#dórs

[middle-earth-press]

Who is left in Dorthonion?

Rumours about heroic guerilla fighters abound even beyond its borders.

Beleriand Times

Outlaws of Dorthonion Wiped Out

The Free Peoples will mourn.

Beleriand Times

The Outlaws of Barahir Reported Dead

We join in sorrow with the families of the twelve heroes, many of whom are with us now.

The Brethil Circular

Beren Son of Barahir Allegeded Alive and Still Fighting

Legend or reality, it seems the story has inspired many across Beleriand to join the struggle again.

The Doriath Daily

Morgoth's Lieutenant Sent to Destroy Lone Guerilla Fighter Beren Barahirion With An Army

It is both a testament to the unusual skill the warrior has shown in evading enemy troops so far, and a reason to fear that this might not be enough any longer. We remind that the price on his head is equal to that promised for the death or capture of the High King, though whether it would be paid out in either case remains highly dubious.

Barad Eithel Standard

Beren Barahirion Reported Dead (Again)

No sign of the warrior has been marked for many weeks.

Beleriand Times

A Parcel of Strange Reports

Beren is said to have, recently at least, been alive, somehow involved in the Nargothrond coup, and imprisoned in the Isle of Werewolves, but the strangest rumours concern his alleged liaison with the princess of Doriath and a nigh-unbelievable bride-price.

Dor-Lómin Weekly

Isle of Werewolves Destroyed by Doriathrim Princess; King Finrod Dead

The pressing question of why and how Lúthien of Doriath was involved pushes celebrity gossip into the realm of military councils.

Barad Eithel Standard

Breaking: Silmaril Stolen from Iron Crown

Lúthien of Doriath and Beren son of Barahir have accomplished the impossible.

Beleriand Times

Beren Barahirion Dead

It is alleged the mortal warrior has met his end at the fangs of Carcharoth. Exclusive interview with hero's mother: "He has been pronounced dead so many times... Who can say whether this time it's true or not, or if he hasn't already been dead for months. I allow myself to hope, as ever, but never more than that."

The Brethil Circular

Beren & Luthien Alive?

Rumour has it the mortal hero walks the green earth still (again?). It wouldn't be the first time his apparent fall turned out to have been a false alarm but this incident was better documented than the others. Can Mortal Man return from death? - we ask the Wisewoman on page 4.

Dor-Lómin Weekly

Hithlum Readies Itself for Battle

"For the first time in years, it feels as if we have a chance to succeed."

Barad Eithel Standard

[squirrelwrangler]

Bór family tree

Compiling the names from the five stories, I have a shockingly complete family tree for these mortals, more-so than I remembered.

Bór is married to Borte.

Borte has a brother, Ban. His son Blodren is the one sent to warn about Ulfang's pending betrayal, gets captured, brainwashed. (Canon character from a Narn draft; I'm just adding the Bór details)

Bór and Borte has four children that survive to adulthood and all die in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad: Borlad, Borlach, Borthand, and an unnamed daughter.

Daughter has an infant son, Boaz.

Borlad's wife is Asúni; she ranks highest as wife of eldest son.

Borlach's wife is Altanë, they had an infant son Ellach.

Borthand's wife is Rhosgeth, has daughter Marti - eldest surviving Bór grandchild.

They sue the Fëanorians to give them refuge.

Of the many freed servants and slaves post-Nirnaeth that stayed with Borte, the one that will live longest is a woman named Ullad. The eldest surviving male is a boy named Roas; Borte adopts him.

Marti marries Roas and has two children - a son Ruga and daughter Kreka.

Ruga leaves for Dór-lomin, hiding his heritage and blending in among the other Easterlings and running a secret freedom trail for slaves and others to escape.

Kreka marries Ernath and has Bledda. She also assists in the daily menial tasks of raising Elros and Elrond for Maglor during the peredhil's captivity.

When Kreka renounces the Fëanorians and takes her people to Balar, Bledda's sweetheart, Rúth, comes with. Rúth's father was an outlaw.

Bledda and Rúth work as scouts and interpreters for a Vanyar advanced platoon working to free Dór-lomin. Their daughter, Bortë, is raised among these Vanyar soldiers and speaks Quendya as well as she does Sindarin, Edain, and Easterling languages, making her as much of a polyglot as Eärendil. And deeply devoted to the Valar. Speaking of which, Bledda reunites with his childhood acquaintance Elros and Elrond.

To Elrond's annoyance, Elros is ridiculously smitten with Bortë. Bad poetry is used to court.

Elros marries Bortë; she becomes first queen of Númenor. Which is fitting because a sizeable minority of Edain settlers of Númenor are also of mixed Easterling ancestry.

They have four children: Vardamir, Tindómiel, Manwendil, and Atanalcar.

[herenortherenearnorfar]

I've been swishing around a set of little stories for over a year now. I hoped to get them out for February, but failed. Instead maybe I'll manage to put a few out for June? This first one goes out to @outofangband my fellow in Aerinism.

Flayed, Thuringwethil walks through woods that she once flittered above.

She is still a nightmare, her great teeth beneath her lipless mouth. But a bat cannot fly without leather stretched between its bones. A vampire caught between human and leech is just another monster; bereft of all mutability, all prismatic sheen.

No one has use for a messenger without disguise or flight. Reduced to a common haint, she feasts upon the elves of Nargothrond, then wanders north up the river to Dór-Lomin. Men are plentiful there, so easy to catch and kill and rend—she regains her vitality, which Lúthien plundered, feasting on Beleriand’s new blood.

She doesn’t bother to stop when the quisling men, who call themselves her master’s servants, come to power. They ought to be frightened of what dwells in the dark. They tell stories of a witch woman cursing them—she hears it when she lingers under their eaves—but attribute the ill fortune to elves. As if elves could hang entrails from a tree!

Thuringwethil hunts other creatures too, in the shadow and the dark. Wolves, orcs, bears. She tries them on for size like cloaks, but finds none fit her so well as her bat fell.

Years pass. Her stolen skins slough off her, she does not love any of them enough to bind them. Her bare flesh prickles in the cold. The sky is ash dark, sunless. Crops struggle to survive, trees go dormant. The world has been on fire for a very long time.

One day the fire blazes closer.

A great house, the greatest one these mortals have built, burns. There are no screams. No one comes to douse it. Thatch fires are not unheard of, even after rain, but these men have many thralls to stomp them out. The plume of smoke is growing to the point of no return, and still the air is silent—no cries of men, no baying of hounds, no horses screams.

Intrigued, Thuringwethil comes nearer.

Through the trees she peers, and sees no onlookers. The hill is empty.

She wears a mountain lion’s coat this month—frozen gore around the curling edges. Cats are always curious. Creeping from shadow to shadow, Morgoth’s dead messenger slips through the abandoned homestead, over the stone wall, past the empty stable. There are fresh tracks in the mud of many people fleeing.

Blood clamors from inside, an olfactory overture beckoning her closer. Though she fears the flames—she burns like everything does in this shackled realm of substances and static song—she can’t deny her hunger. The fire is mostly absorbed with the damp straw of the roof, the turf-covered walls of the longhouse have yet to catch.

Thuringwethil ducks into the shadowed door, letting her stalker’s eyes take in the scene. Smoke coils around her and slithers into her lungs. There are bodies scattered about the hall, lying sprawled over tables, draped like drunkards over benches. A few have swords in their hands. Some are already aflame, for though the ceiling has yet to cave in there are pools of flickering oil drizzled across the floor and seasoned wood piled at the corners of the hall. All the fragrant scents men burn to fend off their stench blend together, pine, cedar, cherry.

Someone started this fire, she realizes, leaping over hazards. What fool would deny the ruler of the world this measly corner? Who would court death to kill a dozen mortal servants?

Only someone already doomed to die. Interest bubbles in her gut. The timbers above her are creaking. She wastes no time on the dead men, their roast meat and thin blood. Further back, that’s where her instincts (and the smell of burning hair) tell her the prize lies. Past the high table and the dead men clustered around it—burly men with broad shoulders now seared, rich bellies being rendered down to dripping fat, beards fizzling to ashes—is a woven curtain dividing the public life from the private.

Thuringwethil pushes through it, ignoring the cinders now falling on her pilfered pelt. Amid the looms and low chairs there are no dead mortals, just a few slaughtered sheep. On the great bed to the left one torch is blazing; a person, laid down as if to sleep, burning alive in a pile of fabric and furs. It looks as if they gathered all the bedding in the house and made a cocoon.

Perhaps they meant it to smother but the layers of slow catching wool and sturdy hide have had the opposite effect. Nestled up in their deathbed, this daring murderer has yet to die. Oh, the smoke is starting to finish the job; they're too far gone to even cough. Yet a hidden fire, the first fire, still flickers in their chest.

Such a little body, even shrouded. Such a tenacious spirit. She has hunted elves and orcs and men, but she's never seen any of them build their own funeral pyre.

Darting fast, Thuringwethil pulls them out of the firetrap they made. Her paws scorch, fur incinerating instantly and stolen skin blistering. There's oil on the blankets and it fries her at a touch. Beneath, her raw flesh shudders--its been decades since she's tasted such heat. But she wants to save this mortal thing, if only so she can shake answers out of them.

It is the nature of this world they built that the creatures that kill, live. Flesh-giver, fruit-bringer; cousin Ivann would disagree. She likes to coddle her own creations. But Thuringwethil is the beasts that tear each other in madness, the rage-sickness that hides secretly in bat blood and runs amok in drooling dogs. She is the predator and the infection that sets in after the bite. Both animal and disease know nothing but survival. To self-destruct like this is insulting, especially from something capable of such slaughter.

These are the justifications she feeds herself as she drags the human, still burning in places, back, through the doorway and the long hall of dead men, through the choking smoke and falling embers. Ambient heat has finally started to dry the thatch and burn down through the turf. Soon the entire hall will be ablaze, and after that the outlying buildings. Other men from nearby settlements will swarm in, vultures to a fresh kill. They will find the cracked bones and red-hot blades and start to piece together a narrative.

The hounds and hunters will come soon after.

Quick though she is, she is much diminished in later days. She worries the man will be dead by the time she drags them outside. The fire in her arms never diminishes though, and so she keeps carrying them; down the hill, into the woods. Only when they're safe beneath the darkness of the pines, where meddling mortals do not dare wander, does she stop to put out the smoldering flames in her coat.

The high-king's eye will wander here in time, if it hasn't already. Thuringwethil does not intend to be caught interfering. There have been no orders since she was skinned--to the iron fortress the useless are as good as dead. In her convalescence she's enjoyed a degree of freedom not known since her earliest days, when this spinning globe was blue with new air and the only hunters were minute, flanged, ocean-things--brainless beautiful new predators working on a scale that now seems infinitesimal. She's not eager to return to duty; she gave up on revenge years ago.

Harboring a little mortal fugitive, if only for a moment, could ruin things. She needs a disguise, and she needs some way to stabilize the half-burnt, gasping thing at her feet.

(The woman's eyes have opened, lashless lids peeling apart to stare feverishly up at her. They're a blue that borders on black, like the water-pourer's northernmost seas. For a moment she thinks of that girl, the nightingale's daughter, snarling and grey on the riverbank, a wolfhound lunging for a wolf.)

Thuringwethil kneels and caresses the human's--her human's--crackling, blistered cheek. Her pulse is thundering under dead skin and despite everything she's still breathing, rasping, desperate breaths. How unfair of her to go and kill herself when she so clearly wants to live.

"You are brave," she hums. "Be brave a little longer for me. I do not have enough water to drown this sickness in."

Blood makes a much better tonic. Fortunately, Thuringwethil has been staking out a she-bear, a fighter who tore apart those orcs and more recent monstrosities audacious enough to come after her. This charred lion's hide will have to do for a little longer--the bearskin is needed more urgently elsewhere.

She strips the last of the woman's clothing, sensible long wools that shielded her chest and stomach from the worst of the fire, with her claws. Her arsonist's temperature is too high and the fiber will only encourage infection from here. Underneath is a soft-skinned body, hardly made for violence. Only a killer's eye can see the death kneaded into every spare ounce of fat. This is a time of starving, having calories to spare is a triumph that speaks for itself.

The bare body pressed up against her chest as she runs through the forest is giving and heavy, warmer than a fresh corpse. Did little Lúthien find her this tender, when she laid her down and stripped her cloak by force? Such thoughts can make even ancient ones go mad.

Instead she focuses on the path through the forest, following the scent of prey. 

Her sow is out hunting. Hibernation is a thing of the past now; no one has enough spare food to sleep away a winter. Instead they struggle, eat, survive.There have been no cubs for years now. This aging matriarch rules over a forest without children, the last born generation now starvling adolescents ekeing out survival and lashing out at anything else with a pulse. What a world the Elder King has wrought! The snake that eats its own tail draws closer and closer to glorious self-obliteration; this is death unchecked. It makes Thuringwethil’s heart race, for she is the last feeding frenzy before collapse. Some part of her, the bit made with foresight, wonders if a single cumulative orgy of violence ending in the destruction of all thinking life is actually as interesting as a prolonged experiment in existence. The other lordly ones were killjoys, yes, but they never actually stopped her or her kin from carving out their little niches of the Music.

Maybe that’s why she finds herself cradling a mortal martyr and slinking into a burnt forest glade where a grizzled bear is tearing into a wasted cervid corpse. The deer is an obscenity of sloughed flesh and grey gore. It died while it was still alive; this too is of Thuringwethil’s singing. She slings her gasping mortal over one shoulder and charges before the bear can turn. The first rule of fighting a predator is to attack first and attack hard. Stolen claws and teeth rake into scraggly fur and depleted fat—but that’s not the true attack. As her mouth latches over an open wound she sucks, draining blood and vitality from the beleaguered creature. It keeps fighting for several minutes, batting over its shoulders with massive knife-tipped paws, roaring plaintively. At one point it staggers towards a fir tree and Thuringwethil worries it will try to bash her off like a parasite. Being crushed between a bear and a hunk of half-dead wood would hardly hurt her… but it would spell the death of the woman still clutched against her side. 

Finally, blessedly, the old mother begins to topple. Missing her wings, Thuringwethil leaps back. Her cheeks are swollen with blood; she’s been trying not to swallow. If she’s to save her arsonist she’ll need all the flesh she can get. 

The woman is a breathing corpse, fur and dirt embedded in her sticky burnt flesh, her lungs rasping with smoke. That she still lives means she is unwilling to die. Of course, chutzpah can only drag these flesh-tethered children so far past the limits of their shells. Speed is key. 

Straddling the bear’s ribs, Thuringwethil cores it open, making a cavity, evicting unnecessary organs until there’s a human sized hole in its great mass. It’s gory work but no messier than little Lúthien was in her field dressing. If she could wear a stolen skin, why can’t another aftercomer? 

When she lifts up the charred mortal there’s a moment of fear. What pulse there was has vanished; the woman’s tired heart is still. But her blood is still warm, that much a vampire can tell. And even Thuringwethil, who is no expert on shades, knows the faint shuddering of a spirit not-yet fled. The hum of lingering is easy to detect when it’s pressed against her own heart. 

She buries the dead woman in bear meat, bear skin, tilts her chin up and fills her dry mouth with blood. 

Pinning a skin to someone else is different. What is instinct when dressing herself becomes fumbling when confronted with a stranger’s self. What these infants call magic is simply skillful working; but even the oldest craftsman can fumble in a new medium. Thuringwethil knits half-dead flesh to half-dead flesh, blood to blood, making a new thing out of two old ones. Like a cuckoo virule, inserting its own song and rewriting the music of its host, she undoes what this body was, turning it into a copy of herself instead. 

This is the secret to death–just like life it yearns for propagation. Thuringwethil, who is both at once, a permanent superstate, cannot be blamed for loneliness. Like every other predator she wants to make more of herself. Like all of her kin, she was conceived to reshape a corner of this faltering world in her image. When she smelled the oil and blood thick on her arsonist, she felt a pang of jealousy like nothing she’d ever known before. Next came a jolt of protective rage. 

How stupid to die for someone else’s story, even if the alternative is surviving in shadows! Don’t these mortals know how terrible it is to go scorched and skinless? 

The spell catches. She breathes out from lungs that aren’t really hers (matter is always a costume for creatures of her ilk) and sits back on the mouldering forest floor, amid the blood and gathering flies. She holds the edges of the chest wound closed and waits for the deathseeker to stumble back to life. It’s like watching mold grow across a piece of fruit. Coarse fur creeps over open injuries, the bubbling texture of a blister overtakes the raw red of exposed viscera. What was once a distinctly ursine skull distorts, muzzle shortening, skull rounding. 

Days pass in the woods. She wanders short distances, hunting the wild-eyed tree squirrels and a few ferrets the size of hunting dogs then returning quickly to her vigil. Thuringwethil hears some human ruckus far back where they came from but makes no particular note of it. The search parties that are sent out are brutish and oblivious, scraping past their little glen without incident. Why would they pause? To all mortal eyes this is a lion feasting on a dead bear; better to move along quickly and hope no other predators linger nearby.

On the third night after the fire a bear wakes up and takes a swing at her without rising from the ground. Having anticipated this outcome, if not the immediacy of the violence, Thuringwethil counters quickly. Were this fresh made creature at full strength she would not have been able to overpower her, for she has put her charge in the coat of a killer. Famine drained and newly returned from the precipice of death the bear bucks beneath her but cannot summon up the strength to throw her off. 

“Calm yourself,” Thuringwethil caws. It has been years since she’s had cause to speak with voice and tongue. They feel brittle like bad tin. “You still exist inside of there. Find the focus to return.”

Bloodshot brown eyes bore into her. They lay there on the rot covered duff for a long time, next to the maggot-ridden slime that has become of the deer carcass. It’s nearly dawn (not Thuringwethil’s favorite time of day, though she doesn’t shrink from it as she did in the years first following her skinning) when the first change comes. 

It starts with the paws pinned beneath hers. Fleshy pads melt into firm, calloused fingertips as her hands lengthen, dextrous thumbs stretching out, dactile. The bargelike body Thuringwethil is perched upon shudders into a still sturdy but decidedly human shape. Tall, as many noblewomen are, fuller figured than any mortal she’s feasted on in years. The worst of the burns have faded, leaving only a rippling pattern of blisters, like the sea at a distance. Down her bare torso is a fresh, gnarled pink scab. The edges where Thuringwethil held her skin together for hours, batting away every insect that came to lay eggs in her fragile flesh, are just barely holding together. 

“If this is what comes after death then I have been lied to all my life,” says the gasping, squirming, alive woman. She is just as marred as Thuringwethil was in the aftermath of heer despoilation. Yet she breathes in borrowed skin.

“This is not that place which waits for your kind beyond the walls of the world,” Thuringwethil promises her. Idly, she laces her fingers through the human’s, marvelling at how similar the phalanges are to wing bones. When little Lúthien had her pinned and screaming she did much the same, held her hand as she stripped the flesh from her bones with a song. “Tell me, lady, what is your name and why do you seek your end so dearly?”

A small pink tongue, still wet, somehow, with blood, smears across the woman’s lips. There’s a predator’s stillness to her, a stony look in her eyes. “I am called Aerin. As for death–well.” She laughs.  “What else is left to me?”

This is what Thuringwethil has been waiting for. “Oh, plenty. Come, let me show you.”

[singitforthegirls]

🫶🫶🫶🫶🥰

Gotta love my city. COLD AF lol. Like been -4 celsius, but feels like -12 c. 🙈🙈🙈 But the air gets so crisp and nice, and if there's no wind is can be so refreshing. Just layer up & dress well. XD

But yes, also LOVE Ægissíðan. A lil walk by the sea is the best. ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Also the white houses with red roofs you can see in the top photo is called Bessastaðir and it's like the Official residence of the President. 😁

I always think it's kinda cool you can see it even from this side. Lol.

#reykjavík #ægissíða #iceland #socold #lovemycountry #lovemycity #bythesea #cold #reykjavik

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[bizarrelittlemew]

for spotify wrapped!!! 12, 46, 97

12: Radio Nowhere by Bruce Springsteen

46: Fröken Reykjavik by Friðrik Dór (heard it on our honeymoon to Iceland and it stayed on the commute playlist lol)

97: Behind These Hazel Eyes by Kelly Clarkson (nostalgia)

spotify wrapped is HERE! send me a number 1-100 and I’ll tell you the song it corresponds with on my top 100 playlist

[versinator]

Dór megoldása Poétaszívben gömbös Diadalívben

[444namesplus]

Bakol Balmi Belstó Benro Benór Berku Bi Binos Birlés Bokúlzór Bol Bujer Bujésré Bulvil Buvu Byltú Bylárrú Byndal Bysni Bé Béjá Bérún Bór Búhó Dalbéljer Danspe Dansposy Darja Darsti Daskospa Dazú Di Dis Dohúrtu Donskal Dorbú Dulbúrár Dure Dynhas Dysonja Dyvá Dyzel Dáfár Dár Dór Dórspúlti Dúhon Dúkén Falni Faro Fasgyko Fastulskor Feskás Fespus Fi Figo Fikú Firspés Fonsy Forstu Fur Fuval Fy Fyldálá Fynspur Fyrnúspus Fysbyre Fyzon Fá Fésskélel Fésty Fóhón Fólma Fúdó Fúrdás Fús Ga Gangan Gegus Gil Gima Gojal Goskur Gudál Gufa Gulspúská Gy Gylfé Gynbúlkes Gynhan Gynspinsen Gys Gámavo Gán Gás Gérús Géskesstu Géslyso Góhyn Gúdo Gúnko Halskos Hanúr Hineskún Hojibo Holáze Hu Husstor Hyrga Hysá Há Hél Hélká Hélspir Hés Héskóské Hó Hólstá Hóso Jas Jenlyl Jeroró Jifa Jifénste Jisos Jivy Jojo Jonfar Jováhe Ju Jujérfin Julgos Jur Jynsté Jyrdá Jysfusus Járdin Játórdú Jéjos Jélspozon Jórrerte Jóskovu Jósspú Júrtúnzan Júven Kas Kasbyvu Kerze Kibúrrú Kimá Kin Kuljól Kus Kuvy Kylmyr Károlgá Ké Kédél Kégor Késra Késsyl Kókas Kú Kúsmágós Lakeská Lamón Leskés Li Linmus Lirrerfi Liste Lo Lolhérsu Loljús Lormó Lu Lulfár Lunu Lusegés Lyfór Lyhel Lyhórso Lyl Lynsún Lyrstá Lálisdés Lálstél Lán Légusdé Lérgo Lésspunspul Lólmónjén Lólmús Lóros Lúrje Mar Marvénsá Matos Menfur Mo Mormár Moté Mu Mudyr Myrko Mánsa Másper Més Mó Mól Mónjel Mósstyzás Mózó Mú Múbon Múby Múl Nadynjúr Nafory Nanlasú Nas Naspos Nebon Nelen Nerró Nersty Nesjó Netil Nevúsby Nisistyl Nordé Noza Nullo Nur Nurhusspú Nusko Nustan Nusú Nygildar Náfunstu Nákilspa Nálga Néspú Nól Nónkul Núké Raskomor Rasrofó Reko Relspés Rensal Rer Ri Rispérjo Ro Ror Rormurfo Ros Rubyn Runbys Rurlá Ruzu Ryfari Rynu Ré Réngánmyr Rólgú Rómys Rúdál Serspó Seskar Seszósmon Sifésbós Siskus Skakárys Skarrustir Skas Skeken Sken Skervéske Skeszon Skifáby Skine Skinzé Skissi Skobyvyl Skonsyn Skuménvón Skunzil Skurjás Skurtól Skylverlés Skyn Skéllúr Skólú Skússpi Soldáben Solvu Sostó Spalskúr Span Spe Spebonry Sperhé Spizar Spu Spul Spusémé Spy Spédomyn Spélinór Spésko Spólspiljén Spónkél Spóskybó Spúly Spúrdol Stana Stanskákú Stassku Sti Stibé Stilma Stinjol Stirlévér Stisfúlvun Stolnú Stosgézu Stosvá Stusba Stá Stáben Stáldúfu Stálli Sté Stéfosy Stél Sténsel Stér Stós Stósstyrmyn Stúle Stún Stúnspu Stútéldar Su Sul Sun Surtalrar Sus Sustalskun Suzó Sylspéste Sákyn Sálur Sánhy Sárhen Sásvé Sé Séjókan Sél Sónhas Sósdu Sú Súmebé Súnfové Talaskán Tar Tes Tevés Tir To Tolmé Tosnolhul Toze Turmol Tursúr Tyl Tálárfál Tán Tél Télkáhos Térbosfon Tésel Téskónlór Tónfés Tórnurgy Tósten Tósén Tú Túfú Túkó Tún Túr Tús Túsóbús Varfigis Vas Velkorzon Vibus Viszénler Volzyrspós Vosly Vostandir Vostán Vu Vujé Vuljószé Vulsy Vurbyspis Vushul Vydú Vyrkú Váfon Vó Vú Vún Zaskis Zasér Zavy Ze Zefer Zefu Zisrodá Zu Zulsáhys Zyhún Zynsán Zá Zánrysbé Zársy Zélhóvan Zéspe Zórsto Zúbo Zúnbu

[mixi31051976]

La ingeniega patito hará su propia mañanera con Loret, Ciro, Brozo y Dór...

[manixdemintaka]

VIDA después de la MUERTE 

DOCUMENTAL VIDA después de la MUERTE con Manel Sans, Ramiro Calle, Pablo d’Ors y las ECM Documental sobre la Muerte: ¿Hay vida después de la muerte? ¿Es el fin de la vida? Estas son algunas de las preguntas que la humanidad se hace y que abordamos en este documental. Manel Sans Segarra, Ramiro Calle, Pablo dÓrs, Daniel Lumera, Daniel Chumillas, Roberto Whyte, Rosa Domingo, Juan Antonio Martin y…

[generaldavila]

LA GRAVEDAD DE LOS PACTOS Y OTROS PELIGROS EN ESPAÑA Rafael Dávila Álvarez. General de División (R.)

LA GRAVEDAD DE LOS PACTOS Y OTROS PELIGROS EN ESPAÑA Rafael Dávila Álvarez. General de División (R.)

Imagínense que los que idearon el ataque a las Torres Gemelas formasen actualmente parte de la dirección del país americano. Que las decisiones de Biden estuvieran mediatizadas por su voto. El término terrorismo es el mismo para cualquier acto que pretende la dominación por el terror. En España ha dejado una huella mortal de tristeza y desamparo, pero la nación no ha sabido —no hemos sabido ni…

[ipswichtowns]

List 10 Songs you 💛 and tag people.

I was tagged by @lethalice (thank you!!!)

(Also sorry for my weird music taste, I don't know why basically none of it is in English either)

Two Door Cinema Club - Changing of the Seasons

Swnami - Gwreiddiau

Alvaro Soler - El Mismo Sol

Buhos - Volcans

Friðrik Dór - Ástin á sér stað

Danny & The Veetos - Farvæl

Itaca Band - Ahora Y Aquí

Doctor Prats - Caminem Lluny

Smoking Souls - L'últim ball

Kendji Girac - Color Gitano

I tag: nobody, everyone seems to have done this already ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[accuratenewsng]

Asisat Oshoala becomes first female African player to get Ballon Dór nomination

Asisat Oshoala becomes first female African player to get Ballon Dór nomination

Super Falcons striker, Asisat Lamina Oshoala has been nominated for the 2022 Ballon dór Feminine player of the year following her impressive season with Fc Barcelona Femini in the Spanish League. The reigning Africa women’s player of the year scored 20 goals in just 19 games to share the top scorer award with Geyse Ferreira. The 27-year-old’s game time was limited last season for three months…

[emotionsoffootball]

CR7 - O melhor

CR7 - The Best 

[thelinguaphilelady]

 the multilingual music list you need to enrich your ears

If you’re learning French, Spanish, Italian, etc. & are in need of artists to listen to... i’ve got you ! Here you’ll find music from different genres & most are on spotify.

French

○ indila

○ louane

○ gims

○ angèle

○ yseult 

○ nilusi

○ calogero

○ tayc

○ dadju

○ videoclub

○ olivier dion

○ lenni kim

○ céline dion

○ black m

○ vitaa 

○ amel bent

○ ya levis

○ lefa

○ tal

○ matt pokora 

○ maelle

○ louis and the yakuza

○ kyo

○ thomas dutronc

○ jérémy frerot

○ stromae

○ vianney

○ slimane

○ amir

○ zazie 

○ marc dupré

○ pierre de maere

Spanish

○ reik

○ juanes

○ pablo alborán

○ chucho rivas

○ rosalía

○ jesse y joy

○ blas cantó

○ francisca valenzuela

○ camila

○ romeo santos

○ prince royce

○ rozalén

○ vetusta morla

○ sin bandera

○ anthrés

○ mirco tdh

○ natalia lafourcade

○ rsel

○ pol granch

○ izal

○ julio iglesias

○ ana mena

○ cepeda

○ cristian castro

○ andrés suárez

○ son by 4

German

○ elif

○ wincent weiss

○ tim bendzko

○ hava

○ mike singer

○ lea

○ nakima

○ berge

○ anna blue

○ fabien wegerer

○ moritz garth

○ adel tawil 

Italian

○ arisa

○ laura pausini

○ lorenzo fragola

○ giorgia

○ francesca michielin

○ marco mengoni

○ annalisa

○ ermal meta

○ alessio bernabei

○ einar

○ the kolors

○ sonohra

○ levante

○ michele merlo 

○ matteo romano 

○ valerio mazzei

○ holden

○ diego lazzari

○ ultimo

○ albe

○ michele bravi

○ alex w

○ le vibrazioni

○ måneskin

Neapolitan

○ rosario miraggio 

○ tony colombo

○ liberato 

Swedish

○ darin

○ molly sandén

○ benjamin ingrosso

○ dotter

○ cherrie

○ veronica maggio

○ victor leksell 

Norwegian

○ tix

○ chris holsten

○ gabrielle

○ ylva

○ victoria nadine

○ ingeborg

○ ramón

○ stina talling

○ delara

○ bendik

○ kristin

Finnish

○ behm

○ ollie

○ erin

○ abreu

○ pihlaja

○ jvg

○ costee

○ anna puu

○ suvi teräsniska

Icelandic

○ gdrn

○ auður

○ aron can

○ friðrik dór

○ bríet

○ hatari 

○ daði freyr

Lithuanian

○ donny montell 

○ kaia

○ sisters on wire

○ alanas chosnau

○ jazzu

○ monique

○ monika linkyte

○ gabrielius vagelis

○ evgenya redko 

○ vilius

○ jurga

○ igle

Greek

○ marina satti

○ christos mastoras

○ eleonora zouganeli

○ nikos vertis

○ yianna terzi

○ pantelis pantelidis

○ michalis hatzigiannis

○ nikos oikonomopoulos

○ giorgos kakosaios

○ konstantinos argiros

○ stan

○ anastasios rammos

○ llias vrettos

○ giannis haroulis

○ antonis remos

○ giannis ploutarhos

Russian

○ elvira t

○ rauf & faik

○ sergey lazarev

○ dima bilan

○ zivert

○ max barskih

○ loboda

○ gafur

○ mona songz

○ misha marvin

○ serebro

○ ani lorak

○ cream soda

○ jah khalib

○ jony

○ the limba

○ xcho

○ maxim fadeev

○ asammuell

○ egor kreed

○ ooes

○ alyona shvets

○ alekseev

○ кис кис

○ emin

Romanian

○ mark stam 

○ carla’s dreams

○ andra

○ the motans

○ emilian

○ liviu teodorescu

○ irina rimes

○ mario fresh

○ andrei banuta

[idontliketomatoesleavemealone]

Ally: What if we inverted our initials? Llly Aiddel. Mór: Dór of Munbroch. CJ: HJ Cook. Freddie: Freddie Fac-- Freddie: This is a stupid game anyway. Sammy: I agree with her.

[jackhkeynes]

Willemy

Willemy is a polity in northern Europe, situated east of Norman Kent and France.

History

The Duchy of Willemy was a minor polity within the German Empire during the Second Tetrarchy of the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Forming much of the empire's border with the First Drengot Empire to the west, defence against the marksmen of Willemy led Drengot Emperor Roger II to spend greatly on castle fortifications from Flanders to the Alps.

The Great Flie Flood of 1171 swept away much of Lower Frisia in Willemy, creating several new islands in the Rustigh Strait (such as Texel) and killing then-ruler Lovis the Tall, who was in Amstel at the time. The devastation in the region is thought to have allowed Borlish Axbane to flourish as a trading post in the following century.

In the Revitalist Period and for some time afterwards, Willemy was split between neighbouring powers and portions of its territory changed hands regularly. The duchy of Avosche was unusually stable and held by France for over a century.

Trading operations from Willem and its cities in the Stadbund (the Bróderrat) contributed to staddomains in Atlantic Cappatia, most notably Neuwillem, whose Bróderratcronike (comprising a record of its activities from 1561 to 1597) is an important first-hand account of conditions in the region at the time.

Willem was the focal point of the seventeenth-century Blue Trans-Willem War, usually numbered among the Romantic Wars. This war led incidentally to the dissolution of the Kingdom of Burgundy and the creation of the Duchy of Far Suebia in Bavaria.

The two-arm system for sending steeplepost was first deployed in Willem in the early nineteenth century, to send the first lines of the Pater Noster from the church in the town of Thynen to neighbouring Bost. This event is likely what led to the name 'steeplepost' being applied to the technology.

People

Rulers

Duke Lovis the Tall (d. 1171), who perished in the Great Flie Flood

Adaillé Nassow, Duchess d'Avosche (1524-1608), infamous during her life for her influence at the court of David of France

Other

Carlyn van Stede (fl. 1965), author of parachthon giftale 'While Gold Yet Runs in My Veins' (Zolang Gout dór myn Ádren Noh Vlóye)

Dr Mickel Cráyenschot (fl. c19), noted early supporter of the Deviance movement and public tovarick even as France embraced the Modest Arrangement.

Niklás der Fecht (fl. 1828), a mathematician in the city of Axton

Tewis Camigner (fl. c16), theorist who noted the high sugar content of beet syrup, though betraver sugar would not be produced commercially for another two centuries