[This is not Mirkwood. That is to say, he doesn't believe it to be so. They'd been warned about the very air within the forest being heavy with illusion, though considering the source for the information, and how he'd (unwillingly, he'd claimed) abandoned them at the edge of the forest, Thorin had originally disregarded it.
And surely no illusion of any kind can be this strong.]
001 - Arrival Party [There are tales of fairies even in Middle Earth, and while they're (as far as Thorin knows) nothing more than that - tales - it's with great distrust and a heavy helping of suspicion that he keeps to the very fringe of the merrymaking. This isn't his world, and this isn't the quest he and the company have been on for months now, with the clock ticking down to the final hour, so to speak. And as such, he is in no mood for revelry, for even the revelry itself is against his will.
He's seen no one he knows, and while there's still the nagging doubt that perhaps this is the illusion Gandalf had spoken of at the edge of the forest, he's paid no heed to those doubts. There are others here, however, that he does not know, as newly-minted in this place as he himself, though for his part he certainly has no interest in joining in, choosing to even mistrust food and drink, if illusion this be, instead making sure to keep his back to the wall, and one eye on the others. He doesn't like it; not the explanation he's been given, nor the expectation that he's supposed to accept it all and disregard the quest to reclaim Erebor for some otherworldy beings' whims.]
002 - The Smithy [The smithy is, at least, something familiar. It's a double-edged sword (to wit), shaping metal into something usable and recognizable, dredging up long-time memories of working in the forges of Men to survive on the long trek from Erebor after Smaug came, and after the absolute bloodbath that was Azanulbizar. Of surviving as little more than beggars.
But at the same time it's a familiar, soothing rhythm, doing something useful with his time and his hands. It's grounding. He still rebels, internally and with a hot, silent rage, at being here, but there's always been comfort in hammer meeting red hot untempered metal in the process of creation. That is, after all, what dwarves are made to do. Even crownless kings, it seems.
There's a pause in the rhythmic hammering, before he drops the piece in the slack tub, steam hissing upward from the cooling metal, a noise catching his attention before he realizes he's no longer alone with just his thoughts for company.]
If you've something you wish to say, while this cools would be the time to do it.
003 - Choose Your Own Majestic Adventure [Find Thorin somewhere out and about. Mention the dwarves in the mountain. Go wild.]
Thorin Oakenshield (The Hobbit) | Seelie
And surely no illusion of any kind can be this strong.]
001 - Arrival Party
[There are tales of fairies even in Middle Earth, and while they're (as far as Thorin knows) nothing more than that - tales - it's with great distrust and a heavy helping of suspicion that he keeps to the very fringe of the merrymaking. This isn't his world, and this isn't the quest he and the company have been on for months now, with the clock ticking down to the final hour, so to speak. And as such, he is in no mood for revelry, for even the revelry itself is against his will.
He's seen no one he knows, and while there's still the nagging doubt that perhaps this is the illusion Gandalf had spoken of at the edge of the forest, he's paid no heed to those doubts. There are others here, however, that he does not know, as newly-minted in this place as he himself, though for his part he certainly has no interest in joining in, choosing to even mistrust food and drink, if illusion this be, instead making sure to keep his back to the wall, and one eye on the others. He doesn't like it; not the explanation he's been given, nor the expectation that he's supposed to accept it all and disregard the quest to reclaim Erebor for some otherworldy beings' whims.]
002 - The Smithy
[The smithy is, at least, something familiar. It's a double-edged sword (to wit), shaping metal into something usable and recognizable, dredging up long-time memories of working in the forges of Men to survive on the long trek from Erebor after Smaug came, and after the absolute bloodbath that was Azanulbizar. Of surviving as little more than beggars.
But at the same time it's a familiar, soothing rhythm, doing something useful with his time and his hands. It's grounding. He still rebels, internally and with a hot, silent rage, at being here, but there's always been comfort in hammer meeting red hot untempered metal in the process of creation. That is, after all, what dwarves are made to do. Even crownless kings, it seems.
There's a pause in the rhythmic hammering, before he drops the piece in the slack tub, steam hissing upward from the cooling metal, a noise catching his attention before he realizes he's no longer alone with just his thoughts for company.]
If you've something you wish to say, while this cools would be the time to do it.
003 - Choose Your Own Majestic Adventure
[Find Thorin somewhere out and about. Mention the dwarves in the mountain. Go wild.]