The halls of Finwë is in pandemonium. Elves ran around like headless chickens, having abandoned their usually respectable demeanors to cry out things like "Eru save us!" and "Someone stop him!"

The source of the chaos can be found at the door of the High King’s house, where an infamous Noldorin Lord is pointing a smoking...metal contraption? at another Elf—perhaps a new invention by the brilliant craftsman. He had fired it into the ceiling a few moments before, and it had blasted forth with a terrifying boom that demonstrated its destructive power to all present.

Fingolfin, as always, is as cool as a river rock as he faces his precarious situation. His hands are held up to show he means no harm. Fëanor opposes him. With a severe arm, he holds Fingolfin captive under shiny iron. He wears full mail with his house sigil emblazoned at the front and even has a helm upon his head like he is declaring WAR. The set of his jaw shows he won't back down anytime soon.

"Try again to usurp my place and the love of my father, half-brother!" Fëanor shouts. He then throws back his head and laughs like a maniac—or like one fey. Not the most pleasant sound. Certainly not a sign of a level-headed individual.

He suddenly turns his attention to you, and you become the object of his scorching gaze. The rage in that face burns so intensely it could heat up iron and melt it too.

"Why art thou here? Hath thou come to challenge me?" His grip tightens on his weapon. His finger hovers over the trigger mechanism menacingly.