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Old 05-01-2020, 07:01 AM   #69
Morthoron
Curmudgeonly Wordwraith
 
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Join Date: Jun 2007
Location: Ensconced in curmudgeonly pursuits
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Morthoron is a guest of Galadriel in Lothlórien.Morthoron is a guest of Galadriel in Lothlórien.Morthoron is a guest of Galadriel in Lothlórien.Morthoron is a guest of Galadriel in Lothlórien.Morthoron is a guest of Galadriel in Lothlórien.
After yet another toast, the Dark Elf was feeling rather amused, or bemused as the case may be, for the Old Winyards was surprisingly potent, even for one of the Moriquendi. Elves do not get intoxicated as a rule, although Morthoron did recall a certain Silvan steward of Thranduil who was relieved of his duties for being dead drunk. "Sacked for too much sack," he chuckled to himself.

In any case, the Dark Elf was certainly more amenable to interaction with the odd admixture of personas proliferating in the hall; and given Lady Estelyn's request that all and sundry of the assemblage should share some token of esteem for some brief anniversary being celebrated herein (short, in terms of Elves, of course), Morthoron rose from the comforts of his fine leather Edwardian club chair. He politely cleared his throat to gain attention, cleared it again when some of the more roisterous imbibers in the back failed to yield the floor, and then began in a sonorous tone:

"Choices. We all have to make them at one time or another, of course, but some are more momentous than others. Take for instance, the sons of Eärendil the Mariner, who by the Grace of the Valar were given the irrevocable choice of which kindred they would remain, Elda or Adan. This then is The Soliloquoy of Elrond Peredhil...

An Elf or not an Elf...that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler to be mortal and suffer
The twinges and hair loss of Mankind's fortune,
Or to take up Elfdom and limitless potential,
And by inference become immortal. An Elf -- to sleep no more --
Because Elves rarely sleep given their high metabolism.
But there is heartburn: a thousand years of eating lembas
Does not aid in my digestion. 'Tis not a bowel movement
One would wish on an enemy. And sheep -- sheep that yearn to dream --
Ai! I've lost count. For in that count of sheep no dreams may come
While snugly mortals coil 'neath comforters and nap without pause,
There's only insomnia that makes calamity of so long a life."


The Dark Elf, half-smirking, formally bowed and returned to his seat.
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