(But the dawn is brief and the day full often belies its promise.)

[castintoflames]

FORM: Sending Crystal
SENDER: Maedhros
RECIPIENT: Anyone with a crystal.
WHAT: Manic? Did anyone say manic? This can't be good.
WHEN: Spanning a week? (7-10 days?)
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: Someone is afflicted with a strange Flu.

(The fires are high in the Forge and someone is working at all hours. Have they come out for food? Water? Air? Well if you wondered, he does make a quick message.)

Whoever thinks knocking on the door is a good idea, will not leave unscathed next time!

(There is a strange light in his eyes - and if anyone knows of his father, they will recognize it immediately. Abort mission!)

I am on the cusp of making something spectacular and I do not need any interference. Do I make myself clear?

(What happened to the gentler Maedhros? Some might claim he has been swallowed by the flames of ambition.)

Comments

[utulien_aure]

Nelyafinwe Maitimo.

[Interesting factoid: when Fingon is irritated, he bears a striking resemblance to his father in similar moods.]

What do you think you're doing?

[castintoflames]

What? (He snaps and his response is not unlike Fëanor speaking to Fingolfin.) Creating. Obviously.

[utulien_aure]

You are being rude, old friend. And you've probably frightened a few people nearby.

Such behavior is beneath you, and you know it.

[castintoflames]

Why should I care about any of that? (Not when there are weapons to be made!

He snorts.) Nothing is beneath me and you well know it.

[utulien_aure]

Because it is wrong. Because the last time I checked, it upset you to do so.

[Now there's a thought, while he ponders where this explosion came from. What would have happened if it had occurred when Maedhros was with the street children he had grown so fond of?]

And because you promised to mind your behavior while we remained here, if I remember correctly. Will you break your word now?

[An angry toss of the head] I know nothing of the sort. Stay there, I am coming down to see you.

[Unarmed, because there's going to be enough pointy objects around as it is.]

[seawanderer]

Nelyo? Do you have any extra wood? Or tools? Elros and I are building boats and I want to get more supplies!

[Completely ignoring the warning because this is his big brother.]

[castintoflames]

I am using the tools, Kano. Why are you wasting your time with boats? Exploring is reckless.

(And he needs to stay put to create!)

[seawanderer]

That's why I asked about extra! And Elros wants to.

[Which is plenty reason for him!]

[castintoflames]

Elros is a child! You should be in charge as the elder.

[tar_minyatur]

Have you got any spare nails, Maedhros? Be faster than using interlocking planks!

[castintoflames]

(That face. Elros, your face is your saving grace this time. Though he grinds his teeth and slams things around, he does return with a box of nails.)

Come get them. I don't have time to visit boats.

[tar_minyatur]

[ His face is the best face, and hmmmm something is not right here... ]

That's fine! I can visit you!

[ PREPARE TO BE INVADED ]

[castintoflames]

(The door is propped open, but there will be no warm greeting. Maedhros is channeling Fëanor hard.)

[laurenande]

[Galadriel is 1000% not alright with this. She, unlike Maedhros, does not resemble Finarfin so much as she looks like the embodiment of a thunderstorm.]

I certainly hope you are not doing anything reckless, gwanur nin.

[She will have to scold him and that will make her next request very uncomfortable.]

If you are near finished, I require your aid.

[castintoflames]

(Nothing can sway him. He can only see his project; thus he has no time for thunderstorms, real or metaphorical.)

Why would it be reckless to make something beautiful? Something this world has never seen?

(His brow furrows and he looks at her squarely.)

For what exactly?

[laurenande]

[Galadriel doesn't want to answer that and, fortunately, her own mania drives her to the second question than addressing his rhetorical statements.]

I require training weapons, for myself and another. Made in the old styles of the Eldar. You are the only smith I know who can replicate them without constant hand-holding and assistance.

[castintoflames]

I could. (He answers warily, glancing over at his table of tools.) How do I know they will be put to good use? What if you plan to use them against myself or my brother?

[wheretheferngrows]

[There comes a time where someone is obviously on the other end of the sending crystal, anxiously considering her words without speaking. Then, in a tone of voice that is uncharacteristically timid for an elf otherwise known to be a bit of a spitfire, Fern meekly asks,]

...Maedhros? Are you feeling well? You don't sound like yourself.

[castintoflames]

(He glances at the crystal, somewhat distracted, his expression stormy and quite uncharacteristic for all he has shown before now.)

I am feeling better than I have in centuries! You may not recognize me this way.

(No, Maedhros, you are just being an ass.)

[wheretheferngrows]

[It's the tone that the crystal communicates to Fern, so clearly, so ominously, and she nearly sets the thing down and hurries away from it, to put distance between herself and her peculiar friend. She doesn't.

She summons up her courage.] When was the last time you left the forge? [she asks--demands, more like.] Have you eaten breakfast? Slept?

[castintoflames]

(She has a remarkable spirit; one that resonates with him despite his misplaced passion and focus.)

It has been days. (He needs a good bath and/or shower at the very least - not that Arda Elves are prone to smelling bad.) Why does it interest you?

(He knows why. But the feelings are confusing. He must work; not forge new friendships!)

Action;

[hwaaaitsme]

Loki had need of services, the sort of services that required craftsmen. His house was hideous and he required custom pieces be made that would solve this problem for him. Unfortunately, he had already hired a staggering number of the craftsmen in Kirkwall and was running low on options. So that is what found him outside the forge of one of the rifters--and he knew it belonged to a rifter because everyone had told him to stay far, far away from it, because it belonged to a demon.

He knocked, rapped with some polite authority, and waited for a slave to come and open the door and greet him. When nothing happened, even after several seconds, he knocked again. More firmly. Eventually he was left simply pounding on the door.

Action;

[castintoflames]

Yes. That was bound to help his mood. Pounding on his door. Maedhros growled a curse in Quenya, lifted the blade he was working on and plunged it into the tub of water. Then he dusted off his hands and walked to the door. Loki would not find him looking pleased when he opened it, his eyes a dark, angry blue.

"I made a simple request -" his deep voice reverberated like distant thunder, "Why are you interrupting my work?"

[hwaaaitsme]

Loki had never been one to let poor people dictate his actions so, as the door is open, he swans into the room as though he owns it. He might eventually, if this man was good and took appropriate coin for good work. The objection and demand are said to the tune of thunder, something that Loki is all too familiar with in both the immediate and distant senses. He is unmoved.

"You made no such request of me," Loki announces with some measure of haughtiness. "Now, I am told you are a craftsman. I require work and am willing to--"

Oh.

Loki looks the man over and, correction, he is an elf. He is the same sort of Elf that Thranduil is; tall, regal, with an oddly commanding bearing. It is...disorienting but not entirely disconcerting. He pushes past it.

"Pay handsomely if you can accomplish it and provide the end product promptly. Nothing untoward, mind: fittings, door handles, an appropriate series of sconces and the like. If you're capable of working with serault glass I'll double your fee."

[castintoflames]

This Man was getting on his nerves more and more. Unfortunately Maedhros's reserve of nerves was dangerously low - what with his heart drumming in his ears and his body feeling both alive and somehow unwell. Elves were not made for the Flu and usually the favor was returned! Thus why most of them would likely be very grumpy very soon and joining Maedhros in his miserable, metal-filled existence.

"I made it to the community as a whole." he arched a copper brow and crossed his arms over his chest, "I am an Elf of Arda. I do not make door handles and sconces."

The idea was ridiculous - even offensive!

"I was tutored by my father, the Master of the Forge amongst Elvenkind. While I assure you that I can work with just about any material - granted it is sturdy enough - what I make best are swords and armor."