Disclaimer: Tolkien's the genius, not me.
With a triumphant shout he adjusted his grip on his blood-slick sword. Morgoth’s wicked, deformed creatures fled before him, returning north to their master with their tails between their legs. Let them run! They would lead him to the very throne of Angband, where Morgoth himself would cower before him! The dark lord’s curséd head would roll, and the Silmarils would again belong to the House of Finwë!
Ignoring the warning cries of his sons, Fëanor thundered after the creatures of Morgoth. Victory was nearly within his grasp, so close he could almost taste it. And it tasted like fire.