thearena | [OPEN] + [CLOSED] for second prompt

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[OPEN] + [CLOSED] for second prompt

Who| Thranduil & YOU
What| Taking shelter in the caves for the snow day
Where| The Caves
When| Week 0, Jan 28th - 29th
Warnings/Notes| General disclaimer for King Prickly Pants being... him. Will edit if needed.

He had sensed the snow coming, which thankfully was enough warning to find a more stable shelter. In this case, a cave. Thranduil was no stranger to caves, but this was not the same as his lofty palace with the warm light of braziers and hanging lanterns, nor was there any bit of green in the place.

Thankfully by now the subtleties of starting a fire by hand had come back to his memory, and though it still wasn't easy, the king was able to get one going with less frustration than he had before. It's small, but it worked to keep him warm enough for now. There's also a small trout that he was able to catch earlier in the day with his tent bag roasting over it.

The tent behind him is set for the evening, though this time almost accurately put together. It would be dark soon.

Who| Thranduil, Thorin, and Thorongil
What| In soviet arena, wild goose chase you Flashbacks to rather traumatizing events.
Where| The marsh
When| Sometime Week 1
Warnings/Notes| Flashbacks & emotional trauma. Mentions of war and death, and parental death. Dead bodies.

Thranduil was sure if his son were here, and armed with his a bow and quiver, he would have no trouble shooting down two geese with one arrow. The king himself while not as skilled as his son with a bow might have been able to down one with some luck, however it is a moot point. He was currently bow-less. Still, the geese are tempting enough that he would try to find a way to catch one.

These particular birds were surprisingly aggressive, even more so than if they were trying to protect their young. At first there were two, which - though through an abundance of annoying pecking - he was able to fell using his newly acquired hunting knife.

However, as soon as their blood was spilled, more came... then more... it was rather silly to think that the Elvenking was currently fleeing from geese of all creatures, but that was exactly what was happening. They pecked hard enough to tear at his clothes and break skin in a few places. Thranduil was not going to be feasting on goose tonight as he had to abandon his kills.

It's a long way before he's outrun the geese, or rather, before the geese decide they don't feel like chasing him anymore. Now he stands, panting just slightly, and swings off his pack with the tent and other newly acquired supplies to rest it on the ground...the soggy ground, apparently.

As Thranduil takes in the surroundings of the marsh, he goes very still, ignoring the small swarming insects around him. It was as if he were trapped in the memory of another place and another time.

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Thorongil is still exploring the arena. He wants to know the lay of the land before any of this gets worse -- and it will get worse, he's sure of it.

That is why he has taken a direction today that he hasn't before and has ended up in the marshes. His face pulls into a frown, and he begins to step carefully -- he has traveled through marshlands many times and knows how treacherous they can be.

But he is not unaware of his surroundings, and he spots Thranduil a good dozen yards away, standing -- bizarrely still, actually. What was the Elvenking doing?

"My lord Thranduil!" he calls, carefully stepping closer.

The king's gaze is fixed on a spot nearby in a watery area of the marsh. He doesn't answer at first, almost as if he hadn't heard Thorongil speak at all. In truth, Thranduil had heard the words, but didn't associate them with the Dúnadan. It's a long few moments before he speaks, sounding slow and distant.

"...Take the rest to higher ground. We are too close to the Nindalf."

Confusion deepens in the Ranger's face. He slows his approach, but continues moving closer.

"My lord," he says, as a slow understanding of what's happening comes over him, "this is not the Nindalf."

He has seen this before, in soldiers. Elves have it worse, he has always found, for time runs differently for them, and memories and dreams are more akin than they are in Men. It is for that reason that his tone is gentle, his voice low.

Of course it wasn't the Nindalf. This was Dagorlad, but not Dagorlad as it should have been. The earth here had been so scarred by war that the marshlands of the Nindalf had expanded to the land in which they buried their dead and caused bodies to rise to the surface.

"Do as I say!" His voice is sharp, letting anger mask the pain of the 'recent' losses. "Our fallen do not deserve this. It is terrible enough that they must share graves."

There were just far too many dead, and far too few left to bury them. It would be unpractical to dig them individually, and impossible to return them to their homeland for their families to grieve over. He remembered them; the mass graves with piled corpses.

"You are lost in memory," Thorongil argues, stepping forward further -- stopping about fifteen feet behind Thranduil. "This is not the place you are thinking of. You are far away from there, now. Come back."

For a moment he's still far away, and this time when he speaks his voice is softer and wavers slightly. "Take the king north... on the safest road."

When Man behind him speaks again, Thranduil finally turns. It's obvious he doesn't see who he expected to see. He stops and looks around, confused at his attire and equipment.

Gil-galad, Thorongil thinks, It must be.

"The High King is not here," he explains, still soft, still patient. "That happened many long years ago. My lord, come away from the marsh. It holds nothing but evil memories for you."

"Do not talk to me of The High King! Let the Noldor tend to their own fallen! Have you forgotten your own king so soon?!"

Just as he seemed to be coming out of it, the mention of Gil-galad sends him back and into a rage. Thranduil looks around as if searching for something.

"...Where is it? Where is the wagon that carries my father?"

The king, still in the mindset of a prince, quickly takes a few steps forward and reaches up as if to grab Thorongil by his clothes to question him further when he stops himself short before doing so. He blinks and his eyes focus on the here and now. Thorongil was not an Elf lieutenant as Thranduil had thought him to be. This time, he truly has returned to the present, but he turns away quickly, showing his back. The hand that he had intended to grab with now shakily covers his face instead.

His brow creases at your own king. No, Aragorn hasn't forgotten.

"Forgive me, my lord, I meant no offense," he says, just as calm, but the words have weight to them. "Many great kings fell that day."

He says nothing for a long moment, and when he does speak his voice is soft.

"Yes."

That was all he would say on that matter. Now back in the here and now, the pain was passing quickly - or rather, was quickly being repressed. Thranduil picks up his tent pack once more and gives one last glance to the dead body in the marsh before turning around back towards Thorongil.

"The geese here are unnaturally aggressive. I would not try to make a meal of one."

Thorongil, for he is Thorongil again, glances around and raises an eyebrow.

He says nothing, and makes no mention of the goose-fletched, handmade arrows that peek out of the pack over his shoulders. It would not do to mention that he had had little trouble with the geese the Elvenking had found so aggressive. Maybe they got more ferocious with time. Thorongil wouldn't put that past the Game-makers.

"Perhaps they, too, are unhappy to be trapped here."

"If that is true I would not fault them for it."

The king begins to move quickly away from this place, expecting the Dúnadan to follow. He had no real direction but he certainly wasn't going to stay in the marsh where nothing but unpleasant memories could be found.

"I assume you have put your skills as a ranger to good use. Tell me what you know of this land."

"We are about as far south as we can go," says Thorongil, briskly falling into step just behind the king. "To the west is a river; beyond it are caves. They provide good shelter, but the system is deep and vast, and we cannot know what the Game-makers have left for us to find below ground. The river, which runs north-to-south, comes from a great, cold lake at the foot of a mountain range. There is a great shelf of ice north of the lake. Never have I seen its like. West of the river are mountains; what is beyond them, I do not know. They are steep and difficult to climb. North of us lies a meadow full of game; beyond that, the trees turn to beeches, and there is a clearing still further north, filled with wildflowers of every color. Yet something about them seems unwholesome; I did not like the smell of the air and so did not linger long. Between the flower-meadow and the lake, surrounded by beeches, is a great flat grassland. Large game grazes there, herd animals both familiar and not. Those are the only features; all the rest is pine wood, surrounding the field in which we arrived."

He hasn't been idle.

"The animals here eat some plants and leave others. That tells me that some are poison and some are not. The animals are the only sure test: some poison plants are identical to ones that would be safe otherwise. The lake-water and river-water are clear and good, and the game is unwary. I have wanted for little since the Arena began."

Edited 2015-03-08 16:47 (UTC)

Thranduil listens intently, driving the old memories of war out of his mind. The ranger is thorough, but the king hadn't expected any less. A picture of the layout of the area started to form in his mind.

"I have seen the river, and the mountains, but I have not yet been so far north."

Now he pauses in his steps. They were out of the marsh and that had been his immediate concern. Large game sounded tempting, but he wasn't well equipped for it. Sure, he could live off of plants and berries, but meat would provide for a more satisfying meal. Still, there probably wasn't enough time to reach that area before it was dark. He looks up at the sky.

"Nightfall will soon be upon us. We must find a place to make camp."

"The best shelter would be the caves," Thorongil suggests, "if one can be found that is small and unconnected to the larger system. If not, the forest will have to do."

"The caves are some distance away. I do not think we can reach them before dark."

Of course, Thranduil ended up with no dinner the night he spent in the caves, thanks to that irritating thief. The king glances to his shoulder where the large bag hung on his shoulder.

"I took this tent when I first arrived. It will have to do for now. The trees should provide added protection."

A tent is a luxury Thorongil can and has done without, but he's pleased to see it.

"I can think of a place for it," he says. "I passed it not long ago. It's a hollow, surrounded by higher ground on three sides. We will be difficult to spot, unless the enemy stumbles upon us, and with a watch set on our unguarded side, we will have as much safety as it is possible to have in this accursed place."

"I will trust your judgement."

Talk of 'the enemy' has his mind briefly thinking of Orcs and other servants of Sauron... but that was not the case here. Here, they faced other tributes. The king inclines his head in a forward direction.

"Lead on."

Lead he will: their trek through the woods, at least on Thorongil's part, will be all but silent. This is his natural element; he moves well in forests.

He will lead Thranduil to the hollow, and stop to glance over, seeking approval -- will it do? he asks without words.

The king wasn't the kind to make needless conversation under such circumstances, so he too is quiet until they reach the spot Thorongil had picked. He gives a slow nod of approval, then puts down the tent pack.

"We will set camp here, then see to finding something to eat."

He nods.

"If you make camp, I can hunt." Or the other way around. Thorongil has a spear, fashioned from a long, straight tree limb and a sharp rock, tied together with a green branch stripped of its bark. He wouldn't mind lending it, if Thranduil asked. "Or fish. We are not far from the river."

Considering that all he had was a knife, it was probably better if Thorongil did the hunting. The king knew how to set up the tent by now, so it made sense for him to work on that.

"Then it seems our tasks are settled. It matters not if you fish or hunt, only that you keep quiet and do not overwork yourself."

The latter was said less out of concern for Thorongil's sake, but survival in general. Exhaustion could put the ranger out of commission, leaving Thranduil to do twice the work.

A nod, a rustle, and the Ranger has disappeared into the gathering dark.

He'll be back not an hour later with four fat rabbits strung up on his spear, slipping silently back into the camp.

By now the tent has been assembled into something that would serve it's purpose, and Thranduil has a small fire going. Just enough for warmth and to cook with, but not so large as to attract too much attention.

When the king first notices someone step into view, he quickly reaches for the handle of his knife that was tucked away in his boot. Once he sees that it's only Thorongil he relaxes.

"I see you were successful."

After the ridiculous mess at the Cornucopia, Jack had slipped away and done his best to avoid confrontations with other Tributes. As the week had progressed, a cold chill had settled into the landscape and seeped its way through the flimsy clothes that the Capitolites had shoved him into. So, in an effort to find shelter, the pirate decided to circle down southwest towards where he'd seen caves.

As Jack nears one in particular, he pauses next to a tree. "Bloody useless." The words are mumbled with an edge of sharp irritation; in his hand is a compass, one that he snaps closed and furiously shakes. It's by chance, then, that out of the corner of his eye the small orange flicker of fire snags his attention. Suddenly on high alert, the pirate tucks the compass away into his jacket pocket and, after a moment of hesitation, stealthily approaches.

The aroma of cooked fish is tempting enough, and his hand comes to rest against the hunting knife in his pocket. Peeking from a covered spot near the cave entrance, he catches sight of who's inside -- well, sort of, since the sunlight is fading quick and the fire gives barely any good visibility. But it's enough to give Jack what he thinks is a good impression of the person inside -- whoever it is has noticeably long, lush, soft hair and is wearing a ... tiara?

Jack squints. Yeah, that definitely looks like a tiara.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. His hand falls away from the knife, and Jack slides out from where he's hidden. His hands are spread apart, empty, so that he won't outright spook the woman. "Mean you no harm at all, luv, honestly, but I saw the flame." His steps closer are measured, slow, cautious. "I've a portion of food on me, if a pretty lady such as yourself were interested in sharing."

The voice startles him. The lack of his Elven senses was something he was still adjusting to, and therefore he is surprised to see Jack so close outside the mouth of the cave. Thranduil stands quickly - all six feet, five inches of him. If he had been armed, a sword would have been drawn right about now.

While the king did not think Elf-maids were any lesser than him by gender alone, (royalty was another issue altogether) it was still insulting to be mistaken for one. Part of him wondered if this man was somehow touched in the head as mortals sometimes succumbed to sicknesses of the mind. His tone is sharp.

"I see no lady here, nor am I inclined to share my meal."

His first thought when Thranduil stands up is blimey she's a tall one -- when the realization quickly and finally settles in, and the flirtatious tone of his expression is wiped away completely. His brow knots together, upper lip curled, then the pirate takes a stumbling step backwards and draws the knife from his jacket.

Oops.

"Devil damn me, mate, you looked like it from further away." He's not going to attack Thranduil with the knife, but merely wield it as a precaution. And he just has to add in as a retort: "I didn't want to share it with you in any case."

As irksome as Thranduil finds him, it's a truth that the man is armed while he was not. The king wasn't a fool, and would keep his temper in check. At the moment there was no real need to start a fight, as much as that would be what their spectators would have wanted.

"Then we are agreed to leave each other be."

It was a statement and not a question. He stands where he is and looks expectantly at Jack, waiting for him to leave.

"... Sure enough." It's a wholly noncommittal-sounding agreement on his end, because it hasn't escaped Jack's notice that Thranduil had failed to draw any sort of weapon in kind. His gaze quickly flits over to the trout, hungrily, then back over to the man in the same instant.

His hand lifts, finger raised and palm forward, gesturing at Thranduil. "Curious -- what is that silliness atop your head about, anyhow?" As Jack speaks, his boot slides forward against the rough, bringing him incrementally closer.

Edited (wow what is grammar) 2015-02-27 08:05 (UTC)

"It is a circlet, and it is not silly. It is an heirloom of my house."

The words are spoken with an inflection that suggests he thinks Jack an idiot for not knowing what a circlet was. The king is suspicious of the movement, certainly, but for now he only cautiously watches. While Thranduil felt that he could probably wrestle the knife from Jack if it came to that, the fact remained that at the moment the man was the one with the weapon.

Oh good, it looks like Jack hit a nerve. He can work with that.

He's angled himself towards the cooking fish, gaze still focused on Thranduil with each slow step forward. "Circlet, tiara, hat, whichever way you want to call it -- " There's some hand-waving from him, both hands this time, the knife glinting from the flame. " -- let's be honest, it looks a tad silly on you, mate."

If Thranduil hasn't moved to block him, the pirate is a couple steps away from the fish at this point. He lifts his chin, squinting at the elf. "Are you absolutely certain it's an heirloom? Because, to me, mate, and I hate to tell you this, but it looks like a bunch of leaves and sticks got stuck in your hair."

Well, Thranduil had been paying close attention to the pirate's steps and guessing his intentions. Now he's livid due to those words and successfully distracted. As far as he was concerned, it was an insult to Oropher as well as himself. He makes a motion as if to reach for a sword, but of course there's nothing there.

"How dare you insult my father's circlet! This was crafted in Doriath before it's fall by the same jewel-smith who often crafted pieces for High King Thingol!"

Of course, if Jack had been from Middle-earth and well educated, that all of that would have been very impressive.

Thranduil's movement to reach for a sword -- a motion that Jack is very very familiar with -- instinctively causes the pirate to completely stiffen and freeze. But with no weapon produced still, the tension quickly fades away.

Particularly because his previous words have had the desired effect on the man.

His brow briefly knits as Thranduil erupts at him, but now Jack is within reach of his intended prize. "That's well and good, mate. However."

His free hand drops down, and there's a beat. "All of that sounds like a complete load of utter nonsense to me." One last flicker of his gaze towards the fish, judging distance and timing, then Jack dives forward to snatch it from its place above the fire. In the few seconds it would take Thranduil to properly react, the pirate will have jumped back out of reach and hurriedly started to make a break towards the cave's exit only a few feet away.

"Much obliged for the fish, mate, hope you don't mind!"

By the time Thranduil realizes what exactly had just happened, and that the insults had been a distraction, Jack was already far ahead. He mutters a few choice curse words quietly to himself. Sure, he could run after him and he'd probably catch up, too, but the man had a knife.

Instead the king is forced to sit down again by the fire and poke at it angrily with a stick. He would go hungry tonight.

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[OPEN] + [CLOSED] for second prompt

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should we wrap up for keep going?

oh hell let's keep going.

\o/

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hope this works!

<3 ! (metric: almost 2 meters)

c:

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