#erú

[liberte-news]

UKRAJINA od ledna zastaví ruský PLYN. Česko to neohrozí

Země se bude spoléhat na plyn z Německa a Nizozemska, jehož zdroje by měly pocházet zejména z Norska, USA a Blízkého východu, částečně i z Ruska, což by se však mělo do budoucna omezovat.

EKONOMIKA | Nárůst spotřeby plynu souvisí především s odklonem energetiky od uhlí. Podle výpočtů Ministerstva průmyslu a obchodu by měla spotřeba plynu po úplném odstavení uhelných elektráren a tepláren narůst o dvě až tři miliardy kubíků ročně. ILUSTRAČNÍ FOTO „To by celkově znamenalo spotřebu kolem devíti až 9,5 miliardy metrů krychlových za rok, tedy na úrovni před pandemií. Za předpokladu,…

[ocemsemlci]

Stanislav Novotný se ptá Pavla Janečka, co se děje s plynem v Evropě, kdo ho nakupuje a od čeho se odvíjí cenotvorba https://ocemsemlci.cz/o-cem-se-mlci-pavel-janecek-2/?feed_id=1092

[jartita-me-teneis]

Cuscoc Perú 🇵erú. La antigua mampostería de piedra encontrada en el Perú actual ejemplifica una notable artesanía y perspicacia de ingeniería. El análisis histórico indica que el proceso de construcción puede haber implicado cortar una piedra mientras que simultáneamente cortar y fundir otra para lograr un ajuste perfecto. Esta sofisticada técnica se muestra de manera prominente en estructuras de renombre como Sacsayhuamán y Machu Picchu, donde las piedras se alinean con extraordinaria precisión. La complejidad y eficacia de este método puede ofrecer una visión de las articulaciones perfectas, que continúan desafiando e intrigando a los ingenieros y arquitectos contemporáneos. Dos técnicas diferentes al parecer … También serán de la misma época?

[mortaltempless]

it's more the being unknown

~1.4k, Rated G, Galadriel/Sauron

Even at the end of the world, Frodo remains curious as to what drives Galadriel.

The hobbit, for all his long millenia of bravery and kindness, for all his suffering, looked terrified, and he knew it. An awful humiliation on this final day.

"Do not fear, young Frodo," Galadriel offered. "It will be painless. The One would not stand for anything else."

That morning, they had all seen Galadriel's uncle stalk proudly and with purpose out of the Halls of Mandos, preparing his chariot. All knew what that meant.

Frodo offered a weak smile to Galadriel.

"What will come after, my lady?" he whispered. He knew his duty. He wore armour, for the first time in the many Ages of his life. He would defend Middle Earth, and give thanks to Erú as the world broke apart. But that did not stop the fear.

Still, Galadriel smiled softly and sweetly -- a rare gift. 

"I'm not sure, my friend," she said. "But it will be beautiful." 

Frodo nodded, not much reassured. Galadriel checked over his armour, her own long-since fitted perfectly to her form.

"Will you stay with me?" he asked softly, somewhat ashamed of the quake in his voice. Galadriel looked down and away, and for a moment the hobbit thought she would not answer.

"Frodo, there is --" she looked at him, blue eyes shining. "It is the end of the world. And my part in this story is over."

A pause as she looked down again, at the shining, iridescent silver of her breastplate, the gold star gleaming like a fire in the centre. 

"There will be no tomorrow, old friend. So there is only one way I wish to spend my last hours." her voice was a delicate whisper. 

Ever since he arrived on the shores of Valinor, he had grown close to Galadriel. One of the few familiar faces in this strange land. The other elves stared at him, and found him to be a curious oddity. Only those who knew him from Middle Earth continued to treat him with respect and kindness, rather than as an amusing child who just learned to toddle. Even so, he could not miss the rumours that followed the once-Lady of Lothlórien. Most of them, he could dismiss out of hand. Even after all his long years, he remembered the Sackville-Bagginses well enough to recognise petty jealousies and family rivalries when he saw them. 

But there were other rumours, ones that stuck in his craw. Ones that made his mind itch with the memory of Galadriel's woods, and the Ring, louder than it had ever been, whispering incessantly to him -- soclosesoclosesoclose -- praise Erú that Galadriel had the wisdom to reject it. But no, Frodo dismissed the thought, there was no way that, after everything, Galadriel would --

"Mithrandir will look after you and Bilbo," she said. "You will not be alone for even a moment." 

Frodo did not reply. He just blinked slowly at the elf. He was not sure if she wanted his permission, or if she was telling him instead.

He put it out of his mind for hours, watching the events of that final eternal day unfold around him. Chaos and waiting. Waiting and chaos. These alternating moods threatened to undo him. He stood by Galadriel, Gandalf and Bilbo, the four of them stuck carefully together as it all unfolded, with the elf and wizard guiding the halflings across bloody battlefields, carefully keeping them away from the worst of the battles. Indeed, Frodo's own blade remained clean. 

He supposed he should be pleased about that.

But that all changed once he saw It. That was the only thing that came to mind: It. The armour was unmistakable, and for the first time in countless years, Frodo's shoulder burned. An ancient wound awakened by its ultimate cause. It made a sick sort of sense that Sauron would piece himself together enough to witness his master's final attempt at dominance. 

Gandalf's hand was on his shoulder, his voice comforting and low. 

"He will not come near you, old friend," he murmured. Frodo sobbed, nodded, but could not help the way he curled into the wizard in fear.

"I don't --" his voice trembled. "I don't want to die like this." 

Frodo was brave. His strength and kindness was famed across the world, far beyond Middle Earth. The gentle halfling who toppled a god without ever taking a life. But he felt as though tears and terror were all he had left.

"And you won't," This voice was soft as well, but with an almost incomprehensible depth of kindness and feeling to it. Galadriel's soft hair brushed his arm as she laid a kiss on his forehead. "He won't ever touch you, old friend." 

With a squeeze of his hand and a meaningful look to Gandalf, she was gone.

"What is she doing?" Bilbo asked, his hand rubbing soothing circles into his nephew's shoulder. Gandalf didn't reply, but his sigh contained an age of sorrow. 

She walked slowly, calmly towards the towering figure, discarding weapons as she went.

Her quiver.

Her bow and arrow.

Her sword.

And finally, a dagger. 

Sauron, for his part, possessed a stillness that Frodo would never have guessed. Sword in one hand, mace in the other. He gave up neither weapon. 

The hobbit's heart was in his mouth, certain that Galadriel had miscalculated, certain that at any moment, Sauron would swipe his mace at her, smashing her bones into pieces. But he did no such thing.

Instead, by some magic, Frodo heard every word, even at this distance.

"I always hated that armour," Galadriel said. The figure tilted its awful head at her.

"Too frightening?" His voice was muffled, but sounded little like the wraith that had haunted the hobbit's nightmares for millennia. 

"Too much like a little boy's. Far too cumbersome, even for you," Galadriel replied. There was something in her voice that Frodo could not recognise. Still, the Dark Lord's next act threw any thought of Galadriel from his mind as his hands reached up, and unlatched his helmet. 

It came to the ground with a loud clang.

Frodo couldn't breathe. 

Sauron looked…disarmingly normal. He remembered Strider…Aragorn…whatever, and his ranger friends…Sauron would not look out of place among them. Scraggly haired and scruffy, and far from the beast he imagined lurked beneath the helm. And it is only then that he identifies the note beneath Galadriel's speech, even at this dire moment: amusement. 

"Gandalf," Frodo whispered, almost against his will. "What is she doing?" 

The wizard had not taken his eyes off the pair, a wariness to his gaze even now at the end of everything. 

"Hmm?" he asked, as though he had not heard every word Frodo uttered.

"I don't think she's in much danger, my lad," said Bilbo, keen eyes alight with curiosity. Frodo shook his head. 

"She needs --" he did not know how to finish the sentence, felt rooted to the spot, even as his breath caught when Sauron's mace crashed to the ground beside him. 

"I believe the Lady will do quite fine without our aide, my boy," said Gandalf, still fixed on the pair. 

Frodo strained to hear them now, no doubt a result of Galadriel's magic fading, or perhaps an alteration of the spell. The rumours burst into his mind again -- perhaps it was for privacy.

"Of course I did not visit --" 

"Thousands of years in the dark, Galadriel --"

"And whose fault --"

Now he could believe them. Then, they stood in silence for a long moment, and when Galadriel spoke again, it was crystal clear to Frodo's ear, even as he could see his uncle surreptitiously straining forwards to hear as Gandalf kept a tight grip on the more troublesome halfling. 

"If this is the end, do we really want to spend it on another battlefield?" Her voice was soft, and achingly sad. 

"It would be fitting," Sauron replied, just as clearly to Frodo's ear. "But yes, I rather agree. This is not how we should spend the last of our time."

By the end of the statement, his voice was quiet and hoarse. Gandalf's eyes shut, and the wizard let out a sigh that contained centuries of tension. 

Sauron's sword also fell to the ground as he stared at Galadriel, something impossible in his eyes that Frodo simply refused to name. 

The last the hobbit saw of Galadriel was this: walking, off the last battlefield, in perfect step with the Dark Lord of Mordor, their weapons discarded.

[descendent-of-the-sixth-heaven]

*Rose closes her eyes and begins to chant in a foreign language. Somehow, Cherry can understand her even though she has never heard that language before. She can feel a slow surge of power awakening inside of her and at the same time, tears falling down on her cheeks. She can feel that Rose is trying to tell her something*

Blóði drifinn valköstur

(Blood-driven options)

Búndnir erú sóru eið,

(We are bound by a sworn oath,)

Bölvun hinna sviðnu vængja.

(The curse of these scorched wings.)

Þið finnið leið

(But you will find a way)

Frelsa munt þér

(You will be saved)

*Both men are witnessing Cherry slowly transforming into her Valkryie form*

*Kenshin was alert, he was ready to save cherry if she faced any problems, nobunaga was mesmerized by what he was witnessing*

[jirsen-blog]

DOPO četba: Proč a o kolik se zdraží od ledna elektřina? 5 otázek a odpovědí k regulovaným cenám energie v roce 2024

Ekonomický deník se přehledně věnuje připravovaným změnám v cenotvorbě pro elektrickou energii a plyn pro příští rok. V článku se podrobně věnuje otázkám ohledně rozsahu zvýšení regulované složky ceny elektřiny navrhované ze strany ERÚ, určení výše plateb za OZE, o kolik se zvýší platby za sítě a jakým způsobem se ve finále změní celková cena elektřiny a plynu pro koncové odběratele. Článek…

[youngerfrankenstein]

I tap the mic. “Melkor was a scapegoat for all the evils of Middle Earth and was ultimately an intentional Evil set upon the world by Erú.”

The crowd mutters. Someone calls out “You’re a damn idiot!”

There, in the third row, JRR Tolkien himself.

[lem0nshark-writes]

"Unexpected Mornings"

Thranduil x Male Reader

Type: Soft smut (?)

Word count: 1003

Warnings: technically a nb reader because no gender specific language was used but written with m!reader in mind :), elf reader, Thranduil being a FLIRT, Thranduil lowkey being a whore, maximum shameless flirting mode, nervous and awkward reader, not really a smut but I dunno what else to mark it, mostly it's leaning towards smutty themes XD so smut mark it is XD

Summary: You are Thranduil's personal assistant and have a major crush on him, and unknown to you it is very obvious and he knows.

A/N: Request by a lovely reader on wattpad.

My dudes sorry I didn't update for a while and it took me so long to get to my requests. I've kind of had a lot of bad things happen this past year and even more so this past couple of months and my mental health has gone down in that period but now I'm slowly getting back together and onto writing again so thank you very much for your patience and sticking with me! Also had a weird hyperfocus high happen this past 2 days and basically wrote 3 full oneshot requests within 24 hrs 😅 so expect more fics out these days once I get to edit them around and proofread them 😁

I hope you all have fun reading this little fic and have a great day!! 💕

You made your way down the tall halls of Mirkwood's palace, your robes flowing behind you as you took long strides through many corridors and turns, heading towards your king's chambers, hands tightly wrapped around a stack of papers.

See, you were king Thranduil's trusted personal assistant, always there whenever he needed it, doing everything and anything he asked and thus ended up high in his ranks. Second in command if you will, after Legolas that is.

You came to the tall doors of the entrance to his chambers, knocking quickly and not bothering waiting for a response, hurrying straight into the room, eyes glued to the papers nestled in your hands.

"Sir I have the papers you asked of me to find.." you hurriedly entered his room flipping through the papers to once again check and see whether you've brought all of them and if they were all in order, walking further into the room whilst doing so.

Finally looking up, to say you were shocked by what you saw would be and understatement. Cheeks shot up in warmth at the speed of light, placing a hand over your mouth and flushed cheeks and eyes and immediately stuttering, you quickly did an 180° turning around, eager to rush out of the room as fast as possible.

He was half naked, luxurious sleeping robes partially hanging draped down his arms and lower back, back fully naked and his smooth skin glistening in the morning light that creeped through the windows through the trees of the beautiful forest. Body partially facing you as he seemed quite unbothered by the state you caught him in, even seemed a tad bit amused.

"Oh my Erú I'm so sorry sir!! I should have knocked!" you mentally slapped yourself over and over again for your mistake, the image of Thranduil seeming to have left quite an impact on your mind, the picture not seeming to leave it whatsoever.

"I'm gonna get out and let you change-" you quickly made your way to the door, hurriedly trying to escape this hell of a situation.

Thranduil, staying quiet till now, smirks before speaking, amusement laced along his tone, "No please, help me out."

Hand on the handle you choked on air, trying to cough it out as casually as you could, hesistantly turning around before slowly making your way towards him, trying to avoid eye contact at all costs but feeling his teasing gaze all over you, not leaving your figure.

See Thranduil knew about your little secret, he knew you had a tiny little huge crush on him (and quite frankly he was fond of you too) and was 100% using it against you at all times, in a good way of course. Seeing just how much he could get you all flustered and bothered around him.

As you fumbled with his robes, suddlenly completely forgetting how clothes work, desperately avoiding eye contact and, well, staring at his perfect well toned body, Thranduil's piercing gaze burned holes into yours, so much it made small droplets of sweat trinkle your forehead and temples.

"You seem.. rather nervous darling Y/n, .. something on your mind?" he spoke as the corners of his lips upturned into a teasing smirk, tilting his head slightly to the side to get a better look at your face that you desperately tried to hide, thinking he doesn't have a clear visual of how nervous and flustered he made you.

"No, not at all sir-.." you pulled your lips into a thin line, eyes quickly darting over his clothes and your fiddling fingers, trying to get this over as soon as possible.

He humms, clearly letting you know he's not buying it as you finish up getting him all dressed up, "Do I make you nervous?" he asked with a smirk on his face, head still tilted slightly as his icy blue eyes pierced into yours, stepping in closer, your bodies now dangerously close to each other.

You tried not to bolt out of the room then and there, screaming internally but not moving an inch, frozen in your spot.

"S-Sir I-I.." you tried to mutter out but your tongue, and your mind too, being completely unable to form proper words let alone sentences.

"Hmm? What is it? What?" he spoke softly, dreamy gaze tracing all over your face, hand finding it's way into your long hair, fiddling with a strand playfully.

Your brain tried to process what was going on but you could swear it turned into a complete mush the moment you were in 1m radius of the beautiful king, and while you were trying to get your body to respond to your internal screetching, you failed to notice said king moving in closer, but the soft feeling of his lips on yours made sure you were brought back to reality.

Eyes darting wide open and brain working even faster it took you a bit to catch onto what was going on before you, without any thought made whatsoever, melted into the kiss, heat of the situation had your cheeks feeling like lava. But before you could completely turn into a steaming puddle in his hands he pulled away, soft smile on his lips.

"Is this what was on your mind?" He asked, tone voiced with amusement and slight smirk spreading on his face.

Your cheeks burst back into flames, "N-No!- Yes.." you looked down, slightly embarrassed by your apparently so obvious crush on him.

"Hm!" He let out, chuckling gently, amused by your answer.

He moved away from your still frozen form, fixing up his luscious hair before speaking, "Dinner tonight 8 pm, don't be late," he mused making his way to the exit door of his chambers with confident strike.

"Now lets go, we have lots of work to do!" he let out nonchalantly, hiding a smirk from your flustered self.

You quickly nodded, getting yourself out of your frozen state and quickly rushing to follow the tall man suit.

[liberte-news]

Češi umí neplýtvat. Spotřeba energií meziročně opět klesla

Výrazněji klesala v prvním pololetí spotřeba plynu. Celkově ho Češi spotřebovali 3,5 miliardy metru krychlových, což značí meziroční pokles o 7,9 procenta, sdělil ERÚ

EKONOMIKA – Výroba elektřiny v Česku v prvním pololetí meziročně klesla o 5,6 procenta na 36,1 terawatthodiny (TWh). Produkci oproti loňsku snížily téměř všechny tradiční zdroje, naopak výroba z fotovoltaik či větrných elektráren vzrostla. Největší množství elektrické energie i tak vyprodukovaly tradičně jaderné a parní elektrárny, a to dohromady 81 procent. Spolu s výrobou letos klesla i…

[lord-namo]

I Venë Kemen

(The Great Ship of Arda)

Nūme: West.

Oronto: East.

Valnir: Valinor (Valinórë).

I Nori Landa: The Great Lands (Middle Earth).

Layers of air

Vaitya: (or Vaita) the Walls of Night (Darkness, void ).

Ilwë: (or Silma or Ilma) The region above the sky. The air, than which it is thinner and more clear. Here only the stars and the Moon and the Sun can fly.

Vilna: [Vilnius=lower air] (or Wool or Vista) Aiwenórë (The land of birds). Wherein birds may fly and air clouds sail.

Sil: the Moon.

Ûr: the Sun.

Luvier: Clouds.

I Aldas: the two trees of Valinor.

Taniquetil: (or Oiolossë) The highest of the mountains of Pelóri and the tallest peak in Arda. On Oiolossë were the halls of Manwë and Varda.

1. Toros valinoriva: The Pelóri were the mountain-fence of Aman.

Harmalin: (later Arvalin) or Araman. The northern coastland of Aman, north of Valinor, that lay outside the mountain-fence of the Pelóri. It was deserted, mountainous and frozen because of its neighbouring with Helcaraxë.

2. Tolli Kimpelear : (likely referring to the Twilit Isles/ Twilight Islands).

On Tolli Kimpelear was The Tower of Pearl .

3. Tol Eressëa: A large island off the coast of Eldamar. Its name translates from Quenya as the Lonely Island.

4. I Tolli Kuruvar: Enchanted Islands (The Magic Isles).

Haloisi Velike: or Belegaer, or the Great Sea, or the Sundering Seas, or the Western Sea. Was the sea of Arda that was west of Middle-earth.

Ô: The Sea. The halls of Ossë.

5. Koivienéni: Cuiviénen.

Palisor : In Palisor lay the Waters of Awakening, where the Elves awoke.

Ulmonan : The halls of Ulmo. Located in the bottom of the outer water.

Uin: The Great Whale. Servant of Ulmo.

Vai: (or Neni Erúmear) The Outermost Waters.

[Neni= wet

Erú

Mëar=gore]

[vorbarrsultana]

It is a fantastic addition!

Melkor truly is one of the most black-and-white thinking characters in Legendarium. His logic is simple "if not A than B", and he does not want to recognize the complexity of Ëa.

However, I also believe, that a lot of "poor misunderstood Melkor" thinking comes from humanasing Erú and the Ainur by the fandom. The later were created by Ilúvatar and from their beginning were "attuned" to the moral system that is the basis for all of objective laws in Arda. They didn't need an explanation of what is bad and what is good, like children do. Sure, the Ainur were not the absolute good (only Erú is), but they understood the idea of it since their creation.

Also, it's very interesting to me how Melkor never felt pity and compassion, even though they were shown to him. Erú didn't destroy him, and believed that maybe redemption is possible by the grace Melkor's free will, Manwë still loved him and gave him a chance, but he himself took it for granted, never reflected on what it meant.

And it is very sad, how far cry Morgoth is from Ainulindalë Melkor, who at least didn't damage his nature so much yet and was able to feel at least shame.

Now I wanted to ask you, what is your take on Melkor? I mean, I love him, but as a villain, and back in 2015 I was really appalled by how the fandom tends to either romanticise him — when his actions are straightforward cruel and sadistic — or justify his cruel and sadistic actions, framing him as a fallen, misunderstood broken angel.

Glad you asked that! I always try to stay away from popular fandom takes on Melkor, because the most popular one is “poor misunderstood fallen angel”, and everyone (except Melkor himself) is blamed for his fall.

I think that the root of Melkor’s fall comes from his pride. Melkor is “he who arises in might”, Eru’s most powerful creation, and he wanted to create - to usurp the Creator’s place - without letting his creation to live freely, without his control.  As the result, after being denied that, he descended into desire to destroy Arda and the Children (and even his own creatures like Orcs, in the end, if he won).

“Thus, as ‘Morgoth’, when Melkor was confronted by the existence of other inhabitants of Arda, with other wills and intelligences, he was enraged by the mere fact of their existence, and his only notion of dealing with them was by physical force, or the fear of it. His sole ultimate object was their destruction”. (HoME, X)

So, I absolutely hate any attempts to see his motivation as anything but selfish. Even Sauron, in the end, was in some ways more “noble” (so to say) than Melkor, as he at least cared however little about the well-being of his human subjects. 

Melkor is always angry, so angry, that he can do nothing with Arda. He lies to himself that he can destroy everything, and his rage can bring the world down into utter chaos, and as a result of these desiresTolkien wrote this about Melkor:

“Hence his endeavour always to break wills and subordinate them to or absorb them into his own will and being, before destroying their bodies”. (HoME, X)

Anything good that had been left in him burned down to ashes long ago.

In the end, it is only fitting, that Melkor, who spent so much power into material of Arda to get unprecedented level of power over it, is reduced to:

“tyrant-king with conquered slaves, and vast obedient armies”. (HoME, X)

He no longer looks like an angelic being he was. Melkor became a fully-incarnate pathetic parody on himself, who is so afraid of losing his physical from. Melkor in the First Age is afraid of everything: Manwë, Varda, Tulkas, Fingolfin, Turgon, and Finrod… The list goes on. Also, it is curious, how Sauron at the end of the Third Age is portaryed as being of greater dignity compared to Melkor (this probably relates to “the shadows of good” in him, that he was able to keep for longer time).

I didn’t think much about Melkor’s personality, but in my imagination he is very imposing, controlling figure, that is also very emotional, quick to anger and unpredictable. He is also very petty and quick to take the offense, I think.

In the end, I think, Melkor is such a fascinating villain, because he looks like stereotypical evil dark overlord, and yet he is not.

[herenortherenearnorfar]

This Tornado Tolerates And Respects You

A little story about Gothmog and orcs that I’ll probably put on other sites later. But for now, a tumblr exclusive! CW for the terrible reproductive politics of evil (implied reproductive coercion, forced childbearing, light eugenics), orc awfulness, disdain for incarnates, radiation poisoning, chemical weapons, Fingon’s fate, mentions of cannibalism, malnourishment, ear cropping, and all of the above with the implied harm to children.

Orcs, Lord Melkor’s special pet project, a blasphemy first and a strategic asset second, didn’t make the best troops. They could swarm over a target in a useful mass of bodies but they lacked skill and drive. For the Captain of Angband’s own force of fire and shadow, spirits sprung free from the tyranny of the Valar, orcs were a sea of troublesome bodies, cluttering up the field of battle. More flesh to whip through, barbed wire quick, more lungs to choke with lime gas. An annoyance, not an ally.

He didn’t have very high expectations of them as a source of soldiers and there were very few individual orcs who he respected. Gorfaunt was one of those rare exceptions.

They’d fought on the same battlefield under the taunting stars, in those blissful days before the heavens changed, and he’d been impressed by the orc commanders ability to marshal troops. Very few in that division ended up trampled beneath Balrog feet. Even the retreat was prompt, almost orderly, without sacrificing that wild spirit which was one of the orcs’ few redeeming qualities.

When it came time to capture the stripling-king of the elves he’d requested Gorfaunt’s orcs in particular. Once again they’d proven their mettle and the commander had become of of the Captain’s favorites. If orcs had to be stationed next to their betters it was preferable that it be Gorfaunt’s orcs, who knew how to comport themselves and could fight near Balrogs without dying in droves.

Now with the latest glorious battle (and another successful collaboration, the Captain still glowed at the memory of the Noldor’s latest king cracking open to spill his red insides over his silver banner) behind them and Lord Melkor demanding Nargothrond and Gondolin, they met once a month to strategize, share intelligence, and complain about everyone else. To an outsider they might have passed as friends. There was less formality between the two of them than another high general of the iron fortress might have demanded, they sat at the same table and spoke freely.

(The Lieutenant still asked commanders to bow before him; that was why even his own troops called him Sauron behind his back. Gothmog was a superior appellation, less insulting, more fearful, but he still didn’t hasten to encourage its use.)

Despite their surface level amicability and the handful of tried-and-true inside jokes—mostly having to do with how enemies had died— they could bat at each other, they knew very little about each other’s lives. Meat and smoke only mixed when making a brisket, trying to relate two such different ways of being seemed impossible.

But when he saw Gorfaunt waddling into their monthly kvetch with a belly round and swollen like a tick’s, the Captain felt driven to say something. He was the marshal of Angband, he couldn’t let his king’s forces go to seed.

“Are you ill? Cursed?”

Gorfaunt managed to pull out a chair, made for a Balrog three times the size of an orc, and hoist themselves into it with rangy arms. “No? Just five months with a baby kicking around in my insides. The little bugger’s finally starting to show itself.”

That took a second to decipher. “You’re having a baby?”

Of course the Captain knew the basics of how incarnates made more of themselves. It was a topic of great fascination in the old days, when Yavanna was first figuring the system out, and of course the Lieutenant would prattle on about warg breeding to anyone who’d listen. They had sex— another thing that did not come naturally to beings of spirits, though some Maiar had made astounding progress in the field, for pleasure was pleasure and even Nienna’s acolytes sought catharsis and comfort—then there was lots of squishy biology on a level invisible to the incarnates themselves, then a little parasite was somehow blessed with Erú’s fire, to be nurtured until it could nurture itself.

He also knew that orcs, like elves and dwarves, had little distinction between men and womenfolk. Useful when it meant you could channel your entire adult population to battle. Startling when you realized that a key ally had been quietly pregnant for months without you, a greater being able to perceive stalactites growing and the scales on insect wings, noticing.

In truth he’d been doing a lot less noticing of late. His senses were dulling. Perhaps it was the light of the cursed gems, which painted everything in blinding, indistinguishable holiness. Or he was just losing his touch.

If he focused now he could see it. It was easiest to sense on the plane of wraiths. There was Gorfaunt, a guttering candle; wheezing, weak. All orcs had that fire, however dim. No one had managed to fully extinguish it though it had been much suppressed. Tucked against her, nearly imperceptible, was a little spark. Not much yet but given tinder and carefully fanned it could grow. “You’re having a baby,” he marveled.

Gorfaunt’s face was… orcs were hard to read at the best of times, bubbling over with noisy pain and anger that obscured their true emotions, prone to skin diseases and horrendous eye infections that muddled their expressions. She didn’t wear her gas mask around him anymore, though most were quick to cover up around any Maia of Morgoth. It helped little, her face was still opaque as the mountain itself. “Yep, Captain.”

“Good?” You congratulated an ally on a new weapon, a new bond, a promotion. Which one was an infant classified as? What was the correct form?

“Hopefully it’ll be over and the little goblin will be in the caves with the old’uns by the time we find either of the cities.” Gorfaunt provided, only barely contextualizing his felicitations. She was chewing on the inside on her cheek; sometimes she would gnaw until she spat black blood. “Terrible time for it. Terrible time. But the high ups are worried about reinforcements down the line, I suppose.”

Orcs came from orcs. It was a fact so simple it barely bore considering. Another department handled it. The new ones just showed up, springy and long limbed, faces still soft and unmarred. “Goblins” he’d heard older orcs call those fresh pale creatures. Barely even monsters, more like stunted, crepuscular versions of the elves and dwarves they fought.

“How much longer?” They had a few good leads on Nargothrond, a promising word about Túrin Turambar. The Captain could not sack that city himself, the honor had already been promised to the sulfurous worm. Apparently they wanted to test the mettle of these dragons. But Gothmog could assign a few good orc commanders to supervise, make sure the worm was not overstepping his bounds.

Dark blood trickled out of the corner of Gorfaunt’s mouth. “Five months, I’m told. Could be more, could be less. Then I have to wait until the thing is independent enough to leave alone, that’s another few months.” She was probably counting months as the orcs had started to, by the moon. Wretched traitor, Tilion, who’d laughed with them at the idea of running away then turned his face when the time came to flee for freedom. They hated it as much as everyone else but in their hatred they were aware of its cycles. They rejoiced when it went dark.

“You’ll still be able to manage your underlings?” Orcs, and freed Maiar, were fractious. They did not respect a leader who lacked the strength to force them to obey. It could be exhausting. And Gorfaunt was already so round. The Captain did not wish to lose her support over one orcling.

“I think so. So far… in old days you’d den up somewhere for a year, avoid everyone prowling for blood, but I don’t want to fight my way up the ranks again. I’ve got an ax and I’m using it.” Despite that she sounded tired.

Long heartbeats stretched between them, that exquisite embarrassment of two coworkers suddenly forced to talk about private affairs.

“This is your first,” the Captain didn’t reach the tone of a question with that one.

“Yes. The recruiters were getting growly so I grabbed a fellow. I’ve been avoiding it for too long.”

“You don’t want a child.” Again, not quite a question. He was feeling it out as he goes along. This is the longest conversation about orc reproduction he’s ever paid attention to, for the Lieutenants diatribes we’re always dull.

It was no matter to him, except that this was the only orc commander he could tolerate working with and she was chewing through her own cheek in discomfort.

“They take something from you,” Gorfaunt admitted. “Dame and sire both, but worse for the dame since she has to carry the clot. You go… stretchy. Bleached like old bone. I’ve seen soldiers and after twenty children they’re not good for anything but shoving onto a line of pikes. Raw meat for the wargs.”

That didn’t make sense to him, but he was never a scholar of flesh or spirit. He knew how a skull split and how a soul fled, how this matter-sprung life withered, how it died. That was all that counted. He also knew how to value a resource.

“There won’t be any after this,” he said firmly. “Not if you don’t want them.” If need be he’d escalate to Lord Melkor, frame it as sapping strength from their command structure and propose making officers off limits from breeding programmes.

“As you command, Captain,” she said with a bowed head, but she looked gratifyingly relieved, and their conversation could finally move on to the latest stories of occupied territories and the search for the hidden cities.

The next few months Gorfaunt somehow managed to get bigger and bigger, until she was no longer able to swing herself into a chair and had to take their meeting standing. Her leather armor no longer fit and with just a thin layer of rags over her distended stomach it was easy to see the squirming creature inside.

Ferocious little animal. It would go so still and then kick out again, as if it could burst free of its creator by force of will alone. The kernel of its mind was forming too, a hazy bubble of sensation and half formed emotion. He could see what had the Lieutenant fascinated. It wasn’t his field but it was morbidly interesting, seeing the shape of something new and moldable come together right in front of you.

But he had not been made a sculptor or a craftsman. He’d been born a wild thing, a tornado, a volcano, every disaster meant to fell cities, and though he had not known the words yet he’d sensed in his core, seen in glimpses in the song, that he was a creature of war. Like many other wild things—Ossë, the simpering coward tied up in Uinen’s tresses, excluded— he’d found his way to Melkor in the end. Oh, he’d idled for a time with Vána, heard Námo’s dolorous call, but it was Melkor who he came back to and Melkor who he picked in the end.

Melkor taught him so many more ways to be. The smoke, the blood, the screaming not in sorrow but in anger. He taught the others who came to him as well. In the Captain’s little squad alone there was one who learned the slaver’s whip and the threat of fire, one who learned the ooze of pus and malodorous air, one who came to appreciate the ravenings of rabid beasts. From the dragons in the treasure-caves to the cat in the kitchen to the vampires in the highest towers, they were all Melkor’s creations.

Gorfaunt, born and raised here in the shadow of his ancient power, was even more Melkor’s than most. This was how the Captain rationalized his continuing fondness for her as she weakened, his interest in her spawn. Works of the same maker might gravitate together. They could see parts of themselves in each other, the way he could once see himself in other Ëalar born of the same bit of song.

When Gorfaunt came in four months after their revelatory meeting with a sagging belly and a bundle nestled against her chest he was excited to finally see what had been made.

It took a bit of coaxing to get her to show him the baby but no orc would outright refuse an order from anyone stronger than them, they knew better than that. The newborn was dutifully unwrapped and presented, though Gorfaunt’s expression suggested that she considered this all a silly waste of time.

It was a rumpled wet creature; mostly skin and bones, with a cranium as big as its rounded torso. Small too, barely bigger than Gorfaunt’s hand, and Gorfaunt was smaller than all elves and many humans; based on overheard complaints failure to grow was an ongoing issue with their kind. When it was unswaddled sticklike limbs flailed out and began batting at the air ineffectually. Despite this wriggling its face remained in a sleepy scowl. It wasn’t until Gothmog moved one cherry-hot finger closer to it that it opened its hazy grey eyes and tried to focus on him. Even then the dismayed frown stayed put.

An unscarred orc was always an interesting sight; for it revealed the scale of their reworking. How much orcishness was self-replicating, as the Lieutenant liked to claim, and how much had to be beaten in? This one had a droopy brow bone and already peeling corpse-grey skin but it did not look much like an orc besides that. It even had hair, which most orcs lacked (aside from a few lank patches). The fine red down covered its whole body, thickest on the head and face and arms.

“It’s supposed to fall out,” Gorfaunt said, “Everyone says it’ll fall out soon. Even the prisoners lose their hair after a while, especially in the deep mines.”

That was probably because of the miasma of decay that emanated from the ores of Angband. Not macro-decay, of skin and bone (that came later) but the infitesimal decay. Every piece of metal— every piece of existence, when you got down to it— was made of little stars. There was a gaseous center of energy and little orbiting specks around that, spinning in probabilistic loops. Like stars some were bigger and some were smaller and some were ready to collapse. Ilmarë loved to speak of supernovas. The yellow and blue metals below the mountain were full of little stars collapsing, reforming, giving off energy in great sums as they did so.

The Captain had noted the negative effects of this energetic output on incarnates some time ago. Elves sickened and humans just died— Lord Melkor had moved the man he hoped would give him the location of Gondolin far from those mines for a reason. A few of the spirits with natures inclined towards metal, salt, and industry had already incorporated the burning energy into their signatures. The Lieutenant doubtless had some wicked little experiment running with it. It was a part of life here, that background hum of a trillion crumbling particles, and the Captain never thought of the effect on orcs, though they were exposed from birth.

Now that he focused he could see the little crumbs of decay glancing off the baby.

Hmm.

It would probably be fine.

It was already rubbing its eyes and going back to sleep, one hand curled next to a crumpled, not-yet-cropped ear.

“Are you recovered?” he asked Gorfaunt.

“I’m fit enough to fight,” she said shortly, defensively, as if afraid he’d snatch her command from her. “I’ll be better soon when this thing is gone.”

The Captain’s huge palm hovered over her infant. He knew better than to touch; his ability to change forms was not what it once was, he could not stop being a bipedal avalanche, to strong, too close, too dangerous. Even just containing the noxious gases— the pustulent yellow and choking green— simmering inside this war shaped body was difficult. If he kept a few feet distance the chaotic heat of his skin faded into the air and the baby wriggled contentedly in the ambient glow, like a little lizard.

“And how long will that be?”

Gorfaunt’s hand twitched. Another few months, till it can manage worm meal and listen to the grands.”

It seemed impossible that anything could be big enough to leave alone in such a short time; but incarnation was not the Captain’s specialty. “And that’s the accepted practice?”

“A little young, but safe now that the master put a stop to the baby eating problem.”

“I wouldn’t want it to be a concern,” the Captain said very seriously, even though his fingers curled slightly around the baby’s limp body. “We can make modifications if the child must stay longer.”

Gorfaunt glanced down at her sprawled offspring. “I don’t— I don’t want this to last any longer. I’d rather have my life go back to normal.”

That, at least, he could understand. It has been a rather troubling experience overall. Revelations are not always useful and though he’s gained some knowledge it’s not very practical stuff.

“One more question, commander, then I’ll drop the matter. What is it named??”

That nascent mind bubble had sharpened with time and experience but was still comprised mostly of sensation. He could not even grasp at a basic sense of self. The child’s mother should know what if calls itself, if anyone did.

(He wanted to remember the name, for forty years from now, when he needed more good orcs. All those rants about the fundamentals of inheritance left him with some ideas about how incarnates develop traits. Another Gorfaunt would be a helpful tool to have on hand.)

The question left Gorfaunt unimpressed. “It doesn’t name itself anything yet, it hasn’t got the common sense. And no one’s given it a name because it hasn’t done anything interesting.”

“It has an interesting look” the Captain pointed out, “Tell them to call it Red Cap,” he slipped into the elf tongue, which had better color words than the one the Lieutenant devised, and in the process accidentally named the child after a former king of the Noldor. “Or something like that.”

Gorfaunt apparently had a better memory for politics than he gave her credit for, or perhaps just a distaste for the elf cant, because she quickly translated it back into Angband’s crackly tongue . “Rotbint.”

“Yes.” A Balrog, even the chief of Balrogs, could not give much to something so soft and incarnadine. A name, incorporeal, existing in the plane the Captain knew best, was the only thing he could offer. “Now, to business?”

Gorfaunt wrapped the little creature away— it woke halfway through the rolling to stare at them once more— then tucked it against her chest.

The Captain was sad to see it go, though he couldn’t say why.

He remembered that he had come to this physical world for a reason once. He had wanted to see all there was to see, to feel and taste everything, chew chunks of Arda up and spit it out new. Disasters hungered as much as anyone. Yet all he’d had lately was war fare; blood-soaked mud and rage-tinged fear.

Deprived of fresh experiences, he clung to the potential, the novelty, of new life.

Perhaps Gondolin would see him out of his funk, he thought. It couldn’t hide forever.

“We’ll find it, Captain,” Gorfaunt assured him stubbornly. “And we’ll tear it down brick by brick, raze their gardens, fill their streets with blood.”

Even with a baby trying to gum her collarbone her firm tone allowed no questions.

Orcs were, as a rule, bothersome, unruly, walking corpses. Fractious, ugly, difficult, bothersome, recklessly stupid. The Maiar serving under the Captain were sometimes stereotyped as simpleminded brutes but at least they were able to perceive the world around them, even if few bothered to use that perception. In comparison orcs were stumbling around in the dark. They were inefficient as well, you needed three of them to take down any decent enemy. But when they were well made they were well made. Those were the ones that made it all worth it.

It had to be worth it. This was freedom, after all.

[solnunquamoccidit]

PLANTA DE LA MUY YLUSTRE CIUDAD DE LOS REYES CORTE DEL REINO DEL PERÚ

by Bernardo Clemente Príncipe ink on parchment, 1674

Library of Congress

[lastvegashq]

𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐀 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐃𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐀𝐒.

¡buenas tardes, corazones! queremos agradecerles, primero que nada, por todo el apoyo que nos han dado en este regreso. estamos muy felices de estar por estos lares otra vez y revivir viejas memorias así como también de hacer muchas nuevas, es por ello que hemos fijado la fecha de apertura de reservas para el día de mañana, domingo 3 de enero.  pasaremos a dejar algunas indicaciones acá abajo, mas si surge alguna duda, estaremos más que contentas de recibirles en el buzón o por im. ¡abrazos! 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐒:

méxico: 12:00.

colombia, perú, ecuador: 13:00.

bolivia, venezuela: 14:00.

chile, argentina, paraguay, uruguay: 15:00.

españa: 19:00.

𝐀 𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐍 𝐂𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀:

a partir del día de mañana a la hora estipulada, todos los cupos estarán disponibles para todes. ¿qué quiere decir? que si desean traer un personaje de la edición anterior, tendrán hasta el día mañana antes de la apertura general para hacerlo con la pequeña ventaja que otorgamos, de modo contrario, se enfrentan a la posibilidad de perder el cupo y/o el rostro.  

de igual manera, decidimos que estaremos permitiendo el ingreso de personajes de la edición previa en todo momento del grupal. claro, en tanto el cupo esté disponible.

en un primer momento se podrá reservar dos (2) personajes. el formato de reserva será el siguiente: cupo + rostro + cupo de trabajo (opcional) + seudónimo. se podrán enviar opciones alternativas tanto para el cupo como para el rostro.

recibiremos reservas únicamente de blogs activos, ninguna por anónimo. será posible reservar a nombre de terceros en un mismo ask. la persona deberá confirmar la reserva en un total de doce (12) horas.

será necesario esperar a que publiquemos un anuncio previo a mandar su reserva. cualquier ask que llegue antes de éste no será tomado en cuenta.

𝐚𝐝𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐨́𝐧.

[enter-witty-remark]

Túrin: do you have any idea how much worse everything would be if I was immortal

Orodreth:

Túrin: thought so

Orodreth: Your only fault is that you are mortal.

Túrin: With all due respect, that is my only virtue.

[jirsen-blog]

Návrh cenového rozhodnutí, kterým se mění cenové rozhodnutí ERÚ č. 11/2022, kterým se stanovuje podpora pro podporované zdroje energie pro rok 2023

Návrh cenového rozhodnutí, kterým se mění cenové rozhodnutí ERÚ č. 11/2022, kterým se stanovuje podpora pro podporované zdroje energie pro rok 2023

Ministerstvo průmyslu a obchodu (dále jen “ministerstvo”) informovalo ERÚ dne 08.12.2022 o výsledcích procesu ověřování přiměřenosti poskytované podpory podle zákona o POZE ve vztahu k schválenému nařízení vlády č. 300/2022 Sb., o stanovení hodnot vnitřního výnosového procenta investic pro jednotlivé druhy obnovitelných zdrojů energie (dále jen nařízení). Z dosud provedených sektorových šetření…