there are tall elves and small elves, nice elves and... (introduction)
Damn fools. Fools, all of them! If they think they will last an hour under that fool Orodreth - well. A slight change in plans only. Though the desertion of his own son - that stung, a little. He should have been firmer with the boy. Spent more time with him here, perhaps, rather than leaving him to tinker in his smithy at whatever little projects he found fascinating. There were more important things to do! Perhaps if he'd gotten the boy involved in the planning, or the running of things -
But what was done, he reminds himself, cannot be undone. Look forward, not back.
He swears and unstrings his bow, annoyed. Should have told Celegorm to go do the hunting. He had too much enthusiasm for the sport, and if he was going to bring that dog it might as well pull its weight. As it is, he himself is finding nothing and only getting more and more frustrated with the whole thing.
Well, he is done. Done. Things have to start going right soon, though of course not of their own accord. And he will have to do the thinking again, it isn't as though his elder brother is going to be any use. He turns and starts back to the fire his brother has been building. Nothing. Frustration wells up.
"Turco," he bellows, "What the hell do you think you're-"
What he thought was the clearing he left doesn't seem to be anymore. It is dusk, falling on a large lawn, with a strange - house, he supposes - and a dark wood at his back.
Curufin's expression darkens. This is not going his way at all. And that is displeasing.
Typist: ...so. The one, the only, Curufin of The Silmarillion. Known for - um, being probably the nastiest and almost certainly the cleverest son of Feanor, being the fourth and most like him in aspect and spirit. But with a bit less of a moral compass. He's a bit cranky right now, taken after that messy incident that ended with a cousin being nommed on and he and his erstwhile sibling getting kicked out of Nargothrond. He's a bit unhappy about that.
Try and cheer him up! We dare you. Also I'm sorry. >>;;
But what was done, he reminds himself, cannot be undone. Look forward, not back.
He swears and unstrings his bow, annoyed. Should have told Celegorm to go do the hunting. He had too much enthusiasm for the sport, and if he was going to bring that dog it might as well pull its weight. As it is, he himself is finding nothing and only getting more and more frustrated with the whole thing.
Well, he is done. Done. Things have to start going right soon, though of course not of their own accord. And he will have to do the thinking again, it isn't as though his elder brother is going to be any use. He turns and starts back to the fire his brother has been building. Nothing. Frustration wells up.
"Turco," he bellows, "What the hell do you think you're-"
What he thought was the clearing he left doesn't seem to be anymore. It is dusk, falling on a large lawn, with a strange - house, he supposes - and a dark wood at his back.
Curufin's expression darkens. This is not going his way at all. And that is displeasing.
Typist: ...so. The one, the only, Curufin of The Silmarillion. Known for - um, being probably the nastiest and almost certainly the cleverest son of Feanor, being the fourth and most like him in aspect and spirit. But with a bit less of a moral compass. He's a bit cranky right now, taken after that messy incident that ended with a cousin being nommed on and he and his erstwhile sibling getting kicked out of Nargothrond. He's a bit unhappy about that.
Try and cheer him up! We dare you. Also I'm sorry. >>;;