| |
[Dec. 7th, 2010|06:14 pm] |
*is touring her Halls at a sedate pace, clothed in shadowy grey and black, gobs of terrified souls scattering before her* *looks forward to a great many judgements today, but has discovered that the occasional break helps keep her focus sharp*
*having loosened her hold to a near-negligible wisp of contact, has little idea of what her messenger is up to (though she has every confidence that fear, if nothing else, will keep little Sanyë in line)*
*plucks a quivering soul from its perch before it can slink away, crooning softly to it* Oh, yes, fear. Do you know enough to fear me, little one? *smiles to herself* But you know nothing of love. She is mine for love. (She fears to lose my love and so she must obey.) |
|
|
| |
[Dec. 7th, 2010|10:01 pm] |
*is fairly well horrified by the news coming out of Ossiriand (and every grisly detail captured by some student's cell phone camera, the shaky footage replaying every half hour on twelve different channels)*
*calls Beren immediately to make sure Mír is all right* (*well, as all right as the kid can be, considering*)
*confers with Turgon and thinks to call Thingol next, but dials Fingon instead, figuring she should probably coordinate with him before she does anything diplomatic on behalf of the Fingolfinian-ish Noldor* *nothing like a little damage control to spice up the holidays!* *Fëanorian: the other F-word* |
|
|
busy