[ Iorveth, too awe-struck and taken by the swords, doesn't notice anything going on until the nug starts squeaking, and from that point, it's just his head whipping around, hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of a dagger, until the familiar voice that'd come through the crystal some days ago rings out. The comments are innocent enough, and surprisingly not a shout for guards, but what takes him more than that is Thranduil himself.
That is... an Elf. Not just the pitiful city elves scurrying around trying to keep out from underfoot of the humans that shove past them, or the ragged, battle-worn and scarred Scoia'tael in stolen clothing, wielding stolen weapons, save for their bows. But the elf standing in the doorway looks much like the blades do - something from an ancient, forgotten time, from histories that seemed like fairy tales when he'd been young. The memory of Enid an Gleanna in the fields of what would later be Dol Blathanna surface in his mind's eye, and despite what loathing he has for her now, Thranduil holds the same kind of ancient grace to him as she had. Not something he'd expected to see again - ever. But here we are. ]
As much as I am an archer. Especially in recent days. [ Given the assumed lack of a second eye, empty, burned out socket covered by his headscarf at the moment, though the scar running down to his lips is always clear enough. ] May I?
[ If given permission, Iorveth will carefully pick up one of the blades, examining it in his hands like it's much more delicate than steel ought to be. It's expertly, beautiful crafted, and feels like he's holding eons in his hands. ] Blades like this no longer exist in my homeland, nor the master smiths that used to make them.
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That is... an Elf. Not just the pitiful city elves scurrying around trying to keep out from underfoot of the humans that shove past them, or the ragged, battle-worn and scarred Scoia'tael in stolen clothing, wielding stolen weapons, save for their bows. But the elf standing in the doorway looks much like the blades do - something from an ancient, forgotten time, from histories that seemed like fairy tales when he'd been young. The memory of Enid an Gleanna in the fields of what would later be Dol Blathanna surface in his mind's eye, and despite what loathing he has for her now, Thranduil holds the same kind of ancient grace to him as she had. Not something he'd expected to see again - ever. But here we are. ]
As much as I am an archer. Especially in recent days. [ Given the assumed lack of a second eye, empty, burned out socket covered by his headscarf at the moment, though the scar running down to his lips is always clear enough. ] May I?
[ If given permission, Iorveth will carefully pick up one of the blades, examining it in his hands like it's much more delicate than steel ought to be. It's expertly, beautiful crafted, and feels like he's holding eons in his hands. ] Blades like this no longer exist in my homeland, nor the master smiths that used to make them.