scarreddog
There was blood on his fingers, staining his nails and the wrinkles on his calloused palms; blood that he had mostly cleaned upon his own trousers, but the persistence of its dried drops was unsettling him. His jaw was clenched, the weapon that he had used was a knife, of such a low quality (not wholly sharpened, the grip chipped) that he had left it on the ground with the body. He marched toward the stable next to the inn, where Sandor supposedly waited. In fact, there he was, in the company of his horse, so far the only beast that reminded him of the mounts of his own people.
Fëanáro blew air through his nose and frowned and felt as if the entirety of that kingdom had just offended him personally. « A man », he began, weighing with some kind of outrage on that particular word, « just tried to rob me. Holding a knife, he jumped out of the bushes. » And how dared he? There was a certain incredulity in his widened eyes. Raising his hands to stare at them, he considered that he needed to wash them.
