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Kostya had fashioned himself a tinfoil crown. He had fashioned himself a tinfoil crown and had placed it upon his brow, for he was a king and it was a poor substitute for his real one.

It had mysteriously gone missing.

He had no elaborate finery to wear either, and in place of it he had tied a white sheet around his neck, so that it could double as a cape. It was not very traditional for an Elvenking, but it would do. It would have to do.

It was then he encountered Lucky, who would rue the day he had crossed the fine King of the Woodland Realm.

"You," he hissed, stalking closer, eyes narrowed. "You are to being bend knee. Now."

Kostya stepped forwards as Lucky stepped back, his eyes narrowing even further. If that was possible. If it wasn't, just pretend, because it's really important you grasp the amount of eye narrowing going on here. If I wasn't lazy, I would math out the angle of his exposed eyeball to show that it is so acute it is crazy. Crazy acute.

But I am. Very lazy, that is, and I can prove it. Don't ever provoke an unreliable narrator. Things happen.

"Better?" A scoffing laugh, and for a second it looked as though the precariously balanced crown was going to slip right off of Kostya's head, but instead he tilted it just so and lo and behold, the foil stayed. King powers, activate, even if he was just an Elvenking, not that you'd hear me say just an Elvenking within hearing range of him. Don't do it. You wouldn't like it.

"I am being best. Because am King of Woodland Realm. Now bend knee! Unless..."

Kostya sneered, getting into Lucky's face, his eyes alight with a fury. A fury about some sort of perceived slight against his imaginary elven land that didn't even exist anymore in the canon of the story, because that s**t got cleansed, dude. Like, it's Eryn Lasgalen now. I guess no one gave him the Galadriel-Fixed-It Memo.


Completely out of character in every way, because he was becoming the hottest elfdad in all the land, and being way too busy being not himself, Kostya smiled. And then maybe preened, like some sort of peacock, or party dad, or both. It was a good thing that he had been unable to locate a pair of shutter shades, for everyone involved, but mostly his injured pride later.

It was, uh, going to be in dire straits as it was. Assuming Lucky told anyone about this, which Normal Kostya, not the ELVENKING Kostya, would assume he would.

Continuing in the manners of an Elvenking, King Kostya (Kingstya? King Konstantin? Kingstin? Nevermind.) laid a hand on Lucky's head, patting his hair a little. Maybe, one day, in a fit of rage, Lucky would think to shave his luxurious little mane so weirdos stopped touching it.