Shadow of Mirkwood

Town of vice

Carefree love, blazing, passionate, open but short, or invisible love, rough, secret, hurting but long? Shall you pick both - forget you had oath. Shall you pick one - where's the fun?

Legolas moved through the narrow streets of Lake-town like a phantom, his steps silent but burdened with the weight of guilt and regret. The scent of the lake hung in the air, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of blood that still lingered in his senses. His thoughts were a tumultuous storm, swirling around the images of Thalassa's lifeless body, the crimson-stained snow, and the haunting realization that he couldn't help Lytharial in time.

Every corner he turned, every cobbled street he traversed, whispered reminders of his perceived failure. The air seemed thicker, the world darker, as if the very essence of Lake-town mirrored the shadows that now clouded his heart. The urgency to pursue the dwarves, to fulfill his duties as the Elven Prince, clashed violently with the internal tempest that raged within him.

Thalassa's face, peaceful yet forever frozen in death, haunted his thoughts. He could almost hear her laughter, and feel the warmth of her presence, but the cruel reality asserted itself with each step.  The guilt gnawed at him like a relentless beast, tearing through the veneer of stoicism he usually wore.

Lytharial's eyes, filled with pain and betrayal, flashed in his mind. He had promised to be there for her, yet Destiny's dark mist had bound him, rendering him helpless. The words she might say, the accusations she might throw – they echoed louder than the bustling sounds of Lake-town.

As he walked through the town, shadows clung to him like a second skin, mirroring the shadows in his soul. The scent of the marketplace, and the sounds of distant conversations, all became a dissonant background to the symphony of guilt playing relentlessly in his mind.

He sought refuge in the dimly lit tavern, a brief escape from the haunting memories. The wooden door creaked as he entered, and the comforting hum of conversations enveloped him. A mix of scents – ale, food, and the faint scent of burning wood – permeated the air, creating an atmosphere that momentarily dulled the ache in his heart.

      "Any rooms available now?", he asked the man that held the most chances to be the owner of this place. 

The affirmative response led him down a narrow corridor to a modest chamber. Though not luxurious, it offered the solitude he craved. His bow and twin swords remained steadfast at his side – loyal companions mirroring the weight of responsibility he carried.

Returning to the vibrant heart of the tavern, he ordered a simple meal. The flickering candlelight played on the tabletop as he pondered the events of the past days. Two days ago, he left Lytharial in the Elvenking's palace, and the consequences of his absence gnawed at him. Guilt, an unwavering adversary, clawed at him, refusing to be dismissed.

Sitting alone in his thoughts, a group of inebriated men approached him.

    "Wanna play cards, elf?"

Legolas hesitated, his mind clouded by the internal tempest. The insistent crowd, however, left him little choice, and he reluctantly joined the impromptu game.

The cards shuffled in his hands, but his gaze drifted beyond the patterns and symbols. The game unfolded as a mere backdrop to the internal turmoil consuming him.

       "I'm putting five gold on heart," one of the players declared, confidence brimming in his slightly slurred voice.

       "Four spades is mine," another chimed in, their eyes glinting with anticipation.

The others chuckled, casting sly glances at Legolas. 

       "Elf, what about you? You playing or just here to admire the cards?"