Rikyn

"Yeah, as always," I grumble at the ground, more so than the dapper gold, rolling my eyes as I try to work and ignore him. It’s not as easy a task as it may sound; he’s a professional aggravator. Besides all that, Duir adds to the fuel, proudly standing with eyes locked, quite firmly, on Haldir, his being brimming with interest in the elder buck, though he doesn’t move to greet him, as he does most of the bonded we come across. Not sure why he doesn’t just go say hi like he does everyone else (not understanding deer hierarchy, either, of course), I don’t really bother to ask him, silently letting the distant cheer of my companion do what it can to ease the vast, dark ache in my heart while I set to toiling at Kisamoa’s task.

I will set this straight: I don’t particularly care for Thranduil’s games, either. He asks too many questions, that I don’t want to answer. He always shows up, laughing when he should be solemn, cavorting where he should be stepping gently. For my mother’s favorite, crooked consulate, life (and its unavoidable consequences) seems to be taken too lightly, especially when it comes to the flaunting of his magic; a power that I don’t think the gold has truly considered the repercussions of. Why should he have? His gift had likely been ingrained within his tissues the very moment of his birth, whereas the similar talent I desired was coming at a price. That price, however, also included lessons; lessons about the fragility of one’s existence, or how important being an individual is.

He had not dwelled in the being of an old man, once strong, and capable, now weak, and helpless, stricken with naught but time, the curse which holds us all; he had not felt his will carefully handed to another, your life without any sort of self-control. He also hadn’t, as far as I could tell, learned anything of this land, and its ways of punishing you – or, if he had, the lesson had not stuck. Still, the Laurelin cavorted in the cloaks of others as if it was all just a game, freely drinking from a well of power that might, one day, drown him.

“What do you think she’ll do?” my brother asks alongside me, his laugh sounding out shortly after, as he raises his voice to salute the angry mare and her grinning mimic. I shrug my shoulder, glancing back at the explosive situation momentarily, before moving back to removing branches.

"I’d skin him, at the very least," I smirk, the usually vibrant expression not quite reaching my empty eyes, "she can blow things up, though."

Looking up as Oizys arrives, I nod agreement to Erebos’ statement, and shuffle over for her. On a better day, I might have eyed the three-crowned youth, to assuage whether or not she was attractive (a favorite past time of mine, you see), and whether or not I might be able to convince said attractive female to spend more time with me. Young or not, now, all young unicorns grew up… However, I’m disinterested enough in the lure of power, let alone an ass I haven’t a clue what to do with.

The question of the foreign one draws another smirk to my lips, as I turn back to look at her.

"Nope. And, the less offended of the two is actually a dude," this time, I actually do snort, because, well, it’s funny; dropping the first of what I assume to be many bones in this pile at the hooves of the bird (not adverse to the notion of her doing work for me), I flatly add, "guess I’ll just put these there then."

"Hey, idiot, I’d listen to her if I were you," I call out in warning to the gold, having overheard the not-amused threats of the buckskin, and likely taking them far more seriously than he does. I really, really don’t want to have to help one idiot defend themselves from the other, but I also don’t want to bring fresh, magically blasted bones back to Kisamoa, either.