Ai, brother, let us set under the gentle shadow of the tree and feel the breeze against our cheek, for it carries the scent of the ocean which we cannot see but is only a league or two at most from this river bank at which we sit. And let us ponder the marvelous voluminousness of our Queen Melian’s great big tits.
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i love when people are passionate about a certain character, like really passionate about them bc then i start associating them with that character and then the character reminds me of them and i’ll just be looking through my dash and then suddenly i’ll think about them
New ask game what characters do you associate with me
i’m specifically reblogging this so at least one of you sends me túrin nienor and morwen jsyk
Just so y’all know, there is a resolution to the Dreadful Wind. It’s a rather short story – Mahtamë, the Mother of King and Queen, dignified matron of the elves, chooses to stay in Beleriand until the end of the War. She has a quest, and will not leave, no matter how much this disrupts anyone’s plans or distresses her family. Mahtamë is going hunting, and it has been a long time since she hunted for herself.
Mahtamë marches along the borders of Valar-controlled territory, hunting for her husband. She will lure this spirit of Morgoth back to her. Everyone is aghast and terrified for her- then mildly terrified of her.
Mahtamë’s plan is simple. She sings. Old songs, her songs, their songs. Hunting songs, running songs. Love songs. Bawdy descriptive songs of love-making with her husband from in those early days when the elves were first figuring that out. (Mortified, Ingwion realizes where that trait came from. Then he has the songs transcribed and sent back to Valmar, petty revenge) Songs about the pure joy of running beside someone.
The elves know how powerful song can be to reunite lovers and defeat the power of Morgoth.
A few months later, vocal chords a little raspy from the strain, a supremely self-satisfied expression on her face, Queen Mother Mahtamë boards a ship and sails back to Valinor.
I’m a writer, I whisper to myself as I struggle to add 51 new words to the fic I’ve been whittling together for months like Frankenstein’s decaying prose monster.
Should I write Thingol sitting on the floor next to Huan after Beren and Lúthien’s wedding, half-drunk and trying not to be to emotional, and talking to the Maiarin hound about how he remembers the suspiciously large and intelligent canines that appeared in Cuiviénen after Oromë came and who guarded the elven villages while the Valar were capturing Melkor? Sad reminiscing about their families back in Valinor. One of the hounds who liked to play in the water of the lake and who then hung out in Alqualondë later. (Huan awkwardly and shamefully covering a bite mark that only looks like it comes from a wolf). More awkward ‘thanks for looking after my daughter and keeping her safe, being a better friend’ remorse. Begrudging acceptance of new son-in-law gets ecstatically overpowering tail wagging and slobber kisses. Melain finds the pair of them sleeping in the corner, does best to preserve the shreds of their dignity as she sighed. Mablung helps.
Luckily grey dog hair doesn’t show up on gray cloaks.
Came back to this in an upcoming Of Ingwë Ingweron chapter. Still keeping this full idea around for a possible short fic, but here’s the relevant passage:
Millennia would pass before Elwë, now Eu Thingol King of Beleriand, would slouch on the floor of his palace in Menegroth and reach a hand to pet the ears of the Hound of Oromë, valiant Huan. Quiet and subdued, Elu would murmur words of thanks to Huan’s kin.
“Where you there, loyal friend of my daughter and her love?” he would ask in a wine-slurred voice. “What did you and your people think of us and our simple villages?”
In answer, Huan licked his face.
@anghraine tagged me in the post-a-bit-of-something-you’re-working-on meme!
The arrow arced like a comet over the plains. Wind screamed in agony in its passage, shrill and short, and air rippled out like water from the impact. Earth liquefied under the arrowhead, and the impaled shadow-shape writhed like a spineless deep-sea creature brought to the surface before it dissolved into the ground. Faint wisps of steam rose from the crater around the embedded arrow. A tuft of matte-black fur lingered around the arrowhead before disappearing with a foul odor,
though no elf was close enough to behold this.
why is your prose so GOOD don’t tell me it was hard work I want to believe it involved some sort of unholy rituals
*blush*
Glad you like. It’s not quite purple prose, but it was a tad overindulgent on the descriptive metaphors. I was worried it was too much, but okay, it gets to stay.
Here’s the preceding line as a gift for the comment, btw:
The muscles of his back bunched and strained as he pulled back an arm, then let loose the arrow as that arm flung up with the graceful curve of a hunting cat’s tail.
aka heget watches korean historical dramas, can’t you tell? *tiger tail archer pose*
Of Ingwë Ingweron has really morphed into a weird bastard amalgamation of style and variations on my authorial voice and pov, because there’s that semi-detached quasi-scientific voice looking back- the lore-master voice- then the dialogue heavy full scenes where I sit with the characters and describe everything blow by blow like I normally do – Chapter Three is where that started and every chapter since has secretly been me as the lazy author wanting to find a point to winch back to the style of the first half of the first chapter- and then moments starting with the passage where I first described Oromë (end of Chapter Three) where I decided to go for broke on layering the metaphoric imagery and then because of the positive feedback for that paragraph I now had to commit. I don’t think the differences are as pronounced for a reader as it is for me writing it.
As for unholy rituals, well, I can admit that more often than not, snippets of Of Ingwë at least are written because I get stuck in a car/running errands/waiting at a park with someone who is a hardcore Pokemon Go player when I don’t play it, so I write lines to stave off the boredom.
@anghraine tagged me in the post-a-bit-of-something-you’re-working-on meme!
The arrow arced like a comet over the plains. Wind screamed in agony in its passage, shrill and short, and air rippled out like water from the impact. Earth liquefied under the arrowhead, and the impaled shadow-shape writhed like a spineless deep-sea creature brought to the surface before it dissolved into the ground. Faint wisps of steam rose from the crater around the embedded arrow. A tuft of matte-black fur lingered around the arrowhead before disappearing with a foul odor,
though no elf was close enough to behold this.
10 Questions Every Fic Writer Secretly Wants to be Asked
There are a lot of fic questions that float around online, but rarely do they ever ask specific questions about the fics themselves. Ask any writer one or more of these ten questions to learn more about the fic and show support.
1. Of the fics you’ve written, which is your favorite and why?
2. Which scene was your favorite to write in [title of fic]?
3. Which part of [title] was hardest to write?
4. If you could change anything in [title], what would it be?
5. Did you make an outline for [title]? Did you stick to it?
6. Which scenes did you cut, and which were added in [title]?
7. Who was your favorite character to write in [title]?
8. Which came first, the title or the fic?
9. Which idea came to you first in [title]?
10. What are some facts readers may not know about [title]?
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