Chapter 6: The Deal Struck
The throne room's air was thick with tension, the spiced wine's sweetness now cloying, sticking to Mark's throat like a warning. Thranduil's eyes gleamed, a glint of greed beneath the icy facade, his silk robes rustling as he leaned forward, the throne's marble cold and unyielding under his grip. The tapestries, their silver threads frayed, whispered of forgotten victories, their faded edges a silent tale of time's weight. Mark stood at the room's center, boots scuffing the polished wood, his heart a steady hammer, his fingers rubbing his wrist, the raw skin stinging. "This is it. The big pitch," he thought, his modern lilt a secret defiance, like Daryl Dixon spitting in the face of a captor.
"Your power is… remarkable," Thranduil said, voice a low hiss, echoing like wind through bare branches. "But humans always want. What is your price?"
Mark's smirk was a blade, sharp and deliberate. "I know what you've lost," he said, pausing, letting the words sink in, the court's murmurs a soft ripple. "Your jewels, stolen by Smaug. I'll get them back."
A tremor ran through the elves, silk rustling, wine glasses clinking. Thranduil's fingers tightened, the throne creaking, his crown's gems flashing like trapped stars. "He's hooked," Mark thought, heart racing, a thrill of power surging. "Now to reel him in."
"I'll retrieve them," Mark continued, voice low, conspiratorial, "but I want two things. First, a guide who knows the forest, someone to train me. Second, when the dwarves arrive, you don't touch them. They're the key to the mountain."
Thranduil's eyes narrowed, a predator scenting a trap. "The dwarves?" he said, voice sharp, cutting through the hall's hum. "What part do they play in this?"
"They're my leverage," Mark said, dodging, his smirk unwavering. "And for the guide…" He turned, pointing to Tauriel, her red hair a fiery beacon in the torchlight. "I want her."
The court gasped, a sharp intake of breath, silk rustling like a storm. Tauriel stiffened, her green eyes blazing, her dagger twirling in her hand, the leather creaking with her grip. "Oh, she's pissed," Mark thought, a thrill mixing with dread, like goading a survivor who could gut him.
"Why her?" Thranduil asked, voice a blade, suspicion glinting in his eyes like his crown's gems.
"She's useful," Mark said, grin turning roguish, voice dropping to a whisper only Thranduil could hear. "And I like a challenge."
The king's gaze locked on his, a silent duel, the marble throne radiating cold, the wine's aroma heavy, intoxicating. The court held its breath, the air crackling. Thranduil's nod was sharp, final. "The deal is struck," he said, voice cold as stone. "But fail, human, and your life is forfeit. My captain will obey. Her duty is to me."
[Quest: Jewel Retrieval. Reward: 300 Essence. Don't choke.]
[Resolve +0.5. Deal sealed. Hope you're ready.]
Mark's heart surged, triumph and fear colliding like a storm. "I just tied myself to a dragon and an angry elf. Great plan, genius." He rubbed his wrist, the sting grounding him, sweat beading on his neck, the room's chill biting deeper. Tauriel's scowl was a wildfire, her fists clenched, the lavender scent sharpening with her fury.
"I'm no one's servant," she snapped, voice a low growl, eyes blazing like emeralds in the torchlight. Her boots shifted, the stone scuffing faintly, her bowstring humming with tension.
Mark couldn't resist, the thrill of her anger sparking something reckless. "Relax, it's temporary," he teased, voice playful, modern lilt jarring. "Think of it as… a team-building exercise."
Her eyes narrowed, a flash of defiance, her dagger twirling faster, the leather creaking. "You'll regret this, human," she murmured, voice low, dangerous, but a flicker of curiosity danced beneath the anger, a spark Mark caught and held.
[Tauriel Trust -5%. Ouch, bad move.]
"Yeah, screwed that up," he thought, wincing inwardly, his fingers rubbing his wrist harder, the sting sharp. The court erupted in whispers, silk rustling like dead leaves, wine glasses clinking as elves formed tight knots, their voices low, conspiratorial.
"He's mad," Eldrin murmured, his dark robe swishing, ink's faint tang clinging to him. "To face a dragon? He's no warrior."
Sylvara, her silk robe gleaming, leaned closer, voice soft but heavy. "The jewels… they're guarded by more than fire. Old magics, dark and deep, sleep in that hoard."
Mark's ears caught the words, his meta-knowledge flaring, a cold knot tightening in his gut. "Cursed jewels. Of course." Like a walker horde hiding a worse threat, the hoard was more than it seemed. He kept his face neutral, but his mind spun, calculating risks, timelines, like a survivor planning a raid.
[Intuition +0.2. Ears open, mouth shut.]
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