Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë Aracáno (nolofinwe) wrote in spinningcompass, @ 2013-06-16 00:01:00 |
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Entry tags: | !closed |
Who: The Dragonriders of Pern and the Lords of the Noldor (F'nor and F'lessan & Fingolfin and Fingon)
What: Meeting to discuss the problem of the dragons
Where: The Pub, of course.
When: After Fingolfin's network
Warnings | Status: TBD | in progress | feel free to have your characters witness this meeting.
Dragons were a menace to society. They were creatures of inherent evil that had inhabited the lands of Middle-earth since their creation by the Morgoth himself. And for five hundred years the elves of Beleriand had fought against such mighty creatures and met their ruin at their claws and fiery breath. There was no room for forgiveness in Fingolfin's heart, no place for a chance to love them. He would never come to enjoy the presence of a dragon, but as he was an elf and King of all the Noldor, it was his duty to see that his people were cared for. And three thousand years of wisdom were behind him, guiding him along these paths of faith. He need not enjoy dragons in the city, but he could tolerate them.
That was the wisdom that age brought. Maturity, civility and the ability to enter into these discussions with a fair mind. His Vanyarin blood did not allow him to become angry or lose himself. It did not let him forget. He did not dismiss the overwhelming support the dragons were gaining. He doubted very much that many of them understood the weight of their decisions or their cries for mercy, but that was why he had taken it upon himself to call this meeting. Starting a fight was not the intent behind his Queen's words, but neither would they allow themselves to go undefended. Not when it came to such beasts as dragons.
Dressed simply, in but white robes with Anairë's very own embroidery, Fingolfin cut a strong figure. He wore no jewels, but his wedding ring upon his finger, and a crown of garnets upon his brow. For though he was wealthy by the jewels and hordes in Vinyamar's vaults, he had the luxury of not flaunting his material strength. Here it was useless, and impractical as ever and he need not go those lengths to impress any being. Indeed, he never did. But his hair was braided ornately, streaming down his shoulders and his back in rivers of black silk.
He entered the pub with his son the proper distance behind him, two elf-lords in their prime. Soldiers. Warriors. Creatures bred and meant for war despite their love of peace. His grey eyes, so pale as to be icy to the unknowing, flicked around the room to assess the situation then casually fell upon the riders themselves.
A show of good faith.
Three thousand years of experience. Fingolfin gracefully unbuckled the belt about his waist, and removed the elegantly crafted elven sword, passing it to Fingon to deposit upon the countertop. Neutral grounds. Though he was armed still with daggers, he found no need to enter so heavily armed in neutral territory. Though, he did allow himself to wonder for one brief moment, what the humans would do if the riders became the aggressors. Would they rise to the defense of the elves? He brushed the thought away and approached the pair.
Fingolfin inclined his head a fraction as to be respectful, but the motion offered neither deference or submission.
"Greetings," he spoke clearly, his voice musical in nature like the ring of silver bells, "I am Lord Fingolfin." And high king of the Noldor. "Shall we begin our discussion?"