CHARACTERS: Morgoth, Elrond, Thranduil, Galadriel, Nuada
LOCATION: Oxygen Gardens
WARNINGS: .... TBA!
SUMMARY: Morgoth and Elrond approach the private conference of Galadriel, Thranduil, and Nuada.
NOTES: To keep the thread rolling at a good pace, currently closed.


They arrive in the oxygen gardens in good time; for Melkor spends the great majority of his time trekking the halls, and has made himself familiar with the cleverer routes from place to place. His long, purposefully ground-eating stride forces Elrond to hurry to keep up, or be left behind... even despite his limp, which he makes no effort to disguise.

The chain rattles only very faintly as he walks; it is heavy enough not to move much where he has slung it over his shoulder. There is no hesitation, no uncertainty, as he heads immediately towards the area given over to Thranduil's court-- led there by cast-out tendrils of his own power, using the beacon of familiar spirits as his guide.

He unfurls his own presence as they approach; letting it form an invisible maelstrom about him. Like a pall of smoke engulfing stars, all the light seemed strange and dim around him. Choked out. At first glance, he looked neat and clean in his pressed jumpsuit, hair short and trimmed- a reflection of their modern environs, as if either they had adopted him, or he them...

But he prowls, like a beast, engages all his senses forward. Like a lion surging toward a ready kill, or a shark to the scent of blood. His black eyes reflected nothing but eager hunger.

He announces himself before any of the others can speak. "Ah! The dog has made it safely back to lick his master's hand, I see." His teeth flash whitely when he speaks, and are startlingly sharp. His eyes go from Nuada to Galadriel- and he marks her overlong- before turning to Thranduil.

"Your hound outmatches you," he informs, nose wrinkling in obvious disappointment and distaste.