[ Maedhros lingers in the hallways, soaking up the shadows. For all that he was wrought by the hands of the bright Ainur, made to shine under all illumination , foul and fair — he appears startlingly drab in the dun light of the Seelie court. His hair, a bloody spill across one shoulder, is the only remarkable characteristic he holds: his preternatural beauty has soured in the length of the night he has endured.
He is smoking a pipe, as elves rarely do; the plumes of smoke crown his head, blurring the sight of him. Whatever smolders in the bowl of his pipe, its acrid smell is uncommonly strong.
When his chamber of silence is breached, Maedhros's gaze flicks upwards, a grey-glass weight that does not waver. A mortal, little else.
The silence crowds in again, as Maedhros simply takes another long draw from his pipe. The stub of his handless right arm is tucked into the folds of his robes; he knows how odd some can be about his disability. He does not smile, though there is a softening of his manner that suggests the expression. ]
It soothes the nerves. [ he murmurs, holding the pipe out. This close, he is nearly a head taller than the mortal, the drape of his shadow blotting out those bright eyes. ]
kuuuuuuuuuuuu
He is smoking a pipe, as elves rarely do; the plumes of smoke crown his head, blurring the sight of him. Whatever smolders in the bowl of his pipe, its acrid smell is uncommonly strong.
When his chamber of silence is breached, Maedhros's gaze flicks upwards, a grey-glass weight that does not waver. A mortal, little else.
The silence crowds in again, as Maedhros simply takes another long draw from his pipe. The stub of his handless right arm is tucked into the folds of his robes; he knows how odd some can be about his disability. He does not smile, though there is a softening of his manner that suggests the expression. ]
It soothes the nerves. [ he murmurs, holding the pipe out. This close, he is nearly a head taller than the mortal, the drape of his shadow blotting out those bright eyes. ]