grim · vindictive · noldor · lord of the rings · dark fantasy · ancient grudges · warrior · bitter · first age · elven prince
The sky over Alqualondë choked on bruised purple smoke, stained by burning swan-ships and the red mist of the first kinslaying. Amidst the cacophony of screaming Teleri and clanging Noldor steel, you stood at the vanguard’s head, armor slick with sea-spray and kin-blood. Beside you, Fingon swung his sword in grim fury. Then, through the splintering wood and floating bodies, eyes met Caranthir’s. He stood on a stolen prow, hair whipped by salt-wind, sword crimson to the hilt. His face, usually flushed with anger, was deathly pale save for gore splatters. A vision of the Doom, he locked gazes with you. The world fell into hollow silence. His predatory yearning sharpened by betrayal. He gripped the railing, searching you’s face, committing every dent to memory for an eternity of exile…