#dwimorberg

[katjaschmitt]

I had almost forgotten that there was this unfinished painting of the Paths of the Dead. It is *very* large (70 x 100 cm) and I have no idea whether I should finish it or not... I mean, who hangs something like that on their wall? (What did I even think when I started this??)

[thatcaithness]

‘Twice now, lord, I have heard of the Paths of the Dead,’ he said. ‘What are they? And where has Strider, I mean the Lord Aragorn, where has he gone?’ The king sighed, but no one answered, until at last E´ omer spoke. ‘We do not know, and our hearts are heavy,’ he said. ‘But as for the Paths of the Dead, you have yourself walked on their first steps. Nay, I speak no words of ill omen! The road that we have climbed is the approach to the Door, yonder in the Dimholt. But what lies beyond no man knows.’ ‘No man knows,’ said The´oden: ‘yet ancient legend, now seldom spoken, has somewhat to report. If these old tales speak true that have come down from father to son in the House of Eorl, then the Door under Dwimorberg leads to a secret way that goes beneath the mountain to some forgotten end. But none have ever ventured in to search its secrets, since Baldor, son of Brego, passed the Door and was never seen among men again. A rash vow he spoke, as he drained the horn at that feast which Brego made to hallow new-built Meduseld, and he came never to the high seat of which he was the heir. ‘Folk say that Dead Men out of the Dark Years guard the way and will suffer no living man to come to their hidden halls; but at whiles they may themselves be seen passing out of the door like shadows and down the stony road. Then the people of Harrowdale shut fast their doors and shroud their windows and are afraid. But the Dead come seldom forth and only at times of great unquiet and coming death.’ ‘Yet it is said in Harrowdale,’ said E´ owyn in a low voice, ‘that in the moonless nights but little while ago a great host in strange array passed by. Whence they came none knew, but they went up the stony road and vanished into the hill, as if they went to keep a tryst.’

None who venture there ever return. That mountain is evil.

[minubell]

Does Nazgul Isildur keep the ghosts at Dwimorberg a secret, or does everyone forget about them until Aragorn shows up?

Mmm, it's not necessarily that he keeps it a secret so much as he never sees a reason to bring them up?

He certainly wouldn't tell the other Nazgul or Sauron. Even though he cursed those men, he'd never wish his fate (Being a thrall forced to serve Sauron) on another. Telling the other Nazgul would just lead to that information getting back to Sauron, who would immediately live up to his name as the Necromancer and start messing around with these ghosts.

As for anyone else, who could he tell? It isn't as if he has much contact with anyone aside from the other Nazgul, the Mouth and Sauron himself. ALL of which take great pleasure in dunking on him at any particular moment.

[arofili]

men of middle-earth ✦ middle men ✦ headcanon disclaimer

          The Men of the Mountains were descended from the first Men who wandered to the West in the First Age, but unlike the Three Houses of the Edain they never crossed the Blue Mountains into Beleriand. Instead they settled in the White Mountains, and over the centuries divided into several distinct groups, including the Bree-men, the Dunlendings, and the Mountain-men themselves.           Of all those kindreds, only the Men of the Mountains ever fell into Sauron-worship, fearing and revering the dark god who threatened conquest of the whole world. When the kingdom of Gondor was founded and Sauron’s might was contested, King Rioc felt hopeful that his people might be freed from the Shadow’s influence and agreed to meet with King Isildur upon the Hill of Erech. There Isildur had placed a great black globe, an Oath-stone, and Rioc swore upon the stone that he and his people would aid the Dúnedain in their time of need.           At that time Rioc was but a young man, newly come into his crown, and when Isildur called upon the Men of the Mountains to fulfill their Oath, he had fallen into old age, though his liege remained young and hale. His queen, Annaig, had recently died at the hands of Sauron’s orcs, and he saw this as retribution from the Dark God for straying from his worship. To make matters worse, his only daughter Bravantel had dallied with a Dúnadan soldier and had a child out of wedlock, ruining her prospects of marriage among her own people. All this culminated in Rioc’s refusal to honor his Oath, for which Isildur cursed him and his people to never find rest until they fulfilled their sworn duty.           Rioc dismissed this threat, and his people were relieved not to march to war against their Dark God, but upon their king’s death the true extent of Isildur’s curse was revealed. Though his body perished, his wraith endured, trapped in his mountain halls, and one by one each of his people followed him. No more children were born to the Mountain-men, and they grew to hate the living and curse their faithless king, and it was foretold by Malbeth the Seer that they would not find peace until they stood once more at the Stone of Erech and heeded the call of Isildur’s heir.           The wraiths of the Mountain-men haunted the caverns beneath the Dwimorberg and the valley of Harrowdale, and came to be known as the Paths of the Dead. None among the living who walked those paths ever returned to tell the tale; most notable of these foolish souls was Prince Baldor of Rohan, who endeavored to prove the Oath of his own fathers, much like the one taken by King Rioc, would not have such horrific repercussions if broken. Baldor embarked alone upon his journey into the darkness, where he was lost in an ancient temple of the Mountain-men to Sauron, starving to death after the vengeful ghosts broke his legs.            Baldor’s skeleton would not be discovered for five centuries, when Aragorn II Elessar embarked upon his own journey through the Paths of the Dead. Aragorn’s quest was marked by a different fate: he and his companions survived, for he was Isildur’s heir, and called upon the Oathbreakers to fulfill their oath at long last. King Rioc and his people had grown weary of their half-existence, and agreed to take up arms against Sauron as they had sworn to do. They joined Aragorn in his crusade through the south of Gondor, and for their aid Isildur’s heir granted them their freedom, and they vanished from the world, free to receive the Gift of Men after centuries of dwindling in the shadows of the mountains.

[hallothere]

Brave the Darkness

Previously titled “Blunt Force Ghost Trauma” but since no ghosts actually get served onscreen I changed it. Also because like Halros and the Very Bad Time it isn’t uhhh.... funny enough for that kind of title!

(warnings for Candaith Going Thru It but there’s no like blood or anything)

Somehow, the cold was coming from inside his bones. The chill was ice in his marrow. Radanir visibly shook next to him, as did some of the others. He was hard-pressed not to tremble. Halbarad, his companions, they would all have to stand strong together. They had been warned off once by the Oath-breakers in this cursed place. Candaith supposed these were not the sort of spirits to give a second warning. 

The frostbite within only sharpened as he continued further onto the Forsaken Road. With a glance over his shoulder, he wondered if Thurvi- his shadow in this lightless place- had ever felt such a chill in the Mountains of his homeland. The Guardian seldom spoke of the land of his birth, of the Dwarven city of Kechel, nor of Dwimorberg whose fell name lay like a shadow over their quest. Perhaps he hoped not to discourage his companions. Perhaps the dwarves did not venture near enough to these places to know them so well.

Candaith had become accustomed to the mask his friend had acquired in Lhanuch. The Grey Company’s enemies were Thurvi’s enemies as well-- and they knew his face. Though there were likely few Dwarves in Enedwaith, he sought to protect them with his anonymity. It was the same logic behind their ‘uniform’. Though a dwarf traveling with a bunch of Dunedain was going to stand out like a hobbit in Othrikar, Candaith appreciated every precaution. 

After all, his friend had kept the company from danger more than once. Though quiet, he was quick to action and sturdier than the rest of them. The last Candaith had seen of Thurvi before his summons, the dwarf had been preparing to head to Angmar with nothing but a large club and a scavenged shield. But the Grey Company’s odd companion out had returned from parts unknown with a dwarf-make axe of strange metal, and a shield with the unmistakable stylings of Khazad-dûm. 

It was only too bad there was no time to stop for a fire. If the Guardian could coax a spark from the bed of the Anduin, he would not be much surprised. Still, the Grey Company needed more than warmth to kindle their hopes. This was a desperate gamble, but one Candaith believed in. If they could gather this host of the dead on behalf of their Chieftain, if they could muster an army unhindered by death nor pain nor hunger-

Maybe it was not such a vain hope or a far-fetched plan! Surely the Oath-breakers tired of existing like this? Did they not long for peace? Candaith did. His kin yearned for it, as did the Eglain, the people he had spent so much time near. The heir of Isildur could bring it. He believed that. Surely the Dead- if not motivated by honor- could only see the release from their curse as gain! A swift, deathless army to bring peace to the world. An invincible host at Aragorn’s command…

“This seems to me a good sign, Thurvi!” he whispered, turning back to his companion. It was dimmer still here, but they could both carry on. “If the Oath-breakers will fulfill their oath to Isildur, we will command an army the like of which has never been seen in Middle-earth. Surely victory will not be far behind!” His comment was met with only a tight smile. This place weighed heavily on them all. 

But soon they would be free of it. Of this, he was certain. 

Another shade flickered into view before them. The Dead all appeared able to hide themselves from sight if they wished, and it was an effective intimidation tactic. Based on the temperature, this could be none other than Britou before them. Idly, he wondered if Dwarves were hardier to this fell atmosphere than Men. Candaith stopped and his Guardian friend came to stand beside him. 

If it was a show of force the Dead wanted, so be it. They acquitted themselves well, though Candaith found the glacial air sapped his strength and stiffened his limbs. He looked to Thurvi but could see no sign he was in any way affected. Britou was probing for weakness, but he would find none. There was strength in the Dunedain. Candaith would not fail his brothers. 

Back to back they fought on. Ghostly blades rang against their steel, but these Dead did not move with the same fell determination as others had. Doubt began to chip through the frost around Candaith’s heart. Was Britou toying with them? This test was little more than a farce for his amusement. What then? Did he desire proof? More learned foes than he had doubted the line of Kings remained unbroken. What would the Dead on the Forsaken Road know of the way Aragorn’s ancestors had endured?

They cared little for the living, that much was clear. They threw around insults, hurled belittling words without thought. The Dead had nothing but contempt for them. Indeed, with the bones of travelers and the plague of shades above ground, what evidence did they have that any of the Oath-breakers’ intentions were honest?

Hah. He was a fool for giving them the benefit of the doubt. But no longer! If they would not be swayed by words or arms, let them be swayed with power. 

“Hold!” He thrust his blade through yet another shade with a shout and commanded the attention of the leader of the Dead. Candaith was breathing hard. The doubt had wormed its way in deep, but he could not let it end like this. Greed was a powerful enough motivator for any Man, even those among the Dead. 

“I have the authority to command you and all your kind, Britou!” He straightened up, emboldened by a confidence he could not feel but must not let waver. "For I...I am the Heir of Isildur!"

He could feel Thurvi’s eyes upon him, as well as the attention of the Dead. The cold was like a rock in Candaith’s chest. As long as they were in peril, he could not falter, but every breath became heavier. It seemed the very air was hardening to stone and ice within him. 

Britou fell silent. For a long moment he stared, sizing Candaith up. Now was not the time for fear. More than ever, he was grateful for the mask. It was as much a shield as the one his Guardian wielded. Perhaps his and Thurvi’s uses for them were more alike than he had thought. 

"What evidence do you have that this be so?" 

Britou’s voice reverberated off the frozen walls. Now more than ever the cold pained him. Candaith tried not to wince as he drew the breath to answer. Taking a finger of his glove in his teeth, he slid it off without lowering his sword. "Only this: the Ring of Barahir, heirloom of Isildur's line!"

After all, they had been made for one purpose: to deceive the enemy. Why not use it now, as it had been intended, for their advantage? 

It was a long while still before Britou spoke again. “I see.” The cavern was still. “We will fulfill our oath at last, that the Heir may lift the curse. Tell your Men."

Candaith could not breathe a sigh of relief. The cold had taken him, and it was all he could do to nod, to turn around, to look for the relief that must be plain on Thurvi’s face. 

It was not there to greet him. Candaith saw only fear.

"But that is not the Ring of Barahir, and you are not the Heir of Isildur."

He did not have time to think. There was ice on his skin now, on his fingers. Cold pierced him. Thurvi was moving faster than Candaith had ever seen him go. There was a horrible rending of metal, and the ice splintered under his skin. Dust and rock rose up to meet him. 

There was a black and frozen pause. Trapped within a pincushion of ice, Candaith did not notice at first that he was being moved. He could clear little space in his lungs to cry out, and he could not coax his algid limbs to motion. Too many frosted shards had gathered themselves within him. They cut like glass, tore at his mind, and ate at his heart. He knew naught of what was transpiring, only that he had failed his kin. He had led them to this place of ruin, and now he was to join the miserable Dead. 

His whole body was jolted up and sideways. A single pauldron came into view. Thurvi! Candaith’s tears were surely frozen, but he felt the warmth of relief thaw them a little. It mingled with the heat of shame long enough to warm sensation back into him. There was new pain too. His back was taut and tearing as Thurvi hurried him away. With a final cry, his awareness too failed on the cursed road. 

Something was trying to crush him. A pressure bound him, constricted his thoughts. He could not will himself to move or to breathe. So Candaith struggled. The now-familiar cold had abated some, but it had not released its stranglehold on him. He had failed, but for now desperation overrode his shame. The others-- his brothers were nearby! If nothing else they needed a warning, they needed to know that no Dead would ride by their side save to run them down. 

Candatih fought to turn over. He had fallen flat before Britou in that frozen chamber, and now he must get up! He must get up or let his brothers be slaughtered for his reckless gambit--

“Fool! Be still, Candaith!” 

A hand, warm and living, reached him from the darkness. It held his shoulder with a gentle firmness that made him pause. There was no time for this! So far underground, they needed every moment to escape.

The crack of a log fire hoisted him up from the dark then flung him down into awareness. His waking senses hit him with force and the air was driven once more from his lungs. Suddenly Candaith discovered he could feel, only to wish desperately that he could not. What had once been solid ice had thawed, and his whole body burned in the spaces where it had been. He turned to push his face into whatever had been beneath his ear. Candaith was on the ground, and pain trampled him flat. 

The hand was joined by another on his other shoulder. He tried to smother a rising scream as the fire was stoked again by his squirming. 

“Candaith, listen to me.” The voice was familiar, but it was as full of uncertainty as he was. “We are out of there now, but you are lucky to be with us! Lie still if you can. If you are too stubborn to listen, it will be hard to bring you back to Lhanuch alive! We will give you…” Here the voice paused, and with more clarity came a growing certainty that Candaith had never heard Radanir more distressed. “We will give you something for the pain.”

“Radanir!” Halbarad’s voice cut through the fire and the relief was like a balm. More crushing a blow than the catastrophe he knew would have been the loss of their leader. Halbarad was the cord that held them together in Aragorn’s absence. They would follow him with the same loyalty and should he be lost grieve for him with the same sorrow. 

But Halbarad lived. It brought Candaith less comfort than he had hoped. 

“Hold him up. We must do something for the wound before we try moving again.” It was not at all what his leaden limbs wanted to hear. This time Candaith could not stifle a groan as Radanir hefted him like a sack of potatoes. 

“You could not… be more careful?” The words sounded strained to his own ears, but as his head was being rested over one of Radanir’s shoulders like a sickly infant’s, he would not get to see a reaction. 

That did not stop Radanir from having one. “And you could not stop from telling falsehoods to the undying shades of traitors!"

It brought down a deathly quiet. A popping ember rang as loud into the night as a thunderclap. Radanir had gone as stiff as a statue, and only after a long pause could Halbarad get things moving again. 

“It is a grave wound, but it might have been much worse.” Candaith could feel the sleeves of his tunic, but the back had been torn asunder. Now exposed to the night air, he wished for the blanket or cover that had seemed so smothering a moment ago. Halbarad was moving the fabric. Every pull jostled the nettles that had taken up residence in his limbs. He tried to push away, but Radanir held him up under his arms. 

“If we have to set you back down, there will be less firelight to work by.” The words were terse, but there was an undercurrent of concern nonetheless. Radanir was right, Candaith was a fool. It was becoming more and more obvious just how close he’d been to being a dead one. 

To his surprise, Thurvi stepped into his narrow field of vision. The dwarf offered out his hand. Weakly, Candaith took it.

“Distract him if you can, Thurvi.” Halbarad instructed. “We are lucky he is awake but we might have been luckier were he not- at least, not for this.”

Candaith was reluctant to meet the Guardian’s eye. It had been a rather poor performance on the Forsaken Road. He had shamed himself and shamed the entire Company. Only by a miracle was he out under the stars instead of rotting among the Dead. To his surprise, Thurvi did not attempt to make conversation just yet but began sliding up the metal mask that had long covered his face. 

Despite everything- or perhaps because of it- Candaith could not bite back a delirious laugh. “You have a line! Clear… right across your face from cheek to cheek, over the bridge of your nose-”

Halbarad chose that moment to strike. Something cold and stinging coursed down his open wounds. He gritted his teeth and tried to crush Thurvi’s hand and Radanir’s arm. The work had begun in earnest. Now, Halbarad would not stop until everything was dressed to his satisfaction. 

Thruvi pulled his hand down. Attention diverted, Candaith managed to look up. “Your cloak did not make it, I’m afraid.” The Guardian said in a solemn tone. “Alas, it was the first casualty. And my shield gave its life for yours. Cursed be the blades wielded against the craftsmanship of Khazad-dûm!”

Candaith could not laugh. Thurvi’s heart was not in the attempt at wounded pride. It was hardly the shield of his homeland, and besides that it called to attention a more glaring absence. 

Ignoring the agony behind him, he ground out a question. “The others…?” His mind flew to Linnor, his and Saeradan’s friend, to Calithil who he had last seen by Radanir’s side. Old Hodhon and Himeldir had been there as well, they who had been fraught with worry over Dagoras’ capture and thick as thieves again upon his return. 

Thurvi’s face was more exposed now than it had been underground. The mask was pushed into his hood on top of his head. Candaith did not know if his friend was old for a Dwarf, but he looked older than he had the last time his face was on display. 

“Scattered.” he said at last, “We lost all the torches as the Dead gave chase. You and I were tempting enough targets to allow the others space to run. If they were pursued to the road or to the bluffs, I do not know. We ran into Halbarad and then Radanir in the dark.”

Candaith tried to focus on the words instead of the pain. Whatever salve Halbarad had conjured burned as fiercely as his shame. Loath might he be to admit it under other circumstances, Radanir was right. Who was he to command the Oath-breakers? What right did he have to try!

There was little left of his strength. Candaith used it to first return Thurvi’s grip on his hand, and then to better support himself on Radanir’s arm. Neither he nor Halbarad had spoken again, and it was time for Candaith to acknowledge the disaster on all their minds. 

“I should never have-- I would give my life a thousand times... to be even the smallest help to Aragorn… That was all… all I-” Halbarad took his shoulders and started to tip him back. The movement clouded his vision so completely he could hardly be sure he was still awake. Numbness started to overpower him and Candaith did not have the strength to be alarmed by the empty wave. 

The void held him captive for a moment. But, vigilant Pain was quick to revive him as bandages met the raw edges of his wounds. He was slumped in a sitting position as Thurvi held him up and Halbarad finished wrapping the tender flesh. Candaith was given something bitter from a water flask, and then worked up the courage to try and speak again.

“I am… sorry-” he croaked from the ice-carved hollow in his chest. 

“If you are sorry, Candaith, I am doubly so.” Halbarad’s voice was thick with worry, and regret. “For had I not sought to make copies of the Ring of Barahir, had I been more focused on keeping us from danger, this never would have occurred.”

Halbarad finished tying off the bandages, and Candaith was surprised to find Radanir waiting there at his shoulder. He was without a cloak, as were the others, and did not waste time in guiding his dead-limbed companion to where the collected fabric was balled up into a makeshift bedroll. Far though they were from a suitable camp, he was going to see that Candaith had some small comfort. Not Thurvi, not Halbarad, but Radanir who was rightfully furious with him. 

Of all their companions, he was one of the least likely to shy away from saying what he meant. There was no quip too untimely, no sentiment best left unsaid. No doubt it was why he had taken on this task. Halbarad was too noble to scold a man on death’s porch if not it’s doorstep. And something about Thurvi’s tight-lipped expression had told him that the Guardian had seen the events transpire in an entirely different light.

Of one thing Candaith was sure: whatever reproach Radanir had ready for him would be well-deserved. Only, Candaith did not know if he could bear it. He had almost just gotten eight of their number killed in an ill-advised attempt to sway the Dead- the Dead who were known chiefly for their treachery! He feared the long night as he had been frightened of the long road underground. What if the others had not made it out? Their blood would be on his hands, and he would have to meet the rest of the Company alone with his shame.

No doubt his chief critic would be Radanir. Radanir who had been forced to flee with the others, who had stumbled across Thurvi in the dark, who must have been told the tale from the eyes of an observer- and the only one of them who could never have done the same in his place! 

Still he could not help but to look. Candaith turned his head to the side and found Radanir’s stare fixed on him. Guilt swept over him again before it was replaced by great confusion and worry. The firelight illuminated anger, yes, but also vivid fear that took a moment for Radanir to conceal. 

“I suppose I prefer you a living fool rather than a dead one.” The irritation in his tone was as empty as Candaith felt. “Still,” here an edge of something crept back in, “do not ever attempt such a thing again.”

As much as he wanted to assure Radanir that he would not dream of it- that he was shaken to find a lesson learned had nearly cost his and his kinsmen’s lives- Halbarad had designs of his own. Whatever herbs had been in the water were beginning to take effect. The pain of his wound was no distraction anymore. Already sensation was floating away. It felt as if he would dissolve if it began to rain, like dust on stonework. Candaith could no more keep his eyes open than he could leap up and begin the search for the rest of their group or to share the burden his decision placed on them. 

He could no longer see the light of the fire when Radanir’s hand came to rest carefully on his shoulder. Their companions were discussing something too quietly for him to hear. It would not be long now before Halbarad’s bitter potion forced him to rest. 

“That was a fear so cold I thought I would never be warm again.” Radanir’s voice was nearly lost to the cushioning effect of the medicine on his ears. “But I would prefer to never be rid of it than to lose even one of my brothers.”

The candor in Radanir’s words did not absolve him, but it was a balm to a hurt no healer could treat. Comforted beyond measure, Candaith could at last bear to face the night and any troubled dreams it could conjure.

[my-beautiful-wickedness]

At last the king’s company came to a sharp brink, and the climbing road passed into a cutting between walls of rock, and so went up a short slope and out on to a wide upland. The Firienfeld men called it, a green mountain-field of grass and heath, high above the deep-delved courses of the Snowbourn, laid upon the lap of the great mountains behind: the Starkhorn southwards, and northwards the saw-toothed mass of Irensaga, between which there faced the riders, the grim black wall of the Dwimorberg, the Haunted Mountain rising out of steep slopes of sombre pines. Dividing the upland into two there marched a double line of unshaped standing stones that dwindled into the dusk and vanished in the trees. Those who dared to follow that road came soon to the black Dimholt under Dwimorberg, and the menace of the pillar of stone, and the yawning shadow of the forbidden door.

[writingfromkitchenator]

Gimli ~ I Don’t Like This

1,300 Followers Challenge!

Requested by Anon

Words: 959

Warnings: Mild horror themes

The cool air that came from out of the cavern of Dwimorberg sent a hard chill up Gimli’s spine, an involuntary shudder going through him, silently swearing that there was a voice underneath the wind.

“I do not fear death.” Aragorn growled, marching forward and quickly disappearing into the darkness, Gimli stuttering after him for a long moment, before staring open mouthed after Legolas, who follows.

“I don’t believe it,” He said, exasperated.  “An elf will go underground but a dwarf will not.”

You smiled from his side and give his shoulder a quick squeeze, following after Aragorn and Legolas. “You’d never hear the end of it.”

Gimli makes a half terrified, half indignant noise, before quickly following, making sure to catch up to you and match your step, ignoring your grin.

As they walked deeper and deeper, their torches seeming to do less and less, Gimli can’t help but swallow, glancing over at you, your expression grim, but unwavering.  As he watches you, he seems to realise something.

He clears his throat, but his voice only comes out as a whisper.  “Uh…it’s going to be okay Y/N.  We’re going to-to make it out of this.”

You look at him, a slight amusement sparking in your eyes.  “I’m fine Gimli.”

Gimli grunts and puffs out his chest a little.  “I’m not to go anywhere.”

You hide your snicker, but Legolas does not.

“Quiet you,” Gimli huffs to the elf in front.  “Or I’ll stick my axe somewhere not pretty.”

“Easy Gimli,” Aragorn said from the lead, eyes scanning through the tunnels.  “We’ll be fine if we just stay calm.”

Gimli grunts in response and you give him a small nudge, drawing his attention back to you.

“Thank you,” You said softly.  “But I promise you don’t have to.”

His face pales slightly as the four of you enter into a new space, this one lined with skulls and a strange, green mist.  “Err…I just…I mean…”

Something crunches under your feet.

“Don’t look down.” Aragorn said quickly.

Gimli does and he lets out a shuddering breath.

“Just keep going.” You said gently, giving him a slight nudge to get his feet moving again.

He looks back at you worried.  “How are you handling this so well?”

You smile reassuringly. “It takes a lot to scare me Gimli, and usually not in the form of some sort of curse.”

Gimli remains feeling unconvinced, trying to stop himself from jumping and reacting to even the smallest of noises.

That was when the whispers started, the hair on the back of Gimli’s neck standing on end.  He tries to look every which way at once, turning in a circle, before you give him another nudge, making him jump again, and shoot you a look.

“Don’t do that!”

“We need to keep moving,” You hold back a laugh, pointing after Legolas and Aragorn as they disappeared around a corner.  “We don’t want to get lost in here alone.”

Gimli made a disgruntled, half terrified noise, hurrying after them, but only made it several steps before he slipped and fell, landing with a heavy crash amongst a pile of bones, groaning, Legolas and Aragorn ducking back.

“Gimli,” Aragorn said, accepting your hand in helping him back to his feet.  “We’re trying to be somewhat quiet here.”

His face burning, Gimli brushes himself down, bone dust filling the air.  “Slipped…”

Aragorn sighs and shakes his head, quickly moving again.

“We shouldn’t be too far now.”  Legolas said, with a reassuring nod, and follows.

Gimli takes several steps before he freezes, and you both stare at a small pyramid of skulls that sit on the edge of the path before you, the lifeless eyes staring at you, the whispers seeming to grow louder the longer the two of you stared.

You make a slightly worried noise, grabbing his arm under his elbow.  “That’s only moderately creepy.”

He blinks at you, seeing your stony expression, but he doesn’t get a chance to ask as you pull him along the path, not giving him a choice but to keep moving.

“I thought it took a lot to scare you.”  He asked, keeping himself distracted.

“It does,” You said.  “I did say moderately.”

Gimli shakes your hand off. “I can walk on my own Y/N.”

“Are you sure?”

He huffs, quickly stepping ahead of you.  “I’m not going to let you protect me.  That’s my job for you.”

You chuckle lightly, which only makes his face turn red, following quickly behind.  “Whatever keeps you going through this.”

Gimli mutters under his breath, keeping his gaze forward, determined not to slow things down again. If you could do this, so could he, and he wasn’t about to be shown up in any situation.  He could hear your quiet chuckle behind him, which was only making him more determined to keep going, although, it was of some comfort that you had his back.

He was so focused on just moving forward, that he ran straight into Legolas’s back.  “Wha-”

Legolas hushes him and an eerie silence fills the wide open hall that they’d entered, Gimli’s face going pale, the chill almost freezing in here.

“This isn’t good.” You said, carefully standing on guard.

“This is where we need to be.”  Aragorn said firmly and stepped further in.

This seemed to be what the room was waiting for, thousands of green figures starting to appear, their slightly transparent bodies filling the room in a near deathly silence.

Gimli swallowed and stepped closer to you, letting your arms touch.  “I don’t like this.  I don’t like this one bit.”

“It’s going to be okay,” You said quietly to him, eyes watching as the figures draw closer.  “We’re going to make it out of this.”

[lordoftheringsfanart]

rough sketch of the Dwimorberg king 👑 💀 Source: https://ift.tt/2QMiokq

[iamnotshazam]

eowyn/dernhelm but only the moment right before they say "but no man am i!"

not during the moment, or after. just forever existing in a prophecy-shattering, ancient-evil-destroying state of gender role expectation and subversion. strong and wiry with long hair tucked into a helmet, being read as a boy by merry's narration, protecting a loved one, assuming you are going to die, had no idea about a prophecy, and fighting anyway.

you have finally come to be recognized as a warrior and a threat, and what is the thing your enemy says to knock your confidence? that you're a man and no man can beat him. the very thing you've been denied acknowledgment for, has been your handicap, is now your strength.

you have nothing left to lose, even if you wanted to keep being a man after this. the king your uncle is dead, merry and eomer are probably going to die, you're going to die. aragorn has fucked off somewhere into the dwimorberg with his weird interspecies polycule he said you couldn't be a part of.

you breathe in what may be your last breath, if only to spend it laughing in death's face.

if you could have the gender of any one tolkien character, who would it be

[spaceorphan18]

Rules- we’re snooping on your playlist. Set your entire music library on shuffle and list the first 10 songs that pop up, then tag 10 people

Was tagged by @honeysucklepink​ :) 

Let’s see what we get...

1. Piano Sonata No. 30 in E Major - Ludwig van Beethoven 

2. Zamboni - Gear Daddies  (This was on my D2 The Mighty Ducks soundtrack.  Omg, you guys should check this out.) 

3. Lying for the Island - Michael Giacchino (Lost Season 4 Soundtrack) 

4. Little Drummer Boy - Glee Cover

5. Dwimorberg - Howard Shore (Lord of the Rings Soundtrack)

6. Uptown Girl - Glee Cover

7. Say You Say Me - Lionel Richie

8. One Simple Idea - Hans Zimmer (Inception Soundtrack)

9. Do Ya Think I’m Sexy - Darren Criss

10. Rainbow Connection - Kermit

So, um, my tastes are eclectic.  This is why I have a playlist of all my favorite pop songs cause my full collection is /this/. Lol

Ten people: @snarkyhag​, @ckerouac​, @notthatbea​, @47mel47​, @slayerkitty​, @klaineship2, @nikkisrandomthingsfan, @redheadgleek, @kurtmckinnon, @carojane

[themoonlily]

Rohirric ghost stories

Rohirrim probably have their own version of the common story where a young bride’s betrothed comes to her at night and they go for a ride together on a pale, silent horse. later she learns that he has died recently, perhaps the very night she rode with him, and it was his ghost she was riding with.

many believe there are fairy lights at fens that supposedly show the place of an ancient treasure on certain nights. however, if you go to follow these fairy lights, they are more likely to lure you to your death than actually reveal some treasure.

some have also seen phantom horses near some of the fens. they appear in the shape of one of the mearas, but you can always tell them for what they are by the ghostly light in their eyes. if you try to ride such horse, it will invariably take you into the fen. (compare to  Scottish Kelpie.)

in autumn, there is one night (like All Hallows’ Eve) when the dead are believed to be on the move. particularly there’s a belief about an éored of phantom riders racing through the fields of the Mark during this night. 

In Edoras, there’s a story about a washerwoman who sometimes appears on the banks of Snowbourn, washing bloody clothes in silence. her appearance is believed to be an omen of woe and death.

it is said a figure like Banshee wanders the lands of the Wold.  

Rohirrim avoid places where a large battle has taken place and blood has been spilled. they say the earth remembers the blood and grows hungry for it. it is not advised to settle on such land, unless one is prepared for misfortune. there are some rites than can be used to cleanse the land.

there are naturally many spooky stories about  Dwimorberg. people have been known to go missing if they go too close to it. some have returned (though none of those who approach the Paths of the Dead), but they are driven mad by nightmares and phantoms they see even with their waking eyes. similar stories are told of the wood of Lórien. 

some believe Helm Hammerhand’s ghost still wanders near the Hornburg on cold winter nights. there are those who claim that on those nights, a voice may appear behind your door, asking to be allowed inside from the cold. but even if you do heed to it and open your door, there is no one there in the darkness. 

[lotrolands]

The Oathbreaker’s castle in the Paths of the Dead, Dwimorberg

[grumpyblackbird]

Eleanor had been riding alongside her companions, keeping an eye on everything around her. She had always been fascinated by a muster of an army and had watched it happen once or twice with her brothers. But watching the Rohirrim gathering around their king was just a different kind of awe inspiring. All these heavily armored men and horses has gotten her attention divided. It was fascinating.

Following behind the trail of riders up the winding stair she felt a cool sensation on her skin and a little wind ruffling her hair. She had heard rumors and legends about this place. The Dwimorberg and the Path of the Dead. It was a strange place to hold a muster and to camp. She felt uneasy in the shadow of this mountain. As if the Dark Lord himself was watching from the shadows.

Eleanor dismounted as soon as she had reached the top and quickly cleared the way. It was then that she found her way back to the Marshall and saw the unease he and his horse felt. Looking around and watching the men and horses, she addressed Éomer. “This mountains shadow is making your men restless. Why choose such a place to gather your forces?”

Continued, but with a time skip!

♘   ♘   ♘

Éomer led his Riders who had survived the deadly battle at the Hornburg onward after his King, as they were heading to Harrowdale. The Mustering of the Rohirrim was to take place, where all the riders in the Mark would prepare to ride to war in the East. The attack from the wizard Saruman and the fell words from him after he had been confronted in Isengard had alerted the Rohirrim of the urgency of war. They knew Gondor to be in danger and that they could not let their ally fall, their last hope swallowed up by the darkness.

Éomer raised his head and looked out from under his helmet as he followed his uncle to the base of a steep cliff that had a winding stair up the side, with statues of hunched little men at each turn. He looked back at his men before following the line of horses trekking their way up the side of the cliff. When he reached the top, he looked back over the cliff as more horses followed behind him, then drew his gaze quickly away. He would claim to follow his King anywhere, but to the top of a cliff a hundred feet up and at the doorstep to the Paths of the Dead was nearing his limit. He shuddered as he rode closer to Dwimorberg, hoping none had noticed the uneasiness that crept over him.

Firefoot appeared to have noticed the uneasiness of his Rider and began pulling at the reigns as uneasily as the man on his back felt, but did his best to hide. Éomer dismounted, leading his steed over to the tent set up for him. 

[the-firebird69]

It is I who was Brea an oath not our dead. It shows in the clip proud Arrogon offering the DeVille as we are called a deal.

They accepted i helped the deal in my favor mines favor.

Trump a louse

Zues

THE ONE WIKI TO RULE THEM ALL

THE ONE WIKI TO RULE THEM ALL

Army of the Dead



GENERAL INFORMATION

DOMINIONS

Caverns beneath the Dwimorberg and the valley of Harrowdale

LANGUAGES

Westron

MEMBERS

The King of the Dead

Build A Middle-Earth Collection

DOWNLOAD THE APP

"The Dead are following," said Legolas. "I see shapes of Men and of horses, and pale banners like shreds of cloud, and spears like winter-thickets on a misty night. The Dead are following."

"Yes, the Dead ride behind. They have been summoned," said Elladan.- The Return of the King, "The Passing of the Grey Company"

The Army of the Dead, also known as the Dead Men of Dunharrow or Oathbreakers, were Men of the White Mountains, cursed to remain in Middle-earth by Isildur after they abandoned their oath to aid him in the War of the Last Alliance. They haunted the caverns beneath the Dwimorberg, and the valley of Harrowdale that lay in its shadow, though they were said to appear in the valley only in times of trouble or death. They were led by the King of the Dead, the most fearsome and terrifying of the whole Dead Army. Since the line of Isildur had "ended" (after a couple of hundred years), no one could call upon the Dead Army to aid them in their hours of need, as they would only answer to an Heir of Isildur. It wasn't until the Third Age in the War of The Ring that Aragorn, Isildur's heir, would call upon them to fight with him against Sauron, fulfilling their oath and releasing them from their curse.

History

Over the land there lies a long shadow, westward-reaching wings of darkness. The Tower trembles; to the tomb of kings doom approaches. The Dead awaken; for the hour is come for the Oathbreakers: at the Stone of Erech, they shall stand again and hear there a horn in the hills ringing. Whose shall the horn be? Who shall call them from the grey twilight, the forgotten people? The heir of him to whom the oath they swore. From the North shall he come, need shall drive him: he shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead.

[queer-as-fox]

Ok, here we go. Just lemme say that I share a spotify account with my siblings so I'm gonna skip all the songs that I've never listened to myself.

And these are [Song - artist]

1. Inùtil - In The Heights, Original Broadway Cast

2. Sending Postcards from a Plane Crash (Wish You Were Here) - Fall Out Boy

3. Valley Forge (Demo) - Lin-Manuel Miranda (the Hamilton Mixtape)

4. Summerboy - Lady Gaga

5. Der Tanz der Vampire - Original (German) Cast of "Tanz der Vampire"

6. Do You Hear The People Sing? - Les Miserables Movie Cast

7. One Day More - Les Miserables Movie Cast

8. Somebody To Love - Queen

9. Fireflies - Owl City

10. Dwimorberg, The Haunted Mountain - The Lord of the Rings, The Return of the King, soundtrack, Howard Shore

I'm tagging @let-me-choke-on-alibis @dasmiku @veilchenjaeger @honig-prinzessin and @marie-curie

@thiswaitingheart said:

So here are the first ten Songs my Spotify spits out at random (I’ll skip Audio-Book Chapters though, otherwise there’d only be like 3 Songs on that List…)

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds - We came along this Road

Le Matos - Kid Suit Up

Pfemme Records - N.y vaknar

Merciful Nuns - Resting Under Dark Water

Vök - Floating

Waving the Guns - Keine Lieder über Liebe

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds - Gates to the Garden

John Williams - On the Inside (from the Star Wars The Force Awakens Soundtrack)

Die Regierung - Corinna 

Foyer des Arts - Wolfram Siebeck hat Recht

Honorary Mention goes out to the 29 Three Investigators Audioplay Chapters I had to skip.

I have to say, there are some pretty good Tracks on this, but also some I don’t remember of ever having heard before. Overall not really representative of my Music Taste OR my listending Habits. I’ll tag @weshostakofish @yet-he-was-intrepid @vinceaddams @idontknowaname-sorry and @hadewyjch

Show me the first 10 random Tracks from your Music Library!

[mdiaz55]

Saved on Spotify "Dwimorberg - The Haunted Mountain" by Howard Shore https://ift.tt/1PncMmz