Ithildin: Tuor & Luthien Who // Lúthien and Tuor Where // Where else? When // At the very end of 2004. Or, er, some time before that. What // Last RP of the year, w00t! Um. They meet.
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Lúthien finds that her new dagger is good for trowling out small holes in the sunbaked ground. And she likes to hide between the great roots of an old willow tree in some sort of search for moisture not tainted with traces of sulfur and copper--the remnants of dew (how long had it been?), the last rain or even a snowfall. Something the ancient tree might be hiding away for a not so rainy day.
Oddly, since sending Idril far away with his Valar-Certified credit card for a multi-day shopping spree, Tuor has found himself actually missing the dozy bint. Just a little. And it's not like he would ever admit that to anyone either. So, with the walls closing in, he breaks free into the forests surrounding the bat cave, traversing further and further as the hours seeming to fly by.
Smudged here and there by her own earthy escapade and completely engrossed in her seemingly fruitless search, the sounds of footsteps loom in something like syncopation. "Unladylike," she murmurs to herself, standing and traversing the clearing with her eyes.
"Well. I should hope so," he says as he parts thick undergrowth and steps onto somewhat moist soil. Eyeing Lúthien a moment -- wary -- he at last relaxes and tips his chin a little. "'llo."
"Stand still!" Climbing out from between the roots, she steps near him and toes the ground with her shoe. "...nevermind. Hullo."
"What?" He jumps a little, afraid he had crushed a rare plant, or maybe a baby, or, as it would just be his karma, a pile of droppings, and glances about wildly. When nothing immediately becomes apparent, he again looks back at her with questioning eyes.
"Don't look at me like I've grown two heads, please?" she murmurs, taking a step back and attempting a polite posture. "I was just," cough -- she tries to flick off a bit of dirt from her cheek but only smudges it more hopelessly "exploring."
His eyes covertly slide to his surroundings again, "Uh...right. You got --" and he mimes wiping his cheek.
"Oh." She tries this time, with the corner of her sleeve. Blink. "...you'll think it's silly. I miss the rain and the dew then, there is this shiny new dagger and its gleaming is troubling. So, I was digging a hole over there by that tree--" she motions to her willow, "to see if I could find anything that hadn't been contaminated by our dear Valar's wrath." With a pause, she tilts her head. "I don't know you."
"Likewise," he mutters wryly, eyeing her dagger. Newly made, he things, and ridiculously elaborate, like it was a glorified letter opener more than it was an efficient weapon. "I'm Tuor. Did you succeed in your, erm, exploration?"
"Hullo, Tuor. I'm Lúthien. No."
"The old--I mean, Thingol's kid?"
Holding back a laugh, she folds her arms over her chest and gives him a mock-stern look. "Quite."
"Well. How about that." He folds his arms, stroking some invisible beard on his chin as he scrutinizes her more closely. He hadn't been hit by a wall of purple prose yet, so she didn't seem a bit like him. But then again, she was digging random holes in the dirt, so the jury was still out. "That's...some shiny dagger you got there."
"...and you're," frowning, attempting to trace the lines back through her mind, her brows ease into a smile. "Ah, Tuor. Beloved messenger of Ulmo. And it is. Fancy it?"
"Beloved's a bit up for debate at the moment. It's...fancy. Your design?"
"My father's." Leaving it flat on her palm, she thrusts it toward him. "...peace offering to Ulmo?"
That makes more sense. He gingerly picks up the dagger, adjusting it in his hand critically. "Sturdier than it looks, I'll give the old codger that." Oops. That one slipped out. He sends her a brief look of chagrin. "Ulmo has little use for metals." He offers her back the weapon, handle out. "Keep it. One can never be too cautious."
That elicits laughter -- and it threatens to roll over in the way the rain should be. "Thank you. And," sigh. Curling her fingers across the curved hilt, she tucks it back into her waistband. "Too bad."
He considers, tipping his head to one side in thought, "Hard-bent on losing the damn thing, eh?"
"Or trying to use it to appease something or other. It's that heavy. Aranel and Beren might possibly snort."
"Better bulk up. Can't think of too many folks who'd want to carry a girly dagger with something so obvious as nightingales on it. Besides, you just never know these days what you'll have to stab." Confident nod, as if he's just answered the question on the meaning of life.
"Bulk up?" questioningly, she attempts to flex a tricep. No avail. "...stab?" Wide eyes.
"Rip, tear, gnash." He holds up his hands, curling them like claws. "Grrr." Dropping his hands, "Or something. All this talk of being on your guard and yet I haven't seen anything so much as a dustball. Ah well."
"Now a dustball. I could gnash my terrible teeth for that. And hmm," making a minute glance, "you are supposed to have a great axe. If you're on guard, where is it?"
"Where ever I go, it's 'axe this' and 'axe that'. I swear, you choose to be a little different, a little unique and suddenly you're marked for life." He sighs, quite put upon, then looks quizzical. "I have no idea. Might've left it in the Bat Cave. Or leaning against a tree. Am not too worried. It's like an ugly scarf you purposely try to lose but it keeps turning up."
"Someone will trundle it over for you," she nods, smirking at the 'Bat Cave'. "We all have our little insignias, though. Our markers and epithets that make people identify us with a suit of armour, a bird, missing limbs or an axe. Not saying that it's right. It just is."
"I'm not saying that it's wrong. Better an axe than a missing limb, I'll say." A smirk, but then -- oh, right. Open mouth, insert foot. "Not like there's anything wrong with missing limbs. Missing limbs are...uh...rakish."
"Uh huh. Right. They are, indeed." Giving him a silent reply with a raised brow, she motions back toward the concourse of roots. "So I'm going to finish this. And go back to Menegroth. I think if we get any answers, it will be there."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Somhow, I get an inkling we're not even asking the right questions." Lifting a hand, he gives her a curt wave. "Happy digging, Lúthien."
"Happy asking, Tuor," she murmurs, lifting her shoulder to climb back under the mass of roots.