Pengolodh warily stares at the door. It isn't that he usually is especially suspicious of visitors. It's rather that it's one in the morning, and the voice calling for « Pengolodh the loremaster? » on his porch made him jump on his feet as if forcibly pulled upwards by an invisible hand.
« Open », the voice continues. Pengolodh's hand jumps to the handle out of sheer nerves, but the voice, after a pause, redresses its request: « Open, please. »
Right. It said please. And anyway, this is Tol Eressëa, what can possibly happen in Tol Eressëa?
He still cracks the door open very carefully.
The man on the other side is... who in the Void is this? The eyes are giving him a little trouble, and he soon looks away. Who even has eyes like that anymore?
Pengolodh straightens his back and coughs, opening the door fully. « Yes, uh, can I help you? »
« That is not how the Silmarilli were made. »
He blinks. « I beg your pardon? »
« You heard me. A great pearl? Foam? Candles? »
Pengolodh gapes, perplexed. But of course the nature of the Quendi is such that they at times perceive things that are only in thought and beyond the immediate understanding of other races. Pengolodh, for himself, perceives to be in deep shit. And the inkling of a name, as well. He staggers backwards. « Woah. Woah, wait. Wait a moment. »
Nursing the beginning of a panic, he glances outside his door, beyond the stranger on the porch. Are there -- what, meteorites? No? What of... great divine armies gathering in the sky? Maelstroms? Fire tornadoes? No? Nothing?
The stranger lowers his hood and takes the step back into the corridor for an invitation. Which, it wasn't one, but Pengolodh isn't too certain he would know how to protest.
« Woah », he repeats, both his hands lifted up, palms towards the man. « Look, listen. » Another glance outside the door. Giant spiders, maybe...?
He notices, then, that his impromptu guest is staring at the coat hanger with his nose curled and his mouth pursed like someone who just ate a lemon. It's made of wrought iron, shaped as a torturous tree; Pengolodh got it at an auction in Tirion a few centuries prior.
« That thing looks awful. »
Pengolodh suddenly stiffens, frowning. « Excuse you. »
The man turns. Pengolodh regrets saying anything at all.
« Anyway », the man says, now uncomfortably focused on him. « Whip out pen and paper, loremaster. I've been wanting to clear this idiocy up for quite literally aeons. »
