The street erupts in flames, a burst of color and heat that gives way to an unexpected sight: an Elf materializes, clad in chainmail that glints in the daylight. With a high helm upon his head and a sword at his belt, he is an imposing sight. The warrior earns a few looks from pedestrians, but for the most part, people pay him little mind, giving him a wide berth as they go about their business.

Fëanor looks around, disoriented by all the unfamiliar sounds and sights. Just a moment ago, he was consumed by fire as he fought to stay in his hröa, but lifting a hand, he found his body intact.

The Halls of Mandos looked different than he expected. Upon death, he never expected to end up in a queer land smelling of lamp fuel and crawling with machinations only the Maiar of Aulë could conjure up. Yet here he was. Fëanor liked it not. To add to his dismay, the folk here were not even of Elvenkind. Their spirits were fainter than the fëar of the Eldar, and their ears were round. These must be the precious Second Kindred of Mortals the Valar whispered about.

Seeking answers, he draws his sword and points its long blade to the throat of a random passerby. "Halt! Pray tell, where am I? What is this wretched place?"