Curufinwë Atarinkë | The Silmarillion (atarinke) wrote in spinningcompass, @ 2013-03-21 16:33:00 |
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Entry tags: | !open |
WHO: Curufin and OPEN!
WHAT: Brooding
WHEN: Thursday afternoon
WHERE: The Pub
RATING: TBD
STATUS: Incomplete/Open
Curufin was annoyed. Of course, it had been quite some time since he hadn't been annoyed. But this place was annoying him more than most; with its ridiculous people and their ridiculous lives. They were Men, nearly all of them, with a few exceptions that hardly counted. His young cousin Aikanáro was here, aye, but he was about as useful as his brother in anything that did not involve long hours of lecturing and nagging. And Turgon's daughter, Itarillë was here as well, but she had long since lost any vestige of sense when she had taken a mortal Man to her bed. Apparently, Turgon had gone mad as well, to let her. Ai, what, though, could be said about the house of Fingolfin? They had always been little more than jealous usurpers with little bravery and even less sense.
The afternoon found him in the pub, nursing a pint of some dreadful mortal ale that he was not about to finish. These creatures had about as much taste when it came to food as Orcs did. He perhaps, should have been working on the sword that Itarillë had bid him make her, but his mind was not currently in the right mindset for creation. He felt more like smashing things, or as he preferred, manipulating someone else to smash things, and not getting his own hands dirty. Oh, aye, he preferred doing things that way and he always had. Curufin the Crafty referred to more than simply his skill with the forge.
His eyes scanned the few people in the room, and found nothing of interest in them. Ai, to the crows with them! He had little time for this place or its people, and in truth, he should rather be back in Beleriand among his people, plagued yet again with the fulfillment of his Oath than being here with mortals trying to tell him how to live his life. In a fit of pique, he pushed the mug of ale off the table, reveling in the sound as it shattered on the hard floor. Let the Mortals pick it up and serve him as they should. Then at least something would be as it ought.