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@bowstrungheart
shipping meme - blackheartedarcher (freaked out when i saw it was getting notes again tbh)
[ Ahh, my ship to end all ships to be honest. I want it to keep going forever. ]
[[wait wait wait stop....he is the lackiest of lackers has had ZERO freaking activity in MONTHS.......HOW ARE THERE SHIPPERS FOR THIS OUTSIDE ME AND ORA-MUN!? Damn you guys are dedicated....and i feel like utter shit he’s being such a freakin’ assbutt T_T]]
Of Stone and Water: Sending a Message
She can’t help but be reminded of the first time she watched an honour proving - Ora had still been a young, innocent Orana, then, excited by what she was about to see. The anticipation had her bouncing on the balls of finely booted feet, braids filled with jewels and weaved with gold and mithril chain upon her crown jingling - heard only by her ears as the crowd roared in celebration of the two warriors taking their places in the middle of the arena. The scent of cleaning salve, leather, dirt, and blood lingered on her tongue and in her nose like intoxicating wine.
She had cheered, then, full of youthful, rambunctious joy, but now as she watched Do’gol enter into the arena her stomach clenched nervously and insider her gloves her hands felt clammy.
There was no doubt in her mind that he will win, though her heart beat still quickens as she watches them exchange bows and the Dwarf announces with a gravelly though nervous voice that he will win for her honour. She just barely remembers to acknowledge him with a small inclide of her head though she does not smile, far too nervous that something may go wrong - something may slip, someone may misstep and she would lose him. Many times Ora had been struck with just how different of a Dwarf she was now, but never in all her years would she have ever imagined she would love someone so deeply as she loved the silent Man in black who simply looks at her before the announcer shouts to begin.
"Win," she whispered, though she knew somehow that Do’gol would hear her. He always did.
Win.
A hardness slips into blue eyes at that breathed statement. A readiness solidifies in his muscles, and yet still the archer reaches not for a single one of his weapons. Does no more than offer the opposing dwarf the proper bow of respect.
"As my lady wishes." comes the almost inaudible response.
Begin!
The word echos, and it is as someone has flipped a switch in his opponent. The dwarf barrels forward, axes raised, but Blackheart simply ducks and side steps. Coming up behind the dwarf, with just enough time to reel back. Successfully avoiding another swing, by mere inches. He'd felt the breath on that one.
Quick feet carry him back further, and the dwarf follows without hesitance. This one is not going to be so easily worn down. And not a moment later, blades slip loose. Strong, calloused hands and fingers wrap about their hilts, and the ring of metal on metal rings out, as he deflects a swing meant to remove his head from his shoulders. A deflection that sends both dancing apart. And an understanding passes between blue hues and brown ones. They both had something to prove, and neither is going down without a fight.
Feet, bodies, and weapons move again in a blur. Every single instinct at the ready to draw upon. Every scrap of knowledge he has gained from the moment he awoke in Ora's camp, used. He will not fail here, nor ever again. This, is his moment. Not the dwarf's. And he will take it.
The sun has sunk enough now to become a hindrance. A blinding ray of light that cuts through breaks in the crowd, and the hunter in him uses it, as he might use it to blind his prey from his presence.
Black booted feet carry him away from one of the axe's attempts to bury itself in his side, but it doesn't completely miss. Its a graze and nothing more, and he continues on. Until his back is fully to the sun, and then he strikes. Or in this case doesn't. Allowing the hilt of one of the axe's to strike him in the chest, sending him to his knees gasping for. And the dwarf as he assumed is quick to ponce. Axe's moving to find rest at his shoulder's, to signal the lost. But he's no intention of losing.
The moment they are in reach, Blackheart strikes. Sand and dirt flying away from his swords that had fallen into the dirt, thrusting up to lock the hilts of his opponent's weapons into the open slats of his blade's. One firm wrench outwards, and they are pulled form tired hands that thought they'd won. The dwarf's axe's slung in opposite directions as the archer's blades have found either side of the other's throat.
And the arena has fallen silent, the cheers they had been crying now caught in their throats. And all that can be heard are the fighter's breathing, and the shifting of creaking wood and leather.
His lady had said to win, he hopes that at least she is not surprised.
Seems like you've got a thing for short ladies, Do'gol. Wanna tell us why?
“That’s Blackheart to you greyhood. Have you had your eyes checked lately? I’m no’ a tall man in case you haven’t noticed. I look up to others enough as it ‘tis already. I don’t need my current fancy addin’ to the semi-permanent hitch in my neck.”
Petty Crime || OPEN
It was the first frost in the small, middle of nowhere town. A thin layer of glittering white covered every stone, every twig, every leaf until everything shimmered in the grey afternoon light. It was chilly, far more chilly than Flora was accustomed to back in the Shire, and as she made her way through the crowded market her short breaths filled the air with tiny clouds. Hands stuffed into the pockets of her woolen coat (ragged, now, from wear), she dodged and weaved amidst the much larger bodies with a rumbling stomach. Food - she needed food. The young Hobbit could not recall the last time she’d eaten and she had yet to resort to theiving. However, despite her skill the woods nearby were scarce, and the scent of fresh bread wafting from one of the stalls where an old man stood flirting with a young woman who looked thoroughly uncomfortable was simply too tantalizing. As quiet and as stealthily as only a Hobbit could move, Flora shrugged up her coat and slipped towards the small wood and canvas structure, and when the woman swatted away the old man’s hand - finally gaining the attention of her mother who immediately began reprimanding both individuals she snatched a loaf and stuffed it into her sack. Quickly, she moved away, neither running nor walking, until she turned a corner and into an alleyway -
- only to bump into a very solid, taller figure and go tumbling to the ground.
Running, he was about as good at it as his aim was true. He had to be. Growing up in a mercenary camp one had to be quick on their toes. Especially him. Because he had a very good nose for trouble, one that had him currently using those quick feet to get away. From a rather large individual that was quite cross the young archer had beaten him at dice. And to make it worse the lug had accused him of cheating. There were some less than honorable things he did, but cheating wasn't one.
And so Do'gol. son of the 'infamous' Ora Stoneheart ran. Zigg zagging through the streets, down one side street and then another, until he'd quite lost track of how many turns he had made. Slipping into an alley and barreling down it for all he was worth. The over sized brute wouldn't be able to follow him, but that didn't stop the young man. Didn't slow him down. What did however was a small thing coming round the corner much to fast for even his reflexes to have him dodge. Legs got tangled, arms went wide, curses were grumbled and down he went face first into the dirt.
"That's goin' ta' hurt in ta mornin'."
The words are groaned as he rolls over, hands holding his stomach where it felt like the rather large pouch of coin at his belt, had crushed all of his insides into one tiny lump at the center.
—- “Sometimes. But you would be rather boring if you were good all the time.”
"I was referencing the part about me being a boy."
"I am always good, my lady."
——— “Good boy.”
{gets to feet, flexing cramped fingers}
"Hardly...my lady."
“I’m waiting.”
{Painful sigh}
"Please....please let me up."
"I know you can do better, pup," she all but growled. “Ask me properly.”
"You wound me my la--oww..."
"Mmmrhh... Would my lady kindly release my fingers before I lose what feeling I've left in them...?"
“Ask me nicely.”
"My lady will forgive me but..."
"That was me asking nicely..."
”And just what do you suppose I can do about it?”
"If my lady isn't terribly inconvenienced..."
"She might start by removing her boot from my fingers."
Of Stone and Water: Sending a Message
If she had not been attempting some sort of a composed front for those around them, she would have struck him for being such a tease. However, she could not, so she settled for allowing herself a small, pleased smile at his proximity and his reply - it had been but a month and a half that her Do’gol had been with her once more, but she never tired of his wit that was easily a steady match for hers and a humour that never failed to pull a smile from the stony-faced she-Dwarf. It was one of the things that she loved about him, that had enchanted her when they had first met in Rohan, and Ora delighted in the fact that even with his new… role that he would not allow it to diminish and made her treasure him all the more knowing that she was the only one allowed to enjoy the true Do’gol and not simply Blackheart. Glancing at him for a brief moment, she returned her gaze forward. There was very little for him to learn, as while her kind had many traditions that they held dear, there were very few when it came to the provings - or any form of fighting, really, as while they were ritualistic they were not patient. When there was fighting to be done, there was no putting it off - one was to put their steel where their mouth was or be labelled as a coward for wasting time. “How thorough of an explanation are you in need of, Blackheart?” she asked quietly, the hint of a smirk still evident on her features as her gaze followed the two young Dwarves in the ring who were beginning to look more than a little tired and frustrated that they had not beaten the other yet. “The only rule you truly need to know is that you prove you are honourable and skilled in battle, without killing your opponent. It is a show of strength, and cunning - and my rule for you would be that you do not make those you face look too foolish. I would rather not devastate the poor lads when they have already lost me to you.”
He had stopped paying attention to Brand's rambling a while ago. Letting the rhythmic sound of the dwarf's feet, pacing the length of the tent and back again, and the rumbling of his voice wash over him and around him like a dulling wave. Numbing the droning sound of cheers about the arena, so the archer could acknowledge his own heart beat.
Crouched upon the ground, a hand resting finger tips in the soft dirt, staining them a reddish brown. As much for the feel of the earth beneath him as keeping himself steady. Eyes slipped closed, and he pushed all the noise away. Focusing on the beating muscle in his chest. Willing it to slow down, to match his breathing to its pace.This was nothing.A simple exercise, one he didn't expect to last very long. His lady had said not to make a fool of his opponents. An underlying order 'not to play with his food' as it were.
A deep breath, as Brand's voice cuts through the stillness he has made within himself, and blue eyes snap open as he stands. Brushing dirt from his hands against leather, before undoing the tie and clasp of his cloak. Setting it aside, shoulders roll in a testing motion to ensure there were no catches in his armor. A nod is all he gives the friend he can not other wise acknowledge, and steps passed him into the sun.
His cowl does little to shade his gaze from the sun who has now well traveled its way far into the west. There is still yet an hour or so before sunset, and the arena is bathed in a wash of golden light. It brings a smile to hidden lips just enough to set his eyes sparking, as his gaze tracks upwards to where he knows Ora resides over the fight. His head bowing in proper fashion, though a wink is shot her way before he turns to face his opponent.
The Announcer begins his droning words, but Blackheart pays little mind. Studying the dwarf, with an unbroken stare. He has seen battle it seems, or wears the armor of his father. Blackheart cannot discern which. A battle axe rests within each of the dwarf's calloused tightly fisted hands, but there is an unsteady nature behind his dark eyes. And the smile upon the Unseen's face grows a fraction. Fingers twitch at his sides but move to pull his own weapons loose of their sheaths he does not.
Not yet.
Packing and Moving
[[Over the course of the next three months I will be packing and moving to another state. Because of this my personal blog as well as my muses’ blog will be less active than is normal. (some of my muses have already been on hiatus of sorts but this is just a blanket statement that all my muses are being set to :
Selective - Hiatus
until I get through this move.
Thank you to all my followers and rp partners for understanding!!]]
Steel and flesh… life and death… war.
