Fëanáro Curufinwë (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
feanaro_curufinwe) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
calling_logs2016-08-08 11:08 am
feanaro_curufinwe) wrote in calling_logs2016-08-08 11:08 am
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WHO: Fëanor and whoever.
WHAT: The Worst Elf Arrives!
WHEN: Round about noon.
WHERE: City of Tomorrow!
NOTES/WARNINGS: Incoming language barrier! Why? Because it's fun. Worry not, he learns fast.
A moment of despair, is what Fëanáro feels, as his fëa flees his hroa, leaving his sons and his people behind in a roar of flame, to be drawn to the Halls of Mandos, where Námo will surely keep him in a grip more stern than he ever held on Moringotto-- A moment of bitter rue, a fleeting second of regret, under the shadow and lurid red light of the fortress of his most hated foe--
And then there is light, but not the light he expects, no: it is rather a brilliant golden gleam from high in the sky above, reflecting off of a thousand mirrors around him, rising from the ground to the highest pinnacle of the sky, glittering almost like unto the Trees themselves--
And noise. As loud, he thinks, as the roar of battle, but as different in nature to it as an Elda to a Vala, vital and bright for all its volume. And. Things in the skies, soaring like bird but gleaming like machines, and the very sight of them spins streams possibility through his mind--
There is something in his hand that is not his sword, which is, oddly, hanging once more from his hip, and it is a small, light thing, barely noticeable in the face of the glittering wonder all about him.
One scorched, bloody, flithy elf, standing on the steps of MacAran.
WHAT: The Worst Elf Arrives!
WHEN: Round about noon.
WHERE: City of Tomorrow!
NOTES/WARNINGS: Incoming language barrier! Why? Because it's fun. Worry not, he learns fast.
A moment of despair, is what Fëanáro feels, as his fëa flees his hroa, leaving his sons and his people behind in a roar of flame, to be drawn to the Halls of Mandos, where Námo will surely keep him in a grip more stern than he ever held on Moringotto-- A moment of bitter rue, a fleeting second of regret, under the shadow and lurid red light of the fortress of his most hated foe--
And then there is light, but not the light he expects, no: it is rather a brilliant golden gleam from high in the sky above, reflecting off of a thousand mirrors around him, rising from the ground to the highest pinnacle of the sky, glittering almost like unto the Trees themselves--
And noise. As loud, he thinks, as the roar of battle, but as different in nature to it as an Elda to a Vala, vital and bright for all its volume. And. Things in the skies, soaring like bird but gleaming like machines, and the very sight of them spins streams possibility through his mind--
There is something in his hand that is not his sword, which is, oddly, hanging once more from his hip, and it is a small, light thing, barely noticeable in the face of the glittering wonder all about him.
One scorched, bloody, flithy elf, standing on the steps of MacAran.