milliways_bar | (no subject)

Legolas is in full hunting garb, as he leans over the back of the couch, cheerily.

"I am glad I found you where I was looking," he laughs, "else I should surely have surprised some poor person."

"Never fear, dear princeling." The elf who is wallowing in the delicious comfiness of the couch makes no move to get up. Or otherwise show respect due to a royal family. "I am sure they would take pity on you and treat you kindly."

"Ah, but what if they thought me rude?" Legolas asks, eyebrows raising; "I should be wounded to be taken so by a stranger."

"I truly doubt you need worry they would form an erroneous opinion of you, little leaflet." He retorts cheerfully.

Legolas laughs. "Leaflet?"

He moves to the side, removing his bow and quiver in several quick, smooth movements, setting them against the arm chair. "My greatest worry of erroneous opnions would be that none realize that you are a treasured member of Lord Elrond's committee; perhaps they think that what Elves do is lie upon -- couches?"

"They need only sit upon this couch to known the wisdom of lying upon it - it is akin to what I imagine clouds must be like, if clouds could bear one's weight." Glorfindel replies, still not moving. It is a lovely couch.

"But they shall never learn," Legolas says, mournfully sonorous in the way only Elven languages can manage; he sprawls in his seat (...gracefully), and laughs.

"You should have one built, to think upon in Imladris."

"And fight one and all for its use? No. I shall come here, for this one is sorely unappreciated." He declares virtuously. Clearly, he is only thinking of what would be best for all and sundry.

"You are my better in strategy," Legolas admits. "At least you've place to stretch yourself; it's been more time than I'd like since I've had so much as a flet."

Glorfindel suddenly eyes the young princeling.

"Indeed, the dust of the road must be a not-so-distant memory. Forgive me, I did not note it. Allow me to alleviate some of your suffering."

This would be the ancient, powerful elf lord attempting to tackle a member of one of the elvish royal families.

Yup.

The sound coming out of Legolas' throat might be best described as a meep! as he attempts to scramble backwards, and doesn't quite manage it in time, leg stuck.

He's laughing, though he winces briefly as his bow hits the ground. It'll be fine. "Their guards shall be angry at us," he tells Glorfindel, but that does not stop him from trying to pry his way loose.

"Ah, their guards have better things to do than interfere with a helpful friend." He announces, keeping a firm hand tangled in the back of his tunic as he scoops up the princeling's weapons.

He knows to leave without them would be a sure way to actually earn the other elf's ire.

But now he has a task to accomplish. Legolas needs a bath. And there's a fantastic lake out back that will suit this aim admirably.

Until they're out of the Bar, Legolas puts up with this with the sullen expression of a preteen (though he appreciates Glorfindel bringing his weapons, he almost doesn't note it because it's so obvious).

once he's free of the door, though, he drops, and twists, freeing himself (with a few irritating snapping noises which mean he will be mending it later) of his tunic and running toward the tree line.

Elves do not facepalm. So this one does not. He does drop the ruined tunic and the weapons in a handy copse of bushes, and hares after the fleeing, half-naked princeling.

Honestly.

What are you supposed to do with younglings who won't take a bath?

It's not that he doesn't want to take a bath (it's actually sounding quite nice), it's that he doesn't want to be CAUGHT.

...even though last time he tried this, that didn't work so well.

Legolas veers into a foreward jutting copse of trees, and disappears.

(This is a lie. He's moving, still, but few in bar other than Glorfindel would have a chance of following him right now.)

Even being one of the few of seeing the elfling, Legolas is a wood elf. Glorfindel, for all his accomplishments, is not. His affinity is to rock and stone, not bush and tree. The trees have no news for him, refusing to give up the location of the fleet elfling.

Glorfindel is, however, a very good tracker. He's not so far behind the prince, even if he hasn't spotted the younger elf yet.

Minutes pass; Legolas is moving inward somewhat but he's mostly been following the edge of the forest.

Somewhere to the left and ahead of Glorfindel, there's faint but sudden breath quickly cut off. There's no one there by the time Glorfindel arrives, but closer to the treeline Legolas calls "Did you know the rabbits here are Dark? I may as well resort to swimming."

He's annoyed as he drops from the tree, the skin on his right hand between his finger and thumb somewhat inflamed, though far less than it could be.

Legolas feels, honestly, like an idiot. A rabbit

Now, he knows bites are serious things. Especially bites of creatures suspected to be evil.

But.

Well.

Forgive him, he's the one leaning up against the nearest tree trunk, laughing himself silly.

Legolas glares a bit longer, then starts to laugh himself -- though not with quite the level of hilarity Glorfindel is expressing.

He's keeping an eye on his hand; he thinks he's sucked the poison out, but if necessary he can excise the flesh with his hunting knife. It's a sensitive and important bit of skin, but it would row back in the years his father would assign him to do political work while archery was hard. (Which, political work ... hopefully it wouldn't come to that; and it doesn't feel as if it will.)

"Now you know, if you ever wish to go hunting here," Legolas informs him solemnly, stepping backwards from the cover of trees. "Vicious rabbits, to add to the ranks of Dark creatures you have fought."

"No, I shall leave that honor to you, and be sure to inform some passing minstrel of it - Legolas, the grand and glorious slayer of fuzzy bunnies." Glorfindel chortles, stepping within easy arms-reach of the princeling again. "How badly mauled are you, from such a horrible creature?"

"Mm, not so badly," Legolas says, turning his hand to show it to Glorfindel. There are fang-marks, but no torn skin. "Not a fine spot, and it did have a poison, but I do not think it lingers. Its fangs were not so long." His voice is slightly self-mocking; an unknown creature's poison does bother him, but it was a rabbit.

They are walking out of the trees, so he turns and backs up a few hasty steps. "To the lake?" he asks, in a way that very much implies race you?, especially as he's shucking his soft leather shoes as he asks.

He has been travelling the wild with the sons of the world's foremost healer and herbologist - if necessary, he does have his kit. But... he's been travelling the wild with those two hooligans. He's too used to accidental scratches and bites to react with much alarm without cause. He eyes the hand, and shakes his head at the young prince. Honestly, just how is he supposed to explain that one to Thranduil? I'm sorry, your highness, your son will not be pulling his weight on patrols for the next couple years or so because of a bunny.

Right.

"Pride will only get you into trouble, princeling." He snorts, but his shoes come off just as easily.

"I've had enough trouble this night!" Legolas says, laughing as he extends his hands eloquently. He's an Elf of Mirkwood; he knows the feel of poison well enough to not be too worried, now.

"But is it pride to trust that I may be speedier than one so many years my elder?" he asks, innocence shining from his eyes.

Given that he doesn't wait to hear the answer, he probably doesn't trust himself THAT much.