Thinking I should overhaul my old DW journal from back in my Sims 2 CC creator days to be a secondary archive for my tumblr. Have to completely change the theme and pinned post and change some of the icons. It’s from 2011 to early 2013, so it’s ..yeah. let’s change.

Insta-drabbles

squirrelwrangler:

Off the SWG discord feed, here’s all the random drabbles I wrote (usually within two to three minutes) from today’s four word prompts. Many are slight spoilers or connected to stories that I’m working on. None are more than 100 words, some are much shorter.

  • strong, borne, forest, fled

At the trill of birdsong that entered strong and bright into the clearing, the lingering lethargy of sleep fled from Beren’s limbs. His eager feet borne him from the shadows of the trees where he had slept in a soft bower of moss. Leaping into the sunlight, he sang his own wordless song of welcome and joy. Lúthien had returned to the forest, and she called to him as the songbirds did in spring, returning to the nest with love tokens to build a new life together. “You have leaves in your hair,” she teased, plucking them from his head.

…

“When we fled to the sea, it was strange, for we had shunned it for so long. Partly for love of the forests, but partly in anger. Strong anger that you -that Uncle Olu and our family- had been borne away by the island, and that I could see that remnant across the bay, like it was mocking me. We, Eglath, thought you had forgotten us.”

Elwing’s distant uncle, named in honor of her Great-grandfather same as her older brothers, embraced her. “Oh, never, my brave niece. My father never forgot either of his brothers, or any of his kin.”

  • fragrant, bustle, refused, hastened

The elf bustled around the parlor room with arms full of fragrant myrtle branches, harried in expression and locomotion of her limbs. She hastened to the door, realized her false alarm before she touched the latch, and backed away from the door. She refused to succumb to panic. Laughing, her companion unfolded the gossamer thin cotton that made the robes worn by patients in the Gardens of Lorien. As the healer bustled around in anticipation of the approaching reunion, her companion snorted. “I know your concern is not that they have forgotten you, and this is naught but nerves.”

…

The bustle of the training field could not be compared in poetic terms to a beehive or whatever metaphor most pleased the departed Noldor. The fragrant scent of sweating men refused to be softened either by pretty words or breezes. The movements were repetitive and small, the tedious and unglamourous work of real soldiers, not the grand flashy movements of warriors. The recruits hastened to line up in wobbly orders, their sticks held aloft as they practiced the single step forward and thrust. An embryonic pikeline was slowly forming, one that would defeat what all the had cavalry failed to.

  • Heart stroke encounter fire

“The heart of the matter is that we cannot stay by the shores of Cuiviénen, even without this great opportunity. The safety, light, bounty of a new land- all would be reasons alone to rejoice and accept this offer. Our encounter with Arâmê saved all the Speakers, and the Chieftains are fools to ignore this!” Finwë shouted, waving his arms in front of the fire.

“They don’t ignore,” Elwë corrected, “but they lose too much if they concede our truth.” He stroked the kindling and added another handful of dried sticks to the fire. “Have you spoken yet to Kwendê?”

…

Fân added one more stroke of pale green to the edge of the leaf that he was painting above the fire brazier of Bân’s living quarters. Pulling back, he inspected his work. The bright oranges and pinks of tropical flowers flashed like brassy cymbal notes in a song of interlacing greens, disguising plain stonework as the jungle foliage that Bân kept in his heart. The other elf spoke of birthplace during their first encounter as if not homesick, but Fân could see the silent yearning for a least a touch of memory. And flowers were a cure for that ache.

  • rough, clash, wind, dim

He sketched rough design for the patterns of flowers and vines, adding more of the giant leaves with their curling points as directed by his friend. Bân, pressed close as they huddled in the hollow of an uprooted yew bush sheltered on the far side of the hill from the wind, offered corrections in the dim evening light. He tapped the parchment with the stick of charcoal, his sword hilt awkwardly peering over his shoulder. “The colors won’t clash.”

  • Bleak snow scurry breath.

Bledda stared at the snow-covered visa before him with the bleak flat-eyed gaze of dead sea creatures, the black thoughtless look of creatures that would scurry across the sea floor. The scion of the People of Bor glanced to his commanding officer for reassurance. He knew it would be too much to pray for a denial. The commander of his Vanyar troop was adamant that they cross into the no-man’s land of the north. This would be an ordeal.

…

“The flower crown looks…bleak and unfinished,” Beril said as she forcefully shoved another sprig of snow-white maiden’s breath into gaps between the braided flowers, “and don’t scurry away and say this is Wise Women’s Secrets, Sister-mine.”

Andreth sighed.

  • star, martyr, box, sunset

“Oh, sad martyr. You shall starve – but proclaim your brave sacrifice for all to hear and lament in heart-wrenchingly lovely song, for your king has forsaken you. The stars shine upon your noble torment.”

“Father…are you addressing your cat?” Ingwion entered the monastery with a box of tax receipts bound in a wide array of colors, blues and teals for Valmar and sunset oranges for the farmlands to the south, with white ribbons around the scrolls for schools and other royal properties allotted to public works.

Guiltily, the High King of All Elves looked up from the floor.

  • binomial chocolate world tree

The book was an accounting ledger, one of many nearly identical volumes shelved in the room adjacent to the steward’s offices. In this utilitarian wing of Nargothrond, no beech trees carven into stone decorated the walls. This was the orderly world of the bookkeepers and inventory talliers. The unadorned leather was a rich chocolate brown, and on the pages were neat binomial pairs of numbers and lists, for Edrahil believed in redundancies and indexes. The blank space at the bottom of the tooth-white page accused them. How dare you think yourselves worthy to replace Tacholdir, the abandoned open book snarled.

  • river, book, scar, hollow

It was a hollow feeling, to stand on the riverbank right before the river flowed through the gateway of the walls around Alqualondë. The wall had not always been so tall as to hide the scars of the city. Once it had been just an ornamental embellishment. Now chains bridged the current. To book passage down the river to the docks of the bay was no longer the seamless journey that it had once been. Nowadays the locks of the canals were watched and guarded. The city’s innocence was long destroyed, like a spiderweb against the might of a storm.

…

The last wound would scar, if the king did not allow his healers to attend to him soon. But King Thingol’s healers were on the other side of the River Aros, far from the carnage that ringed the Amon Ereb. That was what the book would call this place, the Lonely Hill, location of Denethor’s last breaths. Hollow promises of aid and eternal friendship, mockery made of the bond of kings delighted as co-rulers of Beleriand. No matter the multitude that he sent to the Halls of the Judge, no death would miraculously bring Denethor back to him. Thingol wept.

Silm Fic List

squirrelwrangler:

squirrelwrangler:

The master-post page isn’t reblog-able, but anyways, here’s just the Silmarillion stuff:

The People of Bór:

The People of Bëor:

The Vanyar:

  • Ingwë of Cuiviénen (wip) : 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 (History of the elves and their High King)
  • The Pride of the Vanyar (Vanyar aren’t boring)
  • Ele! (The duel between Imin and Ingwë – see explanation)
  • Zen Vanyar 1, 2 (flash fics about Vanyar calligraphy)
  • Honor Songs (Ingwë’s relationship with his wife)
  • Feasting with the Lions of Valmar, Part: 1, 2, 3 (Ingwion asks his parents to lead the Army of the Valar)
  • Laughing Maiden (Lalwendë, granddaughter of Alako, is born)
  • Flowers (prompt for Indis)
  • Erikwa (Imin and Iminyë character study- of oswarë and the oldest fears)

The Sindar and other Teleri:

  • Making Friends (Elwë befriends Finwë plus overwhelming Cuiviénen world-building)
  • Maeglin/Elwing (AU, not total crack, House of Mole becomes House of Orange-Nassau)

Others:

Beren’s Band of the Red Hand:

Updates!

  • The Ring (Andreth ‘reunites’ with Aegnor – inspired by a Clois scene)
  • Tears (one inter-dimensional phone call later an Aegnor/Andreth happy ending)
  • Horse Theft (the thorny Noldor horse problem)

  • Milk (Fingolfin and Fingon introduced to a mortal drink) 

  • That self-indulgent Findis wip: 1,2 (Findis is an author, will write a thinly veiled version of Voltron: Legendary Defender)
  • Lemon Cakes (Band of the Red Hand companions and their family in 2nd Age, a food-based characterization writing exercise)

And a mixed bag of drabbles HERE and HERE

the-lady-rae:

asoiafarticles:

Look at this!! @i-am-a-lady-damn-it made this beautiful bit of art, an adult Robert Arryn with his father’s eyes and his mother’s hair. I adore the auburn because I imagine that his brown hair would take on a red hue once he was less sickly.

Between the shape of his face, the glorious way she draws hair, and those very Arryn feathers on his shirt I adore this! She also has art of pre-GOT people, which is awesome, and I encourage you to follow her 🙂

:3

Burnt Lighthouses

The Fëanorians had torched Elwing and Eärendil’s house. Círdan tried not to feel surprised at the act of arson. It was not the only area of the Havens put to the torch. With the silent patience of a fisherman, Círdan watched the black charred remains of what had been rafters, beams, and furniture slowly smolder and collapse in the harsh shore breeze. A beam slipped free of where it balanced precariously and thudded to the ground, but the sound was muted by the heavy layer of ash. All the embers had cooled by now, and Círdan knew he could approach the ruins of what had been the house of his dear friends without fear of burns. No, give them truth in the silence of his heart as he stood and paid his respects before the ashes of their lives. Elwing and Eärendil had been his adopted niece and nephew, yet another war orphan he had taken in as his own, as Ereinion became the beloved child of this lifelong bachelor.

And because of that deep love, Círdan feared approaching closer, feared to walk through all those charred black piles, worried that it would be more than burned wood that he would find in the wreckage. His men, searching the other buildings, had already found bodies. Elven and mortal, male and female, old and young, every sort imaginable. All except bodies of orcs, and that was the key difference that confounded the searchers, for they were all veterans from Brithombar and Eglarest and all the points inland, all familiar with the aftermath of towns and cities sacked by Morgoth’s armies. Strange it was for them to find only elven and mortal dead, only those weapons, only red blood. Some bodies had burned in the arson; most had not. Identifying the dead was easy if they had been neighbors and friends. Círdan’s men had the survivors of the Havens assisting the search, looking for any other survivors, looking for the dead, looking for names to give the slain refugees. Some of the dead elves the survivors did not recognize, but they begged that the bodies collected for honorable burial, as they had tried to stop the attack or tried to extinguish the fires. Some of the buildings were still too unstable to investigate.

Círdan did not wish confirmation of which he would find in this house.

If he refused to cross the threshold, the horror remained an abstract.

The Fëanorians had also burned the docks. That he was not surprised at, for they had no more use for ships. Or at least still had the self-awareness that no boat upon these waves would tolerate them. Still, Círdan knew one ship had not been present, and thus one body he shall not find.

And, staring at the charred ruins of the home of Elwing and her young children, for the first and only time, Círdan fervently prayed that Vingilot had foundered upon the waves. The Shipwright, who prided himself on the soundness of his ships, wished this betrayal of his craft. He hoped that only pieces of driftwood returned to this beach to join the charcoal that lined it. Let not the lad return to this, he prayed. Better he dies, drowns in a storm, not seeing the destruction of his home, the death of his people. Never have I asked this of you, Lord Ossë, oh, how Círdan wept, but never allow him to return to this shore, when this sorrow is all that awaits him.

More Instadrabbles

More from the SGW Discord 

  • seedling, last,  rekindle, shadow

The Kin-strife cast a shadow over all of Gondor, but after ten years into Eldacar’s Restoration, peace has time to take root. People’s livelihoods were rekindled. For instance, in Ithilien the seedlings of new trees were beginning to bear fruit, replacing the vast orchards burnt during the war. At last, Lalaith hoisted the travel pack on her shoulder, setting off for Minas Arnor. Somewhere in that city were the survivors of the Garden Watchers, the secret agents of the kings. Túrin and the others awaited her. Stubbornly, she knew she could find them. Hope was like the serotiny of seedlings.

  • binomial, chocolate, world, tree 

“If I write the binomial out, I can compare the slopes and find where to add the next gate – the sluice mechanics in the Thirty-Fifth Wing might be small enough to retrofit into the space. Construction cannot continue until I solve this problem, or we face a world of complications and setbacks.” Durin chewed at the end of his stylus.

Daeron doodled a tree in the margins of his own notes, writing mathematical equations above each branch for the angles, perfectly accurate for all he seemed to eyeball. “Remember when your mathematics were simply dividing chocolates? Alas, maturity suits you.”

  • star, martyr, box, sunset 

“Milady, if you want me to play-act as a love martyr, I have moved past extremes of emotion. A comfort of death, to no longer be boxed in by one’s heart.” Daeron huffed, then softened, “I have grown accustomed to a feeling of contentment in your company, surprised though I be by the feeling, but there are no stars in my eyes when I gaze upon you. Or your work space. I beseech you – let me craft you a better loom than the one you currently use. It insults me. It should be like a sunset – swiftly ended.”

Míriel smiled.

  • dim, clash, rough, wind 

It was a truth tacitly accepted by those with any degree of familiarity with all the children of Fingolfin that the second son was the friendliest by far of his siblings, without the haughtiness and standoffishness that caused clashes and dim expectations of their capabilities as independent rulers, the only one to eschew rough manners for grace and courtesy. Turgon was amiable with everyone, for he genuinely loved company instead of shunning the populace for solitary pursuits or the exclusive companionship of the other royals. The sigh of sorrow at his disappearance passed like a dark wind through the North.

Insta-drabbles

Off the SWG discord feed, here’s all the random drabbles I wrote (usually within two to three minutes) from today’s four word prompts. Many are slight spoilers or connected to stories that I’m working on. None are more than 100 words, some are much shorter.

  • strong, borne, forest, fled

At the trill of birdsong that entered strong and bright into the clearing, the lingering lethargy of sleep fled from Beren’s limbs. His eager feet borne him from the shadows of the trees where he had slept in a soft bower of moss. Leaping into the sunlight, he sang his own wordless song of welcome and joy. Lúthien had returned to the forest, and she called to him as the songbirds did in spring, returning to the nest with love tokens to build a new life together. “You have leaves in your hair,” she teased, plucking them from his head.

…

“When we fled to the sea, it was strange, for we had shunned it for so long. Partly for love of the forests, but partly in anger. Strong anger that you -that Uncle Olu and our family- had been borne away by the island, and that I could see that remnant across the bay, like it was mocking me. We, Eglath, thought you had forgotten us.”

Elwing’s distant uncle, named in honor of her Great-grandfather same as her older brothers, embraced her. “Oh, never, my brave niece. My father never forgot either of his brothers, or any of his kin.”

  • fragrant, bustle, refused, hastened

The elf bustled around the parlor room with arms full of fragrant myrtle branches, harried in expression and locomotion of her limbs. She hastened to the door, realized her false alarm before she touched the latch, and backed away from the door. She refused to succumb to panic. Laughing, her companion unfolded the gossamer thin cotton that made the robes worn by patients in the Gardens of Lorien. As the healer bustled around in anticipation of the approaching reunion, her companion snorted. “I know your concern is not that they have forgotten you, and this is naught but nerves.”

…

The bustle of the training field could not be compared in poetic terms to a beehive or whatever metaphor most pleased the departed Noldor. The fragrant scent of sweating men refused to be softened either by pretty words or breezes. The movements were repetitive and small, the tedious and unglamourous work of real soldiers, not the grand flashy movements of warriors. The recruits hastened to line up in wobbly orders, their sticks held aloft as they practiced the single step forward and thrust. An embryonic pikeline was slowly forming, one that would defeat what all the had cavalry failed to.

  • Heart stroke encounter fire

“The heart of the matter is that we cannot stay by the shores of Cuiviénen, even without this great opportunity. The safety, light, bounty of a new land- all would be reasons alone to rejoice and accept this offer. Our encounter with Arâmê saved all the Speakers, and the Chieftains are fools to ignore this!” Finwë shouted, waving his arms in front of the fire.

“They don’t ignore,” Elwë corrected, “but they lose too much if they concede our truth.” He stroked the kindling and added another handful of dried sticks to the fire. “Have you spoken yet to Kwendê?”

…

Fân added one more stroke of pale green to the edge of the leaf that he was painting above the fire brazier of Bân’s living quarters. Pulling back, he inspected his work. The bright oranges and pinks of tropical flowers flashed like brassy cymbal notes in a song of interlacing greens, disguising plain stonework as the jungle foliage that Bân kept in his heart. The other elf spoke of birthplace during their first encounter as if not homesick, but Fân could see the silent yearning for a least a touch of memory. And flowers were a cure for that ache.

  • rough, clash, wind, dim

He sketched rough design for the patterns of flowers and vines, adding more of the giant leaves with their curling points as directed by his friend. Bân, pressed close as they huddled in the hollow of an uprooted yew bush sheltered on the far side of the hill from the wind, offered corrections in the dim evening light. He tapped the parchment with the stick of charcoal, his sword hilt awkwardly peering over his shoulder. “The colors won’t clash.”

  • Bleak snow scurry breath.

Bledda stared at the snow-covered visa before him with the bleak flat-eyed gaze of dead sea creatures, the black thoughtless look of creatures that would scurry across the sea floor. The scion of the People of Bor glanced to his commanding officer for reassurance. He knew it would be too much to pray for a denial. The commander of his Vanyar troop was adamant that they cross into the no-man’s land of the north. This would be an ordeal.

…

“The flower crown looks…bleak and unfinished,” Beril said as she forcefully shoved another sprig of snow-white maiden’s breath into gaps between the braided flowers, “and don’t scurry away and say this is Wise Women’s Secrets, Sister-mine.”

Andreth sighed.

  • star, martyr, box, sunset

“Oh, sad martyr. You shall starve – but proclaim your brave sacrifice for all to hear and lament in heart-wrenchingly lovely song, for your king has forsaken you. The stars shine upon your noble torment.”

“Father…are you addressing your cat?” Ingwion entered the monastery with a box of tax receipts bound in a wide array of colors, blues and teals for Valmar and sunset oranges for the farmlands to the south, with white ribbons around the scrolls for schools and other royal properties allotted to public works.

Guiltily, the High King of All Elves looked up from the floor.

  • binomial chocolate world tree

The book was an accounting ledger, one of many nearly identical volumes shelved in the room adjacent to the steward’s offices. In this utilitarian wing of Nargothrond, no beech trees carven into stone decorated the walls. This was the orderly world of the bookkeepers and inventory talliers. The unadorned leather was a rich chocolate brown, and on the pages were neat binomial pairs of numbers and lists, for Edrahil believed in redundancies and indexes. The blank space at the bottom of the tooth-white page accused them. How dare you think yourselves worthy to replace Tacholdir, the abandoned open book snarled.

  • river, book, scar, hollow

It was a hollow feeling, to stand on the riverbank right before the river flowed through the gateway of the walls around Alqualondë. The wall had not always been so tall as to hide the scars of the city. Once it had been just an ornamental embellishment. Now chains bridged the current. To book passage down the river to the docks of the bay was no longer the seamless journey that it had once been. Nowadays the locks of the canals were watched and guarded. The city’s innocence was long destroyed, like a spiderweb against the might of a storm.

…

The last wound would scar, if the king did not allow his healers to attend to him soon. But King Thingol’s healers were on the other side of the River Aros, far from the carnage that ringed the Amon Ereb. That was what the book would call this place, the Lonely Hill, location of Denethor’s last breaths. Hollow promises of aid and eternal friendship, mockery made of the bond of kings delighted as co-rulers of Beleriand. No matter the multitude that he sent to the Halls of the Judge, no death would miraculously bring Denethor back to him. Thingol wept.

Another reason why Beren is a sweetheart:

radiantanor:

Remember Gorlim, and in particular how he is remembered as “the Unhappy”?

Beren was the only survivor of his dad’s heroic last stand group, and the only one to see the “wraith of Gorlim” and receive his warning. Which means he must have been the one who relayed that part of the story to the Elves or other Edain, who then wrote songs and histories about it. Given the detailed description of Gorlim’s backstory, his reasons for the betrayal and the emphasis on the mitigating circumstances, the most likely in-universe explanation is that Beren made sure he would be viewed sympathetically.

“The Unhappy” is not a positive epithet, of course, but it’s a lot more flattering than some of the other possibilities. Gorlim is a far more sympathetic
character than other notable traitors like Maeglin or Grima, and I know it’s because he actually was a better person. But in-universe, the main reason anyone would know all that has to be Beren’s decision to tell his story this way, even though he lost the last of his family and companions because of that betrayal. Many people would not have been as kind to Gorlim’s memory in his place, even considering his obvious regret and the attempted post-mortem warning.