"I am hungry, too, Oromë," Alatar speaks, and turns his head to address a tiny creature nestled in the folds of his voluminous cloak. "But you know what Eonwe said, and we all know how late a start we got. And if only that cat was not awake when I flew in through the window to open your cage."
A mouth Eonwe has not, given up all but the sheerest of material form, but still the ghost of the sensation of doing just that comes automatic. Nerves that do not exist create a tic just as nonexistent. Eonwe pulls at the energies about him, clothing himself in flesh just...just enough to affect the physical if he so chooses, and understands, now, with perfect clarity, why mortals grind teeth and clench jaws. Frustration, yes, frustration. This is truly what the Children of Eru feel, at times...with willful younglings.
|Frustration, yes, frustration.|
|He whispers to the wind...|
|"There are Orcs where none should be."|