thecapitol | [OPEN]

Entry tags:

[OPEN]

Who| Thranduil & OPEN
What| Of Elvenkings and elevators
Where| Training Center; Central Commons
When| January 3rd
Warnings/Notes| None at the moment.

After the initial outrage had died down some, Thranduil took to investigating the area in a quiet and casual manner. Supposedly, this is where he was to reside. Unfortunately, though he was given directions to his more private living space, he had yet to understand how to use the small room with the many buttons and moving doors... rather than admit to anyone that he was at a loss, The king takes to inspecting the room and its contents.

Though the furnishings seemed comfortable enough in appearance, they were also... very strange. He inspects a curtain with mild interest, running his fingers lightly over the fabric to feel the smoothness of it. It was not of Elven make, but well crafted none the less. The brightness of the color, though, rubbed him the wrong way, so he moves from it and finds a tall backed chair to sit in. He crosses one leg over the other at the knee and hangs his arms casually over the armrests.

Here there was a clear line of sight to the small room with the numbers, so he might be able to discern it's use if he observed the people going in and out of it long enough.

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Dorian had his own fight will elevators. He'd since mastered them, well enough, but he still had to double check every time he stepped out of it to make sure he actually was where he was supposed to be. This time, he indeed had arrived in the Commons, as he expected to, and stepped out of the elevator with a book on Panem history under his arm. He was making his way over to the comfortable chair he'd found earlier when he happened to find someone else in it.

He raised his eyebrows - an Elf, that much was clear, though he bore none of the Dalish markings. He looked too- well - polished, for a Tevinter slave. Perhaps he was a well off servant in Orlais? Or a mage? Whichever way it was- Dorian found himself stepping over and offering a cordial smile.

"Not Dalish, I take it, but then I'm not an expert on Elves. I thought they all had markings. From a Cirle, perhaps?"

Edited (Woops, left out a thought) 2015-01-03 21:06 (UTC)

Thranduil doesn't move from the seat, nor give any indication that he intends to be overly sociable. Something about the way this man raised his eyebrows irked him, since it gave him a certain impression of being judged. The king raises his own eyebrows, then tilts back his head slightly. What this man said was strange, markings? circles?

"No expert at all. In fact it sounds to me as if you know scarce little of Elves at all."

"I think you'd be surprised," He mused, his lip twitching. "Though I am educated enough to well know how much I don't know. Where in Thedas do you hail from, then?"

It was possible he was an ancient elf, perhaps, but a very small possibility.

"Thedas? I know of no such place."

Of course, he wasn't going to say where he was from, either, if this man didn't already know. Which he really should have. It wasn't giving Thranduil the best impression of him that he did not. A small part of him understood that if he wasn't in Middle-earth any longer, and that the people here could not be expected to know... but that part of him was still doubtful and disbelieving that such a thing could happen.

"Tell me of these lands."

Well, that he wasn't expecting. He looked surprised, and then grabbed a chair so that he could sit down.

"Ah- well... That explains a few things, then. I must have sounded mad. I had assumed if there were elves here - Well, never mind. Thedas is where I come from. It refers to all the land that was once ruled over by the Tevinter Imperium, though now it is made up of several different nations. What would you know of it?"

He is both happy and miserable to talk of home, but his curiosity is piqued, so he's more than willing to do so.

Fuck the elevators, what is this guy's deal? Is he an elf? Is he an elf crossbred with a qunari? Most elves, in Lavellan's extensive experience at least, are a head or so shorter than humans, not... taller. And they tend to be, with some exceptions, skinnier and slighter, almost spindly. Certainly she fits both of those qualifiers.

This guy is weird.

He may catch her staring at him once or twice, out of the corner of her eye, before she works up the necessary whatever to speak to him. She sits on a nearby sofa, elbows on the arm, chin in her hands, leaning just slightly forward.

"Nice crown."

Here the king frowns. It wasn't often he wasn't learned in something, but as of this morning he lost in just about everything that was happening around him. He didn't even know what to ask, since it seemed now that anything this man could tell him wasn't an answer he needed. He was starting to doubt now that he was from here.

"I would know more of this place and how to leave it." Here he gestures around him. "Is this not Thedas?"

"Ah. You're in the same boat as us then. Newly arrived, I take it? No, this is certainly not Thedas. This is a country called Panem, which I had previously never heard of. I've been studying its history these last few days- I think I must have every book, now, which is of any use at all, but you'll find that they aren't very fond of open knowledge, here."

He shifted, leaning back in his chair, gesturing with an arm. "The rest of us - well. Are from all over, apparently. I've been told that those who die in the arenas and do not return here to the tribute centre go home, but..." He made a skeptical face, "As I can neither confirm or deny that information, I don't suggest acting upon it."

He's used to being admired from afar, to some extent, particularly while away from the Woodland Realm. The Men of Laketown in particular were always eager to catch a glimpse of the Elvenking when they could.

However... this person was not of the world of Men. Nor was he entirely sure she was an Elf, either, but signs did lean in that direction. When she speaks, he gives a look of mild surprise.

"As it should be. It is a symbol of kingship, and of my own design."

Cullen is starting to become a little more confident in his ability to navigate the building, that's for certain. The elevators are relatively easy to grasp, especially after that man Sam explained it to him in plain common tongue.

What is unexpected is the sight of an elf. And not just an elf, but by far the largest elf Cullen has ever seen in his life. An elf who might be able to give a qunari a run for his money (not Iron Bull, but a smaller qunari. Probably.).

So if he stares, if he gapes a little, well. It's not intentional, it's just that this person is possibly the strangest sight he's seen yet, in a city full of strange sights.

"Pardon me," he says apologetically when he catches himself doing it. Rude, Cullen. "You are - very tall for an elf." He really should just keep his mouth shut sometimes.

"I am newly arrived but I did not come by means of a ship."

In fact, he had no idea how he had gotten here in the first place, but that was something he didn't need to share just now. Thranduil files away the information given in his mind. Hearing about those who die in the battles here, he narrows his eyes just a touch.

"I do not intend to throw my life away needlessly. These... arenas, what can you tell me of them?"

At the moment it's obvious he's far more interested in getting information than giving it himself.

It was true that Thranduil stood rather tall against the Elves that remained on Middle-earth. The Silvan were also shorter in nature, but for a Sindarin Elf born in Doriath before it's fall, he was rather on par. Of course, there was no way for this man to know that.

"Taller than some," he agrees. "but not so tall as to invite such a look from you."

He pauses giving the man a judging look of his own.

"What do you want?"

Elves don't have kings, as far as Lavellan is concerned. Maybe they did in the Dales, but those have long fallen, and now it's just petty squabbles and the occasional up-jumped Keeper. Which, Sera would tell you, isn't much different from having a nobility, and Lavellan can't argue that in good faith, but no one calls themselves king.

So she might take a half second longer than usual to respond. The crown looks like the twisted branches of a tree-- it reminds her of the stories of the elven gods-- June and Sylaise, who taught the People to make tools and bows out of wood and metal. (As she has this thought, she is greeted to the image of Solas and Sera both rolling their eyes at her in unison, but she ignores it.)

"I've never seen the like, before." Admitting ignorance is almost always the best way to get information without asking a direct question. "Never seen an elf wear a, uh, symbol of kingship. You are an elf, right? Don't want to offend."

After waking back up in the tribute tower Bilbo felt as if a heavy weight had come over him, smothering his chest and settling deep in his bones like a grief he couldn't shake. He replayed the scenes of Frodo and Samwise's death over and over in his mind unwillingly, his head rebelling against him as if determined to drive him insane with guilt and regret.

He was starting to believe it may actually win.

His appearance was haggard at best; the weight he had started to regain upon first arriving here was gone again, as if he had returned in the same condition he arrived in and now he felt even less inclined to recondition his appetite to something a little more filling than broth and bread. Anything more only made him ill and the bloody images of those he loved flashed before his eyes and suddenly his appetite is as dead and gone as everyone in that arena.

He wandered now and found himself back in the moving box, letting to take him wherever. It didn't matter so long as it wasn't the cramped space of his room. When the doors slid open to reveal the common area the last thing Bilbo expected as he stepped out to see was Thranduil sitting in a chair watching the sliding doors with a peculiar expression. The doors close behind him as Bilbo stares back, unsure if what he's seeing is real or if he's finally fallen off the deep end and he has truly gone mad.

The 'Don't want to offend' part is enough to keep his anger in check. It was offensive to be mistaken for anything other than an Elf, particularly for someone who's title was 'the Elvenking.' Still, a touch of annoyance comes through in his voice.

"I am indeed an Elf, and also a king."

He narrows his eyes a little and looks down his nose at her, wondering if she was perhaps touched in the head if she couldn't recognize an Elf. She obviously knew what an Elf was to even ask the question. And... did appear to be one herself. Probably. In most ways she was alike to a Silvan. ...Wait.

Thranduil glides out of his seat and draws himself up to his full height to study her. He did not know her, which was unusual, but surely she should know him if she were from his forest?

"One would think a Wood-elf would know their king."

The annoyance in his voice makes her calmer. The person who cares less is always the one with more power, relatively speaking, and he seems easy to offend. Still, her calm demeanor fades just slightly when he stands; she's never seen an elf that tall. Elgar'nan, it's rare to see a human that tall.

It stumps her for a moment, but she's relatively quick-witted, enough to stop her gaping before it becomes awkward. As is, it's just obvious. "When I see a wood-elf, then, I'll tell 'em." There is, perhaps, a bit of offense there; 'wood-elf' sounds more like a slight than taxonomy. Maybe it's how it has the same rhythm as 'knife-ear'.

"I'm Dalish." She taps the tattoos on her cheekbone. Sacred to Mythal, her. "Clan Lavellan. We don't got kings, just Keepers. Kings are a human thing." She says it with the slightest roll of her eyes. Kings and princes and dukes and princesses, it's such an overcomplicated waste of time.

In the past few hours Thranduil had come to see many strange things, but this might be the strangest yet. He knew this halfling, regarded him as Elf-friend, in fact - and that familiarity in contrast with the closing doors of the small room was entirely unsettling. The king stands slowly, not keeping his eyes from the small figure. There's a touch of wonderment on his face, but his tone is kinder than it had been since he first arrived.

"Bilbo Baggins... how is it you have come to be here, of all places?"

Not one of the Silvan then. Truthfully that puts him a little more at ease - as large as his kingdom was, he had time time to know most of them at least in passing - by sight if not by name - and all new children brought into the world received his blessing as infants... Though, less and less often was the sound of children's laughter heard in his halls as of late. In fact, Tauriel might have been the last...

"I am glad to know that you are not, for the Elves I rule would never talk to me in such a fashion, or suggest that my title is a waste of time."

His voice now is slightly raised. She obviously knew nothing of the Woodland Realm and what he did to keep it protected and whole.

Edited 2015-01-04 01:19 (UTC)

She tilts her head, in deference to him. It's not a bow (We are the Dalish; never again will we submit) but it is an acknowledgement. "Fair point. I don't know how elvhen kings do it; maybe they're better with it than humans. Couldn't be worse."

She sits more properly, back straight. Her preferred method of interacting with others, a kind of jocular informality, obviously has no effect on him, so she discards it. She's deeply curious about him-- she's never met an elf like him, she needs to know how he works-- which means she needs him to answer her questions.

She's sat in on war meetings, made judgements, held the pride of a nation in her hand-- it's not the sort of thing she likes to dwell on, but it means she can hang on formality when she needs to. She remembers what it was like in the court of Orlais, all masks and pretty words. She can do that again.

"If you've the time to answer, I'm curious as to how the elves live, in your... kingdom." Still, it's an odd word to apply to an elf. They haven't had even had land since the Dales fell, and that was hundreds of years ago. The alienages, existing only on sufferance of the human nobles who own the land, hardly count.

The slight incline of the head satisfies him enough for the time being in terms of her own show of respect, and his voice softens again though it is no less cool to her.

"My long years may allow me more wisdom and experience than the kings of Men, but kings they are, and also worthy of respect."

At her question, he chooses to sit once more - he was allowed to be casual, even if she wasn't. It's a long moment before he replies, considering if he wanted to answer her or not. The recent battle had taken it's toll on them, but their wounds had begun to mend, at least.

"Those of Woodland Realm are well cared for. There is enough to eat and drink, and a measure of safety within my halls."

In his halls, yes, but not the wood itself. There was the issue of the sick and blackened forest that rotted around them, and the spiders that encroached their lands... but he would not admit to his failings, not here, or to her.

Edited 2015-01-04 02:22 (UTC)

"After they burnt the Dales, the Dalish're a bit twitchy about bending the knee to humans." It's a bit of history everyone knows, and she says it without much feeling in her voice. It's information, freely given, but it's not about her. If anything, it makes her sound like more of a Proud Dalish Warrior than she's had any interest in being since she was twelve. But that's another matter entirely... what he says is interesting, though.

"The Woodland Realm?" She steeples her hands together in front of her face, crossing one leg over the other. It's the way she sits in Skyhold when she passes out judgements, the posture of casual power. "What of the, ah..." she smiles, "the Urban Realm? The ones who live in cities?"

Edited 2015-01-04 02:28 (UTC)

That piece of information has him a bit curious, but at the same time I didn't concern him or his people - she was from another place entirely, someplace not of Middle-earth or even Arda, by the sounds of it. Her mentioning of some 'Urban Realm' confuses him just enough to give her a questioning glance.

"There is no 'Urban Realm' to speak of in Middle-earth, though if you mean to speak of Elven cities there are none... that time has long since passed."

There might have been a touch of something behind his eyes just then, but it's quickly replaced by his usual indifferent look.

"Really? You got them all out of the cities? Good for you." See, it's not that she thinks the Dalish are better than the elves that live crammed into cities, just that they're better off. She envied their freedom, once, but that was before she saw what alienages looked like.

A king who actually managed to fix that... she could see bowing to him. But he's not her king, so it's... it's like Solas would say. The distinction is academic. More importantly, "do you have a name, or would you prefer to go by Your Highness?" It's maybe got an edge of that mocking from before, but she'll call him whatever he says.

Josephine comes across Thranduil as he examines the drapery. He's a striking figure, between his height and the length of his hair, enough so that it gives her pause. And considering just how many of her compatriots she's run across, she can't help looking at him and wondering if he, too, is a Thedosian. She doesn't know everyone on the continent, after all.

She's tempted to say an andaran atish’an--but there's no outward indication that the man is Dalish. His face lacks the distinctive tattoos; if not for his sharply pointed ears, she'd have assumed that he was as human as she.

Safer, given her lack of certainty, to comment on the curtains. "They're rather...vibrant, aren't they?"

(She might not have room to talk about vibrant, considering she's dressed in gold and sapphire blue, but the colours in Panem strike her as far louder than anything Orlais might have managed at home.)

"Want? Oh - nothing," Cullen says hastily. Maker's breath, he never knows what to say to elves, anyway. Well, except maybe to Sera, which is usually stop that. He has the bearing of a Dalish, but none of the tattoos, almost like Solas in a way.

He never knows what to say to Solas, either. Except maybe no, I'm not going to drag you to a Circle. Even if there was one left to drag you to.

"Sorry, my name's Cullen," he finally says, sketching a faint bow that's little more than a nod of his head. "I've only just arrived a few days ago, really, so I'm still working things out here."

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haha he's 6'5" Lee Pace is insanely tall.

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hes just a little terrifying.

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XD

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