Current mood:

artistic

Getting on?
Since nothing's happening in community meeting thread, I'll just pretend Fëanor was there until the end (to whatever end ;)) and has now returned. Or something. Because I miss playing, dammit. Where is everybody?

Fëanor looks around contendedly. By now, his small premises begin to resemble a smithy; although his small stock of wood and metals will hardly suffice for much of the work he already has planned. But he intends to go on an excursion into the surrounding mountains and forests soon. Hopefully, he will find ores there; for the dwarves only grudgingly agreed to sell him some of their supply, and the price was exorbitant.
Kindling the fire of the forge, he ponders what to do with the materials he got. It cannot be more than a small work, a finger exercise, a revision of his abilities. But what? His gaze wanders to the table, the only bit of furniture he has allowed himself beside the equipment for the smithy. On it lie a few small lumps of molten and refined silver and iron, clay and wax, the remains of the fabric he used for his clothing; and the single shard of a mirror. It catches his eyes, and he walks over to the table, picking up the small piece of metal and glass. He inspects it closer, then nods to himself. A mirror, then. That way, he can kill two birds with one stone: Initiate his workshop, and pay the woman for her service. Hopefully, she will then leave him alone; the way she spoke up for him at the town meeting had slightly perplexed him, although he would never admit it. He brushes all thoughts aside, picks up the clay and begins to form a mould.

Several hours later - it is already night - when he has finished the frame and cut and fitted the glass, he lets the fire cool down. Long, soot-blackened fingers bend the interwoven flower-laden silver branches of the frame into place, so that they hold the class securely. After sanding down the edges and polishing the whole thing, he leans back and looks at his work. Yes, it will do.
He tidies up his tools, washes his hands and face, then lays down on his bed, although that may be too noble a name for the three blankets spread out on the floor. This night, he sleeps better than he has for a long, long time.

Come next morning, he wraps some pieces of fabric around the mirror - he certainly doesn't want it to break should anyone decide to run into him for a change - before ceremoniously dressing in the courtly clothing of a Noldo in the years of the trees, braiding his hair laborously (this is, after all, a formal occasion). Then he leaves for the marketplace and hopes that he will be able to find Lossë.