Curufin is not happy. In fact, one might go so far as to say that Curufin is very, very angry. He doesn't show it, of course, other than perhaps a certain preoccupation with his one remaining blade - the unfavored bow is stored in his room, safely (he hopes, ohh if she dares, if she dares set foot in his territory or near him again she will pay for
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Said elf is watching Faramir, and has been since he came into his field of vision, from under lowered brows, eyes steel grey as always and something of suspicion in his bearing. Of course, difficult to say if it is just the usual wariness of any man or elf accustomed to war toward an apparent stranger.
There is something, though, something half, vaguely reminiscent of Beren and his damned quest. Just for a moment, hatred flickers in his eyes, before he masks it and sheaths the knife, standing. "Good day."
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Even if there is a plothole, Anita has taken the habit of setting snares and is having a hard time giving up the hunting habit.
She'll give Curufin a wary glance as she makes her way up the steps.
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His tone is almost excessively surprised. You, female? You, human? Who knows. Curufin has a few prejudices, what?
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"No, I bought them at the supermarket over there," she replies, pointing at the forest.
Anita, of course, doesn't look very impressed, but unless you're Lucivar, it's hardly surprising.
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So... brother. Pretending not to be there, and lurking in the trees. He's about to go around the house and make a long detour to avoid another tiresome confrontation.
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And stands, sheathing the knife smoothly. "Carnistir. Are you entertaining yourself by lurking there or are you waiting for someone?" He still sounds fairly normal, for the moment at least. Slightly mocking, very dry, almost bored.
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"Maybe I am. What's it to you?" His tone is deceptively mild, and don't be mistaken, Curufin, he's still pissed off at you.
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It's not fear. It's curiosity.
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But of course, he's never known when he's been bested.
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He takes a long, slow, lazy tug of his pipe, sedate as he ever was.
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