gondolin_noble | (no subject)

The air is crisp and clean, with the dryness that comes with elevation. There are a few tall trees - mostly pines, lean and wind-beaten. The rest are low-growing shrubs, growing thickly in patches between outcroppings of rough granite. These are the empty lands just north of the Misty Mountains, and in the caves here, orcs and a few uruk-hai still live.

The pair emerge between two pine trees, one young and hale, the other burnt and and tilted sideways to form a rough and very tall doorway. The sky is the dark blue of the late-afternoon, and white fluffy clouds cluster around the distant peaks. They are downwind of the small hunting party - several humans, mingled with the sweet smoke of their pipes, and the scents of two others which vaguely resemble Glorfindel's scent.
"Now, wait a moment..." He pauses, crouching to scoop up a handful of dirt. "You are not nearly filthy enough to pass as a human."

Yes. He's enjoying this.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Don't even." Spoon says, backing up, "Can clog me nose, and I'm not going there." Yes, Glory, he will make you chase him down and wrestle him before he lets you smush dirt in his face. "I'm not human, and I'm not handicapping meself before I go into a fight."

"There will be no fight if they suspect you of being other than I claim you are, and there is no safe place to wash for two days march. Now, stop looking quite so much like an elf at court, or go home." Even he and the twins have become relatively grubby from days of travel, though they've still managed to keep much cleaner than their human counterparts. Sometimes Glorfindel thinks the Dunadain have an inbred aversion to soap and razors.

Spoon whines, but allows the elf to grub him up. Not whine as in object more, but whine as in the exact sound of a miserable canine. As much as Ace hates showers, Spoon hates not being clean.

It's holdover from years in a cell without the option of showers.

To be fair, he doesn't get Spoon as dirty as he really ought - just enough to lend an air of truth to his fantastical tale. He studies the effect, and shakes his head.
"It is well the twins are already too occupied with the upcoming battle to question much - they would see through this flimsy excuse in a heartbeat." But it's the best he can do with the limited time and resources he has, so it will have to do. "Come along."

He turns and heads off towards the camp, nearly completely silent. No leaves crunch under his feet, no gravel grates, no twigs snap. There are reasons elves excel in hunting orc. He pauses and whistles, mimicking the song of a bird more commonly found farther south, and the sound is repeated from within a small hollow just ahead. Glorfindel then leads the way down into the hollow.

There are six men in clothing similar to Spoon's in various stages of repose, leaning against their packs in a rough semi-circle. All are tall and dark-haired, with keen bright grey eyes and well-worn and well-cared-for gear. The only sign or decoration on them is a single silver star, many-rayed, that pins each of their cloaks. Most are smoking with long-stemmed pipes, and one appears to be asleep, wrapped in his dark cloak.

All of those awake give the pair inquisitive stares.

Spoon is very good at moving silently as well. The fact that he's not human helps quite a bit. He moves with the air of someone who belongs exactly where he is.

He's yautja and there is a hunt to occur. The minor details of species, lack of his own armor, and confusion of the Unblooded are nearly meaningless. He does belong where he is.

If Glorfindel were the facepalming type, he would do so. Spoon is not making this easy for him. Casually he steps on Spoon's foot and leans heavily on it before whistling again.

Two silent shadows drop out of the trees, and as they emerge into the clearing, they appear as mirror images - both with dark hair and grey eyes, they are obviously the much fairer kin of the men. The pointed ears and the way they move declare them to be elves. Their gear is identical, as is their expressions.

These are the twin sons of Elrond Halfelven - Elladan and Elrohir. Glorfindel launches into a rapidfire explanation in Sinadrain which both elves and men follow easily, going on about this lost hunter he found, who claims his homestead was destroyed by a band of orcs, and who is now on a mission of vengence, since his wife, three children, cow, and little puppy dog were all slaughtered.

Yes, Glorfindel might be laying it down a bit thick. Luckily, neither of the twins seems inclined to protest the addition.

Spoon is Spoon. Christine has developed a Spoon-sense that warns her Spoon is in the process of doing something stupid. He's also got no clue what Glorfindel is saying, and is alright with that. Just point the nice fuzzy at the not-so-nice things and he'll happily bathe in their blood.

Then find a stream and wash off obsessively.

Evidently the group comes to some decision, because the twins nod (almost simultaneously) and in a few efficient movements bound back up into the trees. The men relax again, two settling back to catch a quick nap, the others scooting over to share some of the shelter the earth bank provides.
"They have accepted you, Spoon, and you may stay with us - it is best to stick together when hunting orc, rather than going our separate ways." He explains in the common language, taking a spot against the earth bank and waving to the ground near him, to invite Spoon to sit.
"We must wait until dusk to begin - they will not be abroad until then, it is but an hour hence." He goes on, and then introduces the group of men, from the eldest - a grim-faced and greying Gralfor - to the youngest - a cheerful and quick Sallyn who shoots Spoon a wave and a friendly smile.

Not a one of them is under a century old.

Spoon is, but Spoon isn't going to say a damn thing. Puppy from one throat is enough. He nods and smiles as the circumstances require, then settles down to stretch. Better to be limber when the time comes.

...This armor is really, really easy to stretch in.

It is. Glorfindel didn't want his unusual charge to end up dead (which would lead to some very awkward conversations), so he gave him the stuff he usually reserves for his own people - light and well-crafted, it has served for centuries.

Glorfindel catches an apple tossed from Sallyn and munches, waiting for the sun to go down. None of the men seem overly inclined to talk, and the twins, usually the verbose ones of the group, are up in their watchposts, thinking of the coming fight.

This is the boring part of fighting, really.

Really (http://www.bellydancersofcolor.com/images/HOTEPP~11111.jpg), really (http://www.themindfulbody.ca/images/YC_Level3b.jpg), really (http://www.yogadharma.co.uk/graphics/8.gif) easy to stretch in. Spoon distracts himself and ends up twisting into positions that are humanly possible. If you're really (http://www.totaltravel.com.au/photos/govindas-yoga-and/advbigger.jpg), really (http://www.yogadharma.co.uk/graphics/brian_cooper.jpg) limber. This comment has too many "really (http://yoga108.org/images/photos/18.jpg)"s in it, but they all count.

Glorfindel is now very much pretending he doesn't know this crazy man beside him. Sallyn and one of the other younger rangers laugh and trade rude comments about the fifth 'really' flexible posture - mostly about it's advantages if you want to be gelded.

Gralfor tells the youngsters to settle down, but he sounds like he doesn't mind that much, so long as they keep their voices down. Any man that stretches like that should best be prepared for the comments that go with it.

Spoon doesn't mind. He chatters something in yautja to himself and continues his regular routine. It'll have him warmed up and ready to fight for as long as the fighting takes. He's only got one worry, but seriously doubts that the enemy has silver weapons so it's not that much of a worry.

The sun sinks slowly to the east, and as the shadows deepen, the mood of the men becomes more sober, despite Spoon's antics. The sleepers are roused, weapons are checked, packs are stored away in cracks between rocks used for generations for such a purpose. Glorfindel doesn't seem any more concerned than he did back in Milliways, but then, he has been through worse battles than the one that is likely to come.

Eventually one (or both) of the twins whistles, and the men rise.
"There is movement from the caves. Stay with me in this fight, so you do not get lost in the melee." Glorfindel orders in hushed tones before rising to speak with one of the twins (possibly Elladan).

Spoon unfolds as easily as he folded up, and stays near Glorfindel. At least for the time being, he'll do that. Spoon isn't concerned either. The beasties may be strong, they should be strong, but Spoon is...well, he's Kou'te-bpe.

Cutie-beep or not, Glorfindel intends on bringing a person back to Milliways, not a body. The two elves hold a brief conference, and then with a quick hand gesture Glorfindel motions the men to move out. The lone twin bounds up into the trees again - they go their own way, and will not be ordered on hunts like this. Glorfindel leads the men down a deer-track, moving cautiously in the fading light.

It's evident now, where it wasn't before, that the blond elf seems to glow faintly in the darkening shadow.

Eventually they come to the edge of a low ridge, beyond which is another clearing, this one by a the mouth of a rocky cave. There are bones scattered around the entrance - most are animal.

A few are very obviously not.

The reek is horrific, and in the shadows of the cave's mouth, there are three squat figures lurking, dressed in ragged scraps of hide.

(no subject)

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags