Raolor

Undómion leaned back in the chair with one leg swung over the other, one hand with a goblet of wine. He did not feel any form of remorse or feel for his actions towards Ráolor’s work of art. The blind elf had beheaded the statue. Ráolor yelled at him, and even threatened Undómion should he lay hand on the statue again…The blind elf did not seem to care; all he saw was he was trying to make a point clear. Is life really all in statues and jewels? What about being friendship, or marriage, bound to someone forever? What held more worth?

The statue was not even half finished, but there was no real question of who it was. Short hair, and an all too familiar posture.
Thendryt had walked into Imlad Gelair on impulse. But he did not expect to see a half made statue of Faorie in the glade. Who the mason was wasn’t blatantly obvious.

It appears I do not have to cook much today. There are still much food after the feast of unveiling Anglachelm's portrait, and I have to get yet rid of some of it, somehow.

Traitors! Defilers!

A storm raged in his mind. He felt his blood boiling, he heard the voices from the past, their chattering, their screaming and shouting rising again, until they reached the gates of his Fëa. And all the time, he saw him in front of the eyes of his mind:

Dolthafaer had – foolishly, he now realized – believed that his troubles with Thendryt had come to an end.  Months ago, the Man had departed from the Valley and taken up his post in the Coldfells, where his madness had been allowed to run unchecked so long as it was against the servants of the enemy.  Out of sight.  Out of mind.  The thought that he might even find his end in those cold pines had been a comforting one.