#cyrefinn

haunting of hill house || accepting

Morifinwë snorted, picking at the food remaining upon hisplate. There had been many dishes made, for this was a feast, welcoming notonly Curufinwë and his people, but a contingent of Casari from Belegost, includingthe currently-appointed official liaison of Belegost, a stocky black-beardedfellow delighting in the unlikely name of Jari.

For their delectation, the kitchens had spared no effort. A boarhad been hunted and roasted slowly upon a turning spit, along with innumerablesmall game birds tucked among the coals, their skins gilding and crisping withthe heat. There were salads of greens and bright edible flowers, tarts of sweetfruit honeyed and glistening in their pastries. There were dishes ofslowly-cooked grains flavored with wine and threads of precious saffron, andthere were cheeses and nuts spiced with flaky sea salt and dried rosemary. Therewas a rose custard, and a dense sweet cake with ginger and cinnamon. Wine, and richmiruvórë; and the women had made them fresh bread. Not the lerembas, theway-bread for travelers; this was the simpler massë, soft and fragrantand studded through with seeds and nuts. 

The dwarves had fallen to with a passion; the elven guestshad eaten more slowly and decorously, and not without a number of careful lookssidelong to the table of loud Casari throughout. It had taken Caranthir himselfsome time to come to terms with the table manners of the dwarves – to see themas, in fact, manners at all. Amongthe Casari, it seemed, they considered it polite to show their greatappreciation for the food, not through careful comment at meal’s end butthrough vociferous and exuberant enjoyment throughout. Maddening, but he andhis own folk understood it by now.

bless all of you. I wasn't off the mark like I feared.

huge thanks to you, Sherilyn, because everytime I read the text (like you put in) I notice something new or different - like how apparently Melkor would deal with Tuor and Earendil, but Maeglin seemed quite eager to jump that gun and take care of the kid himself before Melkor would.

Poor Maeglin ended up with a broken arm before being tossed and pitched into flames below.

Anyhow back to the topic, maybe if that was how the rest of the plan was going to go, then maybe Maeglin wasn't supposed to come across Tuor and Earendil at all, but maybe be captured for Melkor to deal with (and maybe Idril too) and it would have taken a longer time for Maeglin's treachery to be figured out?

(I'm rambling at this point)

Curvo: Do not.

Moryo: Do so.

Curvo: Do NOT

Moryo: Do SO

Curvo: ...

Moryo: ...

Curvo: ..

Moryo: ..

Curvo: .

Moryo: .

Curvo: OH MY GOSH WHAT HAPPENS NOW

Moryo: DO SO DO SO DO SOOOOO

Curvo: NUH UH

Faenor is a Dalish dual-wield assassin with a helpful assortment of sabotage and subterfuge skills.  Confident, a bit swaggering, tends toward sarcasm and mild sass. He doesn't believe he's the Herald of Andraste, but he's also not so big on the elven gods. He's more interested in doing what's right just because it is right than because gods or priests say so, and if that sometimes means being ruthless, he'll be ruthless -- but he'd also like to minimize bloodshed when it isn't necessary. He is fiercely loyal to his friends and companions, and even though he doesn't share Cassandra's faith, he respects her passion and commitment to her beliefs.

Faenor being unbearably pretty:

Song Lyrics sentences

He was cold, cold to the touch and cold, skin dancing with shivers and tremors. His eyes wandered. The features that were normally so sharp and hard in edged craftiness were softened now by a half-disguised fear, half-suppressed pain, half-veiled stubborn unwillingness to accept what fate had given him.

Curvo. He wanted to close his eyes, as if not seeing it would alter the truth of it. My little brother, my young crafty brother. He looked so like their father, all pride and obstinacy and hard edges, but not then. Then, he looked like himself, like Curvo, wide eyes and parted lips softening the boldness of his angled brows and strong jaw and cheekbones like arrowheads. The small, crafty smile was nowhere to be seen.

Curufin’s hand grasped at Maglor’s, and Maglor held it tight. “Yes,” he managed, with a tongue that moved reluctantly, as if made of lead, thrusting the sound through numb lips. “Always, hánonya.”

Curufin’s lips twitched, but never quite made it to a full smile. Maglor’s grip on his brother’s hand tightened, as if by his grasp he could anchor his brother’s fëa to his body where it lay within those fateful halls in Doriath. “Curvo…speak to me,” he tried, hoping blindly that activity would keep him alive until help could come.

The following breath rattled through Curufin’s throat. “About what?” he said after it. “…I am not ready.”

"Not ready?" Maglor echoed in a hoarse whisper.

"To pass from here," Curufin elaborated vaguely. "We have not fulfilled our Oath, have not avenged — have not—"

Maglor bent his head, at last closing his eyes, unable to bear it any longer. For a minute he sat there thus, hardly breathing, waiting for his brother to continue; although, in his heart, he knew already.

How am I doing with my character?