As Fingon stood, Berath leaped to her feet, arms outstretched in case he should stumble or crumple when the injured leg took his weight. He seemed strong enough, though; perhaps stiff on that side, perhaps swaying very slightly, but no human could have stood so firmly as he stood now with such a wound in his leg. Envy and distrust prickled at her again; it was not fair, it was not right that these people should be so much more gifted than her own!
We were not made to die, she heard in her memory, her mother’s voice sharing the Wisdom of their tribe in the secret shadows of their chambers by night. But the life eternal was stolen from us. Taken away in punishment for a crime we never committed. Given to the white-fiends in our place.
Her lips thinned out as she looked up at Fingon, all the fey humor that had been in her suddenly wiped away by that memory. Berath was strong and magically talented; she had been taken and trained by the Shadows and so she could not openly count herself of the Wise as her mother had been — but still she knew too much, too much ever to forget.
What happened in that darkness, o my mother? What happened?
"It seems unlikely," she said, her voice only slightly tight. She scrubbed at her face with one hand, hoping her change in attitude would seem only weariness from her labors. "I will aid you. Lean on me."
"A moment—please—" The hurt was of a different sort now, and Fingon wanted to adjust before staggering away. But more to the point, his squire had finally caught up with him, having finished with the horses. Hethulin had a swatch of blue fabric folded over his arm—that would be my new dressing gown, Fingon noted, though he managed to bite back an exasperated sigh. It only needed to bring him as far as his bedchambers, and then he could strip down again.
While the boy helped him into the sleeves, Fingon turned his attention to Berath. He’d noticed a weary expression crossing her face, which seemed at odds with her earlier eagerness to assist him. But it hadn’t been easy work, he knew, and she oughtn’t feel obligated to continue worrying over him when anyone in the room would hasten to his side the second he called.
"I can make it from here," he assured her, though for the moment he did as she said, leaning to her for support. "It isn’t very far. Just… up a few stairs… down another corridor…" Suddenly the distance seemed very daunting, and he swallowed. Perhaps he’d sleep for a week—with the adrenaline finally ebbing away, exhaustion was at last setting in.
One last promise, though. “Let me repay you when I am rested. You earn it with your kindness.”
Petition to change the approved ship name from #Russingon to #Princestuous ?
This is such a lovely question to receive! I’ve answered with some general suggestions, but if you’d like specific advice about anything, feel free to ask—hopefully this works as some kind of starting point though. ^^ (Mostly under a cut because it got very lengthy)
1. Read. Read everything you can.
Read bits of HoME, or whichever texts are relevant to the character you’re going to write (there’s a .pdf copy of them floating around somewhere, I think I have it under this tag). Ctrl + F with the name of the character(s) you want to know more about, or look through the index. And definitely read the meta other people are producing! Some of the most interesting things I’ve read about Tolkien I’ve found on this site, so I recommend digging into the character tags and seeing what you can find. Even meta you’ll disagree with is useful, though, because you can look at that and decide why it’s different from your thoughts, but it also might direct you to relevant quotes or sections of the book to go back and consider.
A year ago, I was excited to have 200 people follow me. And over the last year, that number has tripled—it’s by no means the largest sum of followers an RPer has ever acquired, but considering that Fingon is a) not recognisable from a film; b) not directly related to a character in a film; and c) nearly indistinguishable in name from his father, uncle, and cousin, I think it’s extraordinary. Thank you to all of you, whether a recent follow, someone from day one, or even one of the people I’ve dropped along the way. You’ve all been inspirational.
The biggest shoutouts belong to the people who have stuck with me even when I’ve had bad days (and as always, apologies for those). Follow-forevers aren’t my style, but these people deserve extra special thanks:
A giveaway post this is, however, and information is as follows:Requirements
+ Must be following me; it’s a show of appreciation for my followers!
+ Likes and reblogs will both count, but don’t be a spammer.
+ Open to roleplay blogs and personal blogs, though prizes differ
+ Winners will be selected by random number generator.
+ Will end on 15 September 2014.Prizes
Two first place winners will receive….
+ A graphic promo;
+ a handwritten letter from me, can be sent anywhere in the world;
+ Either 25 static icons of a faceclaim
+ or a 1000-word fic with characters/setting/topic of their choice;
Three second place winners will receive…
+ A graphic promo;
+ Either 15 static icons of a faceclaim
+ or a 500-word fic with character/setting/topic of their choice;
Five third place winners will receive…
+ A group promo;
Additionally, one personal blog will receive…
+ A graphic promo;
+ A 1000 word fic with characters/setting/topic of their choice
original artwork belongs to Jenny Dolfen/gold-seven.
Giving people until the end of Monday to like/reblog~!
when u have threads that you were super excited about but the other person never replied to the starter
Giveaway ends tomorrow (if anyone still wants in on that) but that means I’m going to be queueing up replies for the week so that I have time to work on the prizes. Therefore I might be a bit slow, but I’m around on Skype and I can send & reblog meme stuff.
He was keeping himself busy, engaging in the playful banter but in a polite forced kind of way. She was just one of the many distractions that were at his disposal to avoid whatever it was that preoccupied him. She did not mind though probably because she was doing the same. She could have packed up her things and split almost immediately but instead she was taking her time, rinsing out dishes and helping out the wait staff buss the occasional table. Making the most of the many distractions at her disposal.
There was something that bothered him and she could tell. Helen had always been good at reading people. It is a gift, her father would tell her, you have an old soul and it will serve you well if you allow it.
Well if he wanted to use her as a distraction then that was fine with her. Maybe she could do for someone else that she could not do for herself. Besides, she wanted to see him smile. Every time those dimples came out she just wanted to bite his face.
“No warnings!” she laughed as she continued her restock of the freezer. “You are still the fairest one of them all my dear. And yes,” she turned then with a grin, walking up behind him to poke him in the sides with her fingers, “the prettiest ones usually are the biggest jerks.” She quickly jumped away to avoid any repercussions from her actions.
She paused at his next question. Tell me about him he asks and she is suddenly wondering what is there to tell.
“Well, he’s a frycook,” she laughs at that, “not the best of professions but then again I am a bartender and quite possibly a lifetime student.” She shakes her head and leans against the bar, arms across her chest as she thinks. “Other than that, just the usual M.O., tall, dark and handsome. You know how I have a weakness for long hair,” she says with a mischievous smile.
“Oh, I think he said his name was Cary.”
The poke took Fingon by surprise, and he shrank away at first. But he’d set himself up for that joke, hadn’t he? Fingon shook his head, laughing to himself, but as Helen shimmied away, he managed a quick protest. “I said usually!" he called after her. "There’s an exception that proves every rule."
And speaking of exceptions.
Long-haired… dark… Cary. That brought a frown to Fingon’s face, though he pretended it was a result of an inconsequential chip on one of the counters. “There’s not many men who are brave enough to wear their hair long these days,” he commented. “Hasn’t been acceptable since the 90’s, has it?”
Oh, but he missed his own long hair sometimes. He’d grant that it was easier to look after this short crop, but often looking in the mirror brought a sense of disappointment. His braids had been his pride, perhaps his greatest vanity, a form of jewellery he found tolerable. That had been a look for a prince, though, and here… he was nobody, not of any importance at least. Still, half-unconsciously, one of his hands went to brush at the short hairs at the back of his neck. Fidgeting was harder, too, without braids to pull and twist beneath his fingers.
Cary. Maedhros had said he was living with some of his brothers… but would Helen of all people have the misfortune to encounter them? Maybe he was only jumping to conclusions, however. It was only a name, and a height, and a length of hair. A lot, but not enough, to judge from.
"What about the others?" An innocent enough follow-up, he thought. Of all the millions of people in this city, though, what were the chances that she’d have met his cousins? He’d have to be mindful, though, not to call them as such. If Maedhros was going to be his partner…
Fingon swallowed, closed his eyes for a moment, and failing to decide on whether it was a cause for a smile or a frown, he faked a cough instead.
Edwardian diamond, cultured pearl, sapphire and platinum brooch. More: http://diamondsinthelibrary.com/edwardian-diamond-cultured-pearl-sapphire-and-platinum-brooch/
Maitimo paused for a brief second to look out at the lake and take in the sights. Truly, it was beautiful, so full of life even as the chill of fall crept upon them. There were plants all about them, and creatures of sky and earth. It was such a contrast from Thangorodrim and the surrounding areas, which had been little more than rock and wasteland. Occasionally he had seen living things, but they had never been living things that one was particularly glad to see. Despite himself, he shivered slightly at the thought.
And then he was back there in that place, upon that cliff, and for a brief second the image of the lake was replaced with a barren outcropping of rock. Maitimo shut his eyes, hoping to dispel the image, but to no avail.
Strangely enough, it was the word ‘horses’ that pulled him back, eyes flickering open to a scene of the lake and its warm, sunlit banks. He blinked a few times before glancing over to his cousin.
"Before I left, I know my host had many fine horses and many strong lines. If I am correct, we should have more than enough for you and yours as well. There is one line in particular I can remember that would truly suit you." Slowly, almost uncertainly, the tiniest playful smirk crept onto his face. "I am sure I can find you a noble steed, so that you may save the eagle for special occasions." Just as quickly as it had appeared, the expression was gone, replaced by the grim mask Maitimo now wore so often.
Maybe it was only a small thing, but Findekáno found the offer gave him a slight thrill of excitement—and he would say the willingness to offer compromise was a large reason for it. Horses would even have had time to breed in the time since their arrival. A new generation, even, would be ready to bear riders… the old may have passed, though, which hardly put their numbers at enough to be freely given. Findekáno chewed on his lower lip, but it tugged up into a smile at Maitimo’s quip.
Humour was good. Humour meant that his old friend was not wholly lost to him… a full recovery might be out of the question, but it seemed to suggest he would not be defeated in spirit, either.
Findekáno drew a knee up to his chest, wrapping his arms around it, and paused for a long moment to try and simply appreciate being in his friend’s company—he studied his expression, the shine of light against his hair, the points of colour in his cheeks. It was a fleeting moment, though, and meeting a grim expression reminded him that he hadn’t intended this to be a purely social visit.
His own expression souring, Findekáno leaned forward, propping his chin against his leg. “I’m sorry to pin this weight on you,” he started, speaking slowly, “but we rely on you to set matters right among the Ñoldor again. Your brothers are too proud to bend, and simply haven’t the wealth to buy back the trust of my fathers’ people. Do you discuss solutions with him yet?” Absently, one hand reached out to pick at the grass, beginning to uproot the grass next to him. He wasn’t comfortable while he was still, and the small, destructive gesture was somehow calming.