#underoakandbeech

He REMEMBERS these trees from years before, from a journey in youth dared through the ominous tall forest green. Shadowed verdant looming high above, shards of marigold and honeyed sunlight peering through the great leaves of fall. HIGH still reach the trees, their branches grasping toward each other but shades of green stand muted and bare among them, dark grey and aged bronze colour the bark that surrounds their path. The King of Dale wonders if perhaps it was only youthful folly that so idolized the shades of Mirkwood, the once known Greenwood as he was taught by his father who learned these ancient titles from fathers before him. LONG always has been the line of Girion and ever near to that old realm of elvish making have they stood. and to the mountain, their northern neighbor and two so richly entwined in the success of the other. 

perhaps had any son of Durin survived the war that ravaged already poor countries, people suffering still years later when the fire has died but the burns linger , his voyage now may bear a shorter walk, shorter ride.  perhaps only if had he been able to salvage some sense of peace in the aftermath of battle, some common understanding between kings in need for their people. the bitter ache of his heart for all who were lost in the fire thinks no such thing possible, though he accepts with grace and courtesy all good nature between the current king-DAIN- and himself. for the necessity of their people. 

                                              in all thoughts, this seems the preferred choice. THOUGH                                             WISER it would have been to send his request in parchment,                                             to save his men the turmoil of the journey and spare his people                                             the absence of their ruler--no, not yet. The ceremony still awaits,                                             for some weeks more he will remain only Bard, the bowman.                                             And a bowman or king may still be prone to the sentiment                                             of Man. This request is not given lightly but in the spirit of                                             lasting friendship between realms of Elf and Man. 

Send me “§” if you’d ever consider shipping our muses ( no longer accepting) 

super confession?????

“Der not fer eatin’ nor are dey any dirtier than the bottoms of yer feet! Unless ya prance ‘bout in nothin’ but pixie dust.” Dáin was getting irate, though his insults seemed like the typical spiel he spoke at meetings with the other kings. However, he had came into this meeting steaming, for he overheard a few of Thranduil’s elves belittle his beloved war boars.

              stephen was rather elusive when it came to the company of any of the races on middle earth, finding that being a myth rather than fact increased his productivity and decreased his chances of being killed. of course he needed to converse with the elves and humans as of late, keeping them from so much as thinking about attacking one another. so he found himself walking through the halls of greenwood, ignoring any and all elves that stopped to gape at his appearance.

     Such BEAUTY reflected in the locks of white-gold, tiny pointed ears      the only real give-away that this man was not HUMAN, save for the      ethereal qualities that the vampire marveled  at.  Silver-blue  optics      flickered from cheekbone to lips, a hand of glass-like nails reaching      out to dare and try to TOUCH the long,  blond  locks  that  looked  to      him like diamond strands.

[ my right tit for poly ships ]