#leg0lais

[eueclid]

dad drop the haircare routine

i wash it in the blood of 10000 peasants daily thank you

[blacknoch]

𝕾𝖚𝖈𝖍 𝖆 𝖋𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖚𝖘 , 𝖐𝖓𝖔𝖇𝖇𝖑𝖞 𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖑𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 , 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖆𝖑 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖋𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙𝖘 𝖍𝖎𝖒 ! how it squeals it's tender little protests to the rope that urges it forward , lashing out with it's soft hooves , and gangly legs , it's tail of black cotton puff wagging . with a father's patience turstin tuts for all it's antics , dainty as it dances about him , indecisive and watchful of his hands . " come now , child --- this is no way to behave before our guests . "

@leg0lais // starter

[drachnslayer]

the saga of the volsungs. @leg0lais : “ you ought not to talk this way. ”

❝ i talk as i wish . . . elf. ❞ spat as only dwarven tongue could muster, as he has learned from his old master, in between the teachings of the art of hammer and iron. honest and gritty work the smith had called it, that serves the people, little folk and big folk. and never had he thought too highly of himself to help those less fortunate, the afterborn that had been blessed with less of the ancient gift or light or whatever the people of the mainland called it, which had once been bestowed upon the other's elven kin. and yet their king, who has been the topic of sigurd's slurred rant, lives in his magic woodland realm, blind to the horrors of the outside world. at least it is so in his drunken mind. and in this very drunken state, he sways, cup of ale placed with a loud thud on a nearby table, more to stabilize himself, as the liquid sloshes over the edge. he shall pause the story he's been shouting into the round of laughing patrons to educate this nosy stranger exactly as to why he talks this way. ❝ or tell me then, where is your king ? as human folk suffer outside his sheltered home ? ❞

[putrid-tongue]

— STARTER FOR @leg0lais ( && most unlikely meetings. )

the  years  drag  on  &&  with  them,  mordú  feels  reborn.  HE  MUST  TRANSFORM—  lest  he  lose  his  sanity.  certain  thoughts  his  conscious  will  never  dwell  upon,  always  so  mindful  of  the  peril  they  would  bring.  surely  he  would  burn  if  he  touched  upon  them  in  passing,  idle  thoughts—  and  be  consumed  by  pyres  of  guilt.  mordú  had  been  too  greedy,  𝖆𝖓𝖉  𝖆𝖑𝖑  𝖙𝖔𝖔  𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖎𝖑𝖞  𝖍𝖆𝖉  𝖍𝖎𝖘  𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖘𝖋𝖔𝖑𝖐  𝖇𝖊𝖊𝖓  𝖘𝖆𝖈𝖗𝖎𝖋𝖎𝖈𝖊𝖉  𝖚𝖕𝖔𝖓  𝖙𝖍𝖊  𝖆𝖑𝖙𝖆𝖗  𝖔𝖋  𝖆𝖑𝖐𝖆𝖗.  bled  by  his  own  hands,  in  wanton  pursuits  that  would  find  fulfillment  only  in  his  own  heart.  ne'er  had  he  felt  thus.  no  wine  or  other  idle  pleasures  could  intoxicate  mordú  quite  like  the  monstrous  power  zigûr's  teachings  evoked  within.  swept  up  by  the  sanguine  current,  he  had  allowed  to  be  carried  by  its  warmth  until  it  had  been  too  late.

by  his  own  hand,  and  even  if  he  had  contributed  naught  more  but  a  finger  in  the  grand  scheme  of  things,  had  anadûnê  been  destroyed.  moored  upon  middle  earth's  shores,  he  had  felt  the  rumble  of  the  world  disc  beneath,  felt  it  bend  and  shift  and  shudder  as  reality  was  remade  by  One  Will.  what,  then,  had  been  left  but  tread  the  path  he  had  chosen?  as  ever,  the  only  way  would  be  forward  &&  he  would  take  from  sauron  what  he  can.  &&  with  the  passing  of  decades,  the  halls  of  his  mind  would  dim  and  darken,  turn  to  hatred  and  twisted,  ignoble  ideals.  fervent  heart  desires  nothing  more  than  to  see  the  valar  thwarted,  them  and  all  of  their  celestial  host.  to  see  MEN  FREED  OF  THEM,  now  and  forevermore.  it  is  a  thought  that  keeps  him  sane,  within  the  sanctity  of  his  own  mind—  whilst  all  else  within  decays.

mordú's  time  is  often  divided  between  focusing  his  attention  upon  many  regions  around  the  sea  of  rhûnaer  &&  haradwaith,  where  he  labors  to  sway  people's  hearts  to  sauron,  away  from  the  powers  of  the  earth—  and  prolonged  stays  within  the  halls  of  his  master's  exile  upon  dol  guldur.  ever  more  is  there  to  learn,  both  body  and  mind  pushed  to  the  brink  of  shattering.  in  turn,  he  does  become  privy  to  his  lord's  designs,  rising  as  a  servant  who  lacks  compare  in  both  tenacity,  and  cruelty.

mounted  atop  his  great  black  stallion  agannâlô,  mordú  trusts  the  steed  to  steer  him  safely  through  greenwood's  dark  labyrinth.  he  means  not  to  travel  'neath  the  lightless  boughs  for  long,  fearful  of  its  enchanted  depths  where  elves  tread—  and  mindful  of  the  spiders  that  have  settled  where  sauron's  darkness  taints  ancient  roots.  a  baleful  brood  that  cannot  be  swayed,  nor  be  reasoned  with.  ever  are  their  minds  turned  to  the  hunt,  and  to  cruel  games.  mordú  had  learned  that  lesson  and  seeks  no  repeat  of  it.  riding  south,  he  means  to  break  free  of  this  oppressive  labyrinth  and  cross  the  brown  lands  instead,  where  familiar  ways  would  take  him  back  into  the  east.

but  he  must  have  lost  his  way,  or  the  spiders  have  strayed  from  their  chosen  dwellings  since  last  he  passed  thataway.  knowledgeable  in  both  ancient  &&  dark  tongues,  he  hears  their  chatter  above.

❛  no  elf.  ❜  ❛  no  orc  either.  ❜  ❛  nay,  a  man.  western  light  in  his  eyes  yet!  ❜  ❛  ah,  light?  i  see  it.  i  do  wish  to  taste  it,  for  myself.  ❜  ❛  for  us.  ❜  ❛  for  us.  ❜  ❛  carries  His  will,  however.  ❜  ❛  we  care  little  for  His  will,  never  have.  the  mother  never  did.  ❜  ❛  indeed,  indeed.  ❜

agannâlô's  ears  are  pressed  flat  to  his  head,  though  he  persists—  straight  and  fast  as  an  arrow.  servants  of  darkness  frighten  him  not,  for  he  was  born  in  the  very  same.  looking  over  his  shoulder,  mordú's  eyes  seek  the  shadowed  branches  to  make  out  their  pursuers.  there,  like  shadows  themselves.  great  arachnids  of  long  limbs  and  swollen  bodies,  moving  with  worrying  quickness  from  branch  to  branch,  tree  to  tree.  nigh  soundless,  safe  for  the  occasional  click  of  hard  limbs.  ❛  i  commandeth  thee  stay  back.  word  of  my  tongue  will  tear  thee  limb  from  limb  as  surely  as  thy  fangs  rend  flesh.  test  me  not,  and  return  whence  thou  came.  ❜  mordú  receives  no  answer,  though  the  click  of  mandibles  may  very  well  be  interpreted  as  laughter.

ducking  low  against  his  steed's  neck,  mordú  labors  to  evade  low-hanging  branches  and  brambles  that  tear  at  his  clothes  and  rip  his  skin.  the  forest  is  closing  in  &&  it  slows  them  down  substantially.  remaining  in  the  saddle  will  prove  folly  like  this,  he  may  be  snatched  up  at  any  moment.  steadying  himself  in  the  stirrups,  mordú  bids  agannâlô  slow  down  just  enough  so  that  he  may  jump  aground,  the  stallion  rearing  as  he  does  and  whipping  his  head.  jagged  limbs  scuttle  through  shadows  his  eyes  strain  to  pierce,  stray  rays  of  nebulous  light  catching  within  lidless,  pitch-black  eyes.  so  many  eyes.  mordú  is  not  afraid  however,  he  never  is  these  days,  his  soul  long  deadened  to  such  nuanced  notions.  drawing  his  sword,  he  brings  down  the  wrath  of  his  tongue  upon  them  as  he  had  promised,  words  black  as  tar  rolling  from  a  mouth  that  agonizes  and  rips  with  the  power  of  them.  but  they  are  quick,  and  he  is  outnumbered  one  to  eight.

while  still  caught  up  in  the  weight  of  his  incantation,  one  of  the  perilous  beasts  had  snuck  up  behind  him,  it's  stinger  a  hot  sensation  between  his  shoulder  blades.  poison  so  potent  that  it  hardly  hurts,  stiffening  his  limbs  nigh  immediately.  the  vile  morgul  blade  falls  from  his  hand,  and  how  fortunate  that,  though  the  arachnid  is  much  more  careful  with  his  sagging  body.  caught  amongst  eight  sure  limbs,  he  is  wrapped  with  great  care  and  his  world  goes  dark.

[springsdawn]

@leg0lais sent : ❛ the storm’s getting worse. ❜

a soft hum of agreement, not too concerned with the way wind and rain violently beat against the walls of their home or how the roaring of thunder and flashes of lightning had steadily increased. it made for difficult weather for the task ahead, there was no denying such an obvious thing, but the elven queen seemed not to care about it. cloak fastened and bow & arrow secured upon back, she turned to face her son. how he looked just like his father with that expression, uncanny almost and somehow endearing.

at times one could only wonder if this sort of weather had deeper meaning, if more powers were at play than plainly nature doing as it pleases. it would be of no surprise if it had to do with darkness that crept into their realm, lurking in the woods that had once been nothing but green and light. " i know what you are thinking and the answer is no. do not argue with me - stay here. i have been doing this since long before we were blessed with you, onya. your mother is not so weak that a storm could wipe her out during a patrol of the borders. " these patrols were about all the queen could do for their realm as active duty. unlike her husband, none would ever see her command their army or join them in true battle. but hunting and patrolling flowed through her veins at least, one of the only talents inherited from her father hirgon. " it is treacherous and dangerous for those who do not know where to go or set their feet. you do not know the area as i do. "

[springsdawn]

@leg0lais sent : ❛ what are you smiling at? ❜

there were days, moments when it became ever so apparent how vastly blessed life had been despite every hardship, every tragedy to have ever transpired. looking back on the times when the light had threatened to fade from her very being, where desperately clinging to the smallest grain of hope was harder than ever, it was all worth enduring to come to this very point in this long life. nothing could have prepared minuialwen for any of it. no one could have told her that surviving the loss of her parents, her father-in-law, and countless friends along the way would still not have been able to overshadow the greatest happiness ever experienced.

nothing came close to the endless love that filled her when gazing upon her son, and now filled with such intense joy she could not help but smile so bright, it could have brought light to even the darkest corners of the greenwood. " you, onya. you are a marvel. " he was like the sun. the light of her life.

taking advantage of his confusion, hands took hold of his face and pulled him to her height to pepper his face with affectionate, feather-light kisses. it could be afforded, with no eyes around to see and cause him potential embarrassment with his mother treating him like he was still her little elfling. though in truth, he would never be anything but her precious princeling, no matter his age.

[springsdawn]

@leg0lais sent : [ ASSIST ]: sender picks up and carries the receiver away for medical attention because they've been injured and can't walk easily. (after the whole being tortured by orc thing????? so helping mom while she recovers 🥺)

months had passed, yet the dawn queen was resigned to sleep and rest, days blurring into one all too easily. the woodland realm banded together in the face of the new challenges, healers ever present and at beck and call. attendants did close to nothing else all through the day and night but remaining next to her, waiting to be of use, to provide whatever desired.

the light of dawn was dimmed, shining but faintly so. she knew all worried for her, even those beloved by her separated by miles and miles. but there was barely liveliness in her to reassure any of them, her spirit cracked, her body broken. there was nothing to be done with this sort of fragility, this frailty that left her all but prisoner in bed. in addition convalescence was slow and disheartening. legs, though healed for most part, were still too damaged to allow her to walk around by herself and finding solace in her music too was thwarted by right hand still recovering from the torture endured.

her son managed to get at the very least a small smile out of her, much like her husband. if only because they were the ones closest to her forced to witness her in such a state. to worry them with darkness swirling in her mind would be too much. " ... will you help me? i wish to go to the inner garden and rest there for a while, i am getting frustrated remaining in here. " if one more minute had to be spent in this room, it would truly bring on insanity. and there was a chance she was avoiding the healers, who'd be coming soon to insist on more practice to walk. it was fortunate to have legolas, who indulged her without question & did not hesitate to comply with her request, helping her move to the edge of the bed before being ever so gentle as he picked her up.

somewhere it was almost amusing to be the one to be carried when her son had spent many hours carried by her instead in his youth. it had been a sad day when he no longer requested to be picked up and carried. " thank you, dearest, for carrying me. i am sorry to burden you with such a request. " but truly, she felt more at ease like this than when carried by her attendants. there was a sense of agitation to be so weak before them. " will you send an attendant to your father once we are there, to ensure he knows where i have gone? if he were to look in on me and find me missing from the bed, i believe he would fly into a terrible panic. " none would blame the king for it after her abduction; he had grown more protective over her since then.

[ienemy-arc]

⅋. ⥽ THE PATHOGENESIS OF MALICE IS THUS THAT NEVER IN ACRIMONY BEAUTY CAN BE FORGED, NOR IN LOATHING LIGHT CREATED, and so the great deceiver might only clothe himself in such that the true evil of his dark spirit bleeds through, deceive none evermore. naked is his tyranny, and bare the villainy he brings forth, yet try still he might, to rely on old tricks, the heart of him ever craving.

sauron lingers, first as a fly, that harbinger of filth, then in the flesh of a mangled wolf of night betwixt the brambled teeth of trees, a serpent beneath the leaves, with its whispers, ❛ what is it you rebel against? i bring forth order. ❜ and the arrows by @leg0lais cannot dissuade his advance, and at last, his image shifts to the very shape of malice, basked in shadow, amid the corners of consciousness.

LEGOLAS GREENLEAF QUERIES, DO YOU NOT FEAR THAT MORE?

the shadows waver whence the apparition does. beyond the dark, then, wisps of terrible light. evil light, like that of all-consuming flame, and beneath it all the scar of what once was beauty to behold. the face of sauron wanes, and his hair which hath gleamed of molten gold is now basked in death-white, stark against the jagged edges of his armour, black as the void. he knows well the will of the elves, ever-irritating; they misunderstand his intention still, he thinks. perfection requires breaking the bad and moulding it anew. ❛ what is more to dread than chaos come devour all? ❜ the rumble of his voice comes echoing as he towers above the elf, leaning down to spy upon him, and that terrible being is almost amused, ❛ be at ease, woodland prince — your world will know my command, and it shall be delivered from its plight. does that not bring you peace? ❜