ᴄøɳȶɛϻþŧ ɭøɤɛʂ ŧɧɛ ʂɨɭɛɳᴄɛ

lingua-argenti:

Loki breathed in the kiss, satisfied in its depth enough to focus on the task at hand. After all, how could a starving man work toward escape? With the new goal in mind— Mirkwood— Loki lifted his head to the challenge, moving forward out of the cell with silent footsteps. As an almost after thought, he waved a hand over the cells of his other prison mates, creating illusions of inactivity. He didn’t need a common criminal giving away information on his escape. It was already risk enough that guards may have seen Thranduil enter. Quietly, Loki kept the elf close to his side to whisper to him.

"I would not have us followed. How many in Asgard are aware of your presence?" He narrowed his eyes as the hall before them, debating on whether or not the deaths of their guards would be opportune, or simply reckless. Rather than creating a trail, Loki stepped silently behind the two and waved his hands just behind their heads, filling their minds with dreams. Their wives, their families. Anything to distract. He planned on simply casting an illusion of two guards over Thranduil and himself, but there was the task of not being followed. Of simply appearing to have disappeared. Loki meant not to return.

The elf could only look on in admiration as Loki made his talents known once more. He simply could not fathom how he did such magic, how he seemed to be more adept at it than even Thranduil was with a blade, but he knew that in this moment their lives depended on it. As did the lives of his people when they were discovered to have taken Loki.

"Few. Friends of your mother’s, I should hope. We met almost none on the way. I brought few of my own men with me, the ones I trust the most. But…" The challenge remained, and he looked to the liesmith for answers. "I know not how to return home." This world was foreign, and the ships completely out of his understanding.

That did give him pause. Heimdall surely knew all of what they were doing and would refuse to comply. He would never hesitate by his mother's orders, but Loki would certainly lack the same obedience. As Loki lead Thranduil out of the dungeons, its guardians blind to the escape before their eyes, he pondered this problem. He knew how to enter some other worlds, but Middle Earth was different. It was part of the Midgardian realm on a separate plain-- a very difficult area to reach without the aid of the Bifrost. He could fight Heimdall to force him into compliance, but his loyalty was stronger than his desire to remain whole. Killing the guardian would serve no purpose.

Loki stopped suddenly in a thought-- but what if Heimdall didn't see him? He turned back to the elf and looked over his physique. The details of the appearance of an elf, to make a convincing disguise.

lingua-argenti:

Loki stared into Thranduil’s eyes as he touched his face, allowing the intimate bond between them absorb their combined presence. If he allowed himself to think on it, Loki had indeed missed his elf. He traded adoration for the change to rule when he left Mirkwood. It was good to see that he only sacrificed one. Loki tilted his head into Thranduil’s hand, even as he pulled away to retrieve the daggers. Slowly, Loki ran his fingers along the handle of the blades before accepting them, his touch treasuring the fine, elvish make, the metal warmed by its closeness to Thranduil’s body. He bowed his head in obliging thanks before lifting his eyes to the elf.

Before he could make toward their escape, the god craned his neck forward and kissed his king, letting his chest fill and expand with the love it had lacked for so long. Loki never realized just how much he had missed him.

"These will do," he whispered against Thranduil’s lips, pressing their foreheads together, absorbing the comfort like a parched man with a goblet of the purest water.

Thranduil motioned for Loki to follow, but before he had, soft lips were upon his. A long-buried longing sparked in his chest as he returned the kiss with his own fire. Fire to warm the winter’s chill he knew always lived in the other. How long had they been apart? He could not remember, as years fluttered by like little moths to one as old as him. All he knew was that to keep the longing from poisoning him, he had kept it down, buried it deep.

It felt so good to feel him again.

"Do not tarry." He murmured with a secretive smile as he moved away. "Or do you stall for time to see me spill the blood of the guards for you? Either way, we must go." With that, his smile was gone, and he led the way out of the cell, and turned to Loki for direction. The way out.

Loki breathed in the kiss, satisfied in its depth enough to focus on the task at hand. After all, how could a starving man work toward escape? With the new goal in mind-- Mirkwood-- Loki lifted his head to the challenge, moving forward out of the cell with silent footsteps. As an almost after thought, he waved a hand over the cells of his other prison mates, creating illusions of inactivity. He didn't need a common criminal giving away information on his escape. It was already risk enough that guards may have seen Thranduil enter. Quietly, Loki kept the elf close to his side to whisper to him.

Same time last year (I was in Italy at the time), developed since then. Not much has changed. My hair shrank. I’m still very smiley.

All Loki needed was purpose as a crutch. He was not accustomed to idleness, to sitting and playing it safe. When he had nowhere to go and no prospects, what point was there to do anything but wallow in his cell, a cell he could easily break out of, if he had the ambition? But the ambition had been sucked out of him, so there he sat in the shadows of his mind, allowing a minor foot injury to prevent him from activity.

But with Thranduil beside him? And an entire world inviting him? A kingdom to rule? Well, that could get him to stand, to put pressure on the injury. The pain wasn’t so severe that he couldn’t dance on it if necessary.

Loki peered up at the elf with the eyes of a hungry man being offered food. King. It was a beautiful word, a title that had been robbed of him. Motivated by the musical word, he looked around and righted the cabinet he had broken with a magical hand, reaching to withdraw the outfit he had originally been exiled in. It was still obvious that it belonged to a prince of Asgard— fine leathers and wool, perhaps not accustomed to the climate of Mirkwood, but this place was colder. Still, it would do. He had discarded it when he tore himself and the room apart.

"These will do until you can take the pleasure of detailing just how a tailor should dress me. Will you adorn me like an elf for your fancy, my love?" Loki looked up at him with a weak, teasing smile and pushed himself to stand and dress. His hair was still a mess from having yanked and pulled at it in his grief-fueled madness, but with a glowing hand, he made the illusion of its calmness. If it were not for the paleness in his skin and the hollowness in his eyes, he might have looked as proud and fine as always.

Thranduil waited in patience, always patience, as Loki dressed himself. Even as the Elvenking watched, he found himself still fascinated by the strange magic Loki could conjure with but a thought. He himself had limited sorcery, limited only by his denial of power, of a ring he always quietly yearned to possess and yet was never given. He who was too proud to ask it, who had envious eyes for the three who bore the weight gladly. In this way, Loki far surpassed him.

"I will adorn you as a King, nothing more. The style of dress is of your choosing, and it always has been." Thranduil replied, reaching out with a hand to brush a thumb over his pale cheek. Loki, as he saw it, had to define himself. He who was so many things, had to choose which he was. Thranduil would be happy to garb him in silks as an elf if he so wished, but only if he so wished.

Before he could make toward their escape, the god craned his neck forward and kissed his king, letting his chest fill and expand with the love it had lacked for so long. Loki never realized just how much he had missed him.

This is the holder blog for my many Dragon Age roleplay muses! As of right now, I play one Hawke for…

Hey look, I made the Dragon Age blog I’ve been wanting to make~ It comes with three characters, one for each of the DA2 personality alignments, so go play with them. I’m cool with crossovers. Just specify if you want a nice guy, a sassy guy, or an asshole.

Just because I take a while to reply to you, but not others, doesn’t mean I’m ignoring you; My muse is picky, and I can only write what I’m drawn to. I want my replies to be well written and fun, not forced and horrible.

Just because I shorten a reply doesn’t mean I’m bored with the thread; I’m probably tired, thinking of something else to continue with, or giving you the chance to set up our next situation.

Just because I drop a thread doesn’t mean I will never come back to start another; When I drop threads, I’m usually overwhelmed, without a muse for that particular piece, or bored with it, and I’ll ask to start another.