It is one of the warm nights that will grow fewer and fewer in numbers as winter settles in in the North. The sky is cloudless, all the bright, white stars on full display, the moon large and clear, the silver light it reflects casting gentle shadows everywhere it fell. The sort of a night the silvan elves adore, the sort of a night when celebrations are all the more joyful. Yet Legolas finds himself wandering the dungeons, deep beneath the halls of his father's realm, far from the twilight and far from his kin for he wanders alone. His thoughts stray to the recent events, issues large and small, piling up one after another.
And yet a kind of dread creeps up his spine, with its chilly and slimey fingers crawling up his flesh. It settles a burden of unease upon his shoulders, whether the danger will come from the dwarves they're holding in their cells, from the great spiders that spread further into the forest, too close to their borders and in too large numbers, even after they clear out the nests to their best abilities, or yet from a source his eyes cannot see yet, Legolas doesn't know. Knowledge which only serves to settle the concerns deeper into his bones.
A walk in the night would help clear his mind, settle his nerves a little, but the celebrations taking place took that chance away from him.
Patrolling the dungeons is unnecessary, for without a key breaking out of the cells would be impossible. The bars made of metal too strong for any mortal to break, the walls firmed over the ages his people lived here. Most of the dwarves are asleep too, and that at least is a comfort, that at least means some solitude and a chance to think if not rest. His step is light, nothing more but a soundless touch of soft leather on smooth wood of the stairs. Something glints in the corner of his eye, however, a smooth surface reflecting the sparse light the winding stairs are bathed in. A brief event, one he would have easily missed if he choose that moment to blink. Legolas ceases his further descent, stops on a landing by the cell where he saw it.
One of the dwarves, of course, which one exactly it is, is no concern of his. They all look nearly the same to him, some more revolting than the others.
"What are you hiding, dwarf?" He says, his words as much a question as they are a demand for answers, the look on the fine elven features seemingly devoid of an expression. Eyelids low over his eyes though doing nothing much at all to cover the bright shine, as he looks down, not a single crease of a frown mars the fair skin of his forehead, his lips a straight line. A haughty look, proud and distant, without doubt his father's son.
:>
And yet a kind of dread creeps up his spine, with its chilly and slimey fingers crawling up his flesh. It settles a burden of unease upon his shoulders, whether the danger will come from the dwarves they're holding in their cells, from the great spiders that spread further into the forest, too close to their borders and in too large numbers, even after they clear out the nests to their best abilities, or yet from a source his eyes cannot see yet, Legolas doesn't know. Knowledge which only serves to settle the concerns deeper into his bones.
A walk in the night would help clear his mind, settle his nerves a little, but the celebrations taking place took that chance away from him.
Patrolling the dungeons is unnecessary, for without a key breaking out of the cells would be impossible. The bars made of metal too strong for any mortal to break, the walls firmed over the ages his people lived here. Most of the dwarves are asleep too, and that at least is a comfort, that at least means some solitude and a chance to think if not rest. His step is light, nothing more but a soundless touch of soft leather on smooth wood of the stairs. Something glints in the corner of his eye, however, a smooth surface reflecting the sparse light the winding stairs are bathed in. A brief event, one he would have easily missed if he choose that moment to blink. Legolas ceases his further descent, stops on a landing by the cell where he saw it.
One of the dwarves, of course, which one exactly it is, is no concern of his. They all look nearly the same to him, some more revolting than the others.
"What are you hiding, dwarf?" He says, his words as much a question as they are a demand for answers, the look on the fine elven features seemingly devoid of an expression. Eyelids low over his eyes though doing nothing much at all to cover the bright shine, as he looks down, not a single crease of a frown mars the fair skin of his forehead, his lips a straight line. A haughty look, proud and distant, without doubt his father's son.