Fingon breaks the surface with a gasp and a shake of his head, the saltwater blurring and stinging his eyes as he tries to make out his location. The results of that are mixed: he find the shoreline, though it doesn't look like any one he knows, and it seems his sword is floating not far away.
Of course, realizing that the green light shining off it is as much the product of his left hand as it is the blade is more than a little worrisome. The creatures issuing forth from the rift, he'll admit, are also looking a tad inconvenient to get around.
Still, those issues can be worried about later. The priority is the shore, or at least the boats which seem to be coming from it. And it shouldn't be trouble; he's swum farther before.
He's never had to do so in the kind of heavy, elaborate robes the Noldor seem to enjoy their kings suffering their way through court in, granted, but there's a first time for everything.
III. Stranded
Fingon stays at camp just long enough to find a safe place to store his most cumbersome things, then he's off to take a look around. Another world, they said this was, and he's curious to see what a place that sounds both so similar and so different to Arda might be like.
Mostly, he finds, it's quiet: there's the rustle of movement in the jungle, but no hint of the inhabitants' thoughts is open to him. Nor do the stones of the ruins speak back to him, telling stories of their long-lost inhabitants.
Fingon has never been an expert at communicating with animal or earth, but it's still strange to be so completely deaf to either. Is it simply that the world is different, he wonders, or whether he is by being here?
Fingon | Open
Fingon breaks the surface with a gasp and a shake of his head, the saltwater blurring and stinging his eyes as he tries to make out his location. The results of that are mixed: he find the shoreline, though it doesn't look like any one he knows, and it seems his sword is floating not far away.
Of course, realizing that the green light shining off it is as much the product of his left hand as it is the blade is more than a little worrisome. The creatures issuing forth from the rift, he'll admit, are also looking a tad inconvenient to get around.
Still, those issues can be worried about later. The priority is the shore, or at least the boats which seem to be coming from it. And it shouldn't be trouble; he's swum farther before.
He's never had to do so in the kind of heavy, elaborate robes the Noldor seem to enjoy their kings suffering their way through court in, granted, but there's a first time for everything.
III. Stranded
Fingon stays at camp just long enough to find a safe place to store his most cumbersome things, then he's off to take a look around. Another world, they said this was, and he's curious to see what a place that sounds both so similar and so different to Arda might be like.
Mostly, he finds, it's quiet: there's the rustle of movement in the jungle, but no hint of the inhabitants' thoughts is open to him. Nor do the stones of the ruins speak back to him, telling stories of their long-lost inhabitants.
Fingon has never been an expert at communicating with animal or earth, but it's still strange to be so completely deaf to either. Is it simply that the world is different, he wonders, or whether he is by being here?