#- Gror

[mrkida-art]

Grór is flirty

[weheartstims]

Grór (LOTR) with dwarf-themed stims for @jazz-fr0g!

💎|🪨|💎 🪨|💎|🪨 💎|🪨|💎

[paulbernardmusic]

jeghetermagne - Gror (prod.Paul Bernard)

jeghetermagne har sluppet låten “Gror”. Jeg har laget musikken og mikset, Subphotic har mastret. Magne er rapper og poet. Han har vært en av mine favoritter i mange år, og vi går way back. Jeg kaller dette hiophop/rap, men andre ville kanskje sagt at det er nærmere visesang og filmmusikk. Sjekk ut låten selv – og del gjerne den gjerne med andre hvis den faller i smak! (Låten finnes selvsagt på…

[ironfoot-mothafocka]

And a time for planting (that which was uprooted)

Trigger warnings for mentions of death and descriptions of grief and depression.

An ending comes to Ixil and Grór’s story (or the start of a new one). My headcanon, inspired by the fantastic @mrkida-art

4/4

2.6k words

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 3.5

—

Ixil,

The pen stalls, then falls.

Grór sighs, screwing up her face in concentration, against a headache that cleaves her skull.

I did not receive a reply to my last letter. I hope all is well in the East? Let me know.

Ulri died—

She can’t go on, and she places the pen down harshly. It clatters against the metal ink well. She picks it up.

The stone-setting will be soon.

She cannot bring herself to write any more details. That would be enough — if he even bothered to respond this time. She passes the parchment into the hands of a servant without sealing it and folds back down over her writing table. Somewhere behind her, a child cries.

Far away, another dwarf sits in a writing chamber. The winter in Ugzharak has been particularly harsh this year, and blizzards rip across the tundra outside of the Stiffbeard hold.

The rebuilding — seven years hence the remnants of the dragon was found — grinds on stalwartly. Ice had spread into much of the interior, cracking and weathering millenia of stone halls and supporting structures; for dragons are not well known to close the door behind them once they entered a dwarf’s lodging. Other foul creatures followed. Tribes of Men, followers of the Zigûr and goblin-friends, had sneaked in and set up camp unnoticed. Hall upon hall, home upon home were ransacked, the metalwork stripped and plundered. Filth, decay and rot littered once habitable dwellings, mouldering on top of a thick covering of ash and dust.

Ixil’s first task, once he had arrived in Ugzharak, had been to lead a party of warriors inside the lower levels and secure them of hibernating beasts. Some were killed quietly by a well timed crossbow bolt; others were wide-awake in ambush, and a fully grown adult whitebear could kill three dwarves in one swipe of its torso-sized paw.

It was tiring, gruesome work as they relentlessly scoured the forgotten streets of their ancient home. Dwarves who were now grown and under Ixil’s command had not even been born in Ugzharak, knowing only Thikil-gundu, and a few greybeards had to lead the way down mazes of corridors and backalleys, as Ixil’s own memory had grown hazy with the passing of years. His heart had ached as he encountered unfamiliar stone, tracing it questioningly with soot-blackened fingers, but his stonesense received only pain and anger in return. You abandoned us, said the stone. You left us to die.

The bodies of the dead dwarves were the worst to come across, and it has taken a full sun-cycle for Ixil’s beard to recover from the amount of times he has shorn it. Now, he is more used to having stubble on his cheeks than a proud braid falling from his chin. Some parts of Ugzharak he still cannot enter, for fear of the memories it stirs up inside him. Bodies upon bodies. Some cowering, some small — of children. He can’t go into those parts, even after they were cleansed by khandrel and the sacred dances of death had been danced by the zhanim. They couldn’t cleanse his own mind of what he had endured.

Life is constant in the North-East of Middle-Earth, though the dwarves of Erebor think it grinds to a halt, furling up like a green leaf in the snow. The dwarven nomads return to the Old Ways; some who moved to the greener pastures around Ghomal in the wake of the dragon now drive their shaggy auroch and mumak upland, and join with those families who stayed on the plains out of sheer grit. Stiffbeards sink into industry: ghaspar and coal mining, iron-working, shipping vast quantities of goods across to the cities of Men in the far-reaches of the frozen plains for whale-fat oil. And for Ixil, it seems that he has been barely able to catch his breath. With the election of a new Queen, divined by the omen-speakers of all the Clans, he has risen through the ranks like a fish being hauled up from the deeps. Most of the time, he feels like a fish — hooked and speared, pulled this way and that, gasping for air.  

Ixil looks up at Zurkuh, who has a crumpled letter in one hand. “My Lord…” He is a Lord now — Scoutmaster for the Queen. Titles don’t suit him well, and neither, he feels, do this many responsibilities. He looks down at the map that he is outlining. A pack of snow-orcs were sighted in the middle of one of these foul blizzards, driving a large herd of whitebears along one of their traderoutes. He is beginning to suspect, as the omen-speakers have been telling him, that these weather patterns aren’t natural formations of Middle-Earth, but some abominations of the enemy. Ixil rubs his face and blinks hard. “What is it, Zurkuh?” His assistant approaches cautiously and then drops the letter in his hand. He only has to say a few words to snap the dwarf from his thoughts. “It is from the Iron Hills, my Lord.”

—

Ixil’s eyes scan the words in front of him, horror slowly welling inside him. He slams it down on the table, and then, with shaking hands, rips the drawer from underneath him open. “Where is it? Where is it?” he mutters frantically, and then turns to Zurkuh who is standing by silently. “Did I write?” “My—” “Did I write?” he forces himself up from his chair and crosses to the slender dwarf, taking his shoulders in his hands. He forces his breath to come slower, but the panic doesn’t abate and his speech makes little sense to him. “Do you remember? This year — this Durin’s Day? If I wrote? Tell me, Zurkuh, tell me that I did. Tell me I did not forget. I write, I always write—   Zurkuh shakes his head sadly. “The last time you wrote to the Iron Hills was five years ago.” Ixil blinks. “No— no it cannot—” He returns to the desk and throws piles of parchment onto the floor around him, and they scatter like leaves at his feet. His hands pause somewhere near the bottom of the drawer and he picks up a precious piece of paper as though it is edged in gold leaf. Near the top of it, in Grór’s spidery handwriting, is the date he received it, and his finger traces the runes around and around.

Five years before. Five years. He had forgotten to write for five whole years.

Slumped in his chair once again, he feels numb. Zurkuh moves behind him and picks up the fallen letter that had fluttered from his desk, placing it on top of the map once more. “Friends grow apart,” he says softly.

—

No words were spoken at their parting. Formalities only. Avoiding glances, and then catching one another’s eye only to look away again. There was so much to do that it was easy for them to ignore one another — until they couldn’t.

Ixil looked down at Grór’s hands over his. His blood thundered loud in his ears — what was it… embarrassment, sadness, guilt? — and his throat constricted, trying to force something out, but there wasn’t any more time to speak to her.

“Write,” she said.

“I will visit — I will come back,” he said, his chin rising in defiance. But even then, he knew that was a lie. Grór grimaced. The ugly truth lay naked before them. No — this was it. The end, and the beginning of something new — this time, without the other.

—

“It is good to have you to watch with, as well. I might mistake everything for a dragon, but know that I’ll be ready to fight it, if one comes. You Longbeards took me in. I vow to defend your home until I lose my legs or my breath doing so.”

—

“I took an oath,” the Stiffbeard says to himself. Disgusted, he looks down at the last letter, the one Grór sent five years ago. He remembers now, saying that he would put pen to paper, and then that he would go himself on occasion of her marriage, and how he would choose a wedding gift that would eclipse all others: a crown fashioned out of pearls and white gold, with the three-headed mumak on it, the same one that she wore in iron at her breast.

If she still wore it.

And then… he struggles to remember, memories of even last week fogging up like steam in front of his eyes. And then— that had been the year that the hold had almost starved, with trading from the south blockaded by war.

So he hadn’t written, after all.

“It doesn’t matter,” his own voice replies.

An oath of seventy years past doesn’t matter? What would his mother say to him if she could see him now? If she had survived the journey back?

Don’t start something and not finish it.

Zurkuh has procured him a fresh sheet of paper from somewhere and a pen. The other one has rolled away underneath the desk, and the ink bottle tipped over. He presses them both into the Scoutmaster’s hands and sets them on the paper. “Even so, it is best you write back. I can arrange a funeral gift to be sent. You have enough to do, Lord.”

Was he even a Lord anymore? There was nothing lordly, nothing noble about a dwarf abandoning his kin. But still, he could write back. He could do this one thing.

He wrote one rune, and then another. The first two rune-letters of the date. His hand stilled.

“Bring me my cloak,” he said. When Zurkuh didn’t move, he stood up himself and brushed past him to his bedroom, fearful that if he stopped for a moment to reconsider his actions, the sensible part of his heart would take over. “Where are you—” “And pack a sled for me,” he said, turning to face his assistant, “for a journey to the Iron Hills. I am going there myself.”

—

The fog of depression settles deeper into Grór’s bones. With each passing day, she feels it gnawing its way in like ants on a log, hollowing her out from the inside.

Yesterday, Frór and Thrór arrived, but there had been no welcoming party to greet them. It was all that she could do to stand when they entered her chambers. Frór went straight to Nain’s room and emerged with him in his arms. “I’ll bathe the wee one,” he said quietly, as he went to fill a kettle of hot water. Nain blearily blinked up at his uncle before falling asleep again, his small fingers wrapped in his straw-coloured hair. Thrór had simply sat in silence. Then, when it was evident that Grór would not speak, he had returned with a cup of something hot and set more coal to the fire, prodding it until the room grew warmer. “You need to eat,” he said, bending down to peer into Grór’s face. She hardly saw him.

—

The morning dawns. It could be morning or it could be evening for all the Lord of the Iron Hills cares. It is the same to her, and sleep comes in fitful bouts when she passes out in her room from exhaustion. At least this morning she manages to sit on her throne and her breakfast doesn’t make her nauseous. She eats half of the porridge before it grows thick and cold, and eventually someone takes it away.

The door to the kitchen swings shut behind the dwarf at the same time that another one opens across the Great Hall. The raises her eyes to the messenger that strides quickly towards her. Something about his confused expression makes her sit up a little straighter. “Yes?” she asks, before he has time to reach her. He bows, and then, as if at a loss for words, gestures behind him. “My Lord Grór, there is a visitor…” There have only been visitors this past week, the week before the stone-setting. She icily reminds the messenger such. He stammers an apology. “The dwarf is from the East — from Ugzharak, Lord. He’s pulled his sled right outside and says he knows you, but we had no word of his coming at the watchtower, so—”

The doors smash open with enough force to shake the floor. A dwarf in tattered, weather-stained clothes and boots marches in, barely restrained by two guards. “Grór!” he shouts, before the guards seize him by the wrists. He’s too deft for them and escapes their clutches with the dexterity of a weasel. Before they have time to draw axes, he’s running towards her, his eyes wild and his face flushed from the cold. Grór sees a flash of it before he throws himself onto one knee before her, a brown, scarred hand reaching forwards for the tip of her boot. “I came back.”

The guards drag him up and away, pulling at his cloak which rips from his shoulders. And finally, Grór finds her voice. “Stop—” she rasps.

They stand, facing one another in silence. A letter falls to the floor — the one she had written just a few weeks ago. “I told you — Grór, I said I would visit,” he says, his eyes pleading with her.

It has been seven years.

She wants to hit him, to push him away, to scream at the guards to take him from the Hall at once. But, she soon realises, she doesn’t have the energy. The anger that she might have held seeped from her weeks ago, along with her joy. All she can do is stare. And then Ixil is close to her, and his hands are over hers. His fingers have more callouses now, and they feel harder and stronger, while hers are tattooed in dark ink and stripped of all her customary rings and ornamentation. Between her breasts, she feels something, as though another heartbeat had stirred next to her own. Something she hadn’t thought of for years, but had worn, unnoticed, next to her skin. A small, iron trinket. “Idu’bar,” he whispers, so quietly that it feels as if her own soul is muttering the deep name which few in her life have ever known. “I have come back.”

Epilogue

“We’ve had our troubles,” she says.

Ixil nods and licks the foam from his top lip. Grór sinks back in her chair, and for the first time in countless weeks, feels full. Ixil, on the other hand, is still eating chicken leg after chicken leg, until Grór supposes that he’s eaten a whole flock.

“The East is a… troubled place of late,” he replies delicately. He looks at her enquiringly. “I would still like you to see it.”

“Perhaps I will,” she says.

Before now, she would have thought that impossible. But today she has discovered many things. That in the eye of grief’s storm she can smile, and smoke a pipe in peace, and eat a full meal. That a dwarf she thought long gone could spring up out of nowhere like new grass and pull a sled halfway across Middle-Earth to be with her. Why could she not venture out and see new sights, and explore new things again?

There was a place and a time for everything. For death and for life renewed.  

End.

Kh. Idu’bar (id-u’bar): Grór’s deep name of my own invention (grower); apparently Grór could be derived from the Old Norse gróa, meaning ‘to grow’. It also means ‘to heal’.

[sashiki-p]

art dump 04/2024 - 04/2022

[motionpicturelover]

"Av måneskinn gror det ingenting" (1987) - Arild Brinchmann

Films I've watched in 2023 (94/119)

[sotwk]

One Forgotten Alliance Between Elves and Dwarves

SotWK AU Headcanon: The Death of Prince Arvellas Thranduilion (Third Age 2589)

Arvellas, following the example of his mother the Elvenqueen Maereth, had always maintained strong alliances and even warm personal friendships with the kings of the Line of Durin. Cemamath, the Woodland province he governed in the northeast, was in closest proximity to the Grey Mountains and Erebor, and the Durins welcomed the prince to their halls as the one Elven ambassador they respected most and even considered a friend. The dwarves appreciated Arvellas's kindness and genuine appreciation for their culture, and his willingness to share his own Elven traditions and practices without being overbearing. The Dwarf Kings were impressed by his wisdom and sometimes sought his counsel in matters of governance. (see linked post)

When the cold-drakes of the North descended and began their war on Durin's Folk, Arvellas requested permission from King Thranduil to send some of their soldiers to aid the Dwarves against the dragons. The King agreed, and for over a decade a full company of 100 Mirkwood elves were commissioned to fight in the war alongside the Dwarves, commanded in turns by Princes Turhir, Gelir, and Arvellas themselves.

However, as the war waged on with no conclusion in sight, Thranduil ordered the Mirkwood company to return home. Dol Guldur had once again begun to flood the forests with pestilence and dangers, and Mirkwood's resources could no longer be spared for outside conflicts. Thranduil ordered Arvellas to counsel King Dain I to take what was left of his people and leave the Grey Mountains, to start over in Erebor or new lands. Arvellas obeyed his father's commands, but his advice to the newly-crowned Dain was met with scorn and offense. The Dwarves took the retreat of the Elves from the war as a betrayal of their alliance; this weighed heavily on Arvellas's heart and conscience as he went home. 

Shortly before that final, fatal siege on Dain's halls, Arvellas had a vision of the cold-drakes' impending assault that would end the Line of Durin. He set out for the Grey Mountains on his own to entreat King Dain and his family once more to escape, but they stubbornly chose to hold their ground. Arvellas stayed to fight alongside them. Despite fighting valiantly, the elf-prince was slain by the same "great cold-drake" that killed Dain and his son Fror ("Durin's Folk", LOTR Appendix A). Arvellas managed to land a fatal strike on the dragon's breast, but was seized by the beast's jaws in its dying throes. 

Prince Turhir had ridden out in haste as soon as he discovered what Arvellas had done in defiance of their father's decrees. Alas, he arrived just in time to hold his little brother while he passed in agony. With his last thoughts, Arvellas asked Turhir to beg their parents' forgiveness, and to bury him before the rest of their family could see, wanting to spare them the sight of his mangled body. 

In his immeasurable rage and grief, Turhir took up his sword and proceeded to single-handedly attack the dragons that remained in the halls. After he slayed his first one, the rest of the cold-drakes recognized the savage madness that powered the elf-prince, and fled before him, allowing the surviving dwarves to safely escape--including Dain's sons Gror (Dain Ironfoot's grandfather) and Thror (Thorin's grandfather). Thus the Line of Durin was saved as Arvellas had hoped.

To add to the tragedy, in the confusion and misunderstandings, the surviving Longbeards failed to pass on an accurate account of the events of that ill-fated war. Neither Arvellas's sacrifice nor Turhir's valor went acknowledged or commemorated by the Dwarves, which Thranduil perceived as an unforgivable insult to his family. Thorin was raised to believe that the Elves of Mirkwood were faithless and feckless, and was initially unaware that the Elvenking even had children. (see fic: "The Broken Shield")

This old grievance factored largely in the Elvenking's refusal to engage with the dragon Smaug when the beast attacked Erebor years later. The once-enduring alliance between the Mirkwood Elves and Durin's Folk remained fractured until the reconciliation of Kings Thranduil and Thorin at the conclusion of the Battle of the Five Armies.

The trauma of Arvellas's death caused irreparable damage to Turhir's mind and spirit. In the following years, he descended into madness, which would ultimately lead to his own departure from his father's realm and the loss of another Thranduilion Prince.

Want to learn more about Arvellas? Arvellas Headcanon Masterlist

OTHER USEFUL LINKS:

Introduction to SotWK

Main Headcanon Masterlist

[technotaarer]

Indre rod shit post

Lige siden jeg var 17-18 år og havde mit “glow up” har jeg synes det er virkelig svært, det med at folk vil en for udseendet. Nu er jeg 24 og jeg troede faktisk at det var et gammelt mønster jeg har brudt ud af, men så finder jeg mig selv i Indien, hvor jeg møder en lokal fyr jeg synes jeg connecter med på et sjæleligt niveau, og det føles mutual. Efter et par ugers overvejelser om om jeg vil give et stykke af mig selv til ham, og nogle dagdrømme om os der laver “love making” and not just fucking. Det er helligt for mig som voksen. Sådan at mikse energier være intime. Og hvad jeg troede ville være en sensuel oplevelse, ender bare med at han bare vil kneppe som var det er pornofilm. Jeg er skorpion så jeg elsker passion, og jeg er følsom, dyb og verbal. Så det gør mig faktisk frygteligt ked af det, når det skal være på den måde. Og sådan er det bare tit. Det er et mønster. Måske er det noget med de mænd jeg falder for? Det lyder seriøst så Pick me, men jeg er oprigtigt træt af mænds henvendelser, der bunder i seksuelle ting, og det er også mit indre mandehad jeg skal lære at pakke væk, og lade vær at vande for så gror det jo, i mig og omkring mig. Men altså har bare grædt hele dagen (det var i går) fordi at jeg føler når andre ikke respekterer og sætter pris på mig, så respektere jeg jo heller ikke mig selv. Fordi jeg finder mig i det. Og det er nok det største svigt jeg kender til. Når jeg svigter mig selv. Vi lå og stargazede forinden fordi det var nymåne, og så spurgte han mig, hvad jeg ikke kunne lide ved ham (lidt weird). Jeg valgte at sige ej okay jeg kan sige hvad jeg godt kan lide ved dig og sige noget jeg ikke er så glad for. Og så gav jeg ham jo ellers en længere dyb smøre med nogle personlighedstræk jeg har bidt mærke i ved ham, og han lysnede helt op. Så spurgte jeg ham tilbage, og han valgte så at sige mine øjne og så bare punktum. Så var jeg sådan “okay ikke mere?” Og så vælger manden at svare, noget i stil med mine former/krop. Jeg begyndte at græde. Meget og ukontrolleret, fordi han ikke nævnte andet end fysiske ting, og han var så forvirret. Jeg prøvede at forklare, og han prøvede at forstå. Der var en eller anden sitren jeg mærkede når vi ellers kyssede som døde der. Jeg troede det var ægte. At det var min sjæl. Og ikke min Vesselbo jeg har fået tildelt i dette liv på jorden, der gjorde at han brugte tid sammen med mig, og viste interesse for mig. Men dumme mig prøvede at finde den igen. Den der sitren - for det føltes så ægte. Han mindede mig om at han bare er dumdum, og at han sagde til mig F.eks. første dag vi mødtes at jeg havde en smuk sjæl. Og så valgte jeg at være sådan nå ja han er jo sød og værdsætter mig, han er bare dårlig til ord som den skytte han er. Fuck jeg hader mig selv lidt for det, men det jo også bare en lærestreg, jeg må tage til mig, og snart lærer af. Så går jeg ud og spiser morgenmad med mit hævede grædeansigt og nu kommer Pick me delen, men tjeneren som jeg har mødt et par gange nu, skriver sit nummer på regningen, og en mand der sidder et par borde fra mig, finder mig på vejen hjem og henvender sig til mig, og prøver at småflirte lidt. LAD MIG VÆRE. JEG VIL IKKE MERE DISTRATIONER OG SKUFFELSER. Og jeg gider bestemt ikke i dag henvendelser der bygger på mit udseende. Jeg er træt. Jeg er træt af at være min krop. Det også bare forstærkende. Når man gang bliver mødt af dette fokus, begynder jo også selv at vægte det, føle det betyder noget. Jeg havde et scooteruheld hvor jeg kørte ind i pigtråd med mit højre ben, for 2 uger siden. Og det ikke kønt. Overhovedet. Så bliver jeg super selvbevidst omkring det. Igen også fordi at det er alt folk og fremmede kommenterer på og jeg sådan det er ikke min fucking identitet kan vi snakke om noget andet. For et par år siden da jeg hormonel akne i en ret høj grad, kunne jeg nogle gange ikke få mig selv til at forlade mit værelse. Det er jeg heldigvis vokset fra, men det var faktisk virkelig slemt, og den dag i dag hvis jeg får en bums, ser jeg det som meget værre og fatalt end folk ser det som udefra

[porphyriosao3]

Day 21 - Mahal

(Author's note: this is set in the fic Dripping Water, which is part of @tamloid's Mirrorverse series. Highly recommend reading it!)

Looking around, the environment was utterly unfamiliar. Hm, Gror thought. Not a good sign. A sigh like an earthquake filled the room, and he looked over at a giant figure that resembled a dwarf, but was far too big and far too... everything... to be real. Whoops. Definitely not a good sign. Behind the figure, the shape of an anvil meant the room must be a forge, but it looked odd, wisps of vision of other furniture, columns, and the like all coming and going with each glance around. The sights before him didn't match the things he saw out of the corners of his eyes. Bugger. He must be dead.

"Mahal," he said, bowing his head as much as he ever did.

"Gror son of Fror," came the rumbling reply, like a spoilheap falling down a cliff. "Do you know where you are?"

"I... yes," Gror admitted. "I was hoping that pain in my head was nothing to worry about. Seems like that must have been a bad guess." He snorted and Mahal snorted back, an interaction that he could have had with any of his mining team and very, very odd to have with his Creator. "Assumin' these are the Halls, then. How can I be useful?"

"Ah, there's the mark of my children," the giant form smiled. "Well asked. You'll find the Halls are run like most dwarven cities, just... bigger. Miners are always welcome. You'll find the mineral deposits a lot more common here and the ores richer than usual, but that's my gift to you all." Mahal paused here, slight smile fading to a look of puzzlement. "I see you are bonded. I don't see your One. I'm assuming you married a non-dwarf." The eyebrows indicated this was an unpopular choice, though there wasn't any disgust in the massive face.

"Aaaaye," Gror admitted, not sure how to begin to explain the situation. "My One wasn't a dwarf, for sure." He really hoped that Klûk could be admitted to the Halls, so he didn't rely on sarcasm as he normally would.

"Well." Mahal grumbled, eyes flicking to the anvil as if in thought. "What are we talking about? Elf? Man? I can't do anything with men, I'll tell you now - even if I wanted to let one in, Námo wouldn't let me, and such an action would cause a fuss with my Father." Heavy brows drew down fiercely. "You can be sure, that's not an acceptable situation." Gror winced; not only did Mahal look fearsome, but he might be looking at an eternity of separation from his One which was... not on. As much as it rankled his character, he felt compelled to speak from the heart.

"No Lord, neither of those. His name is Klûk. He's a... well, I don't know what he is, but we're bonded, see? He's my heart. I'd suffer to face the time ahead without him." Mahal nodded distractedly, still puzzling over the 'neither of those'.

"I don't like riddles, child," the Vala said. "There's an easy way to see, I suppose." A mirror appeared, enormous, somehow both towering over them and tiny compared to Mahal and the anvil at the same time. Mahal's eyebrows went up. Slightly, but they went up, Gror saw it. He seemed startled, and this was now the best day in his entire life... assuming he could get Klûk in here somehow. The mirror fogged and cleared to reveal a mass of writhing black tendrils racing through tunnels, flowing faster than a horse could gallop over obstructions and pouring through tiny holes like oily black water. "That can't be..." he grumbled, only for Gror's voice to interrupt.

"That's him," Gror said proudly. "Prob'ly on his way here, if he can find it. Always said he could find me anywhere." Mahal stared - stared! - at Gror before turning back to the mirror. "If you could let him in when he gets here, I'll vouch for his behavior. I just want to be with him again."

"You... took as your mate one of the Void children." Mahal sounded floored. This was officially almost the best day of Gror's... well, not life exactly, considering the circumstances, but ever. It got even better when Mahal said "I will consider this request. It... he?... will have to speak with me directly, though."

"Aye, Lord, aye, no worries at all," Gror said, unable to keep from beaming like a pebble. "He's no trouble, I promise. Can't hardly imagine mining without him, and he..." Mahal's eyes were on him and some power of the Vala seemed to compel Gror to say things he wouldn't. "He completes me," he heard himself say. "He saved my life, not once, but over and over, and whatever his kind feel for love, he feels for me. I miss him like a drowning man misses breath." The compulsion left him. Gror worked his mouth and tongue for a moment, looking up at Mahal's poleaxed expression. "Bit unfair, that, Lord. Didn't expect it."

[stroeriodi]

Jeg føler bare at jeg gror fast, imens alle andre spirer og blomstrer op.

[mrkida-art]

Frór intercepts Grór's quest for vengeance

[astrmastr]

ITS THE WHOLE SQUAD YAAAAAYYYYYY!!!!!!

they all have their weapons pointed at each other (except Thra she is. respons i b l e with weapons)

these r all the pcs from my pathfinder bird game im runnin!! from tha left to tha right we got:

- Thra, Changeling Dwarf & warpriest cleric. shes got an Evil Hag Mom shes huntin down with her uncle Gror! her element is Electric an her bird is the Raven B)

- ROB-1N (Robin), Automaton Magus whos arms can merge to become a rea l l y b i g g u n B] her Core is made of Ancient Featherfolk Tech - found an restored via new age machinery! Her bird is,,, well. a robin (an she also has phoenix vibes too)

- Felise (Fell), Seer Elf Cosmos Oracle w/ static-y glitchy magic. She was a student researcher of Featherfolk history at the Aton College of Magic! Her bird is a Magpie mixed w/ a scissortail flycatcher

- Aspen, Tiefling Ranger who dual wields his trusty blades. Hes got a heart of gold an a panther named Shadow! His older bro got kidnapped by monsterbirds & now Aspen is lookin for em! His bird is a Cedar Waxwing!

- Theo, Half Elf & Half Orc Barbarian & employee of Aton Loaf Co.! he is overworked and hates his job! he is tormented by Crusty, the mascot of the company. Theo's bird is a woodpecker!

all these silly goobers done waked up on the Winged Isles! The Featherfolks live on this island! The players are slowly becoming Featherfolks themselves! There's a Scary Vulture Man! Pirates! Hags! Drama! Bread!

[soelvfisk]

Nogen gange om natten er det lettere at tænke klart. Føler natten er en lomme af tryghed der indhyller mig i ro, på en måde hvor jeg ikke længere er bange for at lave fejl. Som om natten ikke ægte findes. Er sikker på at jeg havde været stjernekigger og himmel-heks før i tiden.

Tænker sommetider på at ændre retning i livet og lave alt om. Studere biologi eller arkæologi eller geologi. Vil både have en kandidat i neuroscience og en kandidat i forhistorisk arkæologi og en kandidat i geoscience. Har købt flere grundbøger fra pensum til de forskellige uddannelser. Så jeg kan sidde med overstregningstush og highlighte de ting jeg gerne vil vide i ro og mag. For jeg kan ikke studere på uni. Har prøvet flere gange. Er meget meget dårlig til gruppearbejde. Får angst over at skulle være parat til at løse konflikter og præstere på én gang. Synes ikke en uddannelse behøver at føles som et socialt eksperiment, når det man allerhelst vil, er at sidde fordybet i et jordhul eller på et laboratorie.

Jeg føler mig “social” når jeg kigger på min families stamtræ. Alle dem der hedder Ane og Peder. Alle dem der hedder navne jeg ikke kan udtale. De har skulle overleve en masse for at jeg kunne eksistere. Så føles mit liv meget værdifuldt. Gid jeg kendte dem nok til at kunne mærke hvad de ellers har givet videre. Om vi ligner hinanden sjæleligt. Føler jeg leder efter en retning i livet og føler at de kender svaret. Som et gigantisk bagland. De sidder et sted og sukker over hvor rodløs jeg er i en kælder. “Du er en bi” ville de sige. Og mene at jeg har et tydeligt formål. Jeg kan bare ikke selv se det.

Men lidt bedre om natten. Tænker fx på nu, at jeg skal læse mine bøger noget mere. Elsker faglitteratur. Elsker at kigge på et vildfarent blad i vinden og blive mindet om nervebaner. Elsker at kunne mærke min hjerne knitre fordi den kan sætte mine omgivelser i allemulige kontekster. Så føler jeg mig ikke så forvirret. Ikke så urtyg. Det kræver bare ro at vide ting. Jeg ved ikke noget, når jeg har det kaotisk - det er faktisk utroligt. Jeg bliver så blank, at jeg knap kender til de mest basale ting om mig selv. Alt bliver et mysterie.

Vil hellere have at mysteriet er til at undersøge… og ikke noget der forhindrer mig i at gribe livet. Ved at jeg har en tipoldefar der var skrædder. To tipoldefædre der var gartnere og havde store planteskoler og gartnerier. En oldefar der var taxachauffør. En oldemor der var pianistinde. Det må have været svært så definitivt at vælge hvad man vil være. Eller bare ende med at være noget… Selv nu - så mange år efter - er de stadig dét. Sikke et pres. Ville ønske jeg kendte dem for andet end deres profession, agtigt. De er jo mere end bare dét. Det handler måske ikke om at være en bi, men om at huske at man er det. Der vigtige er at man finder noget meningsfuldt at lave honning på. Af? På? Af. Et sted hvor ens indsats bliver anerkendt og værdsat. Honning er mere end hårdt arbejde. Honning er mere end et resultat af en slags funktion.

Det minder mig om at bier er magnetiske. Det er sejt. De kan orientere sig efter jordens magnetfelt, fordi de i deres pubertet gror magnetisk materiale i deres mave. Så de kan finde vej. OVERVEJ hvis vi også bare lærte at finde vej så definitivt i vores teens.

[ironfoot-mothafocka]

A time for uprooting

3.5/4, for @mrkida-art again. Knocked this out because I had some feelings and decided to post. 

More of my Grór stuff: 

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

2.2k words

—

Lachol zman v’et l’chal-chetef tachat HaShamayim. Et laledet v’et lamut. Et lata’at v’et la’akor natua.

A season is set for everything; a time for every experience under the sky. A time for birth and a time for death. A time for planting — and a time for uprooting the planted.

Grór is Lord of the Iron Hills. She has everything she wants. But there is a time for planting, and a time for uprooting that which has been growing since she was young. Can she let the seasons change?

—

She stares at him. Grór feels as though something unpleasant she thought crushed in an avalanche has re-emerged through the permafrost, unearthed by melting snow. And then the guilt hits her. She swallows and grips the side of her throne. Suddenly, the crown upon her brow is several pounds heavier, the nose-guard cutting into her flesh. Her eyes widen at Ixil. A buzzing, ringing sound fills her ears. “Lord Grór?” Ixil steps forwards, his face eager and earnest. Slowly, imperceptibly, she shakes her head. “Wh— what?” Don’t stammer, she chides herself. She can hardly breathe now. It feels as though there are a trapper’s set of iron jaws around her ribcage. But, maybe if she holds her breath long enough, she’ll fall unconscious and then she won’t have to hear what Ixil is about to repeat. Angrily, she pulls at her collar, averting her eyes down to the smooth, warm flagstone floor. Too hot. Too uncomfortable. Sweat sticks the furs of her greatcoat to her wrists and her shirt to her back. This is all too much. “I said,” Ixil replies gently, “word has come from the East. The dragon inside Ugzharak is dead! The remnants of the Stiffbeard army — which was camped in Ghomal for these many years — ventured to scout the hold, only to find out that the damn beast succumbed to something else!” How can he be sure? she thinks to herself. How can anyone be sure? She opens her mouth to say this— “They checked the body. Dead as kindling!” Reaching into a bag at his feet, Ixil pulls out what is very much the decomposing remains of a dragon’s talon. Grór is mesmerised slightly by this: the roaring hearth fire, built into the western end of the royal chamber in the Iron Hills fortress, plays off the obsidian gleam. It sparkles, as though living once more. Shrivelled flesh still clings to it, jet-black as the bone itself. “It is dead, then — at last,” she says, forcing a smile and slumping back, as though relieved. And she is relieved. She is pleased for him, and for his family, and for all the Stiffbeards. Her thoughts once again stray to her dreams of Khazad-dûm — how would she feel, if she knew Durin’s Bane had been vanquished for good, and all the orcs with it, and that she could return? Complete. She would feel whole.

Grór inhales deeply, looking Ixil, the Ranger of the Iron Hills, the Captain of the Iron Hills’ elite border scouts, straight in his eyes. They shine with unshed tears, and emotion simmers under the surface. A dwarfling’s hope. It suffuses his face — wonder, joy, excitement; and maybe it’s a hope that he’s kept from Grór for the long years that he has known her. Because they have spoken at length about it. One day. Always one day he and his family would return. And Grór agreed, and promised, and oathed to him that she would be the one to make it happen. Together, they would cross the Plains of Rhûn and assail the mountain with a legion of dwarves behind them, banners above their heads and sharp steel by their side. It was a fearless dream. But had she really thought that they could take down a dragon? Had she really hoped as hard as he did?

Burning hot — her face is burning. 

He can tell, a voice hisses in her head, like a trapped gnat. He can tell you’re unhappy. He can always tell. “My Lord?” She stands, just for something to do, and takes a few steps down from the raised stone dais. Her cheeks creak wider; her mouth feels like a nutcracker’s wooden maw, operated by a puppeteer. She smiles up at Ixil and clasps his forearm tight in hers, locking her fingers around his wrist. The leather of his bracer is warm and firm. His eyes are bright. His skin is more weathered now, ruddy-cheeked, but his hair is still sleek, well oiled, and gleaming like wet raven’s feathers. A scar from his temple stretches down to the corner of his lip, cutting into his beard. Her own beard is now almost long enough to tuck into her amethyst-studded belt. How far they have come since the days of dreaming of victory. Of returning. “I am happy for you,” she whispers, reaching up to clasp the back of his neck. Ixil reciprocates in a dance they have danced for decades now. His brow pushes against the metal of the crown, and Grór breathes with the rise and fall of the Stiffbeard’s chest.

How many more of these would they do — and when would their last one come?

“Thank you, my Lord,” he says, bowing his head, “I praise Mahal that I am fortunate enough to restore its splendour. To live to see this day when so many others have died.” He puffs out his chest proudly, shoulders pulled back. He stands taller and straighter than Grór has ever seen him before — even taller than when she had made him the leader of their rangers. She’d offered him General of her Army — but he’d declined. 

Why? she had asked. One day I must leave, he said seriously, and I don’t want any dwarrow getting too used to me. She had laughed, then. Ixil hadn’t spoken for the rest of the evening, lost in contemplation and steeped in a surly, distant disposition for the days after. He had avoided her so much that Grór thought he was ill. That had been years ago. Any dwarrow. Any dwarrow. Seeing him like this forces that memory into her brain, and it is as though Ixil had slapped her.

That was about you. It was all about him leaving you.

—

After King Dáin’s death, Ixil had made another choice, one that had changed both of their lives. Was it to Erebor with Thrór — following the rightful king, and Frór, her brother?

“There is opportunity to be had in those mountains—” Ixil gestured with a lamb shank to nothing in particular. “Iron is always needed, and the Hills have been a historic hold for your people, part of the lands of the Misty Mountains. Your birthright.” “I know, I know…” Grór paused. “You think it wise?” She inhaled sharply and took a draught of crap beer. She hadn’t listened to anyone else, not trusting their opinion of her as far as she could throw them. But she would trust Ixil. The Stiffbeard guffawed and smiled wider, his eyebrows jumping to his hairline. “Are you serious? Of course! Why not?” He was drunk, but he was being honest, Grór could tell that much. “And,” she pressed on, “you would come with me? If I did?” That was the make-or-break. That was what she needed, though she didn’t tell him. He leaned forwards, almost singeing his beard on the campfire; what was left of it, anyway, for part of it was shorn away in grief. “Where you go, I go. Where you make your hold, I will make mine, also. Remember the oath I took for you? That I loose my legs or breath to protect your hold? Your hold — not Thrór’s, and not Frór’s. Your’s.” Ixil glanced hurriedly over each shoulder and lowered his voice. “So — you have my word.”

—

“And I,” says Grór, wincing at how thin and wavering her own voice sounds to her ears, “praise Mahal for you. The proud children of Ugzhar will return again!” Her voice booms out across the hall to rambunctious cheering. Stiffbeards whoop and fill foaming pints, clacking them together with Longbeards and toasting to the restoration; drinking to the shared victory of the dwarf-folk over darkness. Ixil grabs her and before she knows it, he’s squeezing the life out of her, calling to the servants in the corner for ale, and wine, and platters of food. He draws back, and Grór tries to wriggle free, but he kisses her on the crown. “Stop it,” she mutters. He can’t hear her.

—

“What’s wrong, Grór?” There are no pretences here. Away from the other dwarves in the halls, they can be who they always have been: Grór and Ixil. The Lord of the Iron Hills feels as though she’s aged years during the feast. She also feels as sober as a monk. Wearily, she surveys Ixil and her heart sinks. “Nothing,” she lies. She does it to stave off the inevitable, because Ixil always gets the truth out of her one way or another. He raises both eyebrows and his nose wrinkles, the banded black tattoos across it creasing. “You are leaving,” she says heavily. “You will leave.” It hangs in the air between them. Weighty, like the pendulum of a chronometer. Unavoidable. “But,” Ixil says, biting his lip and sitting on the edge of his chair, “I will come back.” Grór laughs for the first time that evening, and it’s icy and bitter. “No, you won’t. To visit, maybe. Once in a while. But you’re not going to come back.” Her nails scratch into her palms, thick gold rings leaving painful indentations in her skin as her knuckles press against the chair’s armrests. What hope had lit Ixil’s face before in the feast-hall is gone now. His brow furrows in a deep frown, and he slides his chair closer to Grór. The noise of it makes her flinch involuntarily. “I am to see the Stiffbeard kingdom restored,” Ixil says, and for the first time, she detects a clip of anger underneath his soft tone, “are you not happy that we — that I — get to go home? After all these years? After all this time in exile?” His hands play with a frayed hem on his trousers, plucking incessantly, and his dark eyes bore into hers. The low firelight refracts in them, and in those embers she sees defiance for the first time. “I am,” she says, her voice matching his, slowing down with each word ground out from deep in her belly. She knows she can’t show her pain, but neither can she hide her own resentment. She feels like a child — on the verge of throwing a tantrum now a borrowed thing is to be taken away from her. They borrowed him, holding the surviving Stiffbeards safe inside Thikil-gundu. None of this was meant to be permanent.

Why are you so hurt?

“I am happy,” she corrects herself, “that your kingdom is safe. I will give whatever you need for the rebuilding. All my resources are at your service. But—” She is outside of her body, looking at herself in the chair, looking at Ixil, who is looking, dumbfounded at her. “— But you are going to live there. And — and I can’t leave—”

Don’t you dare cry.

Her voice hitches, and she can’t seem to expel air from her throat anymore to make sounds. To form words.

Ixil sighs. His shoulders droop down, sagging like pine branches bowed in the breeze. “Your duty is here,” he says quietly. “Duty? Don’t speak to me of duty.” She stops herself too late, and Ixil’s head snaps up in anger, his mouth halfway open in indignation. “My duty is to my people,” he states loudly. A telltale flush rises from the collar of his undershirt to the lobes of his ears, colouring the olive skin with a pinkish blush. Grór shuts her eyes, blocking out this conflict from the world and from her mind. “GRÓR?” Ixil shouts, and Grór jumps from the seat — fight, fight, fight, her mind chants at her, and her hands ball into fists. Ixil sits with his back ramrod straight, and she can sense his fury reverberating through him. His hands clench and unclench. He is barefoot, and his toes curl against the bear pelt rug. “Would you deny my honour? If I do not go — I will be shamed among my clan! I will…” he splutters for words, and then stands himself, crossing the short distance. “I will be beardless. I will not bear it. I will go, whether by your leave or not.” Grór looks up at him, her fists still curled up tight. “I know,” she says. “I know you’d go. I didn’t mean it like that.” “Well,” he sniffs, “you have a strange way of showing your gratitude to me. For my service. For the blood I have shed countless times for you. How many orcs have I taken down in defence of this kingdom through the years?” Like the steel gates of Erebor, somewhere a door inside her plummets down and slams shut. She sits back down and jerks her coat back over her shoulders, adjusts her crown. Grór regards him coldly for a moment, before turning her head away to nod at the door. “You are dismissed. I take my leave,” is what she says. But inside she thinks:

I am losing him. I am losing him. I am losing him.  

[henrike-does-writing-sometimes]

RoM - Cinematic Sequence Ramble

I tend to approach my works as if they're films, which often makes it harder for me. But this time I had a stroke of genius !

To keep the backstory short, and as free of spoilers as I can; During the Aperature (an event where the Mirror Realm and Earth overlap) a lot of things went wrong. One of which being Emil becoming infected with the poison of the Mirror Realm that risks spreading to Earth, which would effectively destroy it. The last scene (ish) of Realm of Mirrors is thus of Emil's death.

Before getting into the sequence I have in mind, here's a snippet of it. Enjoy :>

Emil saw their hesitation. Felt their unbearable fear and sorrow. Turning back to the sky he breathed deep, and sang; “Den blomstertid nu kommer, med lust och fägring stor. Du nalkas, ljuva sommar, då gräs och gröda gror.” his voice was trembling, but his song was as beautiful as can be. Perfectly flawed in a way that made it haunting. Carrying through the forest and over the oceans, a solemn tribute to the rising sun. Providing comfort and courage where none existed. “Med blid och livlig värma, till allt som varit dött, sig solens strålar närma,” Emil stumbled on his words as his breath shuddered. Tears once more trailed his face, but he carried on; bracing himself for what was to come, “Och allt blir återfött.” Comfort and courage flickered like a dying fire. So before it went out, Tess, Ida, Jake, and Astrid held each other’s hands tighter— and squeezed their eyes shut as magic flashed through them like a gunshot. Only it didn’t hit them, and there was no bang. Only dreadful silence. Jake was the first to open his eyes, to glance at the body lying between them. Emil’s muscles had relaxed, and his head had lolled to the side. Still and peaceful. One after another, they looked at him. And when the sun rose over the treetops, its warmth melted their frozen state of shocked numbness. Let it seep into the cracks, and reality was understood.  Tess’ breath hitched, and then she screamed.

The song Emil sings is the first verse to 'Den Blomstertid Nu Kommer' (ENG: The Time of Blossom Now Approaches) and the version I'll be using for this is the one from Bramble: The Mountain King. Because the vibes are spectacular and just what I'm after. (Listen to it because it makes what I'm about to describe a lot better)

Now for the sequence !

Emil sings the first verse solo. No instrumentals, no back-ups, just him (0:00 - 0:47). It's then quiet, with only the wind through the forest, then once we're shown Emil's body, the ambiance (0:48 - 0:53) fades in. It continues to swell as the scene progresses, reaching its peak once Tess screams.

And as they all begin crying, the song continues, carrying through a "montage" where the remaining characters return to Grimmvik, passing the castle and other important places as they do. This is all slowed down, not much but enough to portray a sense of emptiness, and the only sound is the song. Meaning we can't hear the crying, only see as they cry.

We end the scene through a fade, most likely through the sky, as the song comes to an end, transitioning us to the epilogue.

//

Haven't used this in a while, so let's dust it off

: Taglist - @waysofink​​ @metanoiamorii @fiercely-raging-writer @zonnemaagd @writing-is-a-martial-art @writing-with-l @chazzawrites @vacantgodling  :

Let me know if you want to be added/removed !

[minvaerrehalvdel]

Jeg forstår ikke hvordan andre folks hjerner kan fortrænge og gemme på traumer. Jeg møder tit folk som jeg kan se, har en masse de ikke har bearbejdet, og samtidigt kan de glemme det, selvom det viser sig frem på andre måder. Men jeg kan slet ikke fortrænge eller glemme noget af det negative. Jeg føler at det rammer mig alt sammen på én gang og at jeg på automatik SKAL tænke over det og bearbejde det, hvilket jeg er glad for på det ene punkt, men på det andet punkt dræner det mig og fylder alt for meget. Jeg har ingen stopklods, selvom jeg for det meste kan separere mit ego fra min selv-analyse, er det stadig sygt hårdt hele tiden af skulle tænke. Selvom jeg ser at jeg gror, vokser der hele tiden nyt ukrudt op, som jeg skal deal med ved første tanke. Ville ønske, at jeg kunne stoppe med at tænke når jeg skal sove, for det smadre min søvn og det smadre min dag og mit drive.