#luredeep

the animals stir a little when the elf approaches,   but emìl does not.  he runs a gentle hand along a goat's back,  when he is finished with checking her hoove,  murmurs reassurances to the sheep,  no magic needed.  they go quiet again,  trusting, unassuming.

he cleans his hands,  pensive,  but void of worry.  were it anyone else,  perhaps he would be inclined to think this a ruse to fill the silence,  to glide over the still not recovered from gap of their separation,  the dissonance of having known one another,  while also not knowing one another,  not entirely,  not like they once did.  not as they once were.  emil doesn't mourn this inevitability,  he merely adapts to it.  not as a lover,  not even as a friend should iorveth not wish it so,  but as someone who can offer a safe space;  the house is distant enough from human settlements that the druid could almost call himself a recluse,  as well as surrounded by magic to ward off against any intruder.

''  was it a red bird,  with a white spot in the shape of a leaf?  ''   he takes in their features properly,  now,  if only to reassure himself that the elf is not carrying any present injuries.   ''  i found one under my window last spring,  the poor thing was so hurt it could barely move.  one of the wings was broken,  you see.  well,  i nursed him back to health and he comes to visit from time to time.  ''

emìl moves his tools aside,  then begins to walk towards the house.  he demands nothing,  the offer implicit.  inside,  there is warm tea and homemade wine,  fresh honey and a pleasant hearth.  they could talk,  or sit in silence.  iorveth might remain exactly where he is,  not quite into his home yet,  not quite out of it either.

"Legolas!"

Pippin's cry of the elf's name is both surprised and cheerful---though more cheerful than surprised. It wouldn't be truthful to say he'd expected to see Legolas, despite his surprise, but their presence wasn't something he could rule out, either. After all, Legolas was capable of traveling a fair bit further than Pippin, and more inclined to do so.

Were it, perhaps, a different hobbit, the journey alone might have been more daunting. But Pippin's already experienced it at its worst---and more than that, he's grown into himself as a Took (though that growth was also due to the journey). Between that and the relative ease of the path this time around, it was hardly a miracle he'd managed to make it all the way back to Gondor.

"It's been some time since we've seen eachother! I hadn't known you would be in Gondor!" Pippin exclaimed, though he himself had not written nor sent word through any other means of his own journey, it being a rather more impulsive trip than he otherwise would have taken. "It's just around time for dinner, so I was going to see our mutual friend about getting myself some food---and maybe some extra, for supper, if he can spare it. Will you come with me? Many things have happened in the Shire and we've been without visitors to tell them to!"

@luredeep sent A PROMPT.

ELROND WAS ANGRY AT FIRST . He had been mulling over how might he oppose his fathers’ decision to send him and his twin brother to the banners of Ereinion Gil-galad. Anger was the chief who came quickly, all fangs and claws gnashing against the tight hold of prophecy. Elrond abhorred the change, for once again he was without control.

But who was to say that Maedhros or Maglor had any command, either ? Thus, Elrond must not be angry. If anything, he found that it was indignance that took hold of him, on behalf of his guardians. There was also fear there, curling tight between his ribs. I must say something, lest I lose all chances henceforth.

          ( there are so many last words decaying in his lungs. )

❝ I don’t wish to go to Gil-galad, ❞ what comes out was a plea, despite the futility of the age. Whether by circumstance or otherwise, Elrond knows his life will always be swayed by external forces. Still, he must speak. He has lost too much to let anymore regret sow in his heart. ❝  We’re fighting the war regardless, are we not ? ❞ Elrond tries to appeal to wisdom, ❝ Then, allow me to march under your banners. Adar— ❞ He does not say that word lightly. ❝ I know your mission. ❞

“You still make the same mistakes when you get frustrated.”

Lambert’s no stranger to frustration taken out on the pendulum in his free time. Even now, having run it what must have been a thousand times over, he still works his body sore when he’s got too much to think about and not enough people deserving of his so-called childish outbursts. It’s the only reason he’d come out here at all, in the aftermath of everything. He hadn’t been trying to look for Ciri.

As much as he hides it behind the normal kind of mean jibes, Lambert is angry. Not at Ciri, really. She’s the only person in the damn keep he could ever keep himself from getting frustrated with. But he’s mad. At Vesemir, maybe. Doesn’t matter that the old man isn’t around anymore.

       @luredeep​​​​​​​  asked:            36﹕ sender  is  found  drunk  by  receiver .   [ from venti 💀 ]              ;   prompt.

        guizhong huffs,  yanks his wrist towards her when his balance gets the best of him and nearly topples him over the table.  under her breath as she gathers his wriggling,  giggle-drunk form into her arms,  she mumbles something about how lucky he is that she was the one to catch him rather than her stoic counterpart.  perhaps they’ve flown here by instinct,  flittering to tease them both with their antics when they’re just a tad more lucid.  but now,  seated in a puddle,  guizhong drags them to where they’ll do the least harm.

𝙿𝙻𝙾𝚃𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙲𝙰𝙻𝙻: @luredeep​ [CIRI]

      𝙄𝙏 𝙂𝙊𝙀𝙎 𝘼𝙂𝘼𝙄𝙉𝙎𝙏 𝙃𝙀𝙍 𝘽𝙀𝙏𝙏𝙀𝙍 𝙅𝙐𝘿𝙂𝙈𝙀𝙉𝙏 to speak up, but the course of her life has generally been charted by her heart overruling her mind. it’s already dangerous enough, making her way through novigrad as a mage, close enough to the pyres that the stench of the cinders clings to her cloak, but celine turns on her heel and calls out, “i’d avoid that street, if i were you.” 

        “I’ve told ya, Ciri, if you keep holding your sword like that you’re going t’end up breaking your wrist.” As rough as his voice may be, the witcher is gentle as he moves to help the girl readjust her grip on the blade. More gentle than Vesemir had been with him, at her age-- But all of the witchers at the keep had a certain sort of gentleness about how they treated his child. 

Aika feels angry, even if only for a second.  They always say this, like she doesn’t know.  People always point it out : that’s a lot of blood you spilled, you monster.  that’s a lot of pain you’ve cause, you curse.  It’s miserable and aching and she’s sorry / she’s not, it’s not her fault / enough to read derision where there may well be none.  bastard princess / curse girl.  ALL YOU’RE GOOD AT IT IS KILLING, ISN’T IT?

“Oh, don’t worry.  It’s not mine.”  The blood - coated scythe twirls in her dainty hand and disappears, but the monster is as bloodied as the weapon / but the monster is the weapon is the weapon is the weapon.  Causes harm or is used to inflict harm.  She wants to sleep, but she stares at Yeongmi instead, eyes half - lidded and exhausted and pale in a feverish sort of way.

“They were trying to kill me,” she says, as if she owes an explanation.  As if it absolves.  “They deserved it.”  They did they did they did.  Nobody gets to hurt me again.  Nobody gets to hurt me ever again.  The monster dies in the happy ending of the stories and the one who killed them is the hero.  What does that make the monster who defends herself?

Like Yeongmi has room to critique / Aika at least tries to be good.  IT’S NOT BAD TO BREAK WHAT WANTS YOU DEAD / ISN’T IT?