[Anguirel]

The Smith was at once no more to be seen, and Malris saw Lomwe standing awkwardly in frond of him, as if held by force. In a moment he had taken in the glint of the silver rings that seemed to bind the Elf's legs fast.

"What..." Malris began, unsteadily. The impressive glamour upon he and Tasareni as they entered the forge had not entirely left him, and his movements were still slow, solemn, and dreamlike, his mind struggling to keep up with the pace of events around it. It was another sight that dragged him into reality-the look of stark shock and incomprehension in Endamir's eyes, reliable Endamir, Endamir who had risked even his brother's ire to follow Malris.

And his brother himself. "Where...where is Oremir?" Malris uttered, regaining the more of the faculty of realisation. "Smith! I care not for any old bond; ye do not imprison and abduct my friends at will, not with any cause at heart..."

The impulsive former elven-captain felt for his blade, but found nothing, remembering past events with a disturbing sting. Keeping his head, he sidestepped to a rack and took a spear from the wall.

"Smith! In the name of your late lord, release Lomwe and show me where Oremir is to be found..."

Endamir had rushed out of the main armoury, like a lioness searching for a missing cub, and Malris found himself gripped in his friend's anxiety. Only there was something yet worse to be uncovered. Looking aside, he beheld Lindir, apparently at liberty, but with a countenance of leaden sorrow.

"Lindir, Lindir, my friend," Malris gasped out, "in the name of all pity, what has happened here?"

Before Lindir could reply, Malris's spear-haft snapped as if struck by a great forge-hammer, and he threw away the stave of matchwood, readying his arms to resist without weaponry, if need be. But the Smith-if the blow had indeed been his-did not seek further confrontation. The anvil was knocked to the ground, overturning an array of bright, star-embossed shields.

The falsely prepared armour in Lindir's hands itself shattered. The sound of the destruction seemed gradually to alternate with the frenzied grief-howls of an old, old being, a being that has seen and done too much. Lomwe was forced to step from his carefully positioned fetter to avoid a collapsing halberd's path. The armoury was being utterly ruined by its aged, loyal keeper. Tasareni watched in a manner terrifyingly akin both to the serene and the desperate, to the side of the spectral vandalism's way.

"It was I who slew him, I and whoever I saw in the dream vision," the Master-Smith's voice resonated, ricocheting off the piles of shattered iron and wood. "I slew your friend by his brother's hand! O, Mandos..."

A silence fell. Malris seemed dumb, even blind, in that moment, but not deaf, nor innured to pain; his slender frame shook, slightly, but thoroughly. The Smith seemed bent on considering his folly, and even the wanton hammer-strikes now ceased.

"It is true?" Malris asked Lindir quietly, almost entirely as a statement, not a question.