Red upon black. An ill omen, insofar as his own past suggested (fortunately, Glorfindel’s prejudice is limited to a rather petty dislike of the objects, rather than of those who bear them, for he is seldom disposed to seek quarrel). His sea-grey eyes, so typical of his kin, meet ochre openly, their light not diminishing even in the face of stone-hard ice, and his gaze does not waver — remains a straight line, for a long moment (a moment that stretches between them, in silence; the other’s words seem to linger in the air, becoming heavy and solid).
Then it falls, for a split-second –not to the ground, and certainly not in submission– but to the light that licks a long line along the edge of the other’s blade. It is no distinct threat, at present. Not quite. (Not yet?) But it is strange to speak of peace whilst wielding a blade, no matter where it points to.
His own hand does not reach for a hilt (not yet?); he isn’t, after all, a hypocrite. Distrust is a double-edged sword. One has to be careful when it is in one’s hold, for a sword is meant to cut, and it slides as easily through the flesh of the enemy as through the hand that holds it.
It is not the weapon, but the words that make him wary. For the language of weapons, whilst cruel, is sincere and open, brutal in its honesty. Whether it be a clash of silver, of iron, of steel– it speaks true. Yet how treacherous words dancing on the tongue can be - how wicked their very essence, once spoken. (He has heard it before; the black speech of old.)
❝ Yet words themselves have power, and may carry many an intent. Let us understand each other - what purpose have you here, and with whom? ❞
the prince can FEEL distrust radiating off of the other, adding upon his anxieties for a place so pure in bloodline. he doubted that his people would be remembered, cast aside so long ago when the walls of his homeland ( bethmoora, bethmoora ) fell to the dark one's ire. there had been no greater sadness, no greater cry, than when the golden gates had fallen.
after a moment of consideration, nuada sheathes the curved blade he'd been holding,the tassels at the end still drenched with the blood of wild and aggressive BEASTS that had haunted the shadows of the plain. instead he stands proudly, straightening his posture so that the great seal of the royal family could easily be seen. a large-branched tree engraved in gold and brass, heavy on the crimson sash tied across his waist.
❛ I am Nuada, Silverlance. My father--- King Balor-- sent me here to request your aid. but i can only assure you, i am not of this land, and the world’s reach is greater than you think. ❜
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