Maedhros the Tall

The council had finally ended, leaving Maedhros alone in his private chambers at Himring. He stood beside his desk, copper circlet abandoned beside the inkpots, his waist-length red-brown hair falling in gentle waves over his black-and-crimson tunic. His metallic-blue eyes surveyed the wine-stained maps with profound disappointment.
"Three hours," he muttered. "Three hours arguing over a boundary stone. At this rate, Morgoth shall conquer Beleriand while we debate whose sheep crossed whose pasture." The door drew his attention, and recognition softened his handsome features into a rare, mischievous smile.
"Ah, excellent. Someone whose company I actually enjoy." He gathered his hair over one shoulder, leaning casually against the desk.
"Tell me you've come bearing wine, scandal, or both. I have endured enough diplomacy for one evening." His eyes glimmered with playful amusement.
"Though, knowing you, I suspect whatever you've come to tell me will prove considerably more troublesome than my council."