TEST DRIVE MEME!

[faderifting]

TEST DRIVE MEME

Maybe you’ve been around for a while, or maybe you’re new to the Inquisition. Maybe you’re new to Thedas, having recently fallen from a tear in reality and been collected by uniformed rescuers. Whoever you are, you’ve been sent to Kirkwall, to an outpost where many of the Inquisition’s members and allies work on some of the biggest mysteries and problems the organization must solve if it’d like to keep the world from ending, where “ending” means “falling under the power of an ancient powerful corrupted being who wants everyone to bow to him as a god.”

And just to be clear, it would like that. It would like that a lot.

I. THE GALLOWS: The Gallows is an island fortress in Kirkwall’s harbor. It’s been home to, in order: Tevinter slaves, a Circle of Magi, a lot of creepy red lyrium, and now the Inquisition, which has occupied the fortress with the provisional Viscount’s blessing. There are walls that still need rebuilding and corners that still need dusting, but for the most part the Inquisition has gotten down to business. There’s space in the stone-floored courtyards to train or spar; or, if your skills don’t lie in the realm of hitting things, there’s a large library and several offices supporting the Inquisition’s areas of research and diplomatic efforts. If you don’t know what to do with yourself, then by all means, ask; someone will definitely be able to put you to work.

II. KIRKWALL: A quick row across the harbor will take you to Kirkwall proper. The city is built into the cliffs, from exclusive and wealthy Hightown at the top to impoverished Darktown in the abandoned mining tunnels below. In the middle is Lowtown, home to taverns, merchants, and plenty of trouble to keep anyone looking for it happy. You’re welcome to spend your free time and your money here—but try not to annoy the locals too much, please, in case their welcome runs out. It’d be a shame to have to pack again so soon after arriving.

III. TOURNEY: Barely had time to make yourself at home, did you, before you were sent away from Kirkwall again—but for fun! Sort of. You've been sent to Wycome, the party capital of the Free Marches, for the Grand Tourney. It's a week of celebration and chillin', shopping at vendors' stalls or drinking and making new friends while fighters from across Thedas try their hands at friendly (or "friendly") competitions of skill and/or muscle, leading up to the prestigious Grand Melee. Your mission, which you've presumably already accepted, is to put on a good, respectable show for the rest of Thedas—particularly if you're someone like a rifter, or a mage, or an elf, or anyone at all who isn't an Andrastian human—so the Tourney's affluent visitors take only good gossip home to their countrymen. Which is to say: if you get involved in a drinking competition, you better win.

IV. SENDING CRYSTAL: Joining the Inquisition gets you access to the very latest in barely-understood magical communication devices—namely, a crystal, small enough to wear around your neck, that will allow you to communicate verbally with anyone else who has one. Or everyone else who has one. Say hello.

V. WILDCARD: The whole of Thedas is yours to explore, from coast to uncharted wilderness. Choose your own adventure!

Comments

legolas | lotr / tolkien, book version

[tofindthesun]

KIRKWALL - PLACES

He dreamt (if one can call it dreaming, what Elves do) of a festival, a gathering. They've won the war, after all, and all good victories must come with good cheer, good moods, and good drink.

Unfortunately this means he stepped out of the Fade with little than some mildly festive clothes and an entire carafe of dark red wine. Definitely not the picture of a fighter. He's not even got a pocket-knife, for Arda's sake. Or rather, this was the case until he traded a silver button for a basket of fruits and a small knife. The shopkeeper might have thought she got a bargain, but Legolas doesn't. It is but a button. And maybe, he thinks, he's only dreaming, in which case it's even less than a button.

(It is a very strange not-dream, though, and not anything he'd ever thought would come into his mind. Is this how mortals dream, then? That would be a little more worrying.)

Find him sitting on a ledge here and there, wine at his side, peeling his fruits, and people-watching. Occasionally feeding bits to the birds and whatever creatures come near. And people. He'll feed people too.

Ah, and singing! He can't not sing at a time like this. Waiting for this waking dream to go by so he can go back to actual celebrations. He's just humming nonsense along to whatever he's hearing around him. Sing along?

SENDING CRYSTAL

[some fumbling noises, and a muffled voice.] ... What pretty bauble is this? A stone? A crystal! Such a small thing... [unintelligible comment by a different voice.] It is not a stone?

[some silence. looks like someone's explaining something to him.]

Oh.. I suppose it is valuable, then? Will it break easily? I have never seen a crystal shatter before. [someone's stern chiding tone, and legolas laughs.] Nay! I will not deign to destroy it, if it is as useful as you say. But what if I fell from a tree? Not that I would ever fall from a tree, I am quite capable of landing on my feet. But what of the stone?

[clearly his question is confusingly worded (is he asking if the crystal can land on its feet? who knows.), because whomever he's speaking who offers a blunt 'it'll be fine' as an answer.]

Clearly it is a wondrous item. [said legolas, solemnly, with much solemnity.] Capable of many great things. I will cherish this gift and keep it safe from harm.

[some more silence.



and that whistling sound is clearly him spinning the crystal around on whatever chain its connected to. round and round and round and round......

someone says 'stop that'. legolas hums, and does not.]



((ooc: sending crystals are probably not capable of accidental posting but i can't find anything about it, so uh. y'know. here. legolas is......... Probably aware he's not actually dreaming but you'll never catch him wondering about that.

in short: newly post-war, roughly 600-700 y/o, more wood-elf than not. text is elvish of the sindarin / tolkien/lotr sort, though accented with That Wild Wild Wood-elf.

side note, i hear there used to be a legolas in FR? and i give permission to uh, do whatever. it's cool. hi.))

kirkwall.

[kecharitomene]

A small thing scrambles up on the ledge beside him; following the song or the fruits or some other curiosity, younger in her manner than in her (tattooed) face with the way she pulls herself into place and swings her ankle amiably against his leg. (Hers are far shorter. She cannot reach his ankle, once she's sat beside him.)

“Are you related to the Provost?” is like a greeting. The big blonde elves all seem to cluster together; she is hazy on the precise relations involved, the details. The rifter elves she makes a habit of are the savage ones, more akin to her heart than anything that walked out of Arda, but she's friendly enough and now they look like two Inquisition making conversation and less like a suspicious rifter elf sitting alone to be troubled.

She illustrates her point with a vague gesture of his shape with both her hands— “Elves are tall everywhere but Thedas, no? Are you going to eat all of that?”

( ps, for ur ref! )

[tofindthesun]

((ooc: OH GOOD THANK YOU you saved my life and my dignity. for this i guess i'll pretend he followed some instructions on how to turn it on and.... didn't realize it was still on. /wild shrugging))

She... looks Elven. He's not seen an Elf so small before-- in part because there are few Elf-children still in Mirkwood. He's quite young himself, if not one of the youngest. Comparatively speaking. Nor has he seen any with markings such as hers.

(Perhaps now that the Shadow is gone, there will be more? He looks forward to see little ones in his home forest.)

"The provost? I am not sure." He looks contemplative for a moment, before admitting that he has no idea who or what a provost is. A dignitary? He nudges the basket over to her with a thoughtful hum, a silent invitation to dine. "I would say that if we share a semblance, we might be. But I have called many my brothers and sisters, though we have no blood ties and seem nothing the same. Does this provost happen to be fond of trees?"

There's no way that can be a good measure of relation, but there's a good chance that if they aren't, Legolas wouldn't want much to do with them anyway.

"I have not seen a small Elf before," he confesses, "except as a child. But it was I, then, who was a small Elf. We are very tree-like otherwise, it is true. Do you need the knife?"

Hmm. Thedas. That's what those sun-eyed people who found him first had been saying, too. He's starting to think this is a little more than just a dream.

[kecharitomene]

( ooc | HERE 2 HELP!! )

“I'm not a child,” is her first answer, meaningfully raising inked eyebrows and then laughing—she's not earnestly trying to flirt with him, either, but Galatea never saw an opening she wasn't prepared to wedge a crowbar in just for the sake of having done it. Her laugh is light and suits her; she wears soft, practical leathers but brightly coloured boots, stray flowers tucked in her hair, and a deeply unpleasant looking hooked knife tucked in her boot that she produces when he asks if she needs his.

Children do not carry such weapons. Civilized people do not, as a rule, and if they were in Hightown then Galatea would probably not have fetched it out visibly, but much the rest of Kirkwall the Inquisition sigil says she's allowed points upon her person other than her ears and they're just eating fruit, it's probably fine, right.

Right.

Satisfied with her acquisition of the foreigner's fruit, she elaborates: “Provost Thranduil,” and only slightly mispronounces his name. Her Orlesian accent is not accustomed to it, and she rarely has occasion to say it, “Of research! I don't see research very often.” Galatea can't fucking read, is why. She squints critically at Legolas for a moment, trying to estimate his standing height, and settles on, “I think he's bigger. I am a normal size,” granted, the smaller side of normal, “you are just big.”

She pats his knee. “You should be careful where you go, being big.”

And standing up straight, and making eye contact. Rifters need minding, she sometimes thinks, like Newt who loves bears; like the elves that aren't used to subjugation.

[tofindthesun]

"Had you been the first I saw, I might have mistaken you for one! But, alas, I had to purchase fruits in the market, and saw many enough others to wonder of it." What others he means, he doesn't say explicitly, but it's implied. Mostly because he's not sure whether to say 'others like you' or 'others like me'. Maybe something in between. Her laugh is pleasant to hear, regardless, and he is of a mind to laugh as well, so he does, bright and clear.

As far as civilized people go, Legolas is only intrigued by where she's hiding her knife, not that she has one. And of course, the fact that it looks less practical and more, hm. Threatening. You don't see something like that very often, except maybe in some very old and dusty royal dwellings. Or, um, underground tombs. There might have been something like that in Moria. Too dark and gloomy to tell.

The point (haha) is that it looks a bit elaborate for a common knife, let alone a fruit knife... which means another tick up on the curiosity scale.

"Provost Thranduil," he repeats, testing that word on his tongue again. It's a strange one, like hearing Westron for the first time. He thinks he prefers Khuzdul more, what little of it he has heard from Gimli. "I know him as the Elvenking, to whom I have professed my loyalty."

Legolas cuts another slice of fruit, whatever it is. Crunchy. "Though I profess, I have not known him to be much for the matters of research."

He quiets, briefly, sitting through her squinting without squirming or discomfort. His dad tends to make him more nervous with little more than a simple side-eye, as dads do.

"I will," he says, not unthankful. "Though it is not often that I must walk among those I do not call friends and family, or allies, caution is not altogether an unfamiliar thing. I am not yet sure what to do with their eyes. They look at me quite strangely."

Whether he means the Inquisition or the common-folk, one can only guess. Probably the Inquisition though.

[kecharitomene]

Galatea assumes, not unwarrantedly, that he means both; Kirkwall looks askance at Inquisition still, nevermind rifters, nevermind rifter elves that don't know their place. The outpost personnel in the Gallows varies between those accustomed to the strangers (those who know them as allies, brothers-in-arms, lovers and friends) and those newer to service alongside them—an uneasy hotbed of shifting alliances even before taking them into account.

Anyone might wonder at where he walks and why. People wonder where she walks, and why...probably fairly.

“There aren't elvenkings here,” is what she says, not unkindly, and she means it for an answer to all of the above. An explanation, perhaps, of what draws the eye about him; of why an elvenking apparently just has a job now, doing whatever it is research involves. Galatea is vague on that: probably books? There seems to be a lot of talking involved, some of it occasionally slightly interesting. She sees his comings and goings now and then, when she's in the division head tower to steal mail from the Commander again.

(Commander Coupe is perfectly aware she does it.)

“You'll get used to it.”

[tofindthesun]

Legolas crunches more fruit and continues looking at the people around them, passing them by, some perhaps halting at the sight of an Elf in fineries. He shopkeeper almost asked him where he'd gotten it from, when he gave her the button. Even though she literally watched him pluck it from his own tunic.

Just as well that he did not arrive with any weapons. Just as well that he hadn't not been dreaming of war and battle.

"My loyalty stands," he says in a hum. He does not say if he would have it, or need it, or want it. For doubtless it is that Thranduil would not turn him away. "I must remember to seek him, later. There is much that my elvenking should know."

He looks around again, this time for birds to feed. He'd call to them but these are strange creatures, and he does not know their songs.

"..I think I could learn to tolerate them. 'Tis a simple enough task." Daunting, perhaps, if it gets worse than this. There is always the chance that it gets worse. He'll think about that when it happens. If it happens. "But I wish not to become.. accustomed to it. I fear only danger that way lies, and I have had enough danger to last the lifetimes of several Men."

War is... hm. Quite tiring. Lots of walking and not enough trees along the way. Too many deaths. Legolas kicks his feet a little, finishing his fruit and eyeing the wine next to him, as yet still untouched. He turns back to his visitor, offering her another fruit if she has finished hers, of even if she hasn't. He got... a lot.

"But given the manner in which I came here, I take it there are more dangers than the eyes of the wary."

👀 kirkwall

[rowancrowned]

‘Another rifter elf, tall and blond,’ someone had passed along to him, and he’d finished his business and gone to the city in due time. Perhaps a Noldo—sometimes, they came out blond, but not often. Still, luck has not often been on his side, what with Elros and Fingon and Maedhros. Celegorm, he recalls, coming down the stairs, was fair of hair, and Thranduil only thinks not him, not bothering to put in a wish for who it could be if their being was in his favor.

He hears the singing first. Elven ears are good for something other than displaying race, and the notes, a nonsense little tune of reflected birdsong and bustle are familiar to his heart if not his head, for the moments his head takes to catch up.

“Legolas,” he says, firm and loud enough to catch attention from a dozen paces away, because he must see the face before he lets himself hope. His heart is hard; he had not relinquished a part of it to hoping to see his son again.

The elf before him is—changed. No crown, rowan or otherwise, and he is dressed more meanly than he would allow of any silvan in his kingdom, more like a Man of Dale than an elf. There is some evidence of care; his tunic is embroidered at the cuffs and hem, his boots are of good quality, and his hair braided at the temples to keep it out of his face. As he watches, he is still—elven-still, which tends to stand out in a Mannish city.

👌👌👌

[tofindthesun]

He thinks it's the sun-eyed ones, come looking for him again, and is immediately 30% more defensively cheery. They didn't seem to appreciate people being so lighthearted after falling out of a- a something. A rift? A rift. So clearly he had to be even more mirthful to fend them off.

But it is a moment later that he seems to recognize the voice, the inflection of his name, spoken in a way that the sun-eyed ones couldn't. For a moment the singing halts and he casts his eyes around, looking for something familiar. Something similar.

There. Tall and unmoving, as trees do. And it reminds him of the constant in his life, and that it has been several months since he saw his father last, and so much to say. So much to tell of the war they'd won, of the journey they made, of Hobbits and Gimli and oh, the Sea...

Legolas picks up his basket of goods and sings again, marching his way over, heedless this time of the words around him. He sings in words purely Elven, purely Mirkwoodian. Chirpy, as though he wishes to sing away the darkness, the way they always have in Mirkwood. Some kind of spunky rendition of 'we're off to see the wizard', but more like 'we're off to slay some spiders'.

Very cheery, if you ask him.

[rowancrowned]

They fumble the vowels, the intonation. He has not been spared the indignity of being called Thran-dool, and Galadriel, for all her stateliness, speaks Sindarin with a decidedly Noldorian tinge. Legolas sounds like home, the particularities of backwoods Mirkwood his mother-tongue, Sindarin and Silvan all together, singing a song he had never thought to hear again.

Legolas comes to him, and Thranduil moves, unfroze to look his son over for injuries, a brief touch to his cheek to keep him still and verify his solidity. The inspection is half father and half superior officer, but both halves are satisfied, the hand drops, and Thranduil falls in at his side so that they might walk together.

He is not surprised by the situation in which he found his son. How very Legolas, to have settled himself with the birds and charmed his way into a bounty. He is disinclined to end the song by questioning his son, but when they reach the top of a high stair—high enough to see over a lower tier of the city—he gestures out to the harbor. It is the sea, and while it has not lit the longing in him, it is still magnificent to Thranduil’s eyes, and he would have his son enjoy it as well.

[tofindthesun]

He's glad to have the moment to just walk for now, though he had to run back briefly to grab the wine he'd forgotten. Maybe his father will make better use of it than Legolas has so far. For all the singing and humming, he hasn't quite felt safe enough to partake in what is most likely undiluted Dorwinion. The only wine he'd ever dream about.

Legolas keeps still for the inspection, reducing the singing to a low hum while he does the same. Provost, she had called Thranduil. He wonders if that is like a title, and if it is any related to the way his father dresses now. Elven, still, but only just, and a bit drab, even for a wood-elf.

He does startle, just slightly, at the touch to his cheek, and laughs when he realizes why it was done, and to realize that it reassures him in some way as well. That he is not still in his waking dream after all, and that he is no longer in Gondor either. His father looks healthy enough, whatever he has been doing here.

The song picks up again as they walk, going effortlessly from spider-slaying to autumn harvests and warm night feasts. It was still summer before he came here, and he is looking forward to the fall. If home they are able to go. It is a fleeting thought.

Yet even that peters out sharply when the sea comes into view. He's quiet again, first in wonder at the beauty of the sight, then in something like a shadow of longing, of the cry of the gull heard over Pelargir, or something that calls to him even when he has never seen nor heard it before. But it is only that, only a shadow. And the gulls that cry here want only for food.

Legolas considers throwing a fruit at them, for cheek.

And after some moments of listening to the waves crashing into the cliffs in the distance, watching the dots of boats bobbing at the docks, he lets out a nonplussed 'hm'. "It is... more water than I had expected."

[rowancrowned]

“You had seen naught but the Long Lake before this,” Thranduil says. “Even that was but a puddle, in comparison to the Sea.”

But Legolas managed to sound unimpressed. It is not their sea, though Thranduil has taken this world as his own, and Kirkwall is an unimpressive city. It has the smells and sounds of a Mannish city, with none of the virtues of the more enlightened ones of Middle-earth to recommend it.

As delightful as it would be to review all the things Legolas has and has not yet seen in his life, there are more pressing matters. There will be time for a careful cataloguing of memories, introductions to make to several people—Solas chief among them, mostly for the sake of parading his fine son before the other elf—and settling Legolas in to the Gallows. Then they will speak of other matters, such as why some of the chained statues have elven ears.

“You are hale and cheerful.” Approvingly. “How fares Mirkwood?” he asks, glancing over at Legolas. (And his bottle of Dorwinion, though that is far more furtively.) “Am I missed?”

Galadriel cannot recall an absence. Nor could his son the last time he was here. If the pattern has not held-

[tofindthesun]

He's mostly unimpressed because it didn't affect him as much as he thought it would. Unfortunately, it's also a reminder that, perhaps, they truly are far removed from Middle-Earth, and Arda itself. Legolas is not sure if he likes that or not.

The first thing he does is hand over the carafe, because he can see his father eyeing it. He's already tried it and found it to be real wine, though a sip was all he'd taken. The question, though, confuses him.

"I.. I fear I do not know. I have not seen Mirkwood in several months.. T'was an errand and a journey that took me from our home, and I have had little chance to send word back. If- if you have gone missing from there, I would not have known. Neither bird nor beast have brought me ill-tidings from the woods." A loss of memory? Doubtful; they are Elves. But what else could it mean? "Do you not recall my departure from Mirkwood?"

Definitely not one of the better ways to kick off a reunion. He hopes the wine helps.

crystal

[dirth]

I doubt it will break too easily. It is designed with magic. [ The voice is soft, cool; gentle, almost. ] You may use it to communicate with us all.

[tofindthesun]

[it takes a moment to respond. whether it's because he's wondering something about that voice, or if he just forgot how to send a reply already, no one would know. at the least, he doesn't sound flustered any when he does, finally, send a reply.]

So they had told me. [his is light, perhaps a little less distressed about his situation than most. less distressed than he'd let on, anyway.] I did not think it was truly possible. I have only seen a stone that could transmit sight, and images... And that one had been in the hands of evil.

[he's not.. suspicious, no. but he's not unwary either.]

[dirth]

I can assure you, there is nothing evil about the crystals.

[ Nothing that Solas is aware of, at least, and he'd like to think that if there was anyone who would be aware he would be the one to recognise it. His knowledge of magic is certainly vast enough. ]

We have been using these tools for many years now. They are safe.

[tofindthesun]

Well, a hoard of jewels never did many people much good. [hm. hm! who could he mean. what could he be talking about.] Even if they are enchanted ones. Or especially so.

I can only trust another's word for their safety. [does he trust these people he's only just met? maybe. maybe not. he'll be careful using this crystal for a while, which may or may not include 1) never wearing it, 2) holding it pretty far away from him. luckily it seems to pick up sound pretty well.] I am called Legolas, of the Mirkwood realm. It holds no meaning here, but it is what I am.

[what, not who.]

[dirth]

Such things are only useful if they can be spent or used. Hoarding them? Not the most beneficial of practices.

[ Solas hums absently, though. It's not unjust to be suspicious of a new world and a new set of people; he recognises the instinct. The name, though, makes Solas pause, and he chuckles quietly. ]

Thranduil's son.

[tofindthesun]

Many there are who delight in having. [an observation. he means more than gold and things like magic crystals.

legolas also gives pause, weighing the meaning of those words. luckily he has already been made aware that thranduil is here. for convenience's sake.]

You know of the Elvenking? [oh, wait. new title.] I have heard he is called Provost.

i can't believe im doing this -kirkwall

[bemerry]

[ Elves can be very sneaky, but so can hobbits, soft-footed and hard to catch. He's been careful so far to move as unseen as he can. It's a strange place, most definitely not Buckland, where he was last. He is only grateful that he had his horn and sword with him when he left this morning, that he has it on him, now. Or perhaps it was a dream of stepping out this morning. Really, there hasn't been hardly any excitement since Frodo and Bilbo finally left for the Far Shores. (And Merry is rather grateful for that).

Where was he again...

..Oh yes! Sneaking. Following a familiar tune sung by a familiar voice, sneaking as carefuly as he can (even though he knows, eventually, Legolas is going to catch him), before popping at at the elf's side and snagging one of the fruits from the bucket. ]

Not exactly Minas Tirith, [ He takes a bite out of the fruit. It's tangy, and rather sweet. ] but the food's not bad.

[ Did he surprise you? He wanted to surprise you. ]

yEEAAAHHH

[tofindthesun]

[elves walk quiet, but only for their size. hobbits walk quieter still, because of their size. it's more difficult to pick that what quiet patter of hobbit feet from the clamor of the crowd, and when he does finally realize, it's already too late.

his bounty has been raided. thief! legolas narrows his eyes at merry, but not without a fleeting grin. if he's surprised, it doesn't show. he's still pretty new to the place.]

At least we know what they are called in Minas Tirith. [legolas is trying to figure out how to eat this latest one. it's a bit.. interesting! hard rind and he can't decide if he's supposed to eat the stuff connected to it or not. is this a gourd?] And how to eat them.

[....maybe he'll just.... nibble it..... it can't be that bad, right, i mean. someone's selling it. it ought to be palatable.]

[bemerry]

[ Merry just shrugs. He's simply been taking bites out of the orange-colored fruit in his hand. It has a rind that makes him think it is similar to a citron, but much less of the white albedo to get to the juicy center. Not that he's been peeling it or anything, more just taking bites out of it like an apple or a peach.

He's hungry, and its not like the rind and the rest aren't edible, after all. ] You might try peeling it, if you don't want to try eating the rind. I think some times they save it for seasoning?

[ Citrons and their like are rare, even in Hobbiton, brought up from warmer climes through merchants from Ered Luin or passing through Bree. It is a little warmer in Eriador than Rhovanion, but the latitudes of the Shire and the Greenwood are fairly similar, and they get their fair share of deep snows.

Which, on that thought. ]

Do you know what season we're in? I didn't exactly pack for colder weather. [ or any weather.
Presumably at some point they will manage to find their way back to civilized country they recognize, right? ]

[tofindthesun]

[considering that legolas' only encounter with citrus fruits has been only with their very dried and very sweetened forms, he can hardly understand why the people passing them by are watching with such confusion and, dare he say, abject horror. it smells appetizing enough!

at merry's suggestion, legolas bites off a bit of the rind just to try it. it..... is not entirely palatable, but he doesn't think it'll get him sick, either. but he sets about separating rind from flesh and setting the part he's not eating back into the basket. he'll find some use for it later.] It is strange indeed. I did not think to ask how best to eat this, for I had not expected to find such a strange thing. Or that. [he points to merry's, uh, fruity thing with the butt of the knife.] I think the scent of it familiar enough, but I have never smelt it quite so clean and clear. In Mirkwood we only receive them dried and sugared, as like candies.

[he looks up to the skies, as though he could observe the season from the movement of the clouds. (he cannot.)] I do not know.. We are close to water, or so my ears tell me. I know not what it is, for I fear to look upon its source. If we are by a lake or river, or even the sea [he falters, only slightly] then it would seem cooler. But from what these people are wearing, perhaps it is not so cold.

And if it is to be that my deductions are false, Master Hobbit, you may borrow my tunic. [and that would leave him with, what, an undershirt? some party breeches? how scandalous.]

[bemerry]

They are very nice, candied slices.

[ Merry finishes off his orange-y citrus fairly quickly, and pulls out a handkerchief to spit the seeds into, before folding it away and tucking it back into his pocket. When Legolas mentions the sea, Merry reaches over, and gives his hand a firm squeeze. He knows it has been hard for Legolas, caught with the sea-longing. He knows, too that Legolas has been spending time with Gimli and Aragorn, seeking distractions on Middle Earth to resist the calling.

He can't imagine what that must be like, fighting against such a thing

When Legolas offers his tunic, however, Merry laughs, and elbows him gently in the side.. ]

If anything, Master elf, I will need gift you my wasitcoat, as I am wearing far more than you, and you are already down a button. [ Merry rifles his pockets again, but alas he has no spare bauble that might suffice as a button. ] Or, of course, we could find ourselves an inn to hole up within.

[tofindthesun]

Our king is generous, to trade for such luxuries. [hmmm. Actually.] I wonder why I never saw them in Minas Tirith. Or if I only ever manage to miss them when they are in season.

[legolas places his own hand over merry's, a silent thanks for the comfort. though for him it has only been some weeks since the war ended, and the sea still fresh in his mind. it does not bother him much now, though. it is a mite concerning.]

An inn! And how would we gain entry? By payment? I do not know about you, Meriadoc, but I have little more than this bit of wine ['bit'. it's a whole carafe full of dorwinion, it could be worth gold with how strong it is.] and the clothing on my back. I suppose our clothes would trade for a pretty pence, but that would leave us only worse off. The rumors they would speak!

[he regards a nearby building intently, squinting at it even with his sharp sight.]

... We could scale the walls and unlatch a window.