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 Midnight Munchies, Open, TA 3020
Bilbo Baggins
Posted: Aug 20 2014, 08:16 PM

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Group: Hobbits
Posts: 14
Member No.: 76
Joined: 18-August 14

Old age didn't agree with Bilbo. It seemed to have caught up with him all at once when he reached Rivendell, making his travels grind to a complete stop when he got there. His hair had turned completely white, receding from his forehead as if fleeing from it, the rest thinning rapidly, his curls loosening and falling to his shoulders. Wrinkles that had been slight before, as if he were a much younger Hobbit, seemed to have deepened overnight, turning his face into a leathery mass of wrinkles that he wasn't even sure he recognised any more. His eyes had become watery, pale and without their old sharpness, though there were moments when he thought he saw a glimmer of a mind still sharp as a tack. He wasn't quite stooped, but there was a hunch to his shoulders, as if even the weight of air on them was too much, and his steps were slow, shuffling. Even the hair on his feet had turned white, and it galled him to walk with a cane, though it preferred that to walking with an aide. All these elves were simply too tall to help him walk around, having to bend down so that he could even clasp a hand. Most of them would have to get on their knees if they wanted to offer a forearm or the crook of an elbow.

He sat in his room, staring out the window absently. He had given the book to Frodo, for him to write his piece, and having nothing to do didn't bother him as much as he thought it would. Boredom didn't come as easily to him now that old age had set in, and with it had come the desire to take in everything around him while he still could. The beauty of Imladris had never been something he had taken for granted, but now seemed like there was an edge to how he was seeing it. As if some subconscious part of him was saying goodbye. His applied to other things, he'd sit and listen to his favourite music played for him over and over, even when he could see the musicians trying not to get fed up with him requesting the same things over and over, he'd reread his favourite books slowly to take in each word, his brittle hands running shakily over the pages as if to remember the feel of paper.

Even food was something he relished even more rather than slowly gave up on. Old age certainly hadn't lessened his appetite, anyway. He ate all the same meals he did before, but a little slower, with a little more enjoyment, with more compliments sent to the chef, and even one or two more snacks in between. A snack between meals was never a bad thing, especially if he had his pipe and a cup of tea.

Speaking of snacks.

He got up slowly, muttering to himself at the creak of old bones and the protest of fragile muscles as he reached for his cane, wrapping a shawl around himself to stave off the late night chill. Even with the cane, he was as quiet as he had ever been, moving barefoot through the moonlit corridors easily. He had lived there long enough to know the place well, he worked out quickly where the kitchens were and the cooks knew him well. At least three of his meals were taken in there, because old habits are hard to break, and Second Breakfast, Elevenses and Afternoon Tea were always taken in the kitchen, where he could get himself a second cup of tea if he wanted it. Though if it was nice out, Elevenses could be taken on some balcony overlooking the valley. If his hands didn't shake too much to carry the tea, or he could wrangle someone into helping him.

The kitchen was quiet when he entered, the ovens cool and quiet. There wasn't even a scullion there. He could smell the remains of dinner, and of other foods baked ready for the morning. It was for the latter that he aimed, peering into cupboards and using the moonlight to see what goodies lay within. Whatever happened to his body because he was old, at least he could say that his eyesight was still sharp enough to see well enough by moonlight. Thus meaning he could go about getting himself some midnight munchies without disturbing anyone by needing a lit candle with him.

He grinned when he found the platter of fruit scones, fresh out of the oven from the smell of them, and he took three, finding a plate in one of the lower cupboards and splitting the first in half even before he could find somewhere to sit himself down. Maybe he'd bring them out onto a balcony, to look upon Imladris in the moonlight while he ate his little snack. With a little butter and jam on each scone, he pottered slowly out to a nearby balcony, the scent of flowers washing over him as he found a bench to sit on. It was a beautiful night, if a little chilly, the stars glimmered overhead, the moon was fat and full in the sky.

He didn't start when he heard soft footfalls nearby, though he did feel a little guilty that he might have woken someone up with his puttering around the kitchen. He hadn't thought he'd been all that loud, but with these Elvish ears it was hard to tell. He didn't turn around, his eyes gazing out over the view as if seeing it from a different time. His feet swung back and forth slightly, hanging several inches above the ground. Despite his brittle old body, he was still able to lever himself up onto a bench made for those taller than him. "Good evening." He commented idly, swallowing his mouthful of scone before speaking, moving his cane from where it was balanced against the free space next to him to lean against his leg instead, leaving space for the other to sit, should they choose to. He also held the plate out without looking, offering a scone, just in case.
Posted: Aug 27 2014, 04:00 PM

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Group: Half-Elves
Posts: 234
Member No.: 6
Joined: 13-March 14

It was difficult to sleep in Imladris anymore. It was too quiet. The city had slowly emptied of many of their kindred after the war had ended, after Arwen had gone away. Elladan couldn't really complain. It was just as quiet in every other corner of the continent as well. He hadn't heard tell of orcs for weeks, and he supposed he should feel happy about that. He didn't though. It felt like his purpose in life had gotten exceptionally smaller.

Of course, the real problem was his adar. He'd heard the talk behind closed doors, what his uncles didn't want him to hear, didn't think he could handle as a solid fact just yet. Elrond was getting ready to sail. Elladan had expected it of course, once the One had been destroyed it was only a matter of time before Vilya began to sap his strength, as Narya did his grandmother. That didn't make him any more pleased to hear it. It wasn't like he could go with them. He didn't even know that he wanted to. Muinder was still here, and would remain so long as Legolas was, and so would Elrohir, for who knew how long.

He sighed and climbed to his feet, working his way down from the high shingles of the rookery roof, one of the taller towers in the city. City was a loose term, as it felt more like a ghost town anymore. The Imladrim was only a handful of younger warriors, most of the elders had sailed over the past year, and yet more would continue to trickle Westward. He wondered if Lindir would go with his father, or wait for his twin. It made more sense for him to go, if he were honest with himself, but the selfish part of him wanted Lindir to stay, at least for a while. Imladris may just crumble into pieces if both he and Elrond were gone, not to mention Erestor or Glorfindel.

The soft grass bent beneath his boots as he dropped down from the roof's ledge and landed lightly. It was more fun to watch the stars from up high, without spires and trees blocking bits of the sky from view. Elladan made his way back into his lord father's house, mulling over what the future would bring. Now that it was becoming a concrete inevitability, Elladan had to wonder who would end up in charge of Imladris once his father was gone. Would he and Elrohir be saddled with the responsibility? He had to wonder which of them was actually more suited to it, for he knew neither of them wanted it. Maybe he could bribe Muinder into taking up semi-permanent residence there while Legolas was off having dwarf-adventures. An odd munching sound drew him toward the balcony as he passed by, and he slipped out beneath the archway on silent feet to find its source.

Ah yes. Bilbo. The curly white hair on a child-size body wasn't hard to identify, though sometimes he did find himself forgetting the hobbit was staying in Imladris year-round. He didn't take up much space, so he liked to think it was an understandable oversight on his part, though the cooks would argue that he consumed more than three elves did on a daily basis.

"Good evening, mellon nin." He grinned lopsidedly and padded over to plop down on the bench beside him, tucking his feet beneath himself and snagging one of the offered scones despite the fact he wasn't particularly hungry, but there was jam on them and they smelled freshly baked and wouldn't be half so delicious come morning. Elladan was a creature of opportunity. He nibbled on the edge experimentally and decided that yes, it had been a good choice, and looked upward at the moon from this new vantage. "Has master Tilion kept you awake or are you just here for the food?" he asked casually, glancing at him as he chewed.
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