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        â I should say not.  We were expecting your father, after all.  Are we to       assume  he  wonât  be  attending,  then?   Not  that  we  would  mind       accommodating you, of course. â
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Though he had long since resigned himself and the remainder of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield to lingering some considerable time in the dungeons of the Woodland Realm, the knowledge hardly made their accommodation any more comfortable. Sure enough Bofur was well used to rough stone and enclosed spaces after years of work in mines and caverns, but these halls were alien in both look and feel; patrolled as they were also by silent guards who neither responded nor even seemed to hear either questions or abuse shouted by his kin, it was a thoroughly miserable and isolated affair.
It was only a couple of hours before the urge to get moving grew again, for days of walking had leant the dwarfâs muscles a certain expectation and it no longer felt right to simply remain sitting. He took a circuitous route of the cell, silent save for the thudding of heavy boots as he wandered in the manner of a caged animal, though there was less frustration and more a general sense of restlessness. This wasnât how the quest was supposed to end: they could wind up eviscerated by a dragon perhaps; slaughtered by the frankly alarming number of orcs following them; but not simply left to rot in an elvish dungeon at the whim of the fairy king and his band of spider-hunters. It lacked..well, Bofur was rarely one to worry much about it, but a certain dignity. After all, death in battle one could expect from a suicide quest such as this one, but this was simply depressing. Â Â
Another figure passed the cell just as Bofurâs route took him past the door, and instantly he recognised the attire: this was no guard on watch but rather the same elf who had threatened Thorin in the forest; evidently one of some sway in this place. Fast pressing himself against the bars, Bofur extended one arm out and flailed in a ridiculous manner in the hopes of attracting the blondâs attention. ââEre, cân I have a word?â
masterbowman
 "I'd totally fuck you" ( I DONT SHIP IT BUT I...
Iâm c r y i n g omg
S A M E Â OMG
Why is it purple? Why is it so tall? Why. Are those antlers? Are those feathers? What is even going on there, biologically? Legolas just doesn't know.
   Why is it staring? Is it a human? Is it a blood elf? Why is it not blue? It needs to stop staring. It's creeping him out. Has it never seen him before?
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masterbowman
"Well, doesn't your textbooks say anything about it?"
"No! I've looked and looked and looked and-"
"One more look and I won't help you."
The forth year boy sighed dramatically. He had been in here since before breakfast, pouring over any material he could get his hands on. And, to the librarian's knowledge, this particular paper was due after lunch. The paper was no more written now than it was an hour ago.
"Why don't we just go talk to your professor? I'm sure they'll know something about the subject." Margaret Boyd, who had procrastinated more papers than she'd like to say, knew a few things about the staff at Hogwarts. For you see, she had gone there herself for seven years, and currently on her second year as head librarian. Head librarian came with lots of perks, including the ever important master schedule (which she was now consulting).  "Let's see... Elvish Medicine... It looks like there's a free period. Shall we go? Come on, I'll head up there with you. With the both of us, he can't refuse to help."
And off they went.
"Professor?" The boy would knock upon the classroom door, looking horrified next to the over enthusiastic smile of Ms. Boyd.
