldened and ferocious, too fervent and zealous on the construction, on the armaments of war)? Thranduil would enjoy another pupil to torture or irritate. Would she be interested in the notion of crafting, mending holes in cloth, stitching away the seams of objects they needed the most? He furrowed his brows slightly, tight and rigid in thought, processing each sentiment, notion, and situation carefully, before parting his great jaws again in unrelenting, behemoth squalls. “Soldier, then.” The Reaper, the Lord, the sovereign of winter paused then, nodding his affirmation, but providing her with an avenue, a means of escape. He wouldn’t hold someone to a title they didn’t crave, yearn, or want: one only drifted along if their motivations were fulfilling (if their edges burned at the sight, at the taste, of everything they coveted), and if she found the act of warriorhood not acceptable, she could meander elsewhere. “If you find this rank inappropriate, you may change to suit your needs.”
