Party tiiiime

[elvenking]

CHARACTERS: All the people.
LOCATION: O2 Gardens.
WARNINGS: Drunkenness and things.
SUMMARY: Thranduil made mead. This is as good an excuse as a wood-elf needs to throw a party.
NOTES: The announcement was made here, three days ago. The invite is totally open.



The Elvenking has designated a specific clearing as the "party circle." Really, there should be a fire and lanterns, but those are bad ideas on a space ship and Ned would go nuts, so he has made the area look as festive as possible. Meaning he has thrown down a few blankets and propped up the cask of mead on a sort of quadripod. Food is laid buffet-style on one of the blankets--breads, meats, fruits, hearty cooked root vegetables, cheese, butter, and honey among them, plus whatever the other guests brought (Thranduil's provided food is pretty low-prep).

The mead itself is very good, clear and smooth and sweet. But for those who aren't crazy about sweet wines, no matter how manly and traditional (and potent) they are, others have brought other forms of booze. Someone is playing music to dance to at any given time--harp, drum, fiddle, and flute in various combinations.

Have a good time.

Comments

[northerner]

In Westeros, they'd held parties and feasts and the king's attendance had been an honor. Robb remembers it, how all had parted to allow Robert Baratheon into the hall, how they'd served him all he'd desired and then some. But Robb enters quietly, Grey Wind at his side, and he fetches his own cup, hangs back to watch the festivities.

He's not much for feasts, not after so long aboard the Tranquility. There's a man dead and Nathan feared the worst, and the creature had paid such special attention to Arya. It's difficult not to feel ill at ease. He trails along behind Grey Wind, allowing the wolf to choose their path. And Grey Wind comes to rest at Elrond's side, at which point robb steps up, digs a hand into the scruff of fur at the massive wolf's shoulder.

"My apologies, sir. I'd not meant for him to disturb you."

[summerlord]

Elrond cannot deny that he is very alert to the wolf's approach; the animal is massive but not aggressive -- and accompanied by a man. Elrond does relax -- though neither his state of alertness or the relaxation is all that evident -- at the man's words. He shakes his head, expression mild.

"It is well. You are both welcome here." His expression turns wry. "Had I not wished for any sort of company, I would not have come."

[northerner]

He's newly arrived. Or so Robb assumes, for he does not recognize the man's face and Robb likes to think he's a passing familiarity with those aboard. It was the same here as it had been in Westeros, with his bannermen. Robb served with the others on the security team, cycled through the ship, and he took note of the faces he passed. His fingers twist into Grey Wind's fur, soothing, and he inclines his head.

"Then allow me to introduce myself. My name is Robb Stark, King in the North in the land of Westeros, and my companion is called Grey Wind, and he means no harm to you."

[summerlord]

Ah, royalty. Elrond could have guessed, in the easy manner with which he carried himself. He inclines his head as well, to both the man and the wolf. "Many blessings upon you and your companion, then. I am Elrond, lord of Imladris." Just as he knew naught of Westeros, Robb Stark would know nothing of Imladris, but there was some comfort in meeting someone on equal ground. (Or perhaps not completely equal, given that he does know nothing of Westeros. The point, however, stands: title for title, experience for experience.)

"You are both welcome here."

[northerner]

"Well met, Elrond, lord of Imladris. I should ask how you wish to be addressed, I'd not be overly familiar."

From world to world these things differed, but it mattered. Or it should matter, and Robb tried to remember, not to lose his courtesies in the pull of the ship. Acknowledgement of titles, as he acknowledged Robb then Robb should acknowledge his.

[summerlord]

He shook his head. Forms of address were, to him and in the place, unnecessary though he would concede that others might find comfort in them. "Elrond, or Lord Elrond, if you prefer. I do not stand on much ceremony."