I’m blaming the inherent story/setting of the Silmarillion for why the overwhelming majority of my fics have angsty elements. Do I have almost no self-awareness that someone would rightfully tag me as a dark fic writer? yes.
So, prompt me a character or scenario and I will endeavor to write a 100% fuffy no angst short story (And try to beat back the dramatic foreshadowing of later unhappy fates if possible)
Prompt- pick any of my ten OCs from Tol Sirion aka the Beren’s Band of the Red Hand, and I will write a short fic starring them, either more of their life pre-Quest, or what they get up to post-resurrection.
Send me an anymous (or not) summary of the fic you wish I would write. (maybe I will write a tidbit)
😀 this was fun before!
Taken from someone else on another network, deemed too good not to use.
Ask me a question about one of my fics or series. It can be absolutely anything in any project and I will tell you the honest-to-goodness answer (even on the progress/plans for next chapters of current series).
Don’t hold back. Whatever you ask, I’ll answer as truthfully and as completely as possible. You can also ask about my writing as a whole, if you like.
Plan to write something today. prompt me a number between 1 and 35. Or mention one of my wips (or finished fics for a continuation/prequel/pov switch) and I’ll post something for it.
What would you make me write, if you could?
OH MY GOSH, YES!!!
One of my absolute favorites!
Oromë the Valar rides with her tribe for a few of the star-passings, wishing to confirm with his presence how smoothly their journey is, to see if the Eldar need more provisions or animals and if their path is safe and easy to travel. He is most often in conference with Ingwë, Chief of the First Tribe. Therefore Indis, young sister of the Chieftain, finds the moss-green eyes of the Lord of the Hunt familiar to her, and she delights to ride on the gentle wide back of silvery pale Nahar. The girl hugs the neck of the Father of Horses, breathing in the strange and sweet fragrance of his mane, and laughs and giggles like a personification of joy. Oromë is infected with her joy and reaches over to give her an object she has never seen before, something small and soft that has the same pleasant smell as the Vala’s steed. Oromë calls it a flower, and it is the most beautiful thing Indis has ever seen and smelled. The Vala says flowers come from growing things, that they bud from the ground and from trees and once everyone reaches the Land of the Valar there will be thousands and thousands of flowers blooming. In the Land of the Valar are more flowers than there are stars in the skies, each with a sweet scent and of more colors than can be imagined. Oromë describes his wife, Vána Ever-Young, who has flowers springing up in the shadow of her steps. He loves flowers that she creates almost as much as Vána herself, and in each flower is a reflection of her beauty and propensity for new life and creation of joy. Indis giggles once more, breathing in the flower’s perfume, and says she wants to meet Vána. The Lord of the Hunt bequeaths upon the girl another dazzling smile. Instead of immediately answering his smile, she contemplates the flower and brushes a petal with her finger. ”Can you create another flower?” Indis asks.
“How many do you wish?” replies Oromë with a jest.
“One for everyone!” Indis exclaims. “A pretty one for Mother, and one that smells nice for Ravennë, and one for Brother even if he saw many flowers when he went to the Valar’s land. Everyone in my tribe should have a flower! And for Finwë and Elwë and their people, too.” Indis sobers. “That is too many, isn’t it? I’m being greedy and asking too much of Lord Oromë.”
But Lord Oromë laughs. “When we get to Aman, there shall be flowers for everyone, too many to ever count or hold. And flowers can be regrown, kind and generous Indis.”
Her answering smile is as bright as a bloom of Laurelin.
“Everyone deserves a beautiful flower, yes?”
All throughout the feast Eönwë could feel his Lord and Lady were distracted by something else, watching for an arrival. They were not anxious, but the anticipation was thick on the wind, and Ossë and Uinen were nearly giddy with rumors of some portend. Aulë and Yavanna were deep in conference with the Lords of Spirit, and even Tulkas had realized the time was nearly upon them. Eönwë wondered if his choice of outward appearance would suffice, not for this party, which was as amusing as most in recent years had been, but for an event far more important. He felt when something momentous had landed on the shores of Aman, and the Herald of the Valar had a fair guess of what it was. Words lingered on his lips, poetry of hope eager to alight. He could feel the light approaching. When watchers from the valley interrupted the feast, all the Ainur present knew already the light they had seen and what it meant. His king finally nodded, and Eönwë flew through the halls of Ilmarin, giving only the briefest of aside glances to his sister who sat with Queen Indis and Lady Nerdanel. The three ladies laughed and waved him on. Falcon-swift he flew from the heights of the palace, eyes focused on a shining light moving slowly through the empty city of Tirion. Words of a greeting repeated in his mind, though knew he never could have forgotten them. Eru Ilúvatar had given him the words long ago, back in the Timeless Halls before all the Ainur had been called together to sing the First Music. Finally, thought Eönwë, as he felt glorious joy expand in his heart.
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