A few years after the sons of Fëanor claim their territories in East Beleriand, Curufin is camped in the woods on the east bank of the River Aros. Aros separates Doriath from Himlad. Curufin has been exploring the hunting trails that lead deep into the wedge of forest between Aros and its tributary, the River Celon. Curufin and Celegorm keep a watch on who fords the river further north at Arossiach, but they don't try to prevent travelers from crossing their lands. (Unless they are Orcs or trolls.) Especially not this far south in Himlad, where it is not unusual to meet mortals, Dwarves, or even Elves from Ossiriand. Or for that matter, Curufin's twin borthers Amrod and Amras. What he doesn't expect to see is anybody from Thingol's realm.
He is just returning to his camp amongst the pines and oaks, after fishing the nearest stream. He cuts some firewood and makes a cooking fire, cleans and spits the fish, and then sits back to think over the recent past. He's a little obsessive about this, being right across the river from the thick forest of Region, that is, eastern Doriath. The brothers had been given "permission" to dwell in the Marches, by King Thingol, long ago a friend of their grandfather Finwë, but now thought of by Finwë's Fëanorion grandsons as a real ass. When Angrod brought them the news that Thingol would permit them to pioneer in the Marches, they had laughed uproariously and replied that they would do as they pleased. They had said it in front of witnesses who would hopefully have reported their insolence to Thingol himself.
Curufin is in his old hunting clothes, dark green and black, and his weapons are by his side and near to hand. Bow, quiver, spear, sword, knife. The knife was just used to scale a fish, and he's currently cleaning it. He hums a tune and even sings a few bars of it in his low, melodious voice. His long hair is braided and its dark mass lies on his shoulders. His dark gray eyes gleam in the firelight.
Doriath / Himlad -- close encounters!
He is just returning to his camp amongst the pines and oaks, after fishing the nearest stream. He cuts some firewood and makes a cooking fire, cleans and spits the fish, and then sits back to think over the recent past. He's a little obsessive about this, being right across the river from the thick forest of Region, that is, eastern Doriath. The brothers had been given "permission" to dwell in the Marches, by King Thingol, long ago a friend of their grandfather Finwë, but now thought of by Finwë's Fëanorion grandsons as a real ass. When Angrod brought them the news that Thingol would permit them to pioneer in the Marches, they had laughed uproariously and replied that they would do as they pleased. They had said it in front of witnesses who would hopefully have reported their insolence to Thingol himself.
Curufin is in his old hunting clothes, dark green and black, and his weapons are by his side and near to hand. Bow, quiver, spear, sword, knife. The knife was just used to scale a fish, and he's currently cleaning it. He hums a tune and even sings a few bars of it in his low, melodious voice. His long hair is braided and its dark mass lies on his shoulders. His dark gray eyes gleam in the firelight.