[ There may be something familiar in the curl of this mortal's mouth. The angle of his nose. Even the strong brow. Perhaps Manwë breathed life again into the heart of Firstborn to create the Men that followed, perhaps Maedhros and this shrinking violet of a man once fought together. Perhaps they fought against one another, in the great kinslayings of old.

Memory is a strange thing, as he has come to find.

Maedhros does little to hide his scrutiny, though perhaps even the attempt would have been in vain: his gaze has ever betrayed the legacy of his father's inner flame. Everything burns under Nelyafinwë's eyes. ]

Maedhros the Tall, I have been named. [ He speaks softly, but without gentleness: this is the voice of one accustomed to obedience. ] One of the few of my kennings that I did not find immediately offensive.

[ He pauses, long enough to again fill his lungs. Wreathed in smoke, he looks like a native of the fae court: his hair too-red, his face too-white, his single hand curled like a many-legged insect about the bowl of his pipe. The elegance of elvenkind sits well upon Maedhros's features, but he wears it with something less easy to bear. A quietness that speaks of secrets that will devour upon revealing. ]

And you, son of Earth? What kennings shall I gift you, who prefers the shadows of empty halls to the glad tables of mead and meat?