InsaneJournal

Who: Maedhros & OTA
What: Being diplomatic and or hashing out strategies? Making stupid jokes? I don't know.
Where: Near the apartments.
When: Monday, midday
Warnings | Status: TBD | in progress



It made little sense to Maedhros to usher all the residents of the island into full panic at the slightest hint of change. But true to his pre-industrial heritage he had no true understanding of what electricity was, what it did, or why it was so necessary to survive. And so he did not try to butt in or offer his advice - What did he know about it? And why was his opinion more valid than someone who did? He was not so foolish to think he had any sort of say on the workings of a modern world. Let those who knew best how to do their work, do their work. He and his kin would worry about other things necessary for survival in the event the humans could not fix their energy source.

He had only been on the island for a few months, but in his reckoning the time had passed like days or weeks and so he was not overly disturbed by being here; he had lived for more than three thousand years and had long since come to the point where months were not enough to bother him in any form or fashion. And for those three millenniums and several centuries he had gone without the comforts or luxuries of the modern world--including electricity--and so being cast into the darkness did not grieve him as it did many of the others whom were dependent on it for their survival. He'd simply forgotten about the mobile device and the other desk bound--what did they call it?--laptop once the batteries had ceased working.

But as ever, the island seemed keen on surprising them. As they'd prepared to leave Vinyamar to return to the city before sunrise, Maedhros had come across a suit of armor that he'd distinctly recognized as his own. His thrill at being reunited with the armor of his father's work had bled through his dark spirit. It was with utter glee--though kept in check--that he'd dragged Fingon back to the tucked away bedroom of theirs and there dressed Maedhros in it. The design was beautiful, crafted by Middle-earth's greatest craftsmen, Maedhros's own father Fëanor. It had traveled with him all throughout their journey from Valinor to Middle-earth, and had even been modified to fit his missing right hand.

Arrayed now in the elven armor, with his sword at his side, Maedhros stood as a bright contrast against the city colors. The silver of the armor glittered like a thousand jewels, but shown brilliantly against the red of his cloak and tunic, and the fiery burn of his red hair and smoldering grey eyes. He burned. He burned utterly with the fire of his Fëanorian spirit and it shown bodily on him on this day. He was waiting on the edge of action, poised for movement but held back by simple threads that once ignited, would burn themselves out and release him in an instant. For now though his spirit was contained by armor and the strong presence of Fingon in the city.

Now if he were not so infinitely bored. Having lived as long as he had, Maedhros had seen many things, heard stranger things yet, and found the day to day living to be the lowest form of existence imaginable. He was a creature of vast knowledge, three millenniums worth of experience, and stories. It shown in his bearing and in his eyes that burned like living fire.