#Heavy Mithril

[ereborne]

Song of the Day: February 7

"Living Next Door to Alice (Who the Fuck is Alice)" by Smokie

[randomxiwi]

I discovered Heavy Dwarven Mithril

It's awesome guys

[thelien-art]

The Sons of Fëanáro

Latest portraits - Beleriand portraits.

Fëanor & Nerdanel and Celebrimbor

HC:

Maedhros: While Maedhros cared much more for braids and jewelry in Valinor I don´t think he ever really stopped caring, still dressing up before that as a fine rich lord, until after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad where all hope seemed lost to him, and his sole goal was to get the Silmarils, thus saving his brothers from being unmade in the void.

Maglor: I think Maglor always wanted as much power as possible, and one of those ways to get it was to stick out, therefor always choosing silver and Mithril over gold even as it was more seen in Beleriand than Valinor it was rare to see on a noldor, thus giving him the attention he ears he wanted. While I think he was far from the pretties of the brothers his words easily made up for it, as well as his talent to talk down a situation, making him look like the calmest and most civil of the brothers even if he wasn´t.

Celegorm: While being seen as the wildest of the brothers I do not doubt that Celegorm enjoyed rishes and wine when possible, showing of as much as possible, not minding heavy jewelry gifted by Curufin, and mixing them with what he got from his fellow hunters, much to his brothers distress.

Caranthir: I think Caranthir was excellent with money and the riches elf at least at some point, and he was never afraid to show it, dressing himself in Irish heavy fabrics and jewelry by his brother.

Curufin: Curufin is the most fashionable Feanorian out there - always up with the latest trends one thing he at least shared with Finrod. Curufin admired Celegorm for his independence as a child and saw it as a way to rebel against his own name and the expectations it carried with him. While he always loved Feanor an unhealthy amount I also think he despised his parents and yearned for his own identity, and not a copy of his father, which he could only get by being extreme, therefore early leaning on Celegorm for his own will.

Amras & Amrod: I always like the idea that while Amrod was burned when Feanor set fire to the ships, he never died despite having burnt most of his function in the left side of his body away as well as his speech, making Amras invent a sign langue for him and translate for others, this also meaning they were closer than ever in their time in Beleriand - therefor also HC him as the youngest, despite the later changes. As both twins are called hunters, I believe Amras was the one living most up to it, never caring much for finery, while Amrod himself was a scholar but after the fire chose to join his brother in all, although he still liked jewelry in such.

Other HC: Numenor´s crown is inspired by Maedhros´ cobber circlet, much to Maglor´s irritation he finds it charming non the less even if he would rather it was his own that was used as a reference

[sindar-princeling]

rop season 2 episode 1 thoughts

at this point you gotta admire the creators' dedication to absolutely bizarre choices when it comes to sauron. 15 minutes in I'm already going what the hell and fuck. like what was that supposed to be. genuinely

Charlie Vickers has grown on me; he still doesn't have much to work with in terms of the script or the plot though

this whole introductory sequence was there....... I'm not sure why? we could already extrapolate all that, and I mean All That, from the previous season

it still pisses me off that Galadriel is The Main Idiot and Everything Is Her Fault

also, I am reminded of all the plot and worldbuilding choices that annoyed me before. why is mithril important for the elves' survival again?

CIRDAN HIII CIRDAN <33333

I'm so glad they kept his beard

believe me, I AM trying to find things to like about this show, but the plot choices feel like so much unnecessary drama. Galadriel and Elrond fighting feels.... tiring. I feel like all Galadriel does is fight with people

oh are we getting Rhun?? 👀 Nice

this is a personal opinion but the elven women have wayyy too strong and modern-looking make-up

it's a shame galadriel gets the ring because she's power-hungry and reckless, not because she's one of the mightiest elves in middle-earth. she SHOULD be power-hungry, don't get me wrong, it's one of her best traits, but this way you don't put any sort of accent of how very important and mighty she is

sauron having a Badass Walk into mordor at the end of s1, which was a really cool shot to end a season on, only to then get himself in chains and then turn away and come back to Celebrimbor has got to be the most '???' moments of this show. they really have no idea what to do with him

overall I'd say my main gripe, apart from the plot solutions, is that this show doesn't have much to say. it's showy, it's lore-heavy (even if I don't like the lore they came up with), but so far it still has little heart and thought behind it. to me at least it doesn't feel like it really wants to tell you something

[ladyoflindon]

I’ve Got You (Elrond Peredhel, Rings of Power) – S1 Ep7

Author’s note: Technically Elrond x OC, but could be a reader insert if you block out the OC’s name 😉; she’s the daughter of Gil-galad and Princess of Lindon, Eleniel, she had gone to Eregion with Elrond earlier in the season; I write better with named characters (so I write with OCs); italic phases with “S.” denote the use of Sindarin, while “Q.” denotes the use of Quenya

Eleniel paced the floor of Celebrimbor’s forges anxiously as she waited for her husband to return. It had been days since Elrond left for Khazad-dûm, hoping to pay a visit to his friend, the Dwarven prince Durin. At least, that’s what Elrond told her.

Eleniel couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something would go wrong. Every second spent delving deeper into the recesses of her mind was another moment spent pacing in the forges. Someone cleared his throat behind her, snapping her out of her reverie.

“You’re going to wear a hole in my floor, ingaranel nin (S. my princess),” Celebrimbor mused, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He wiped his brow before running a hand through his brown curls. “It’s Elrond, isn’t it? You worry for him.”

“Yes, Lord Celebrimbor,” Eleniel admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “I know he’s just visiting Durin, but I can’t shake this feeling that I have. It’s not a good one.” Her blue eyes filled with tears, but she bit her lip, refusing to let them fall. The smith sighed before moving to stand by her side, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I know you care for him, but all this worry…it’s not good for you. Look, you haven’t stopped pacing. I’m sure the young Peredhel wouldn’t want you to worry about him like this.”

“Well, he’s a hypocrite then, isn’t he?” Eleniel laughed, her voice hollow. “He wishes I do not concern myself about him, yet he keeps giving me reasons to worry.” Even till now, this was Elrond’s habit, and Eleniel only let him get away with it because of the adorable expression he’d flash at her every time she was about to admonish him.

“I suggest you take a break from pacing. Perhaps the view of Ost-in-Edhil from my study would do you well?” Celebrimbor suggested, already walking away and gesturing for Eleniel to follow. She did, the hem of her pale blue gown flowing behind her and sweeping the ground like leaves.

Celebrimbor was right, Eleniel told herself. At this time of day, Ost-in-Edhil was bustling with activity. The light of the setting sun bathed everything before her in hues of pink and gold. Truly, the capital city of Eregion was splendid.  Eleniel’s hands gripped the cool railing of the balcony, her eyes following the elves milling about below. Two elven children looked up at her, waving and flashing excited smiles, and she waved back, gracing them with a smile of her own.

Just then, a flicker of activity just not too far away from where the children had stood caught her eye. A figure approached the gates of Ost-in-Edhil, cloaked in what was supposed to be white, but his clothes were matted with dirt. Eleniel’s heart caught in her throat as she gazed at the figure.

Elrond was back.

Without a second thought, Eleniel turned and ran out of Celebrimbor’s study and down the stairs until she had reached the ground floor. She pushed open the heavy wooden doors to the forge tower, not caring as they slammed behind her. Running as fast as her feet would take her, she finally made it to the gates. The guards, recognising her, let her pass.

Eleniel threw her arms around Elrond, burying her face in the crook of his neck. “You’re home, meldanya (Q. my beloved), you’re home,” she murmured, her voice low enough only for his ears. When she pulled apart to gaze into those grey eyes she loved so much, she found them full of tears. “Elrond?” Eleniel asked, confused. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m such a failure, ingaranel nin,” Elrond sniffled, hastily wiping his eyes, but more tears came. “I was so close! We could’ve gotten the mithril needed to save elvenkind, but…but I…”

“It’s okay, Elrond,” Eleniel said soothingly. Her hand cupped his face, her thumb wiping soot from his cheeks. She knew what had happened. Her sunshine had tried his best, but the dwarven king, Prince Durin’s father, had forbade any further mining for mithril. She’d suspected that the dwarven king would respond as such, but never did she expect that he would throw her beloved out like that.

Elrond sobbed silently. Eleniel grabbed his shoulders gently and steered them away from the gates. “Hush, Elrond, you did your best. No one will blame you, you tried,” Eleniel said softly, pulling her husband down to her height to kiss his forehead.

“I failed, Eleniel,” Elrond said, his voice devoid of any emotion. “Now the elves will fade, all because of me.” He fished something out of his pocket, a small ore that gleamed in the light of the setting sun. “Durin gave me this, a small mithril ore. Such a small piece for all elvenkind, how can it even help?”

“It helps more than you know, Elrond,” Eleniel smiled at him, the kind of smile Elrond loved to see. “Celebrimbor will find a way, I’m sure of it. He’s only the best smith in all Middle-earth. How could he not?”

“The High King entrusted me with this,” Elrond sniffled once more, tears streaming silently down his face. “I failed him. How can I face him?”

“Listen to me, husband.” Eleniel’s voice was firm. Her fingers wiped the tears from his face, before brushing one of his brown curls behind his pointed ear. “You’ve done your best, and I’ll see to it that my father knows so. No one can blame you for King Durin’s response.” She hugged Elrond tight, and he returned her embrace, pressing a kiss into her fragrant hair. “Truly?” Elrond pulled away just enough to look into Eleniel’s blue eyes.

She nodded. “I’ve got you, Elrond. I’ve got you.”

[llitchilitchi]

reblog/comment your opinion with explanation pls

[siriusblack-the-third]

Matching Misfortunes: Peter Pevensie

I binged read and watched the Narnia books and films, and idk what possessed me but I wrote. so. Let's go. Please check out the other parts for the other siblings!

.

Peter’s skin itches.

He heaves even breaths through his nose as he leans back to avoid the sloppy punch Easton throws at him, and stops himself from going for the throat for the third time in half as many seconds.

This is the fourth fight he has gotten himself dragged into since term began on Monday. It is Wednesday today, and Peter’s blood pounds in his ears, through his limbs and his flexing fingers as he holds back; doesn’t hit hard, doesn’t go for the liver or the heart or the head, does not give into the bloodlust that whispers siren songs of battle and blood-covered blades in his ears. He stops himself, clenching his fists and dodging the abysmal hits from the three boys that surround him, and refuses to lift a hand against these insolent children.

He is a King.

He is a boy stuck in a schoolyard brawl he did not start.

Peter’s skin itches.

He wants to claw it off— he imagines that this is what snakes must feel when their body gets much too big for their scales, and they have to go through the painful process of shedding their outer layer and come out stronger and larger. He suppresses a grim twist of his lips as he kicks out— harmlessly, wrestling against the lust that sings a song of death in his ears— at that idiot Michael’s knee to send him sprawling to the ground with a yelp, and thinks that what he went through was rather the opposite, really. He grew up, and then was forced into a body too unfamiliar, too awkward, too inexperienced. Too young.

He was a King.

He is a boy stuck in a body too unscarred to be a King’s.

Kenneth lunges forward to try and grab him around the waist. Peter easily steps out of the way, the part of him that is a seasoned warrior clawing to the forefront of his mind simply to scoff at the graceless flailing of limbs that these children call fighting. Lucy could do better.

Lucy did do better, twelve years ago. Or maybe it was five years ago.

The timelines blur together, in his mind; he can no longer tell whether he is in England or Narnia. He is wearing his school uniform and he is wearing his royal garments, he is walking the halls of Westbrook County Boarding School and he is walking the halls of Cair Paravel. He holds the blunted school practice broadsword in his hand and he holds the razor-sharp Rhindon in his calloused hands, he is a boy and he is a King.

“Fight back,” Easton snarls, dark brown hair falling out of its previously carefully styled place, and Peter thinks of how he has seen scarier Mice dig their teeth into the throats of Minotaurs and suck them dry of blood. He blinks, and the image of him sinking his own teeth into Easton’s throat flashes across his mind’s eye. He blinks again, and he’s back on this makeshift battleground where the mice are gone and his sword is gone and he is in clothes too uncomfortable and the skin is stretched taut over a body that is not really his—

“Fight back, Pevensie, you coward!”

High King Peter the Magnificent of Narnia, Commander of the Armies, Emperor of the Lone Islands, the Lionheart Warrior King, Protector of the People, wants to grab him by the throat and shatter his jaw into a thousand pieces for that grave insult upon his character. Instead, he laughs in his face and sticks out his tongue, like a small child.

He is nineteen, and he is thirty-three. He is not a child, in either world.

Sometimes, he wishes he was. Sometimes, he wishes he was thirteen and in his mother’s home, he wishes he had never left for Professor Diggory’s mansion.

Most times, however, he wishes for something he has almost given up hope for, something he was forced to give up five and a half years ago. He wishes, oh so dearly, for a faithful sword made of mithril in his hand and a heavy crown woven out of golden flowers on his head. He wishes for one last chance to step out of this world that was once his but no longer is, and into a world where he was once High King Peter the Magnificent, Commander of the Armies, Emperor of the Lone Islands, the Lionheart Warrior King, First of the Beloved Four, Protector of the Narnian People.

Easton yells as he lumbers forward, and Peter, too embroiled in old memories of running his fingers through the unicorn Ethrys’ snow-white mane while galloping through grassy fields, does not see the punch coming until it is too late. The loud smack of knuckles against flesh echoes through the school courtyard, and the impact of the heavy fist on his cheek is like an electric shock to his senses.

For a second, he blinks dazedly. And then his brain registers it properly. The pain flares, and with it so does blinding hot bloodlust.

‘Fine,’ he thinks as he lifts a hand to wrap his fingers around Easton’s forearm in a death grip, a high-pitched whistle echoing in his ears and red creeping into the edges of his vision as it zeroes in on the many weaknesses in the three boys’ defenses. ‘You want a fight? You’ll get one.’

It takes him four seconds to get the three imbeciles on their backs, one howling in pain from a dislocated shoulder, the other because of a broken nose and the third from a bruised kidney. His fingers flex around the hilt of a sword that he no longer owns, and he reminds himself that he is not allowed to kill, not in this world where he is not a King and does not lead wars.

He stares down at Easton, the image of a blood covered sword and a slain warrior at his feet flashing behind his eyelids when he blinks. He opens his eyes and the boy stares back, hand clutching his shoulder and face becoming paler and paler the longer Peter holds his terrified brown gaze.

“Don’t bother me again,” he says flatly to the three of them, and turns away, ignoring the teachers that are hurrying across the lawn with yells of his name tumbling from their lips. He lifts his gaze and locks it with Edmund’s for a second, brilliant blue meeting identical brilliant blue, before both of them turn away. One royal brother melts into the crowd of students without a whisper, and the other stalks off towards the dorms with blood on his ever-bruised knuckles and memories of a different world singing through the veins of a body that is too young for the mind it contains.

He is a King, celebrated and honoured for his services to a hallowed land.

He is a mere boy sitting on the roof of the boarding school, fingers flexing around the hilt of a sword that no longer belongs to him, nothing more than a memory he cannot let go of: a memory he refuses to let go of even after five and a half years.

[ruiniel]

Kiss prompt 30 with Maedhros and female or gender neutral reader, he's such a tragic character and I love it

Aw, my favorite kinslayer... here's a short with a human!attendant reader, implied established relationship, Himring era, Maedhros being a tad insecure

Here for you

The drafty corridors of Himring fortress resound with your steps as you wander, summoning your gall and clutching the sense of boneless ease still present from that first sight of the company beyond the battlements. You saw him riding fast from afar, plied against his mount as skewed winds whipped his hair around his face; a flame, in the grey light of day.

Sometime later, you’re slipping through the heavy door without even knocking, unannounced, unheeded; for that one moment, you forget yourself and freeze to the spot.

He is seated on his bed. Warm, scented steam weaves inside the room from the bath chamber. 

Your eyes meet. His wavy auburn locks are heavy and dark, plastered to his face, falling in tendrils down his loose, blood-red tunic. 

There is raw confusion on his face, but the ruler of Himring, renowned diplomat and prince of his people, is not easily pressed at a disadvantage. You know it by the way his tired gaze changes as he stares back at you. 

“You’ve returned… earlier.” You spell the obvious, feeling shameless in your boldness, and unnerved at being the first to speak. Your legs are slow to shuffle towards him, and your relief turns near-delirious the closer you are.

He leans on his good arm, his features unreadable in the dim light of the candles. He always chooses low lighting for his chambers, and though he rarely shows it these days, you wonder at the prevalent changes brought on by his torment long ago. Your eyes unwittingly follow the shine of his mithril hand, the smooth, gleaming metal fingers splayed so lifelike over his thigh. A work of art and utility. A gift he rarely uses, deeming it an unnecessary addition and cumbersome in battle. But this time, he’d chosen to wear it.

“We were fortunate,” Maedhros answers, keenly following your approach, watching as you kneel before him on the floor. “I tried not to ruin your handiwork too much,” he says, leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees as he watches you.

A smile strives to your face, remembering all the times he came to you slashed, cut, poisoned even, and you’d sicken with worry and never had your hands worked so eagerly, nor so carefully. Now, you barely keep from rising and tackling him into his fur-covered bed, steeling yourself into some manner of patience as you rise. Your throat is tight, your voice small. “You should have called for me.” It was your duty, after all, to help him, though he minds himself easily nowadays. Perhaps you simply fear he will not need you anymore; at least, you catch the unworthy lash of such thoughts and send them from your mind.

He sighs. “I was about to.” He straightens. “But not for this,” he gestures to the clothing effects scattered around him, then meets your stare, frowning. His throat bobs as he swallows; you’d give anything, anything, to know what he sees.

He falls silent as you near close enough to stand between his long legs; your hands alight on his shoulders as his head tilts back, grey eyes riveted on you.

Your fingers are slow to tangle in his hair, delighted at the softness brushing your skin. Real; he feels so real, not a figment of your fancy. “You must be spent,” you say, knuckles lightly grazing his cheek, tracing the wild scar curving low along his face, ending at his upper lip. You burn to know more but as his eyes close and the lines of tension smoothen on his face, it becomes clear this is not the time for it; later.

“We did not stop to rest,” he concurs, now gazing at you through slits of dark storm as your fingers thread through his hair. “... only where needed.” He raises his hand, and you feel the hesitant pressure on your side, his warm fingers digging into the material of your robe. “...to tend to the horses…” he mouths absently.

His breath hitches as you bend to place a soft, lingering kiss on his brow. You try your hardest to stay a primal shiver, warring between concern for his well-being and ravenous selfishness. He smells of the lavender-scented oil he uses to soothe his nerves and aid his rest. “Shall I help with your garments, my lord?” you croak, asking the same question you’d posed the very first time you met Maedhros Fëanorion, as his healer and attendant. 

“Yes,” he says, undaunted. “Please.”

Kneeling again, you reach for the fastenings of his collar, undoing them one by one, studying him as you go, tracing the memories linked with yours. The scar cutting his right brow; the one across his lips, sketched down to his chin; they never healed, and you dare not dwell on the stories behind them. His lower lip is plumper than the upper one, and he has a habit of gnawing on it, as he is doing now.

“Why are you grinning?” he asks, legs slowly closing around you so you’re trapped, your hip bones against the hard flesh of his inner thighs; a long, calloused hand finds your cheek as you undo the last clasp on his tunic. 

“You’re beautiful.” You touch more skin, smiling at the freckles pressed like wreaths in the dearest of places. Your lips part as his left pectoral tenses beneath your hand, and he is already working on the sash at your middle; the movement hastier than you’re used to from him.

“You need not say such things to me,” he murmurs, leaning forward so his face is pressed into you when the sash comes undone. 

You shudder at the touch of metal fingers tracing your bare back, the cold melding with the warmth of his mouth and you want him for more—but he mistakes your reaction for something else. You know it the moment he breaks away and looks at you with resignation and regret; when his hand falls to his side and he averts his eyes. 

You lean forward, nose brushing against his, then press your lips to his cheek. “Remove it,” you whisper, clutching at him in earnest and staring into the shining, jet-black centers of his eyes. “Please.” 

His forearm flexes when your fingers alight on the clasps keeping the prosthetic attached to his wrist, and he gifts you a weary smile as he meets your eyes again. “... All right.”

prompt list

[maneaterwithtail]

Did Elf Senshi Change or Not

Figured post character development, at the least result of red dragon, use his mithril knife. Maybe tear clothes to make cloth shield

I realize the gag is supposed to make him super duper p**** looking While still committing to the same bit of just standing there and being archetypical even to a goofy degree just elegant Alf as opposed to doofy dwarf

The problem is you have to turn off every other aspect of his personality and behavior in order to get the gag to work to the extreme it goes to

And as even more so in the episodic presentation but especially what came before you figure he would be all about committing himself to a pragmatic solution for his current predicament and group utility.

OK sure not carrying his PAN because it's too heavy for him. so why isn't he carrying anything else that can cook or keep food abd provide safety with or make sure he's armed because he definitely knows how dangerous the dungeon is and how critical it is to have some sort of tool in order to affect violence that might be necessary for living

Contrast and compare say how he introduced the golems to how he's handling the gargoils

Now it's understandable, the gargoyles are new and the golems are known and familiar

And it was pointed out he has a tendency to use his weapons in such a way that he runs them down as opposed to keeps them in the best condition. the exception being his cooking implements which he treasures immensely which might be due to his own single focus on cooking or the fact that you know they're ancestral keepsakes from the closest thing he has to family and the only property he's probably had most of his life

Which is strike 2 on the whole him just leaving the PAN behind because he's kept it with him for literally decades at this point so it's too heavy that's why I left it seems an odd decision (empty and all carrying make more sense)

Having his knife on hand makes perfect sense because a knife is incredibly practical tool that you can use in a variety of situations that are likely to come up especially in combat exploration or survival situations

To be fair that is a knife that he seems to reserve almost exclusively for elements of cooking or at least did until the dragon situation. So naturally at this time it should be readily available for him. Especially as he's just recommitted himself utterly and completely to the good of the group.

And the previous incident had him more or less coming clean and being more open.

so if the issue is " I don't know how to fight without my normal strength and tools" you think he would express this at some point to his leader so that that way he's prepared or ask what to do next when it comes up.

The implication is when he's been Blunt before yes he is doing so but it's also with an unspoken level of communication based on instruction and cooperation such as the incident with the shiki Gami

There 3 members of the party effectively coordinated an attack that was able to come together. With the implication that if not exactly planned this, he knew how to act in conjunction with his friends

Again all of this disappears when he becomes an elf. he apparently loses all sense of unity with the party that he's remarkably been able to work alongside and definitely has been developing this rapport about

He doesn't communicate critical information that would be relevant to ongoing practical concerns nor is he prepared for a likely upcoming practical concern

And he betrays his own limited Arbitrary but established stubbornness such as With regards to keep sakes or sticking to a certain lifestyle or collection even if it's Deviant from his race or others expectation

Simply put Senshi has been surviving in the dungeon on practical terms for very good reasons for a very long time.

I can understand why for instance he could walk around with a broken axe until he got to the point where he could replace it either from a corpse or earning enough coin to go into town and buy one

I could understand for instance him leaving his equipment in one place and then coming back to it later if believe it's critical for his own safety or recovery

None of these apply here and more importantly the party knowing it's roles and how to be armed and what to expect is absolutely critical. so much so that this first off not being taken care of in a passport or between scene is already a bit dubious. We see scenes of them dressing and of them basically rearranging to the circumstances as they are

For instance it makes sense to me that Marcel fired a magic shot even though she doesn't have as much in the tank. it's established very early on how much she is all about and prides herself on magic as well as can often overlook practical concerns and practice and also the realities of things that she might know intellectually but is unfamiliar with in practice.

That's in fact her very constant gag! Though they definitely find new ways to explore that. just the previous episode, for instance, in terms of making familiars As well as designing how to maximize their use

So she keeps hold of her staff, because that's her item. the only one experienced in order to use it especially now, and she instinctively uses too much magic because that's her first instinct at almost all times but then due to a recent disability she has not adjusted to she's taken out of the fight as a direct result

The same as when lios tires out in mid fight. he's gotten used to the strength. so he naturally assumes that that's going to come with stamina only to realize, especially in a fight, that's not the case. but he's only recently had this body and recently addressed its physical realities and this is the first major physical confrontation he's had.

but note he still has armor and he still has a weapon

Chilchuk - I think this is missing in the actual episode z but he just comments how weird his senses feel and when he sticks to his normal strategy of run like hell and hide in a corner. it doesn't work explicitly because he's so big and probably draws greater agro now or nit used to running in this body with these senses

It also makes sense he doesn't compensate for it. he's been established as someone who doesn't regularly fight. the one skill in fighting he's started to establish as firing arrows. I don't think he actually had the bow and Arrows available. and he was up against Stone monsters this time. so understandably didn't even bother to try. especially in a situation that was unfamiliar to him. he's been established as - I don't want to say cowardly but definitely does not stick his neck out unless he absolutely has to though he will try to save someone if they are in danger **which is something we actually see him do**

Nstsumi has a tendency to go on a bit of a feral attack given Traits of animal instincts as a result of her own modification. Hers is arguably the biggest change but 1, she is less established so there is more leeway. 2, we are literally given a reason for it right when it happens. new animal, new instincts. so she doesn't know how to control or respond to them. So she has to be worked around on that level. It's a major change but it's also a major change that's the focus on the scene and folks working on it

But Senshi's there's this major change but then he says there isn't one which doesn't hold up. To be fair he did do the " stand there and look hot "during a battle one time. specifically the Fallon chimera. but even that 1 kind of made sense, because there were Multiple other fighters and he did have a strategy at hand.

'Appease the leader who was threatening the group by having the meal prepared.' it was a weird strategy but again it falls within the 2 sort of obsessions that he's known for and sticks to stubbornly.

Also the threat before then was that the mixed party would basically start fighting each other and in fact a fight had nearly broken out before the chimera attack and he was already doing that so he just didn't change course in order to attack what was already being addressed or at the very least stay out of the way so that he didn't ruin the one strategy he did have when the very attack ran the risk of reigniting interparty conflict

It was certainly Blunt and stubborn and arbitrary but it wasn't thoughtless or Without group concern.

So yeah I do think the transformation in terms of practical effect had way more of a change than I think even he is willing to admit. To be Fair reading his diary versus watching him in a narrative you get the sense yeah you get inside on what he's thinking but you also realize the way he's thinking doesn't necessarily reflect all that's true even in regard to just himself

As an example, the entire hypogriff soup entry is remarkably very truncated and doesn't explain a lot of what's going on

In fact they're surprisingly amount of stuff he glosses over in terms of what he thinks of as relevant or worth noting or reminding himself about

Which hits at a much more mired or thick headed psyche than one might think as opposed to project a deeper wiser one.

[tar-thelien]

My Kidnap fam is getting rewritten, and here is chapter 1

Summary:

Elrond and Elros gets picked up by the Feanorian, some of which are on the bridge of falling into complete insanity. Maedhros is tired of everything, and far from stable, Maglor do as he wants and Erestor watches from as safe of a distance as he can. In the end, they are all just doing their best to stay alive - and love tends to grow slowly in treacherous places.

The third kinslaying happens, Amrod dies

Words:1329

Elrond´s POV

El looked up at the imposing form of the Valarauko with hair of fire, as he trembled behind his brother, who he hoped wouldn´t blame him.

Valarauko. That was what his Ada had called the beasts who had attacked his home, Gondolin, and since this tall fire Raug had attacked his home too, it must be one of the Moringotto´s creatures as well, at the least, it would be in league with him.

And when this frightening beast with imposing mithril eyes, curled back its lips to expose those gleaming, wicked white fangs both he and his brother almost fell into the dirt if not for the pole of the tent behind them kept them standing as the Raug before them threw his heavy fur over them.

“Maitimo! Where art thou!?” Shouted someone loudly from the outside, and the Raug, - ´Maitimo? He did not know enough of his father´s language to know what it meant, but he was sure it was something dreadful and bloody´ - who had found them and forced him along with him from the hiding cave that Glossien had told them to stay in, abruptly left the tent. The opening was guarded by one of the red star soldiers, who shot the two brothers a piercing stare with frowning eyebrows.

“Where are our brothers?” they heard the Valarauko ask in its rumbling voice.

“... They´re waiting ahead of us. They said we should ride towards Amon Ereb and that they would meet us when the time comes.”

-o0o-

The sound of shouting and fighting was so loud that it echoed through the narrow stone streets and the little boy felt a surge of panic, suffocating him as they were ushered through a backdoor that opened into a labyrinth of twisting uneven steps hewn out of the rock that led down to the forest.

“You know that we can't leave without Emel!” his brother cried in such a loud voice that the little boy winced. He was sure that some of the monsters must have heard that, and now they would come to kill them too.

“She will meet us at the cave.”

“NO! How do you know that?” said the brother with a frown, and the little boy began sobbing bitterly, the miserable cries escaping from his small throat and wracking his whole frame in despair.

“Shush!” Glossien hissed and she did not waste any more time, rather she lifted the weeping child up into her arms and tightly grasped his brother´s hand before silently hurrying off, “we have to find a safer place, your Naneth will come when this is over!”

After they had been shown under a small waterfall into the cave to hide a red haired elf showed up, proving Glossien right that someone had been following them, running after them with a gaping wound in his stomach yelling in the same language that Ada had talked in sometimes.

The boy didn´t know what had happened just that suddenly Glossien had screamed and then everything turned quiet as a small stripe of red showed up in the water in the cave.

“Pityafinwe, Pityafinwe-”

The brother peered up at the sorrowful voice, engrossed by it he stood up and began walking towards it, showing the boy back as he grabbed for his brother.

As he appeared out of the cave, he could see a dark haired elf covered in red and eight pointed stars, holding the red haired elf, looking straight into the brother's eye. The brother had seen him before, he had been in their room right before a guard had distracted him and he had left so Glossien could take them away.

Glossien who now lay facing down in the red water.

Not long went as three other red star soldiers came to drag the sobbing one away, only one of the soldiers stayed behind. One soldier who now looked straight at the Child.

“What is your name child?”

“El…” the brother replied much to the boy´s horror. But he agreed, that should they die, they would die being known as what their Emel called them.

“No more? Then I shall call you Elros, until you tell me your full name.”

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[randomtable]

I've got a request for a random table - d20 fantasy body modifications (tattoos, piercings, etc.) for a character / NPC to have. I'm talking things like elf-ear piercings, horn caps, living tattoos... stuff like that!

1d20 Fantasy Body Modifications

“Fairy Ladder” Piercings - a set of three or more industrial piercings for Elves and other long-eared folks

Claw Enhancements - popular among folks without natural claws, and those who want to strengthen or emphasize their natural claws. Minor transmutations can be used to add claws, and to harden, sharpen, and even re-color or re-shape existing claws.

Tattoo Pets - living tattoos of animals that run and play around the bearer’s skin.

Tooth Alteration - folks with sharp teeth want blunt teeth, folks with blunt teeth want sharp teeth. The decision to have one’s teeth magically altered can be influenced by dietary choices, sexual preferences, medical needs, and aesthetics.

Horn Caps and Cuffs - made of precious metals, sometimes set with stones or connected by lengths of chain.

Portal Gauges - jewelry for stretched earlobe piercings which form a pair of teleportation portals. Passing tiny objects from one side of your head to the other is rarely more than a party trick, but is pretty cool.

Almanac Tattoos - calendars, moon phases, weather, etc, these magical tracking tattoos are popular among mages, farmers, and more.

Tail Tip Piercings, which are all the rage among folks with tails these days.

Horn/Tusk/Antler carvings - tattoo-like carvings on the horns, tusks, or antlers of those who have them. Patterns and images are usually carved in rings.

Gills of Amphibious Breathing - having a pair of gills on one’s neck is both visually striking and incredibly useful for long swims. The transmutation ritual for permanent gills is quite costly, so temporary gills are popular for beach days and pool parties.

Tattoo Gardens - the growth and blooming of these plant images can be attuned to anything from the bearer’s mood, to actual weather and natural surroundings.

Illuminated Hair - why stop at regular hair dye when you could have hair that literally glows in the dark? Illuminated hair potions are applied in a similar manner to regular hair dyes, with similar longevity and similar risks of staining the bathtub if you aren’t careful.

Mithril Earrings - Mithril jewelry doesn’t come cheap, but it is prized for its striking blue-silver appearance and for being lighter weight than most other metals but still extremely durable. It is especially popular for creating large dangly earrings that would otherwise be excessively heavy.

Warding Tattoos - protective sigils can be tattooed in magical inks to ward against just about anything, from general protection to shielding against highly specific curses. Their effectiveness depends both on the potency of the ink and the skill of the tattoo mage who applies them.

Tongue Ring of Tongues - a tongue piercing which grants the wearer the ability to speak any language.

Third Eye - generally cosmetic, although a cunning seer might be able to leverage their third eye for more credibility among less magically-inclined folks.

Warlock’s Brand - sometimes called a “mark of eternal servitude”, their appearance varies depending upon to whom the bearer has sold their soul. Anything goes, really, from always-smoldering singe marks to patches of skin replaced by iridescent crystal.

Hair Snakes - usually all of a person’s hair is polymorphed into snakes, though some might choose to keep most of their hair and only have one to three snakes.

Feather/Scale Patterning - a magical alternative to tattoos for birdfolk, half-dragons, and other feathered or scaled people. Each scale/feather in a chosen area is dyed to create an image or pattern.

Tattoos of Warning - any individual bearing one of these magical tattoos can send a signal to the others who bear an identical mark. The signal is typically a feeling such as warmth or tingling on the location of the tattoo. More complex versions are available that allow the bearers to establish multiple signals represented by different sensations.

[heyclickadee]

Wait wait wait wait

Hemlock is lying. Whether Tech survived the fall or not, Hemlock was almost definitely lying about Tech’s goggles being the only thing they could recover. Tech was wearing probably forty to fifty pounds of very durable plastic-alloy armor, a big heavy plastoid-alloy backpack, and a helmet that goes over his goggles, and you’re telling me that the only thing they could find in one piece was his goggles?? The flimsiest piece??? Even accounting for the fact that Tech’s body would be…in bad shape, the armor would probably be mostly intact. If the worst happened and the train car fell on top of him? It’s still fishy that the goggles—which he wears under his helmet—were the only thing he could find. So either:

1. Tech lost the helmet and goggles before he hit the ground. I have to acknowledge this as a possibility. Doesn’t mean he’s definitely dead if this is true, but still a possibility and death is more likely if this happened.

2. Hemlock found Tech’s body, and specifically picked the goggles out of everything because they are fairly small, immediately recognizable, and saying, “That’s all we could recover,” about them would hurt most, because if that’s it then what happened to the rest of him.

3. Hemlock found Tech still (maybe barely) alive, has him a prisoner either on Wayland or Eriadu, took the most recognizable part of his kit, and brought out the goggles like the Mouth of Sauron bringing out that mithril shirt in RotK.

4. Hemlock didn’t find Tech at all; Tech managed to get away into the woods even though he’s badly, badly hurt, and he had to ditch the goggles because they were cracked and it was worse trying to see with them on.

5. I am a clown sitting here with my clown shoes and my clown nose. Quite likely. And yet.

Whether Tech’s alive or not, Hemlock is lying.

[frodothefair]

꧁ Chapter 36 - With Child ꧂

READ ON AO3┃READ FROM THE BEGINNING

SUMMARY : Frodo comes back from the war, and finds love and healing with Sam’s sweet younger sister. (J.R.R. Tolkien meets Jane Austen.)

CHAPTER SUMMARY :  Marigold is expecting a child, but her pregnancy is not easy. Hope, however, is found in the unlikeliest of places.

PAIRING : Frodo/Marigold Gamgee (Sam’s sister in canon), Frodo/Sam (secondary) GENRES : hurt/comfort, sickfic, whump, angst, slow burn romance, slice of life WARNINGS : PTSD, occasional intimate scenes RATING : M┃WORD COUNT : 5.3 k chapter, 209 k total

EXCERPT :

And so, now that he had finally gotten his chance, he never passed up an opportunity to worship her: to rub and kiss her swollen feet, to caress her soft, creamy skin, to breathe in her warmth, and to kiss her growing stomach. The day they first felt the baby move, he cried even more than she did, and whenever he held her, he felt like he was holding life itself.

He knew by now that he would never stop loving her, and if her body changed, his love would change with it. If she grew more plump, then he would be a lover of heavy women. If her body developed thin, iridescent scars where it had stretched, he would worship those also – fine as veins of mithril. 

TAGS : @konartiste@bumblingbriars@meluiloth@hippodameia

@from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras@invisiblewashboard @niamhcinnoir

@emmanuellececchi@sustinentiae-spei@luna–nyx @dilettantefeminist

[the-gnomish-bastard]

Have some more Homebrew

"Diggy Diggy Hole"

Rare Two-Handed Pickaxe

This magical pickaxe is a powerful tool for mining and combat. The head of the pickaxe is made of enchanted mithril, imbued with the power to pierce through rock and minerals with ease. The handle is crafted from sturdy dwarven oak and carved with intricate runes, providing the wielder with a strong grip and unyielding control.

Properties:

Damage: 2d8 piercing damage

Weight: 10 lbs

Properties: Heavy, Two-Handed, Mining, Martial

Rarity: Rare

Requires Attunement by a Dwarf

Mining:

When used as a tool for mining, "Diggy Diggy Hole" grants the wielder a +2 bonus to mining checks and allows them to mine at twice the normal speed.

Burrow:

While wielding this weapon, the user has a burrow speed of 15 feet.

Dwarven Song:

As an action, the wielder can sing a dwarven mining chant, filling the area with a rousing melody that inspires allies and speeds up mining activities. All creatures within 30 feet of the wielder (including the wielder themselves) gain the effects of the Haste spell for 1 minute, and a +2 bonus to mining checks. This effect has 3 charges, all of which refuel at the next dawn.

Fey Slayer:

"Diggy Diggy Hole" is especially effective against Fey creatures, or creatures of Fey ancestry. Whenever the wielder successfully hits a Fey creature or creature of Fey ancestry with the pickaxe, they deal an additional 2d6 piercing damage.

Requires Attunement:

In order to use "Diggy Diggy Hole", the wielder must be a dwarf, and spend a short rest attuning themselves to the magical properties of the pickaxe.

[shelleysmary]

i've been trying to figure out why the rings of power and house of the dragon elicit such polar opposite reactions in me and i think i finally figured it out.

both make heavy changes to the source material (to varying success), both struggle with pacing issues, plot holes, character development. but i think (and this is just my personal opinion, you are welcome to chime in, just don't be a jerk about it) that, generally speaking, the trop team has a greater understanding of tolkien's themes than hotd's has of grrm's. trop may take hard left turns (the mithril plot springs to mind), but at the end of the day the messaging feels tolkienesque. it attempts to spotlight the importance of familial bonds and friendships, the burden of authority, the ease with which power corrupts otherwise good people, environmentalism, the necessity of hope even within structures that are fated to decay (very norse, very tolkien). because of that, i remember watching the s1 finale and even with all of its flaws, i felt moved. i felt like a kid watching lotr again.

as much as i love hotd for its acting and visuals and the experience of being in westeros again, thematically i find it such a frustrating show because it rejects some of asoiaf's core themes, like its questioning of monarchical structures and the "right" to rule, concepts of blood purity, even its commitment to exploring the bending nature of morality in an inherently amoral society (most of the characters have been filed down and whitewashed to high heaven). targaryen exceptionalism is legitimized by the show's narrative. geopolitical considerations are thrown by the wayside, which is very not grrm - his understanding of politics and what makes for a compelling, high-stakes political conflict is one of his greatest strengths as a writer, and the show simply doesn't have it. i may be in westeros, i may enjoy myself while the tv is playing, i may be in it till the bitter end, but when it's all said and done, i know that the themes are not exactly asoiaf's themes.

and maybe that's what i've been feeling, the fact that one inspires less emotional dissonance in me than the other. they are both flawed, but one feels more true, at least to me.

[linasofia]

A Shooting Star

Part 1 l Part 2 l Part 3 l Part 4 l Part 5 l Part 6 l Part 7

Fandom: The Hobbit

Relationship: Thorin Oakenshield x OC Vega

Summary: Lady Vega loves to sneak out to Erebor’s rampart to study the night sky, but one night, an unexpected visitor joins her. It is the beginning of a story whose end only the stars can tell.

Warnings: none

Special thanks to @lathalea & @legolasbadass for all your support and feedback. 💙⭐️

A small gush of wind met Vega, daughter of Vimar, as she climbed the many stairs to the rampart. Since she left her lantern by the wall, her only guidance was the moon. Thankfully, it was a clear night, and the pale light coming from the grand silver coin in the sky was enough to illuminate her path. As she silently entered the rampart, she felt the usual excitement tingling in her body. She knew she was not allowed to be there, but it was the best place for stargazing, if she did not count the mountain slope outside the gate, and it was worth the risk of being discovered. Without making a sound, she hurried to her secret spot, hidden behind a large block of stone—remains from a battle long before she came to live under the Mountain.

Vega rested her back against the rough wall and took out her book from the pocket in her skirt. She was grateful for choosing her warm stockings of finest mountain goat wool; the wind on the rampart was colder than she had expected. Her long winter shawl covered her upper body, and she pulled it tighter. She should have taken the heavy cloak instead, but it was too late to go back now. Besides, she had endured worse weather on the rampart. Vega opened the book carefully, found the most recent of her notes and peered up. Her trained eye easily located the stars of her people’s most important constellation; the magnificent Durin’s Crown. Every year, when a feast was held to celebrate Durin’s Day, the constellation could be seen right above the Mountain. Now, however, when the days were much shorter, it was set far to the west. She smiled. A handful more full moons, and then she would close the circle and be back at the first page in her notebook. She had stood on the rampart many nights and studied the constellations' quiet movements over the sky. It was a fascinating hobby, but not completely without danger. The rampart was high, and the darkness could be compact, at least when the new moon resembled a curved, thin chain of mithril. In addition, there was obviously always the risk of being discovered. Vega preferred not to tell anyone about her own private escapades. Especially not her father. In his eyes, she was still a young girl with little or no understanding of what was considered dangerous. The fact that she followed in her mother’s footsteps and refused to marry any of the lords she was presented to, out of duty, only fueled the old man's conviction that she did not understand what was best for her. Her mother, on the other hand, supported her strong will and constantly defended her daughter’s decision in public.

Vega grew up in the Blue Mountains, and as the daughter of a trusted construction advisor to the king, she lived what many would describe as a relatively comfortable life. Their home was always filled with her father’s construction drawings, books, and strange tools. During her first years, her father would not let her near his precious drawings, but as she grew older, he opened up another world to her, where the symbols, numbers and lines started to make sense. Vega believed it was her father’s work that laid the foundation for her interest in trying to understand things written or drawn by others long before her time. When she found an old map, she instantly tried to visualize the places, and eventually, she started to dream about adventures far beyond her people’s borders.

After King Thorin and his company had reclaimed Erebor, it did not take long before a messenger with the king’s summons reached the Blue Mountains. Vega’s father quickly answered the call and packed his most important belongings. Then, less than a year later, he arranged for his wife and daughter to make the same journey. She still remembered the excitement she felt as a young woman when their caravan set out toward their new home. Vega had heard many old tales about the great treasures of the Lonely Mountain, but also songs of unspeakable grief. She could not wait to see the great halls with her own eyes, and her mother repeatedly assured her it would be worth the long absence of her father. He had an important role to take on as the King of Carven Stone had returned to the Mountain. That was now many years ago, and Vega had grown, both in body and mind, since then.

Suddenly, the sound of heavy boots reached her ears. She drew nearer to the large stone and hid in its shadow. Her heart was banging in her chest, and her throat tightened, making it hard to breathe, as if she was deep down in the dusty coal mine under the Blue Mountains—a place restricted to the strongest miners among her people. Was this the night she finally was to be discovered? A tall shadow appeared on the stone floor in front of her, but she could not see the dwarf for the massive block of granite. She waited, desperately trying not to make any sound, as the shadow slowly moved closer. Then a broad figure walked right by her and stopped only a few arm’s lengths away. The pale light of the moon fell upon the male, and it made the rich fur on his cloak shimmer. It reminded her of a tale she once heard; about a rare fox who changes color—from almost black to white—when the first snow falls. From behind, the cloak in front of her looked vaguely familiar. In the darkness, all things appear to be grey, but Vega instinctively knew she had seen that cloak before. Admired it, even. The man searched his pockets and pulled out a long, thin item. A small flash of light tore the darkness apart, and when he turned his face to shield his pipe from the wind as he lit it, Vega stared—horrified—at the dwarf’s regal profile. The tobacco glowed as he inhaled loudly, and then a thin cloud of white smoke seeped from his nostrils. The dark, pleased hum that followed made something stir in her lower body, and Vega let out an involuntary gasp. The king instantly turned his head towards the dark corner, and her heart almost stopped. With a hand over her mouth, she held her breath.

“Who’s there? Step out of the shadow!” the king demanded, his voice raised, but not to its full capacity.

Vega took a deep breath and forced her feet to obey. When she stepped out from her hiding place, the moon appeared to be brighter, and she gracefully curtsied as the ruler of Erebor’s piercing stare met hers. The look on his face shifted from annoyance to surprise.

“Good evening, My King.”

“My Lady, I did not expect to meet anyone here. What in Mahal’s name brings you to this dark place?”

Vega hid her book behind her back. “I’m simply looking at the view.” She tried to control the tremble in her voice, but the rush of adrenaline made it impossible.

“The view?” The king looked over the edge of the rampart. He could see lights from the city of Dale, but other than that, the night offered nothing spectacular.

“Surely you must struggle to see anything interesting at all.”

Vega gazed up with a broad smile. “Not that view. This!” She pointed above their heads, where countless stars silently stared back at them.

Silence fell heavily between them. Thorin smoked his pipe while searching his memory for constellations he learned long ago, when he was a much younger dwarf. He could only remember a few of them. Back then, Frerin was much more interested in these stars and always waited patiently for his older brother to locate Durin’s Crown. Thorin’s heart ached at the memory. His brother’s death had removed the joy from so many activities, stargazing was only one of them.

He glanced at the lady standing beside him, her chin lifted and her eyes fixed on the sky. She seemed lost in her thoughts, and the smile still lingered on her lips. Her dark hair was braided in a beautiful pattern—the style popular among the women from the Blue Mountains—and then he spotted a bead with her family's name. He smiled. When he first saw her, he was unsure who she was, but as he looked closer, he could clearly see the resemblance. She was truly her father’s daughter, but beautiful and with a disarming smile.

”Is Lord Vimar aware of your late visit to the rampart?” He could hear her surprised gulp, and she quickly turned her focus on him instead. She had not realized he recognized her, and Thorin met her startled gaze with a calm smile. ”Do not worry, My Lady, your secret is safe with me.”

”Thank you, My King.” She smiled back, a sweet and slightly mischievous smile. ”No, my father would probably lock the door to my chamber if he ever found out what I was doing during the nights.”

”Nights? Are you telling me that I could have had the pleasure of meeting you here on other nights previous to this one?”

Vega wanted to smack herself. Why did her mouth speak too much as soon as the king rested his captivating azure gaze on her?

”I…” she did not know how to continue. How could she explain the thrill and the longing to do something forbidden? What it felt like to slip out in the cover of darkness and just be alone with her dreams and imagination. ”I’m afraid that is the truth,” she then admitted.

”Did you bring a book to read in the dark as well? Your eyes must be much better than mine.” The king sounded almost amused when he spotted the leather-bound piece in her hand, and Vega instantly pressed it against her chest.

”It contains only a few hasty notes I made for myself to read, together with drawings of constellations I have seen. It is nothing of importance.” Vega tried to gain control of her own words; she always spoke too much when she was nervous.

”Would you allow me to see it? I am certain your handwriting is neat and a pleasure to read.”

Her heart hammered again, just as it did when she was hiding, but this time it was not from fear. Was the King of the Longbeards really interested in the stars, or was he only being polite? She searched his face for the truth but found only honesty in his eyes. For a short while, she allowed herself to admire his prominent nose and full beard before she remembered she had no right to gaze upon her king like that.

”My King,” she hesitated, but was tempted to share her findings, if only to make him stay a little longer. Never before had she spoken to someone with such powerful charisma, and he made her very curious. ”It is nothing like the maps in the Royal Library of Erebor,” she then heard herself say. ”But I will be honored to show it to you.” Her hands trembled slightly as she opened the book, but when she tried to offer it to him, he took a step closer.

”Please, My Lady, explain it to me.”

Vega had to take a few deep breaths before she mustered enough calmness to explain her notes. When she spoke, the king listened intently, but every time he pointed at one of her drawings of Durin’s Crown, she couldn’t stop herself from staring at the heavy rings adorning his thick fingers. He had the hands of a warrior—large and calloused—but something in the way he let his fingertips glide over her stained papers told her those hands could do more than just harm.

The notes were indeed created for her eyes only, but after the initial insecurity, Vega found herself growing bolder in the king’s presence. As he leaned a little closer to her, no doubt to see better, a faint hint of pine and leather caught her senses, and it made her head spin, just like the strong tobacco she once was persuaded to try. She promised herself after that single time, to never smoke anything equally strong again. But she wouldn’t mind feeling this type of warm dizziness again. Then Vega shook her head to clear her mind. Who knew the alluring scent of the mightiest of all dwarves alive could evoke such delusional ideas.

”Considering all constellations, which one do you find most mesmerizing?” His question came unexpectedly, spoken in a much lower voice than before. It felt very personal, and Vega shivered. She knew what he probably was expecting from her, but eventually, she decided to answer honestly.

”Of all the constellations and the tales told, I must say I have two favorites, next to Durin’s Crown, of course.” She smiled warmly when a thick black eyebrow rose in surprise. ”The first one is The Hammer.” Vega pointed to the east, where nine stars proudly formed a large hammer.

Thorin nodded, remembering the constellation from Frerin’s rare attempts to actually teach him something useful. He was not sure about the tale; Frerin sometimes changed the story, only so he later could claim that Thorin remembered it wrong.

”And the second?” he asked, gently holding the unusual emerald gaze of the lady beside him. Thorin found her truly fascinating, and the way her voice enchanted him, as she spoke passionately about the stars, made him wish she was a member of his council instead of her elderly father. The endless discussions would be much more bearable if she was.

”The second one cannot be seen now. You will have to wait until spring before you can spot Raven’s Nest in the east.”

”Is it easy to find?”

”If you know what to look for, I supposeit’s easy. It’s one of the smallest constellations I know of, but I love the tale.”

Thorin smiled. He wanted to question her about the tale, just so she would keep talking, but he realized he could not ask her to stay on the rampart all night. The icy wind was growing in strength and the hour was late. He had gone to the rampart for the possibility of clearing his mind after a long evening session with the council. Instead, he had stumbled right onto Lord Vimar’s daughter’s secret stargazing spot. He had completely forgotten his manners and did not introduce himself properly. And what was even worse—he had no name on the lady in question.

”My Lady, even if your father sometimes speaks of his family, I do not think I have ever heard your name. May I ask for it?” His words were soft, and less formal than their initial conversation.

Vega stared at the king. Had he just showed interest in knowing her name? She could not understand why, but she had no intention of denying her king. The unexpected warmth in his eyes made her weak. His raven hair rested against the fur of his cloak but as he turned his head, the wind caught strands of it and blew life into the dark locks. She briefly wondered if his hair was as soft as it looked.

”Vega,” she almost whispered, her voice suddenly failing her as a result of her improper thought.

”Lady Vega, you have been most kind and shared your private notes. I thank you for that. But I’m afraid I need to ask you to return to the warmth of your chamber, before you get too cold.”

”Of course.” She averted her gaze, afraid he would see the disappointment in her eyes. The most exciting moment in a very long time would soon be over, and Vega pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She could do nothing to stretch their chance meeting further.

”I bid you a good night then.” He gave her a short nod.

”Good night,” she echoed as she made a poor attempt to curtsy. Her knees wouldn’t cooperate. Thankfully, King Thorin didn’t seem to notice, or care. All he did was grace her with another warm smile.

”And Lady Vega, do not hide in the shadows next time. I might mistake you for an intruder.”

She mustered one last smile in return. Then she watched him disappear from her—no longer—secret spot on the rampart. His cloak's movement as he rounded the corner was the last thing she saw of him. Vega took a deep breath and the cold air in her lungs made her cough. The king was right; she really should get back home. As she climbed down the stairs and found her lantern at the same place as she left it, she couldn’t stop thinking of his last words to her. Next time. Would there really be a next time?

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