#bargain brand glorestor

[lordgrimwing]

Small brain moment, but is this red hair or blond, or a secret third option?

Asking for a friend

[lordgrimwing]

Me: can we get Erestor and Glorfindel?

My mom: We have Erestor and Glorfindel at home.

the Erestor and Glorfindel at home:

[lordgrimwing]

Bargain brand Glorfindel and Erestor

[lordgrimwing]

Snippet Smonday

Tagged by @thescrapwitch to share an excerpt from a WIP. Without further adieu, enjoy some Bargain Brand Glorestor:

 “Eat.”

Camnir looked up from where he was sitting on a fallen log.

Vorohil, the blond-haired soldier, stood over him. “Eat,” he repeated, gesturing a sword-calloused hand at the food he’d abandoned. 

“I can’t,” he murmured and looked down.

With a sigh, Vorohil sat next to him on the decaying log, adjusting one of the swords that hung from his belt so it didn’t whack the original occupant. He picked up the bread and pressed it into Camnir’s empty palm. “Eat,” he exhorted. “You won’t keep up this pace if you don’t feed your body. And you’re the one person we can’t leave behind.” He snorted at the end and his voice became less somber. He was being encouraging.

Embarrassed by his doubts, Camnir admitted, “I fear I’ll be sick if I try.”

Vorohil clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Then you will join the ranks of fine men and women who threw up on the eve of their first battle. A noble fellowship.”

What an easy thing for him to say.

Camnir knew Vorohil. Well, they hadn’t met before today and this was the first time they spoke, but he’d read about him in Lindon’s libraries. This whole venture probably felt no different than a walk along the shore to a warrior of the first age. He fought in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, survived the Fall of Gondolin and the Sinking of Beleriand. It was a small thing for him to be brave.

But Camnir hadn’t seen any of that. He’d been born in Mithlond in the second age, apprenticed to a dock master’s scribe and recently come to work for the king’s cartographers, and his highest aim was to become a scribe in the royal libraries—and if he was feeling very confident or maybe had more wine than was good for him, then maybe one day he might be a lore master himself. 

He’d never even seen an orc.  

tagging @eclectickefi, @curufiin, @runawaymun, and @celebrimborsapron. would love a peek at anything you're working on

[lordgrimwing]

Honestly, I think Vorohil invented the term 'strawberry blond' so people would stop saying he has red hair. (looks sidelong at the noted redheads of the first age)

[lordgrimwing]

On the Road to Eregion

Camnir gripped his satchel of coded maps the lore master gave him scarcely half a day ago. He could do this. He was doing this. He was going to lead a party of soldiers under the King’s herald across the old roads and to Eregion. Every elder he bumped into in the libraries impressed upon him the importance of speed and stealth and shared as much wisdom as he could fit in his head and notes. He could do this.

The lives of thousands of elves and the whole of Middle-earth hung in the balance. 

No pressure.

He was going to be sick.

Elrond set them at a brisk jog up the mountain and didn’t let them break to eat until the sun was far past her zenith. Everything was going fine so far, even if he nearly choked on his spit every time Commander Galadriel snapped a question his way. He was going to mess up terribly and lose precious hours getting them back on course—and she’d be judging him the whole way. 

He’d heard stories about the commander of the northern armies. 

The lump of dense bread and dried meat in his stomach churned threateningly.

 “Eat.”

Camnir looked up from where he was sitting on a fallen log.

Vorohil, the strawberry blond soldier, stood over him. “Eat,” he repeated, gesturing a sword-calloused hand at the food he’d abandoned. 

“I can’t,” he murmured and looked down.

With a sigh, Vorohil sat next to him on the decaying log, adjusting one of the swords that hung from his belt, so it didn’t whack the original occupant. He picked up the bread and pressed it into Camnir’s empty palm. “Eat,” he exhorted. “You won’t keep up this pace if you don’t feed your body. And you’re the one person we can’t leave behind.” He snorted at the end and his voice became less somber. He was being encouraging.

Embarrassed by his doubts, Camnir admitted, “I fear I’ll be sick if I try.”

Vorohil clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Then you will join the ranks of fine men and women who threw up on the eve of their first battle. A noble fellowship.”

What an easy thing for him to say.

Camnir knew Vorohil. Well, they hadn’t met before today and this was the first time they spoke, but he’d read about him in Lindon’s libraries. This whole venture probably felt no different than a walk along the shore to a warrior of the first age. He fought in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, survived the Fall of Gondolin and the Sinking of Beleriand. It was a small thing for him to be brave.

But Camnir hadn’t seen any of that. He’d been born in Mithlond in the second age, apprenticed to a dock master’s scribe and recently come to work for the king’s cartographers, and his highest aim was to become a scribe in the royal libraries—and if he was feeling very confident or maybe had more wine than was good for him, then maybe one day he might be a lore master himself. 

He’d never even seen an orc.

“Enough,” Elrond’s voice rose sharply from the other side of the small glade they stopped in. He didn’t look happy about whatever Commander Galadriel had been talking to him about. “Camnir,” he said, turning on his heel and striding over. “Are we still on the right path?”

Camnir swallowed and his mouth was suddenly very dry. Why hadn’t he drunk more water? “Yes,” he managed. “We can keep this course until we’re over this mountain.”

“Good. Let’s go!” He barked at everyone else.

Vorohil heaved a sigh and braced his hands on his knees as he stood. “Put that in a pocket,” he admonished. “You’re going to be hungry.”

///

As the sun sank below the tree line, Camnir was both nauseated and hungry. Which didn’t make much sense. Oh, and his feet were wet. 

The only blessing he could find was that this wasn’t his first time navigating by starlight. 

He jumped at every unexpected sound, half convinced that a slovering orc would lunge out from behind every other tree. It was foolish, but even knowing Rían, Daemor, and Vorohil had started ranging out further to ensure no enemies were near did not reassure him. He hadn’t been this scared since—well, ever. If he survived this, he was never going to leave the safety of Lindon again if he could help it. 

He jogged past a large pillar of stone half hewn from the mountain side. Long forgotten by now dead hands, the white stone still stood out in the night. He’d read several discourses on the pillar and the people who tried to claim it. They were mostly speculative and fascinating. 

“Wait,” Camnir called softly, slowing to a stop just beyond the landmark. 

The soft footfalls of his companions fell silent. Elrond looked at him, expectant.

“The stone marks a change in the path,” he explained in a hush, opening his satchel and fingering through the scrolls. “I need to check the maps.”

“Rest for a few minutes,” Galadriel said with authority. 

Camnir knew there was tension between them, but he was too busy fishing out scrolls to notice the sharp look Elrond threw at Galadriel.

“Yes,” he said. “A brief rest only. We must reach Eregion as quickly as possible.”

Squinting at a map, Camnir twisted around, trying to find a spot with more star light. The lines of the map were faint and obscured within a code. In theory, the design was such that if the maps fell into unfriendly hands, they would be unusable so the secret ways would remain safe. In practice, it made reading them by night extraordinarily challenging. 

“Here,” a voice said from just over his shoulder.

He dropped the map, swore in the same startled breath, and caught the parchment before it hit the ground. Spinning around, he found Vorohil holding out a hand. In his palm sat a smooth, flat gem, similar to a river stone. It emitted a soft glow, enough to gently illuminate the soldier’s features.

Heart pounding somewhere above his head, Camnir accepted the stone and held it trembling against the velum. 

After triple-checking with two other maps, he surrendered the stone. “This way.”

And they started off again.

///

They didn’t rest again until the sun climbed overhead, offering them safety under her light. 

Camnir undid the laces of his soft boots and pulled them off his feet. Mouth pulling down in distaste, he tugged off the wet socks. They were so encrusted that they perfectly held the shape of his feet when he finally got them off. 

He really, really wanted to throw them as far away as possible or burn them on a bone fire. He settled for shoving them down to the very bottom of his light rucksack. 

Fresh socks and sunlight improved his mood remarkably. 

They made it through the night unmolested and unlost. He felt like he could eat a whole harvest feast by himself this morning. Maybe he actually could get them to Eregion. Now, where did he put his food?

“Hey now, let’s not be revealing my embarrassment in mixed company,” Vorohil chuckled, drawing Camnir’s attention to the conversation going on next to him.

“Mixed company?” Rían repeated, brandishing her bow.

“Careful,” Daemor said, removing their hand from the pommel of one of Vorohil’s short swords and shoving him playfully. “She’s slain more orcs with that bow than I can count.”

Vorohil brushed loose strands of his golden hair out of his face. “That isn’t so hard, friend,” he countered. “I meant the scholar.” 

Camnir looked down. “I’m not a scholar, officially.”

Vorohil looked unbothered by the technicalities of academic titles. 

“Anyone who can recite the history of a crumbling aqueduct in the middle of the night is a scholar,” Rían judged.

So, he might have gotten a little passionate about the ruins of a Mannish hamlet they passed through. He’d just needed a distraction from everything going on, and when no one shushed him after the first few sentences he carried on until the broken aqueduct was far behind them.

“I have yet to publish—” he tried to explain, but the conversation had moved on, leaving him to fumble off balance in its wake.

He really was the odd one out. They were warriors forged in combat. He wasn’t much of anything yet. 

Perhaps he wouldn’t have felt so apart if he could talk with Elrond. The herald had studied under the scholars before finding a place at the king’s side. He’d thought that between the moments of panic, he might be able to speak with him about where his interests lay in the libraries. He would benefit from having an acquaintance in the court who saw him as more than someone who could fetch documents. But his hope was for not.

Every time they stopped or slowed, every time he tried to approach Elrond with anything other than course corrections, the way was blocked. Sometimes because Commander Galadriel had ensnared him in hushed, sharp conversations, sometimes because the tension between the pair was so thick he thought he would smother under it if he got near them. Whatever was going on, he didn’t want to get in the middle of it.

So, he sat on the edge of the soldiers’ quips and felt very far from home, indeed. 

Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out maps for distraction. With any luck, they’d be through the barrowdowns, Tyrn Gorthad, tonight and in sight of the road to Eregion by the next evening.

///

Camnir stood on the moss-covered mound where they placed Daemor’s sword in place of the body they couldn’t find. Rían and Vorohil stood with him, the three of them standing in silent vigil. Elrond and Commander Galadriel didn’t stay with them.

A few days running through the forest was not enough time to get to know someone. Cold grief still gripped at him. He didn’t need to know where Daemor was born or what family they claimed. He didn’t need to know the battles they fought in, the victories, the narrow escapes. He didn’t need to know more than that Daemor was a good person, loyal, and they gave their life for their people—and they died because of him.

He’d led the group into the barrowdowns. He hadn’t known or forgot what kind of dangers lurked there. Surely, that information had to be in the libraries somewhere. It couldn’t just be the evil power of Sauron as Galadriel suggested, could it? Either way, Daemor was dead.

He had little stomach for breakfast this morning. No one did.

Rían knelt with one knee on the ground, eyes on the partly buried sword standing upright before her. She crossed her arms as her lips trembled noiselessly. Was she entreating the Valar to greet their lost companion kindly in the Blessed Lands, Camnir wondered. She was a Sinda, like him. How could she have faith that a Vala would care?

Vorohil stood across from them, completing the triangle. He held a dry leaf between his hands, tracing it with his thumbs. He knew Daemor, there was enough talk during breaks to gather that much. They were friends, good friends, for a long time. He set his face in quiet contemplation as he looked upon the small monument. 

Mist drifted across the gorge. In the distance, crows called to each other. The sun hid behind a gray sky.

Vorohil looked up as the black birds winged about above them.

Camnir wished he could say something, but he had no words, and no right to offer comfort.

Eventually Rían stood. She opened her mouth. 

They heard the first deep note at the same time. Camnir felt it in the soles of his feet and in his teeth.

Drums.

In an instant, Vorohil had his swords in hand and Rían had her bow, an arrow notched and ready to draw. They turned toward the drumbeats.

“Go,” Vorohil mouthed to Camnir. 

Camnir turned on his heel and hurried toward Elrond and Galadriel.

[lordgrimwing]

WIPpet Snippet Friday

Tagged by @amorbidcorvid a few days back and was very busy but here is a snippet from a bargain brand Glorfindel WIP (to no one's surprise).

Vorohil hadn’t gone outside in a week.

Every morning, he pulled himself out of bed, trekked the few steps to the main room and collapsed on one of two chairs at the table. He stayed there as Arien arced across the heavens in her flaming glory. When Tilion chased her, he drank and dragged himself back to bed. There was little he could do during the day, bound to the chair, and nothing he wanted to do. Weeds poked up in the plots in the vegetable garden he was responsible for, but thinking about doing anything about that added phantom pain to the real. There were few duties for him to attend to when he was in Lindon. Everything would wait until the pain faded.

And it would fade. It always did, given time. How much time, was the question he had no energy to care for. It would pass when it passed and until then he would sit and drink until he could sleep. When he ran out of drink, he dragged himself to the vintner’s warehouse and buy more while he was still numb from the last bottle.

A knock sounded against the closed door, the sound ringing in his ears.

I tagged some people for this recently and I can't recall who atm, so I'll just leave this open for whoever wants to join (I will read your WIPs because I'm nosy and want to know what y'all are doing)