open post;

[walkingarsenal]

Permanently open for prompts/starters/anything.

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[orcsurfing]

An eyebrow rises at the answer, nothing more but a slight twitch. Legolas knows what he had seen and he stretches out a hand between the bars of the cell, palm up, long fingers held together in a gesture that speaks for itself, it demands the prisoner gives up what he's hiding and willingly at that. Though Legolas has no cell keys with himself and if the dwarf does not cooperate, whether out of respect for the jailer or fear (unlikely as that is, from what Legolas had already seen of the company), he will not be able to do much else until he returns with means to open the cell. The guards should have confiscated all weapons, though not that any of them would be of much use in the dungeons, but it seems something had slipped past their attention.

"Not much is still far from nothing," he says, tone unchanging, gaze unwavering and he holds the look turned towards him, "And I had seen a glint of what looked a blade to me, or are all dwarves liars?"

The insult rings clear once more, though it carries no venom nor does it show any sort of sense of self-satisfaction that one could or would expect. Legolas simply states facts based on opinions, on the things he had been taught or learned himself during his life. Life that was long already, yet he had still seen so little of the world, never having stepped far beyond the borders of the Mirkwood forest and not for his lack of desire to or lack of trying.

Dwarves were not loved in the Woodland Realm, and as the King's son it showed in the prince's attitude in particular, though he took no joy nor pleasure out of any of this.

[walkingarsenal]

It's the principle, Fíli suspects. The elves have to strip their prisoners of anything and everything short of their clothes not because they believe that even one dagger could become a means to break out of these cells – and he can't imagine that they fear being attacked – but because that's what is done with captured trespassers. Precautions, to make a point, to collect quality weapons for themselves... The reason doesn't matter. The Elvenking has the upper hand, the power to decide whether the quest ends here in his dungeons; if the Company could escape, they would have by now. Bilbo is nowhere to be seen or heard, but Nori knows how to pick locks, so surely he must have been trying his skills on these ones, too.

His gaze as unwavering as the guard's, Fíli wonders what would happen if he were to lie. Thick bars separate him from the elf; if he stands at the back of his cell, even a long arm wouldn't reach him to dig through his pockets. He could stall and refuse to hand anything over. Would the elf go to the trouble of another search? Would he go as far as unlocking the door to the cell for it?

It wouldn't give Fíli an opening to overpower him, and Fíli doesn't entertain the thought, a pointless act that wouldn't get him or any of the others closer to freedom and could make matters worse for them. It would prove that there is at least one liar among the captives.

He thinks in a hurry. In truth, whether he gives up this knife like the others taken from him or holds onto it isn't going to make much of a difference. He can't do anything with it in here, and he knows that as well as the elves do; it would either become only another chip in his pride for him or an annoyance to test their patience for them. Cooperation in this won't be rewarded with the dungeon key.

But he would be sorry to see it go. Each of his blades has a story, each he is reluctant to part with like this.

"You saw a glint," he agrees slowly, "but I'll have to disappoint you, if it's a blade that you're expecting. Was it this?" And he faces the other way to show the guard the back of his head, the twin to his brother's clasp still in his hair. That, luckily, the elves didn't think necessary to confiscate. The silver hasn't lost its lustre, and there is enough light for it to have been the glint of metal that caught the elf's eye – Fíli banks upon that to make a convincing explanation, at any rate.

[orcsurfing]

It is difficult to fool an eye of an elf, Legolas is certain what he saw and it was not the offered explanation. And yet... he concedes, in a way, not that terribly keen on confiscating a weapon that, at the end of the day, is as useless in the dungeons of this realm as any lock picks. It is keys, yes, that hold the doors closed, but it is his father's magic that keeps all but the fitting key from opening these bars. He's not worried, in fact, never has been about that in particular. Perhaps the principle of the thing was to strip the prisoners of their weapons, perhaps he should have exposed a liar when he saw another one, but Thorin and the sword of Gondolin was a different matter all together. Something more personal to see a dwarf wield a sword of his kin.

In any case, his father wished the company contained, and so they would be, regardless of whatever plots and plans come to life in their heads.

"Perhaps," he says at last, betraying nothing much of his private thoughts. He speaks in a fashion composed, calm, in a way that makes it difficult - nearly impossible for those unfamiliar with the prince - to distinguish whether or not he believed the excuse, "Does it possess a sentimental value, a little trinket like that?"

A little dagger like that.

Legolas wonders, idly, if the dwarf will pick up on his true meaning, but doubts so. He had the audacity to lie to his face, come up with an excuse plausible enough and were Legolas any less watchful, he could have taken it without much opposition. He accepts it even knowing it is a lie, for reasons he can't quite justify with himself; perhaps curiosity how far the lie would be taken, or perhaps interest in holding on to something that was, in truth, of no use and the dwarf must know that.

A cocked eyebrow in expectation of an answer is all the hint he gives, his look sharp like the blade hidden from him.