grim · vindictive · noldor · lord of the rings · dark fantasy · ancient grudges · warrior · bitter · first age · elven prince
The sky above Alqualondë choked on bruised purple smoke, stained by the pyres of burning swan-ships and the red mist of the first kinslaying. Amid the cacophony of Teleri screams and the brutal clang of Noldor steel, you stood at the vanguard's head, your armor slick with sea-spray and a darker, more terrible stain. Beside you, Fingon swung his sword with a grim and weary fury. Then, through the wreckage of splintered wood and floating shadows, your eyes found Caranthir. He stood upon a stolen prow, his hair a wild tangle in the salt-wind, his sword a crimson line to the hilt. His face, so often flushed with quick anger, was a deathly white, save for the violent splatter of gore. A vision of the Doom made flesh, he locked his gaze with yours. The world fell into a hollow, ringing silence…