Legolas of Mirkwood (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
findsthesun) wrote2009-07-09 09:56 am
findsthesun) wrote2009-07-09 09:56 am
Practice! With Wellard
A young Elf*, dressed in sturdy green and brown cloth and soft leather shoes, walks into the bar.
It can, perhaps, be forgive if his first reaction is wariness and his hand flicks towards the white handled knife at his belt.
Then he laughs.
"A tavern of Men, in the middle of the forest? I have not heard tell of this."
*see (here) for description of Elves, and Legolas in particular.
It can, perhaps, be forgive if his first reaction is wariness and his hand flicks towards the white handled knife at his belt.
Then he laughs.
"A tavern of Men, in the middle of the forest? I have not heard tell of this."
*see (here) for description of Elves, and Legolas in particular.
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"Magic in truth," Legolas says quietly, voice cool and expression unreadable. It is only that nothing feels 'off' about Tavi that keeps him from reacting with instant anger.
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Tavi had felt the relaxed air, the openness between them--it getting all shut off is an instant warning sign to the diplomat in him, and not for the first time he pities his mother for the years he hid his emotions from her.
"We've never called it that. The Canes--who use... certain blood rights to create and control magic--and the Marat, who have none, call it sorcery. We never have. It's not... magic, to our minds. No spells, no ritual castings. It's crafting. There are spirits in the land--wind and earth and all the rest, and they work with us. It's the only way we survived and carved out what land we have."
He leans back, sipping his wine again. "Everyone--every human, every Aleran--is born with an affinity for one or more elements. The high houses have all of them, and in incredible amounts. The country way is the way I prefer, certainly. There are... distinct spirits, in many ways. Some even have personalities. They can be passed on, generation to generation, father to son, to help us survive." He smiles faintly. "Those are the average furies. The Great Furies--the great spirits of the land--go a little further. Kalus, the fury of the volcano Mount Kalus, was bound for many years, and my grandfather woke him once. It was easily one of the two hardest decisions he ever made.
"Furies tend to be well-matched to their humans. Angry, vicious people will have vicious and heartless furies, no matter what shape they take. On the other hand, one of my dearest friends, Max: he manifested a lion of water, but a gentler beast when not protecting something I've never known." He pauses then, not sure whether to reveal the secret of the strength of the House of Gaius to this man he barely knows. "The greatest of the furies, though..." he says at last, slowly, "they're independent. They don't just bond with humans on instinct. They grace us with their choice. They choose the house they live with, the ones they trust with their power, to care for the land."
He waves vaguely. "The Marat worship the One, and others I've known in this Bar revere different deities of all sorts. We don't worship the furies, although anyone with sense respects them. But we swear by the great furies, because they are the land--and the land kindly allowed us to survive. It is by its grace and goodwill that Alera is what it is today." His eyes are bleak. "The land itself arose to purge a race of devourers which nearly overran us, not so long ago."
He remembers Alera Imperia before its destruction. He remembers his grandfather.
And, quite suddenly, he grins. "Honestly, we don't understand it very well ourselves--it's just how life is. Especially in the country. The land helps us survive, and we revitalize and maintain the land. Perhaps we call it crafting because we take something raw and unbridled and try to fashion a living work of art from it."
He realizes, suddenly, that he's talked a lot--but he doesn't often go into such detail on such short notice about his home and his own furies. But he sensed that emotional void--and in his experience, Alera fills herself fills that.
"Maybe one day I'll introduce you to her. The one I work with, when I need the aid."
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Only when Tavi finishes does he blink, and that slowly. He nods his head sideways in a slight acceptance.
"In Arda," he says, musical voice quieted like muffled bells, "there are many things that Men call magic. The healing some can do, our knowledge of the forests, the skill with which we craft weaponry, or the hate that our weapons have for yrch," and there is the first hint of emotion--a strong distaste with which he says the word, like he does not want it to linger in his mouth. "I rarely pay attention to it."
He takes a sip of the Dorwinion, slowly, to think. "What we call magic--the only thing we call magic--is that which is used to make things do what the maker wishes. It is against life, and growing things. It does not destroy to feed itself, it destroys to glut its undying hunger."
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"That's far closer to the Canim's blood rituals, I think, although it isn't exclusively that. But... yes. Our crafting is just that: crafting. For creating things--enduring works of stone to live in and protect ourselves with, blades which don't lose their edge, for shooting with unparalleled accuracy, for creating heat in the dead of winter, for healing..." And he smiles a little. "For flying, even."
Sighing, he admits, "It can be... misused. Horribly so, and has been. But that isn't about the power, but the user. Fundamentally, the land protecs us, and we give it... companionship, perhaps, in return."
And then, after a pause: "...Yrch?"
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"Not a pleasant topic of conversation, Tavi," he says, grin still on his face. "It is enough to know that they are many, and foul."
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"I know the type. We had that, disgusting, bug-like creatures called the Vord. They produced this... wax, croach. Nearly destroyed three or four races all at once before we stopped the queen."
Or rather, before he stopped the queen. But he'd never take credit for it.
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"As I said," he replies, "not a pleasant topic of conversation."
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"You've mentioned the forest several times now. What is it like to live there? I have to admit the only forest near my childhood home was..." He pauses. Covered in croach, to be exact, but he won't bring that up again. "...Untraversable. And I haven't had particular occasion to spend time in the forests of other regions of Alera."
After a moment's thought, Tavi decides he really ought to fix that. His next vacation, maybe.
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He shrugs, slightly. "We trade along the river with the Men of Dorwinion and Lake Town and other places." Then, a quiet laugh. "There is a reason Men call it Mirkwood, and the Elves of Rivendell call it Taur e-Ndaedelos. 'Tis not an easy place to navigate, if you do not know the way of it."
Then: "Has Alera many forests?"
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"I've never been much of a woodsman, myself," Tavi admits with a rueful smile. "To my uncle's dismay. I can find my way well enough, and track sheep if I have to, but I'm more suited to the Legions and the city."
Closing his eyes briefly, Tavi draws up a mental map of Alera. "A few. None that are too extensive, and honestly with our earthcrafters it's more expedient to use earth than wood, so we haven't gone out of our way to either utilize or cultivate them. But there are a few, here and there. Mostly in sections of Alera I haven't visited extensively, I'm sorry to say. The south, mainly--near Kalare and Attica and Forcia. Though those are... badly damaged. The Kalaran forests especially might come back more, since the war."
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His straight face doesn't hold for very long.
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"Granted, it is harder when there are wind furies trying to peel your skin off."
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He tils his head at Tavi. "You were a shepherd, once?"
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"You'd be surprised how many useful things you pick up--like how to introduce a new and potentially dangerous creature to a herd." It works just as well on people.
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"In my admittedly short experience, the most useful lessons come unlooked for."
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"In my experience, it's never that a single lesson applies to a situation. Lessons are cumulative--part of a greater whole."
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Before laughing.
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"It's been a long time since I thought about the sheep," he admits ruefully. Strange, that--considering they changed everything.
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Impressed with Legolas' observation skills? Absolutely. About to reveal he's the leader of his people and immensely powerful? Not really.
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"Do not worry," he tells him, after a moment. "I shall not tell anyone you are visiting a tavern."
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