vezely-a

[vezely-a]

dunadaneth​ ( Créa ) —

      The day dawns with little fanfare, the sun breaking over the hills to the east, though the trees on the slopes where they camped block the sight. Early awakenings had become second nature, these sixty odd years spent in the Wilds. But the days grew shorter and the summer days stretched into autumn, and one could feel it in their bones in such a cold morning as this (the uneven ground did not help things either.)

     She was surprised to find the elleth still deep in slumber, keen sensed as they were. But the breaking of their fast and camp seemed to have stirred her, and Créa left some food nearby where she had lain in case she wanted to eat. It seemed though she was eager to get a move on, and she could hardly blame her. Even she had wanted to get back out into the Wilds and indulge in her duties, of a life that was slipping away and would be no more than a memory.

      A warm smile is given at the regifting of her cloak, and she sling it around her shoulders, tightly secured with the worn brooch. “Of course,’ came her reply, “the weather can be biting here.” Though it was a curious thing that an elf should be so affected by temperature, Créa disregarded it. She too was not overly fond of the cold.

     Soon enough the camp is dismantled, looking as though they were never there, before mounting their horses. “I don’t know if they’d be different than the ones you’ve dealt with in Rhûn, but they dwindle here, and quickly.” Without masters they scattered in their holes. “I have no advice, other than to give caution. Animals backed into corners strike the fiercest, and so too will they.”

      A few commands were given and the other two split from the group in order to cover more ground, and to report back in Ost Forod should they find anything. They were experienced enough in this terrain that she trusted them, and with that they all set off. “We’re headed for the Duskencleft,” she informed Vezely, wanting to keep her in the loop, “there’s a good chance we’ll catch some there.”

       The road she led them on was not much of a road at all, but worn earth where the rangers had patrolled and so they had to pick their path carefully, for the grass held dew and could prove treacherous should the horses slip. Quickly the land beneath them lowered into a small valley out of the forest, and hills and ruins cradled either side.

     Hours passed as they twisted round the worn path in a careful descent, content to listen to the news of the birds and the wind in the sea of grass. But soon she went a ways ahead to scout, and pointed to the left, off the road. “There’s no real road to the cleft,” she said, squinting as she tilted her head back to see the top of the steep hill, “so we’ll have to go off from here.” She informed the other that this road leads to Forochel–one of the only ways in to that desolate wasteland, and hardly used.

       It was hardly an hour or two into their steep ascent when the first sign of trouble was spotted–a deer carcass, violently and hastily torn apart, staining the earth around it. Dismounting to get a closer look, it was not more than a day or two old. Further ahead showed more signs–footprints, broken branches in the brush, and Créa dismounted to continue on foot, bow drawn. A camp had to be nearby.

      Rustling sounded from the foliage not far ahead, and she froze. Keen was her hearing, and again a branch snapped. Her breath was held, arrow notched and string creaking–

     -with a twang! her arrow sailed forth, a shrieking cry from the bushes, and with a sudden movement their quarry burst through, malice in their eyes and swords swinging as they charged.

Boney and pale, fingers of a chill hand curl and choke about the worn black leather-bound pummel of the Rhûnic scimitar strapped at her hip. As the Stewardess nocks an arrow, smooth and silently she unsheathes it and doing so more silent than her booted footfalls which are not as gentle as her kin’s. The unsullied blade, which tapers into a curve near its pointed tip, is held by her side. Its thin single edge still holds its sharpness but on close inspection it appears scrapped and knocked. Over-polished, overused, and not forged with the integrity of what she grew accustomed to under elite service of Mordor. 

The superior blade she claimed as emissary, forged by dwarven thralls of Nûrn, fell at her side on the fields of Pelennor. Lost to war. Perhaps it was picked up by some Gondorian soldier to become a heirloom hung on their wall to boast of the defeat of the heathens. Or perhaps, a bounty pawned off for a few coins to be melted and reforged.

The other hand already dons a long dagger that stays at the ready when their travel by foot continued from the torn carcass. This knife was stolen off a Gondorian soldier; one whose throat she slit with it during an escape from tents where Mordor’s survivors were sent to die. Her scimitar take her dominant hand and so she flips the other. It will prove a protective defense against the ungraceful battering and blows of orcs and their clunky iron.

Akin to the Dúnedain, keen ears sense their presence, though of foulness they do not portend. Though Vezely holds no love of the orc as they hold no love of her, she finds them altogether ordinary even if their presence in these lands are anything but. Thus, when Créa’s arrow flies and the stampede commences with horrid shrieks and brute weapons of war held ominously high, no fear shakes her resolve. 

The Pultai in her yet breathes life, it instills her with the rush of combat. Hands adjust their grips and feet take her towards them. The speed at which she shuffles and dodges, and her blades slice and cut, disembowling the first she greets, show another side under the foreign attire — of the kin she does not call her own. 

No attention is paid to her three comrades’ part in the melee. Keen they are to stay out of her blade’s way. 

An orc who stands a head over her height lumbers nearer, his nostrils flaring, sniffing the air as if he can smell her elven blood with disgust. 

“Albai,” he curses loudly in an accent that appears a regional orkish dialect to ears accustomed to the south. So loud he hails her in fact that intent to call her an elf is to alert his brethren of the threat she poses. To that, Vezely only smirks. How displeasingly familiar to hear an orc undress her and call her what she denies to call herself. 

At his iron cleaver hurls down, she skips and lurches forward. The Gondorian dagger shows it worth, stabbing him in the neck and cutting upward, cleaving his head into two halves that fall over his shoulders to hit the damp ground before his legs give out. The black blood runs thick and warm against the cold skin of her pale hands.

“Mat lat flagit rraus,” she spits in Black Speech, a cruel smile creeping over her thin lips and making her forget her current state of disenfranchisement among former enemies and allies.

[vezely-a]

dunadaneth​ ( Créa ) —

         Vez. What a strange and foreign name; it sits sharply on her tongue, jagged in her mouth, unlike any she has heard before. A different land, different culture, and it matches the dark and strange elleth that sits upon the edge of the bed, completely out of place. These were strange times with strange people, indeed.

         The bread she tears into, chewing thoughtfully. It was a dangerous game, this–the exchange of information that neither knew what the other would do with, what they would glean. Like pawns on a board, pieces were taken and gained–though whether they were the players or the pieces, who could say? Caution won out over all. With age came wisdom, so they said, and wisdom told her to measure her words and give little away.

        She knew, however, that for as cryptic and careful as she would be, she would only get the same in return. “I have no true home,” she said at last, after a long silence. Not entirely  a lie. “I wander many places, never staying for too long. But Eriador is my home, where this land lies.”

      “And what of you?” Grey eyes sweep over her remaining pointed ear as she brings a cup to her lips, looking over the rim of her mug. “There are many places that lie to the East and South, in the shadow of Mordor. But few that deal with elves.” A strange thing it was indeed, and she could not fathom the reasons why one such as her would be here. A spy, for certain–but for what purpose? These answers, she knew, would only lead to countless more questions.

Thin lips open and chin lifts, but no sound escapes during a stretch of observation. Kohl-lined gaze appears stark and obstinate, her stare at first unmoved from the wanderer until it drifts to the bowl of hot soup below. Thought is troubled for futile it feels to piece together the sparse information leaked of these lands and it’s varied peoples. Does this Créa claim herself a vagabond of good fortune to find ally with the elves of this valley? Or is it something more? 

Cold fingers settle along the smooth rim of bowl, the heat transfers through the chill of needy fingers. Silence follows, acknowledging the woman is just as unwilling to offer information. She must think her a spy. How uncomplicated it would be if that were true. 

“My service to Shadow is not a matter of choice but circumstance. The same might be said of my travel to these lands.” A pawn in the hands of gods and men that wield the arcane.

“As far as home, I once learned to call the lands of Dor Rhúnen as such —” Learned for a thrall must adapt and accept less they be forever displaced. “Until I overstayed my welcome.” Indifference, as bleak as the faded black dye of her trousers, disconnects her from events she prefers forgotten in the dust of hooves that journeyed her farther south centuries before. 

Allusion made to soured relations of Men and Elves would be correct but made less clear as she continues, voice quieted. “Unruled men in the barren lands of Khand do not question origins if there is none to see.” An elf may hide its ears and claim another bloodline if manner presents no confusion of culture. “But my labor to Mordor comes with certain contingencies. Otherwise you are right, they do not deal with elves.”

[vezely-a]

Líndãn Tsai | peredhellen;

     As the taxi heads off and the driver waves at them in his mirror, Dan sighs. The relief must be audible in his timbre, but his breath catches the moment she slots her hand into the crease of his elbow. His arm instantly bends as it would for someone who did it to be close to him rather than as a joke. The instinct to do so is greater than common sense, apparently. Somehow he even fools himself into thinking there’s something more going on that mere fooling about. He recognises the distinct tightness in his chest and the lightness in his stomach as something belonging to infatuation. That shouldn’t exist right now. Still he meets her challengingly arched eyebrow with a lopsided smile, and the hand of his opposing arm finding a spot on top of hers.

       He’s absolutely overdoing it, but the aptness of this act is too great to pass it up.  ❛  At long last. Talkative chap, that driver, wasn’t he?  ❜  He leads them to the door then, and pulls his hand off hers to open the door for them. He resolves not to put it back afterwards — and he doesn’t, because he’s busy paying for tickets, and then holding onto them as they head up. It turns out he doesn’t need to after the initial scan, but it’s the surest way for him to withhold from taking things too far. ( Granted, they already have, but it was for humour’s sake up until now. )

        The elevator door shuts in front of them ( and the few others that are intrigued by a nighttime view of all of Hong Kong ), and so the countdown of sixty seconds begins. His eyes stay on the screen across which shoot the numbers of the floors they pass.  ❛  Final stretch now. I wonder if this’ll help us say goodbye to the city or only make it more difficult …  ❜

          ❛ Sorry about that. ❜ That. What she means is initiating the ruse of going along with the man’s assumption that they were a couple. ❛ Never expected the conversation would take us all the way here. ❜ Somehow she manages to say all this nonchalantly, her hand still resting on the crook of his arm while being escorted like the ruse is not one at all. It feels strange, a forgotten sensation.

        Hand can feel the warmth of his arm seep through, neutralizing fingertips that grew cool from her idleness during the drive. Her grip feels overly secure but also comfortable, natural even as if she’s done this a million times. But yet, it is not that easy; not when her cheeks burn slightly and she loathes pulling it away. With his hand on top of hers in those few moments, it’s as if he doesn’t want her to do so either.

         Persistence in touch continues until the elevator threatens to open and spill its patron out. The question pending as so much else in her mind. She places another hand on that same arm, running her fingertips with a gentle pat as she shifts her body to face him. A smile is given, halfhearted as chin turns to look up at him. ❛ I expect the latter, don’t you? ❜ Quietly said as grasp is slowly and regrettably released. She is not talking about the view that beckons them, steps taken with the crowd dispersing the lift and to the observation windows. 

[vezely-a]

Líndãn | peredhellen​;

      It takes rather impressive an amount of restraint for him not to laugh. He even has to try his best not to grin at her, but rather smile lovingly as he perhaps would to an actual partner. The smile itself comes startlingly easy; it’s just the urge to express his amusement at this little play of theirs that twists mercilessly at his lips.  ❛  Hm,  ❜  he hums, pitch almost annoyingly high to spare him an obvious ‘oooh’.  ❛  Hear that? We’ll have the view all to ourselves.  ❜  He goes as far as to wink at her, taking care to do it with his left eye — the one invisible to the driver from this angle.

       As far as goodbyes go in their unique set of circumstances, this feels about as fitting as it might get. One more time of playing pretend and laying it on more thickly than they ever have, before promptly cutting it all off. The intervals at which Líndãn catches himself wishing that they weren’t pretending entirely grow smaller by the minute, however. That in itself might be even more concerning than the wish itself.

       He peels his eyes off her at last, hiding his contorted expression by looking at his feet for a moment. He’s glad the driver stays silent for a moment, at least –––– until their eyes inadvertently meet in the rearview mirror again. Shit.  ❛  Mhm, you two are lucky! Many couples would kill to have a moment alone there.  ❜  Somehow, Líndãn doubts they’ll be entirely alone, but the general state of extinction up there should at least afford them their own little bubble amongst a diluted crowd. His gaze drags back to Vezely, the remnant of amusement still evident in the slight crease along the corners of his eyes.  ❛  Wouldn’t say we’d go that far, but I think we’ve worked hard enough to earn our own little pocket of space up there.  ❜

         The way he winks at her, a certain mischievousness in that pitch perfect squint of his unique pale blues, captures this current exploit well. How apropos to play these covers one last time. But it also manages to make her stomach flutter. As he looks away, her own sight turns inward. She can feel a sickly sweet smile grow in a manner fit for a silly little school girl. It’s enough of a rush that she hardly gathers his reply, having to pick back up at the next exchange with their driver.

         The conversation doesn’t fully trickle out, not completely. Even leading to restaurant recommendations where she plays dumb ( having visited all of them ). Their stop couldn’t come soon enough as she suffocates in what she wishes wasn’t pretend. Once stopped at the site, Líndãn plays his part of a typical date and pays the meter. Decision is not to make a fuss ( if they’ve been together a year, how strange that would seem to their captive audience ). 

         “Enjoy yourselves.” The driver adds before they both exit. She barely manages to avert her gaze from her “date” as she rounds the car to meet his side. The half-smile plastered on her face signals her own mischievousness, and a boldness which overcomes her as she nears. Before he can walk to meet her stride ( which would take them to the mountain viewpoint of the city ), she slips her hand behind the crook of his arm, settling it there. ❝ And here we are, darling, ❞ chin turns to peek up at him, an eyebrow cocked, hoping he will indulge her by playing her escort.

[vezely-a]

     PICK YOUR POISON

Doll's Eyes

This is the poison of unchecked vices. You slip into hallucinations. You are wracked with convulsions. The delirium threatens to overwhelm you. What are you running from? You look in every direction, wild-eyed at every turn, seeking some reprieve from what torments you. Each vice brings new consequences, and the price of escape seems too great, and yet you cannot seem to face things head on. If you aren't running from yourself, I hope you find a true way to freedom soon. And if you are running from yourself, perhaps you would do well to realize your pain is not something you can simply escape by avoidance. You deserve healing just as much as the ones you love. Someday, soon I hope, you will know this and feel it and reach inward to grant yourself all the kindnesses you offer others. That is the only true way to peace for ones like us. Oh, and if the pain of it seems too great? I hope that you realize you don't have to do it alone.

tagged by: @tharanduil​ & @elvcnson​ (thanks for remembering me you two 😘) tagging: please snag and tag me 💛

[vezely-a]

Lord Elladan | peredhellen​;

      Elladan foregoes engaging with her prodding. Of course he can bear a joke. He can bear her disgruntlement just as well, in fact, but that does not mean he is pleased to be on the receiving end of it. He knows well enough that it is by his own choice, however; he does not need to be here, unlike her. What, then, is keeping him here, confined to this single chamber with her? It must be that odd sense of intrigue and the mound of unanswered questions he has not even touched upon ( yet ).

        Her final assumption – or accusation, perhaps – seems reasonable. He, himself, has no doubt he has but seen a fraction of what life in more distant lands is like.  ❛  Not much, admittedly, but I am not as ignorant as you believe. The farthest I have ventured is Nevharad. Harwan,  ❜  he translates, with a tone perhaps too smooth for it to sound natural.   ❛  Umbar, specifically. None of this fools me into thinking I understand you in any manner. If I did, I would not be here.  ❜

        That faint glimmer of amusement persists within him, keeping any tension – other than that of a subtle smile – out of his face.  ❛  I have never been to Khand, if that is what you are wondering. I deemed it … unwise.  ❜  Though he wishes he could spend several months amongst the people of Khand as a fly on the wall, it was not meant to be for him and his ilk. The gap between their two peoples was and is too great to let one aligned with the enemy in for curiosity’s sake. The only outcome would have been capture — just as it was for Vez.  ❛  Or was I wrong to assume I would have been taken and locked up — like you, but without the bed and clean clothes, hm?  ❜

          ❝ Umbar? ❞ Head cants to the side, a thinking frown further marring her pale mien. ❝ It is easier to hide there than Khand. Too close to Mordor. Ûvatha’s people are the One’s most steadfast allies. I would ask what you were doing in Umbar, though doubtful you would share. ❞ The Nazgûl Ûvatha founded them, named them, led them to worship. Now they just wait for the war drums to beat. 

         The bed gets a fleeting glance when mentioned; the kohl blotched on her eyelids blacking out the sockets when they dip. They treat her strangely, but she is not to be deceived if that is their intent. ❝ If the badlands do not swallow you first, it depends on the Orod you happen to cross. Tribe, I mean. ❞ Westron still flows haphazardly from her accented tongue. It is not a language she often speaks. ❝ Though even then, there are of several clans each Orod claims, some worse than others. Many would sell you into slavery. Take profit over slaughter. While the Ôvon, for instance, might toy with the idea of selling you, but probably fall back on making a spectacle of your death. Dark bastards they are. ❞ Amusement almost catches a chuckle but tongue halts as well as from speaking of the nature of their blood sport; it’d find no willing ear. 

         ❝ Unaffiliated clans that no Orod claims, mercenaries like myself, ❞ she reveals, though certainly it’s no surprise, ❝ We would ponder if you are akin — severed from your origins, searching for affinity, looking to make coin — and drink water, no doubt. ❞ That last part carries on a partial curve of thin lips. ❝ If you come in peace, we might even recruit you. ❞ A shrug of narrows shoulders come over arms still crossed. ❝ Just need to cover these. ❞ Index finger rises to tap the side of her head, raven locks camouflaging the pointed tip she refers to. 

[vezely-a]

Líndãn Tsai | peredhellen​;

      It’s a tight squeeze, but Dan manages to fold himself just so he’ll fit. It’s an awful display of manspreading, but it’s only for the sake of not having to effectively put his legs on her lap. Instead, the worst case scenario now is the occasional brush of his leg against hers during a particularly fast turn. He tries to prevent it ( and will keep trying ), but physics is not something to be argued with. Centrifugal forces and all … or maybe it’s gravitational. He was always much better at languages than he was at natural sciences and the like.

        His thoughts don’t get the chance to derail entirely; the driver’s voice pulls him back to the present in an instant. His eyes gravitate to the rearview mirror to find a pair of browns looking right back at him. The insinuation that ensues raises his eyebrows in surprise and compels his lips into a sheepish grin. The second he thinks of correcting the chauffeur, however, Vezely chimes up to his left — and does quite the contrary. In that short span of eye contact, his sheepishness turns into cheek.

        Dan wonders whether the driver really cares, but for the sake of credibility, he decides to follow Vezely’s lead.  ❛  Mhm. Met in London,  ❜  at the Booking Office in the St. Pancras Hotel, he recalls. She ordered an Earl Grey, and he a green tea. Even then, she was oddly pleasant ( notwithstanding the circumstances ).  ❛  Moved here quite a few months ago, but never really got around to visiting the touristic hot spots. Full-time jobs and all.  ❜  The final clarification comes with a dismissive flourish of his hand, the very same which a moment later flies into his hair. It needs a good trim, having grown long enough to be able to grab on the sides and back over the past few weeks.

     ❛  It’s never too late, and won’t have to wait much longer. It’s a ten-minute drive,  ❜  the driver chimes in.  ❛  Really?  ❜  Dan chirps somewhat exaggeratedly, his hand dropping to his lap as he tips his head just a little towards Vezely.  ❛  I can hardly wait, dearest.  ❜

         The look Vez lobs at Líndãn would be one of mild shock if not for the want to choke back a snort. His exaggeration hits a sickeningly obnoxious note, one she loathes about couples who fawn over each other with love notes and pet names. It always seems disingenuous, as if both are in a sappy romance film. He might suspect as much about her aversion, and does it for that exact effect. Who knows? In any case, closed mouth smile twists and chin turns aside, barely containing her amusement.

         At the same time, it is very like Líndãn to pepper the lie with some truths — painting them as ex-pats rather than tourists as he does. Doesn’t seem to deter the driver who seems chuffed about his charge. ❝ You’ve been telling me of your excitement all day, darling. Only ten minutes more. ❞ Return is exaggerated as much as she can manage, cutting through some of her usual dryness to sound a bit more posh than usual. But still she can only hit notch below Líndãn’s fake tenor prior.  ❝ Let’s hope it’s not crowded. ❞

         ❝ A week night should be perfect. Less people out. ❞ The cabby chimes in; the invaluable local knowledge under his belt ready to share. Though Vez hardly is of mind to listen, gaze ticking towards their corners and chin slowly turning with it to sneak a peek at her backseat partner, wondering if their gaze shall meet. Fitting perhaps, pretending on this last night together to be in a relationship after having done so ( halfheartedly ) as cover. All those power lunches during the case certainly led to something, but she rather not admit to it.

[vezely-a]

Lord Elladan | peredhellen​;

      It makes perfect sense, oddly enough. Insult aside, her explanation of her distaste for the existence of those fighting for survival sheds enough light onto the matter for him to understand. That is, somewhat — because paradise does have a way of introducing bias, he supposes. His outlook on life and those that live it is mostly positive, with some exceptions. So persistently, in fact, that though he should be more sceptical and cautious around the stranger, he feels only compelled to find some measure of humanity in her. Perhaps the fact that she engages without going for his throat is as far as that goes, but his curiosity persists.

       Amusement at her cynicism flashes across his features, pulling his face into a lopsided grin.  ❛  Hm. Here you were, making such a compelling point … unfortunate that you should crown it with a petty jibe,  ❜  Elladan laments. A measure of spite resides in the manner in which he confronts her, but it is minimal and perceptible only to those who know how to recognise it — like her. There is no taking it back now, and the tension that fact yields in turn sows its own sense of minute glee. The urge to chuckle tightens his throat.

        He releases his arms from behind his back, keeping his shoulders straight. To loosen his stance somewhat, he takes to walking around — slowly, from one window to another, peering outside past the gossamer curtains.  ❛  And you are wrong,  ❜  he starts, intentionally cryptically. A ghost of his former smirk remains as he looks at her.  ❛  Firstly, because it is not merely nature’s fortifications that have protected me and my ilk here. Secondly, because you do not believe I have not seen what is out there, beyond these more fertile lands. I have.  ❜

         A corner of her lips quirk and brows even lift, halting there to widen her kohl lined gaze as she shakes her head as if in distaste. ❛ You are old enough to handle an insult, are you not? ❜ Wry reply is sans emotion for his plight, even if his disgruntlement is only slightly discernible. She believes he mentions it simply to make a point against her manners. Let him think her uncouth. How can a clanless trader turned distrustful emissary compare to a lord of elves?

         He paces and her stance shifts, a hip juts out, and shoulders lean back preparing with obstinance for the point he probably is about to make against hers. Chin upturns slightly, her stare following him throughout the room wondering also what he’s peering at. It almost seems he’s enjoying this little chat. Wonderful, she provides entertainment.

          Some interest is piqued, cryptic notions of protection — what magic exists beyond the binds that burned her wrist? What would she meet at the borders if she escaped the nearby guards? But she decides to ask instead about the latter. ❛ You may have seen what is out there, but I have my doubts you truly experienced it. Tell me. Where have you traveled? What have you seen? What makes you think you have me all figured out? ❜

[vezely-a]

𝙼𝚄𝚂𝙴   𝙱𝙰𝚃𝚃𝙻𝙴   𝙰𝙽𝙰𝙻𝚈𝚂𝙸𝚂

𝚋𝚘𝚕𝚍   𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝   𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢   𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜.  𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚣𝚎   𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 / 𝚗𝚘𝚝   𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜

race   : elf

kin   :   silvan

affiliation   :  pultai / “easterling”

position   :   pultic scout/captain, narimanush co-council member, khand sell-sword; mordor slave overseer, trade advisor, and emissary; lady of rivendell (lol)

weapon   of   choice   :  scimitar

fight honorably  / fight dirty    /   prefer   close   -   quarters /   prefer   range   /   chat   during   /   go   silent  /    low   pain   tolerance   /   high   pain   tolerance /   attack   in   bursts   /   attack   steadily   /   go   for   the   kill /   aim   to   disarm  /   fight   defensively    /   strike   first   /   provoked   easily    /   provoke   their   opponent   /  tease /   get   visibly   frustrated    /   shout   while   attacking   /   use   strategy   /  focus   on   their   battle /   experience   conflicting   thoughts   during   battle   /   rush   in   recklessly    /   try   to   read   their   opponent   before   fighting /   fight   wildly   / fight   calmly   and   ,   or   apathetically    /   fight   with   anger /   fight   with   excitement   /   fight   because   they   have   to  /   fight   because   they   want   to   /   fight   without   regard   to   wounds   /   run   away   when   wounded    /   hide   wounds    /   take   a   blow   to   protect   another  /   prefer   a   blade  /   prefer   a   gun   /   prefer   to   use   their   ability  /  prefer   a   bow   /   prefer   a   shield   /   prefer   a   pole   arm   /   prefer   a   personalized   weapon    / prefer   magic   or   spells   /   prefer   brawling   /   their   greatest   weakness   is   physical   /   their   greatest   weakness   is   mental   / their   greatest   weakness   is   emotional  /   transform   for   battle   /   fight   as   they   appear   /   rely   on   strength  / rely   on   speed   /   use   everything   they   have   /   hide   their   full   potential   /   exhaust   quickly   / high   stamina   /   doubt   their   strength   /   proceed   with   caution   /   behave   arrogantly  /   brag   after   landing   a   hit   /   belittle   their   abilities   /   use   psychological   tactics /   use   brute   strength   /   avoid   civilians   /   strike   down   civilians   /   damage   surroundings /   avoid   damaging   surroundings   /   signature   fighting   style   /   making   it   up   as   they   go   / mastered   skillset /   learning   their   skillset  /   fancy   footwork /   sloppy   footwork   /   messy   fighter   /   elegant   fighter /   accept   defeat   /   refuse   defeat /   beg   for   mercy   /   compliment   their   opponent   / insult   their   opponent   /   use   unnecessary   movements    (   flips   ,   twirls   )   / move   efficiently  /   barely   move   /   prefer   to   dodge   /   prefer   to   block /   defend   their   blindside   /   has   no   blindside   /   use   all   available   advantages /   strictly   use   one   main   method   /  play   around  /   hold   back   /   fight   ruthlessly /  show   mercy  /   wait   for   opponent   to   be   ready   /   strike   when   opponent   isn't   ready /   fear   death    /   fear   pain   /   fear   killing   /   has   PTSD  /  avoid   fighting   /   has   lost   a   fight /  has   won   a   fight / has   killed  /   refuses   to   kill   /   want   to   die   standing  /   would   succumb   slowly

tagged: @elvcnson​ (thank you <3)

tagging: i’m so late to this but please steal if you want (:

[vezely-a]

Líndãn Tsai | peredhellen;​

        It’s a suggestion so fair and obvious, he can’t help but laugh. He’d half-expected walking there would extend the amount of time they could spend together before their inevitable return; like time might tick by a little more slowly. It’s not only nonsense, but a wish he shouldn’t be nursing in the first place.  ❛  Fair enough,  ❜  he concedes, turning right and nudging them towards the taxi stand he knows awaits them roughly one hundred metres ahead. Convenient, so close to the water, framing the boulevard. The tourists must love it, too, which seems oddly in line with the suggestion Vezely makes next.

          He remembers going to the peak almost as soon as he arrived here. Mere days later, he found himself surrounded by work at all times and, in truth, almost always too preoccupied or tired to do much sightseeing in between. It feels fitting, then, for them to take this final expedition one step ( or several, really ) further.

        ❛  Let’s take the plunge. I don’t expect George will suddenly pop by one of our rooms for a friendly drink,  ❜  he muses. It’s not like he had a habit of showing up unexpectedly at their rooms.  ❛  Let’s go for the Peak. We might as well make it a memorable goodbye to this city, right?  ❜

         ❛ Alright then. The Peak it is. ❜ A genuine smile follows, unwilling to overthink it. Instead, sight seeks the street corner where a line of yellow cabs are lined up awaiting patrons. She turns her steps towards them with intent for him to follow.

          ❛ We need a lift to the Peak, ❜ she tells the driver of the first cab, the back door automatically opening for them. Entering first, her thin form slides across the back seat. When he follows, she makes note of how his long legs barely fit in the narrow space behind the front passenger seat. Amusement is shared in her glance, though consolingly with a frown. With the door closed, the meter starts its charge and as they move, Vez peers out the window at the glistening lights reflecting off the harbor water, unsure whether to interrupt the quiet — but it seems the driver does that for them.

         ❛ Ah, the Peak yeah? Good place to go on a night like tonight. Should be very clear. See all the way down here. ❜ He starts, his eyes briefly peeking back at them in the rear view mirror. A friendly older gentlemen, and perhaps with this destination pinned, it makes them truly seem like tourists needing to be courted. ❛ Very romantic for a young couple like yourselves. Very romantic. ❜ With that, Vez corners her gaze to Lindãn’s, eyebrows raising, a huff of a laugh held back by her smirk. The cabi continues,  ❛ How long you been together? ❜

         ❛ For almost a year, ❜ she’s quick to answer, deciding to play along. 

[vezely-a]

Lord Elladan | peredhellen​;

      Her answer crosses into matters he had not meant to unearth. His left eyebrow raises ever so slightly, creasing his forehead equally subtly. He cannot tell if her implicit assumption is a result of the cultural or linguistic barrier between them, but perhaps the fun lies in discovering that. Before long, Elladan smooths out his brow and even smiles. Her rhetoric impresses as much as it startles. Though he would disagree with her notion of Men’s pathetic existence, there are elements of the reasonable in her answer. With a slow nod, he turns away from the window and looks Vezely’s way once more.

    ❛  You will not hear me disagree with you about the worth of years over mileage,  ❜  he concedes, holding both hands behind his back now. His shoulders square, but not uncomfortably so.  ❛  Though I would ask what makes the existence of Men pathetic to you.  ❜

        He does not expect she is as fond of sparring with words quite like this, yet he can never resist the urge to try. A real conversation is bound to hold his interest more than trite formalities and dancing around what begs addressing.  ❛  I believe those of the race of Men you have surrounded yourself with, differ vastly from the ones I have been surrounded with. So what makes their existence pitiful? And what makes yours better than that in comparison?  ❜

         Crudeness often finds her silver tongue, no matter the language. Call it an affect of company — mercenaries, traders, slavers, all the unsavory sort of characters feeding the underbelly of Mordor’s operation. The wrong sort, far afield from one donning such clean robes. A degradation of Men it might sound to him, a way of belittling one race over another, but not anyone in Rhûn or Khand would disagree with her. A miserable existence is had by most and those who disagree are the one’s making others lives more despondent.

        That he questions her as such is aggravating. It almost dictates a need for explanation and she hates her willingness to give it. She much rather tell him to leave, but something works against her — she is curious, wanting to see his reaction to her words. Arms come to cross, shoulders squaring to face him once more. Her words, however, as not spoken with such force, only sincerity.

         ❛ The Westlands are abundant. Soil is rich. Rainfall is plenty. Weather is mild. It is not so in Khand, a land forgotten by rain. In Rhûn, soil is hard to take or crops die of locusts. Famine, disease, war — born of a need for resources. Children are more likely to die than see their fifth birthday. It is miserable, pathetic, this existence Men seek out and call a life. For me, it takes longer to starve. Disease cannot ravage my body. And war, ❜ she scoffs, shaking her head, ❛ I learned to survive it. Make sense now or is it hard to understand when you live in paradise, protected by nature’s grand fortifications? ❜

[vezely-a]

Líndãn Tsai peredhellen​;

      Her joke earns her a laugh. It’s of the subdued kind rather than the unbridled, but few have ever witnessed the latter. She might have, he supposes, during their little escape to Switzerland. He can only barely believe they got away with that, even so many months later. If not for the slight discomfort determining their silence, he might’ve let that line of thought carry him away further. For now, however, he notes the change in her posture and the cautious start to her attempt at conversation. It doesn’t usually come to them with such difficulty, but the odd circumstances they’re under make their newfound awkwardness seem almost normal.

        Saying goodbye to Hong Kong upsets him, and he’s confident it’s not just because he’s grown quite fond of the place. The single person tying him to it will vanish from his life just as much, and he feels a profound shame for letting himself be bothered by it. It bespeaks an attachment he was never meant or allowed to form. Perhaps he’s better suited for office work, with only his colleagues around him and assets at a distance. Their dynamic came too close to becoming personal; intimate, in a way.

      ❛  Well said,  ❜  he nods at length, casting her a quick glance in affirmation.  ❛  Well, since the big wheel’s no longer an option … to be fair, I think most of the buildings around here are conference centres, American chain restaurants and art museums. I’m fine with the latter,  ❜  he clarifies, looking ahead again,  ❛  but one might argue the best way to say goodbye to a city, is to be looking at it. The Bank of China Tower might still be open to visitors to their tourist trap, the forty-third floor, but it’ll take us a solid twenty minutes to get there.  ❜

         ❝ Well, I don’t think we should walk. ❞ Response is sans a scoff at least. It is not for the sake of her legs, though she has been feeling worn-out as of late. Rather, somehow the thought of carrying on a conversation during a twenty minute stroll would be trying. Already she is fishing for words, trying to not consider the weight on this evening in their relationship, or relations more like it. The end of the contract with him as her handler is it. 

         ❝ Why don’t we just hail a taxi? ❞ There is always a line up of them on one corner or another waiting for patrons. It’s probably the most practical and relatively cheap way to get around. Or would taking a cab so far from their hotel tarnish a desire to stay within proximity to the hotel? How far can they stretch this evening before the inevitable end?

       ❝ With the weather somewhat nice, I would even suggest The Peak, but that’s quite a bit farther. ❞ High on the hill top overlooking the whole of the city. ❝ Either way, let us hope George simply returns to his room rather than check in on us. I think he still suspects I might make a run for it. Hide somewhere around the world with what money I have left. ❞ A smirk accompanies the shared thought as eyes drop to the pavement. ❝ So, which do you think? ❞ A taxi to a tourist trap?

[vezely-a]

Lord Elladan | peredhellen​;

      She is younger than he expected. It is not often this way amongst his kind, or those closely related to his kind ( for the peredhil are even fewer ). He wonders why that may be. Corruption, perhaps? If she has allied herself with the dark forces she has since allegedly turned her back on, he can imagine the fumes of Mordor and the toxicity of the lifetimes before that may have blackened her soul as much as her lungs. Given the strong ties between fëa and hröa, he would not be surprised by that. The ashen undertones of her skin seem indicative of it, alongside the edge to her voice and the darkness with which she decorates herself — in attire and accoutrements, as well as the  atmosphere that surrounds her.

        Even the manner in which she speaks of her ( former? ) masters. Gods. He scoffs at the phrasing, even if he must begrudgingly admit that she is right. Sauron is of the Valar just as those he and his ilk worship –––– but he is the black sheep amongst them, and for good reason.

        He momentarily glances away, right as her eyes find his. The diversion is brief enough to catch her eyes on his by the time he wills himself to look at her again, however. Though the vibrancy of her eyes is muted, her stare is piercing. He wonders if any amount of pleasantries could disguise his visceral discomfort with having his father nigh compared to that evil, even if merely in age.  ❛  He is older still, yes,  ❜  Elladan trails off at length, suppressing a sigh.  ❛  But older family roams the earth yet. I am young by their standards — and you are young by mine.  ❜  He pauses, finding a place to rest by the window sill. The guards stand within view, facing the chamber. With his gaze still pinned outside the room, he continues:  ❛  Why the interest in my age? Does it make a difference in how you see me?  ❜

         What to make of the scoff and that question — how she sees him — she knows not. Is he putting forth the custom to respect one’s elders? With years, one may hold the full breath of wisdom to uphold tradition. A belief many if not all cultures she confronted seem to hold dear. Thus, should she see him differently, this first born, respecting her who stood centuries before her pathetic existence even started? No. He is not her elder. This is not her culture. How many old men has she put to roost for thinking they could dictate her will? All notches on a post that no long exists.

         ❛ No. Your age is, ❜ uncertainty hinges on her coarse voice as it trails off, her eyes also moving towards the window of his interest. She cannot see the guards stationed nearby but she knows they are there, perhaps even listening. She crosses her arms and drifts her gaze elsewhere before pacing a few steps away from him. ❛ Well, it only confirms what I heard of your kind. Years stretch on but one’s skin does not. Ageless but with age. I see it now. I shall live and die as I am. ❜

        ❛ And it’s not the years but the mileage that sometimes matters more. ❜ Perhaps she says this, in pointed assuredly, to overturn what he might see in her whose years appear comparatively inconsequential. ❛ And I never did claim myself a god, despite what Men and their pathetic existence might see me as if they knew. Not that I didn’t consider it when I hit my third century. Still, age is not what makes one worthy of anything. ❜

[vezely-a]

[vezely-a]

Líndãn Tsai | peredhellen​;

     They’ve been secretive before, but this feels like their most overt attempt at stealth yet. With slightly bent knees, Líndãn jogs from pillar to pillar, hiding almost like they do in those exaggerated spy movies of old. Despite the tension this particular part of their excursion yields, he engages with a grin. He’s almost giddy by the time they reach the door. Once they do and he slides on through, he can’t help but let a chuckle escape. A hand finds his chest as he tries to hush himself. Who knows how sensitive George’s ears are?

   ❛  Thank you, Miss Landry,  ❜  he returns at length, his head ducking reverently.  ❛  Ever considered a career with the SIS?  ❜  Doubtful, he imagines, but the joke stands. He casts a final look over his shoulder. It almost seems too easy, and it’s that precise thought that casts a shadow of guilt over the entire ordeal. Though he hardly knows George, he’s a colleague all the same –––– one he’s chosen to betray for the personal gain that is closeness to Vezely. Whilst reminded time and time again she’s an asset and no more than that, he couldn’t dehumanise her like that. He believes he would afford any other person in her position the same respect, but he stretches the notion to a concept bordering the unacceptable.

       He manages to push the thought aside only because this odd dynamic of theirs will come to its end soon. He’ll need not worry about guilt and other such discomforts then, for it’ll be a thing of the past. That though, too, he banishes for now. He gestures to their left, to the north and the water.  ❛  So, to the promenade we go. No alleys, as promised. The dodgiest thing we’ll come across, will be the old big wheel near the piers.  ❜

         Blue eyes corner, matching the sharp smirk that plays out below them. The look is meant to singe that comment a bit, but playfully. ❛ No. Though I suppose I can no longer joke because the pay is too low. ❜ Not when she doesn’t have a job to speak for. A problem for a later time. 

         Right now, this disconnect is welcome — a last traipse around Victoria Habour before a trip to London takes her away for an unforeseen amount of time. A send off enjoying what she tended to enjoy most about this city at night: the blaring neon lights and their reflections on the water. With mention, however, sight goes in the direction of the big wheel, musing as she gazes, ❛ Completely suspect. I don’t think we want to test our fate any further. ❜

         Arms cross, not because she is cold, but because she is suddenly unsure how to act ( despite having spent the year working at his side ). The discomfort is palpable, but she tries to dissociate from it in an awkward silence that ensues. ❛ This is, ❜ she starts uncertain, threatening to falter too in the strides they take aside his longer ones. ❛ A good way to say goodbye, ❜ a pause, chin turning towards him, gaze reluctant to follow. ❛ To this city, at least. We can pretend to be tourists on our last night here. Now let’s see, what would a tourist do? ❜ Finally gaze connects, wondering the thoughts of one newer to the city than her.

[vezely-a]

Lord Elladan | peredhellen​;

     Elladan notes the lack of defined atmosphere surrounding her. She is neither hostile nor overly accommodating. Perhaps she let him in only because this place belongs to him and his people, and she is only to borrow it so long as she stays in his good graces — or so she thinks. Contrary to her possible belief, a more unpleasant place lies not in wait for her should she err. Uncouthness will not gain her his ire or his people’s; only a true display of malicious intent would. So far, she has seemed placid at worst.

      Even now, he senses no real tension. Though her squared shoulders paint a striking image, her inquisitiveness peaks through. That suggests that there is more to her than her stony reluctance. There is a desire to engage somehow, so he smiles upon being given the chance to facilitate that.

      His posture opens up, arms hanging loosely at his sides as he looks her way.  ❛  I am almost two thousand years and nine hundred years old.  ❜  He would have thought it an odd thing to ask for one of similar heritage, if not for how estranged she appears from her roots. It still irks him that it escaped his eye earlier, whilst Elrohir spotted her pointed ear from a greater distance.  ❛  And you?  ❜  His head tilts, for he wonders more so about whether she even has any idea of her real age. Would her distance from her ancestry have permitted her to remember? 

            Pale lips flatten. A line that unwavers despite a brow above that cannot help but tense. The significantly younger elleth tries to ascertain the number he sets forth — of an age that surpasses two millennia — it slides into the incomprehensible. A disbelief that brings her sight again to run along the outlines of his eyes and mouth as if to discover signs of the years he carries only to find none. And he looks it not, not how Black Númenóreans wither as they age ( a fact she could not explain in her falsely attributed heritage ).

              Arms cross, closed off from revealing these thoughts, even if she physically fails to hide them. At least apprehension to answer is minimal with expecting his question following asking her own. ❝ I do not know a number so specific. ❞ Though she turns to the side, gaze falling on the wall’s tapestry, there is no shame carried in that truth — one she learned to house alongside being once a nameless slave. However, she knows her years pale in comparison to his.  

            ❝ I can only count in the shortened lifespans of Men, which are fifty, sixty years at most. ❞ Verification coming only since she suspects it may differ in the West, where the land is abundant and appears to offer less impediment for one to thrive. ❝ Two on the plains of Dor Rhúnen, eight more in Khand, one in Núrn. No more than six hundred years. ❞ Perhaps that answers another question on origins, or perhaps not. Chin turns, grey eyes finding his once more, ❝ And your father must be older, as others here? None in my life’s company have claimed such age, not before I found myself in Mordor among gods. ❞

[vezely-a]

King Thranduil | tharanduil​;

While momentarily rooted to the spot, Thranduil has turned his left side to her and as etiquette requires averts his eyne not from her.    If Vezely were to observe most keenly, she may catch the subtlest, slowest dip of his fair head in response to uttered doubts.    Which, unsurprisingly, align with those he had bore in his mind upon arriving.    At last, the elvenking’s lids blink once with attention’s brief shift to the blossom-carpeted ground …  a low hum of agreement climbing up his throat.    ❝  Precisely. Imladris’ reputation would be at stake, for the likelihood of an ill outcome can not be denied.  ❞    That piercing gaze of wintry blue seeks Vezely’s features anew, brows twitching upward.

❝  And they will …  ❞,  a pause there, bridged by an upturn of his chin.     ❝  … have questions.  ❞    Then his head makes a fleeting tilt to one side in lieu of his shoulders shrugging, ere he is drawn back to the table in slow, fluid stride.    ❝  Albeit I am willing to deem that, since the drums of war fell silent and darkness receded at last, some might find forgiveness in their hearts.  ❞    Thranduil remains standing when fetching his goblet to bring it to his lips, take a small sip, and cradle the item in both adorned hands at last.    ❝  I shall inform them. A reunion of such sort will not come to pass in the foreseeable future.  ❞

Strange, how an absence of her desire to greet Eryn Lasgalen’s elves feels close to an insult — however much he may prefer for said reunion to not take place for another handful of years, at least.    A deep breath heaves his breast.    ❝  Thereby the matter would be resolved.  ❞    And they may part again.

         And of those who do not find forgiveness of one who beat those very drums of war — that point would be enough to ruminate on if Thranduil decided to convince her otherwise. Uncertain she sits, curved posture stiffening in increments until she absorbs his acceptance of resolving the matter at her bequest. She wonders what might have come if she slightly entertained the possibility. What more could she learn from those that desired reunion — did they know her blood parents? Would they see their features in hers? Or claim relations to them and therefore, her? Would they speak of that time six centuries past, and express sorrow of what was lost, growing her discomfort in disassociation? 

          But it will not come to pass, at least not anytime soon. Relief might appear to settle upon her frail form then, such thoughts subsiding, and dull grays drifting to the unswept cobblestones where decaying blossoms gain her blank disinterest. The briefness of his stare cuts only briefly, she notes, for there is not much more in her he can pick apart. 

          That Thranduil resolves one matter and with it, concludes this meeting is also unsurprising. They are not necessarily cordial without need and she half expects his departure in the next beat. She wishes to withhold his steps a moment, to bring forth the expectations of her role as Imladris’s lady and maybe something from what’s left within her, as decrepit as most of it is.

         ❝ Thank you, ❞ dour gaze lifts sans the weight it often carries; her nonchalance struggling, however. ❝For keeping your word. And for understanding, if you do, why I am not ready to entertain the thought at this juncture in time. ❞