#escape the orc raid

[pursuitseternal]

Behold, my fic charcuterie board for today….

I’ve been bouncing between works today. I cannot wait to share. Enjoy a small sampling from today’s fruits of my labor…

From “Touch the Darkness:”

At first, Sauron thought him weak hearted at the mild rumbling of the volcano, but then, he sensed the shadows, his ears hearing the labored breathing beyond the trees. “Orcs,” Celebrimbor mouthed as his eyes trained deep into the brush.

A growl came from the back of Sauron’s throat, his hand reaching immediately behind him for Galadriel’s body, and his grip clutched tightly at her arm. His magic thrummed through her, filling her with that pressure and smoke, “I can hear their hushed commands, their black speech meant for only their ears.” He grimaced at the fools who would forget their master that gave them that tongue. They would die before they were reminded.

“They are after the Queen,” he pushed his presence deep into both elves beside him, Celebrimbor’s eyes growing instantly wider at the intrusion and the rush of magic. But the king only continued. “Are your soldiers good fighters?”

“Good enough for an Orc raid and more,” the elf nodded his head along with his thoughts. “Take Galadriel to safety, my lord. You have found the first of your allies with me.”

With that, in the dim and greying light, they each scattering over the slopes of Oroduìn. Drawing his blade, Celebrimbor and his warriors charged into the treeline, cutting off the ambush in the shadows that they sought as cover.

“I can fight,” Galadriel hissed, her anger and frustration crashing into her king with icy power.

“You are stubborn, my Elf,” he sneered aloud before giving a low whistle to his steed. “You are beyond value to me, and I will do whatever necessary to protect you, now. Even if I have to carry you on my shoulder, throw you over Burzum’s back and ride you into the castle.”

Galadriel froze in silent rage.

“Very well, it is as you wish,” his sneer drew more twisted into that gut-dropping smirk of his. “But you should know I will take far more delight in it this way.”

A moment before she could confirm his sultry words, he did as he said. Heaving her atop his shoulders he was ready to set her gently on his tall destrier the moment it obeyed his command. Sauron spared no moment to kick his horse forward, away from the fighting and into the brightest patches of fading sun.

As they rode, she melted into him. She knew he was right. The child within her drained her energy, tapping on both their magics as it grew. But more importantly, her life was no longer just her own again. The rhythm of the warhorse’s canter swayed her hard against his chest, and she curled into him for warmth against the whipping near-winter air. That stubble of his face scratched at her ear as he bent his head to whisper, “I am not one to keep my mighty commander from a fight, but you cannot forget just how precious you have become to me. Never in a thousand ages would I find one to replace you.” He placed a halting kiss on her temple as they lurched across the plains, Barad-Dûr growing closer with each moment. Then he whispered it again. “Far, far too precious.”

From “Dark Wolf of the Woods:”

Magic seeped from him, already almost reduced to nothing, it would be so easy to let the warm dark settle around him at last.

To just shed the form that trapped him.

Eyes fluttered shut as two soft hands lifted his heavy head. One of his last breaths escaped as a whine, pitiful even to his own ears. His neck wounds soured, his haunch still weeping blood. Too much blood.

Suddenly, something stung on his hip, something slick and sticky heating right on the seeping gash that was killing him. “Hush now,” Galadriel soothed him, her fingers gingerly pressing some fragrant paste into his open wound. “Thank you for ending him,” her voice floated through the mists that clouded his mind, unable yet to open his eyes. Strength depleting so rapidly, she but only slowed his life draining from him with her healing. Ignoring his approaching death, that infernal She-elf just kept talking. “I would like to say that you saved me, but I think we both know, cast-off servant of the Dark One, I would have made quick work of him myself.”

Great, he sneered in foul humor. It would have been nice at least to die in this form having done something worth remembering. But, alas, even his faint attempts at heroics failed, just as pitifully as his attempts to be the enemy.

Not a villain; not a hero. And yet she remained blissfully unaware that he was dying.

His lungs grew dry, his breaths shallow and rattling. And all the while she tended his wounds, her fingers now pressing that stenching paste into the soured bite marks at his neck. At the least, he could die with one last glimpse of that ethereal face and that glowing, beautiful hair.

[ameliathornromance]

A Whole New World - Short Orc Romance

- When your Orc found you, you were in your Church with your other sisters of the cloth.

- They all prayed to the Gods.

- Gods that they wished would come, strike down these beasts who threatened your lives.

- The Church doors were difficult to get open, but your Orc did it. The doors burst off the hinges, crashed into the pews.

-Your sisters all took off running, leaving you behind.

- You tried to follow, but ended up tripping over your robes, falling on your front.

- Your Orc stormed towards you.

- You try to scramble away, desperate to escape your oncoming death, but it was no use.

- He was too big, too quick.

- You close your eyes, expecting a bludgeoning with that horrifying club he had clutched in his hand. You raise your hands above your head and cower for your life.

- Any moment now, any second now, he is going to bring that club down on your head.

- But nothing came.

“They left you.”

You squint open your eyes. Between your arms, you stare at him. His expression pained, his endless black eyes staring at you with… sympathy? You couldn’t understand what you were seeing; An orc, sympathetic?

The club slips from his hand, landing on the floor with a loud thud. Stooping to one knee, he bends down to your height. “Those who you called sisters have abandoned you.”

You dare to look around. Hoping to see a sister who was hiding behind the altar, a pillar, or anywhere. With some kind of weapon in hand, anything to help you get out of this situation alive. But it was barren. Empty of any kind of life whom had been begging for salvation.

He was right. They had. “To escape you, you who would kill me for praying for your death.” You hiss back at him. You didn’t dare believe him, wanted to retreat back into the collective opinion about Orcs. But it was too obvious to ignore his logic.

The words were harsh and sharp, the Orc did not flinch. “And who is here for you, now that I have come to take the lives of your people? Your Gods? Who you pray to, but have done nothing to protect you or your people from the raid of my brethren? Did not even force a fellow sister to stay and share in your fate, so that you would not have to go into the night alone?”

The words rang through you like the Church bell at the top of the steeple. Rooted you to the ground, the world you had built to protect yourself from the truth, crashed and burned. You couldn’t deny that he was wrong. Your so-called ‘sisters’ had abandoned you. Left you here at the mercy of this monster, not one of them had turned to try and help you back up.

A sigh escapes the Orc. “In our ranks,” he says, “we do not abandon our own.” The hand that held the club outstretches toward you. “Come. No one deserves to left alone.”

Anger had risen, spiteful and raging within your very soul. At that moment, as much as you didn’t want to admit it, the Orc was right. Your mind drifts back to what the Church had taught you about them, the Orcs. That they were monsters, born from the core of the Earth. Where Magma bubbled and boiled, where nothing should be able to survive. How your Church commanded that your sisters swear loyalty to one another. To protect each other and Holy Ground from defamation of the filth that rose from the Earth. To do it together. To die together, if it came to it.

The Gods had abandoned you and your sisters had left you. You gave your life for Gods who did not care.

This Orc, monster of the deep Earth, had shown you more decency in that moment. Than Gods or humans had done in the time you had been at the Church. Spite riddles through you. You take his calloused, rough hand.

- Travelling in an Orc caravan was not easy. They were loud, smelly and stupid. All except the Orc who had come for you.

- He was quiet, preferred to watch his others fight, drink and be rowdy with one another.

- At first, the rest of the group had ostracised you. “Humans are no good.” They would snarl. “Weak and useless.” But, after repairing a few of their clothes and cooking meals, they warmed up to you.

- They were kind to you... In their own way. Like the time when they left a whole dead sheeps’ carcass in your tent. The note left with it read: “For dinner this eve. Make or else.” Panicked, you went to find your Orc friend, who explained that this wasn't a threat. Far from it, as a matter of fact.

- They spoke to you that way because they spoke to their own like that.

- "My bretheren see you as one of us now." Rovi - the name of your Orc friend - explained.

“They’re quite the group.” You observe. You had thrown out your robes as soon as you could and replaced them with something that was far from Holy. Trousers and tunic that you had sewed together yourself and hair let down to your waist.

“Indeed.” Rovi agrees. He slurps the rest of the soup from his bowl. Fire crackles in the fire pit, the nights sky blankets the whole group of Orcs who proceed to play fight and snarl. This was apparently, a common pass time for Orcs, who beat the living snot out of each other as a show of comradery. “They will never hurt each other though.” Rovi assures you, putting the bowl beside himself. “We do not do that, unlike humans who abandon their own, kill their friends and steal for survival.”

You did not judge his impression of humans. Surely, you’d feel the same way too if a bunch of humans started chasing after you, desperate for your head. One thing, you could not understand for the life of you, was why Rovi had taken you in. Despite his obvious dislike for humans, he still offered you a place in his camp. Maybe It was as simple as he said: “No one deserves to left alone.”

Biting your lip, you tell him, “thank you for inviting me into your camp.” You meant it. If it weren’t for him, you would still be slaving away for Gods who had no interest in you.

Your Orc huffs, “better than being with humans who abandon their own.” He looks away from you. Back to the jeering crowd of his fellows, watching them clasp each others hands and pat each other on the back. A show of congratulations on a good fight.

- Your romance with him started when there was when you returned to your own tent.

- On your bed, was a small pouch of gold.

- Being in an Orc camp, you observed their customs and cultures. Often, when courting others, they would leave a small bag of gold in their crushes living quarters. A sweet, but simple gesture. Orcs loved their gold, even if they did not flaunt it. To do so was, frowned upon and compared to the Lords who wore those stupid puffy trousers and powdered tall wigs.

- You did not know who the pouch had come from, but you immediately thought that your Orc friend had been the one to do it. But you had to double check. And so you would gauge his reaction to it.

“Look!” You rushed over to him. Waving the bag of gold up to him, you beamed, “someone likes me! I found it on my bed when I got back from washing in the river!”

Rovi, returning from a hunt and carrying a, poor dead stag on his back, looked at you, then the open bag, gold glittering in the sunlight. “Was there a note?” He asked you, dropping it to the ground.

The rest of the hunting party grumbled annoyances at him, dragging the meat away. Rovi ignored them.

“No, there was just this bag. I wonder who it could be!” Your eyes dart across the camp, looking to the cooks, who were now busy skinning the stag, to other Orcs who were busy tending to a fire and talking in their mother tongue and to those who were busy trying to read from tiny human books they stole from villages.

“Best not to think about it,” Your Orc mutters. “Small pouch of gold like that? They can’t be that interested in you.” And with that, he lumbers off.

You frown. You thought for sure it would be him. His reaction made your heart sink in your chest. Sighing, you walk back to your tent, tossing the small bag onto your desk and clambering onto your bed. You sigh. If it was not him, then who could it be?

Unfortunately, you had noted that there was a fair amount of guess work that had to happen when it came to this as well. Usually, it went over well – the admired knew who their admirer was, and they got together. But, in rare instances, where the admired got their guess wrong: The admirer would challenge the guessed person to combat and they would fight. Not a play fight. An actual battle.

It was rare, but not rare enough to avoid being discussed by the rest of the camp. You had never seen one yourself, and if you could, you’d like to avoid it at all costs. You like everyone in the camp, care about them all , you didn’t want anyone to get hurt. One had to assume, that if two Orcs vied for the same person... You didn't want to think about that.

- You had thought long and hard about who it could be. You had become close with everyone in the camp, it wasn’t like there was anyone who stuck out to you.

- Truth be told, disappointment stirred in your gut.

- You had hoped that it would Rovi who had been the one to give you that pouch. He was kind and caring, even if he was a bit rough around the edges. He gave you a whole new life, it seemed almost right that you would fall for him. After he was able to show you the rest of the world, when you may have stayed with the Church for the rest of your days.

- The next day, you went to go and do what you had to do by the river, coming back to your tent and your jaw dropping.

A pouch – you couldn’t even call it that – a sack full of gold had spilled out onto the floor in your tent. You wondered if you’d gone mad. Startling you, a cheer erupted from outside your tent. What the Hell is going on?!

You ran out and into the main area, where a ring of tall, hulking Orcs had formed. You stood on tip-toes, jumped to try and get a look at the brawl that had just started, but had to resolve to pushing your way through the rambunctious crowd. Once the other Orcs realize who it was trying to get through, they bark at their others: “Get out of the way! Let (Y/N) through! It about her after all!”

About you? More desperate now, you finally found your way to the edge of the ring just in time to see Rovi swing a right hook, directly into the jaw of his other. The other Orc goes flying, his landing in front of you sent shudders through the floor. You recognise him immediately as Barrow, a chef who you often spent time with in the kitchens. He was an Orc of very little brains, but he made a mean rabbit stew. He made some inappropriate jokes to you occasionally, but apart from that, he kept mostly to himself.

“That’s all you offer?!” Rovi roars, “pathetic!”

Barrow was out cold, your Orc friend’s chest heaving up and down. “What’s going on?!” You shout over the jeering Orc crowd.

Rovi’s face, goes from a furious, angry scowl, to soft at the sight of you. Rather harshly, he kicks Barrow out of the way and kneels down to your height. “I’m afraid I haven’t been up front with you,” he begins.

The rest of the Orcs are still watching, but now quiet. Your ears rang with the silence, so used to their loud and obnoxious shouting that it was unsettling to hear silence.

“I know that humans are more upfront with their courting practices so allow me to conform to your culture… And I couldn’t allow Barrow to offer you something so insignificant and small as one pouch of gold… So... Would you be mine, (Y/N)?”

Stunned into silence, you bit your lip. Smiling, you ask, “so the extra large sack of gold was you?”

Rovi grumbles and looks away from, a small dusting tinge dusting his orc green cheeks. “Well, I had to do something…” He mumbles. “I had to do something to show you I am superior… if this one hadn’t beaten me to it.” He shoots another dirty look at Barrow, who seems to have awoken in a daze. “The combat was necessary to tell him to back off.”

“I think the gold was more than enough.” You wrap your arms around his muscular shoulders and pull him close. “Thank you for everything, Rovi.”

He freezes for a moment and then returns your gesture, holding you tenderly in that moment. The both of you don’t even hear the crowd of Orcs erupting with cheers and shouts of happiness.

It’s just the two of you. And that’s all that matters in that moment.

[samalong1]

Yandere Orc Gurren headcanons pt 1

Tw

Breeding mentions

Kidnapping

And murder

Mentions of nsfw

You lived in a small village so far away from the capitol that the king's laws and protection rarely touched your town, afterall why bother if monsters raid your village, by the time knights arrive they'd be long gone.

Because of this your village was poor which in its own twisted way caused less raids, you average gremlin clan would rather hit one of the fancy villages instead of one where at most you can get a few sheep and maybe some grain.

But lately whenever gaurds or suppliers do arrive you hear gossip, gossip of a clan of orcs tearing through towns, killing any civilian so they can make the kingdom their own.

The whole village was on edge. Kids were no longer allowed to go outside past early noon, a curfew was issued fir the whole town, and some braze folks hid weopons, although it's almost impossible then to kill a orc even more so one in a clan, since if you managed to stab one another one would simply snap your neck. Guess it was just to show some sort of resistance

Luckily you were too busy making deliveries for your shoe maker dad.

You were lucky, oblivious to the extent rarely hearing the gossip.

When you got back from a unusually long trip you were confused upon seeing a crowd

As you ushered to the front to see what was happening.

A clan of orcs making demands, not just simple ones but enough of your crops and animals that the village would starve in the winter. But if the village refused they'd be slaughtered.

You stared at what you assumed was the leader

He was Big

Even bigger than the orcs next to him, with his giant muscles, his hands were bigger then your whole head!

You soon regretted staring when his gaze shifted to you

Gurren stared at the small plump woman

Her terrified wide eyes, her soft body, and her breeding hips made his breath hitch

So when the village refused his demands he coudnt help but grab you as he burnt your village to the ground

Your scream and sobs were music to his ears

"Bag anything useful" he said still holding you over his shoulder like a sack of meat

You were soon thrown over his horse as he mounted it. He made sure his horse ran like the wind so you coudnt escape without being launched off onto the tough forest ground.

He was going to enjoy you already imagining what you'd look like waiting inside his dwelling for him to come home from his hunts, God the thought of you welcoming him home while being swollen with his children, a baby orc in your arms he wanted them to have your eyes.

He was drooling and some of that drool fell on you to your disgust

Soon he arrived at the campsite

"Tonight we celebrate Borg start a fire and pour the drinks*

Orcs were loud

You were stuck on the leader's lap as they all shouted and drank beer

It was pretty obscene sometimes the leader who you overheard being called Gurren would swing his cup and spill beer over you

"Watcha naming the pretty thing" one laughed before drinking again

You were loosing your name, the last thing that attached you to your now ruined village

He seemed to be thinking even rubbing his chin "hmmmmm y/n yea yea y/n nice pretty name for a pretty small thing" he slurred seeming to get drunkened

God what was in that beer to make a orc that big get drunk

He stared at you soon chuckling "hehe God your gonna be the perfect little mate so pretty" he cooed gently petting your head

You blushed as he showered you with compliments soon nuzzling into you as his beard scratched your neck

God you felt like you had carpet burn on your neck

Soon you were carried bridal style to his tent

With him being drunk you had a hope of escaping

Thst was until you had a giant orc laying ontop of you head resting on your boobs like they were the best pillows

Was he purring?????

The giant orc leader was purring like a cat

@ofallthingsnasty

[animatorweirdo]

World of the Tainted

You wake up to a world where Morgoth had tainted the elves into something worse. You decide to journey toward the east where you might be safe. However, you end up getting hunted by your former lover and his brothers. Will you escape and survive? Or will you be caught and possibly suffer a fate worse than death?

Fearie AU

(Author note: I was inspired by my friend's @lamemaster 's latest fics. This is an AU version of my The Heart of Autumn. Bonus points if you recognize who the two birds are. )

Warnings: dark things, violence, getting hunted, getting bitten and wounded, mentions of possible rabies, angst, and reader not having a great time.

----------------------------------------

When you broke free from the ice and walked out of that cave, you immediately knew something was off. The land around you seemed normal at first glance, but something in the back of your mind was telling you that something was not right. Your suspicion became more evident when you decided to try to find a settlement and you walked through the woods. 

The trees and the wildlife around you seemed more wild than usual. All kinds of plants grew around the roots in good health which was unusual since Morgoth’s influence in the north did not usually allow such abundance. Then there were the animals. They did not seem afraid of you when they saw you. They just stood there and watched as you walked past them. It was enough to send creeps through your spine. You had once read a survival book on how to avoid supernaturals and one rule told you that if you ever felt like you were being watched then you needed to leave the area, so you walked out of those woods faster than ever because it felt like you were being watched by everything. 

You then came across an abandoned human town. By the worn-down woods and the structures that had suffered from the exposure of elements, you could conclude the town had been abandoned for longer than a decade. It was strange as there were no signs of fighting so nothing raided the town which meant the original residents left by their own will. Now one question remains--- what made them leave? 

You scavenged whatever useful items you could get and continued your journey toward the west. More questions arose when you found more abandoned human settlements and the world around you became more unnerving. During nights, you hear strange sounds and notice shadows moving in the darkness. You didn’t dare to set up a fire and used one of the old camping techniques you learned from Camilla’s family, which was finding a sturdy and tall enough tree to sleep and stay safe from whatever lurked in the darkness. 

When you found your way to what seemed to be an elven port city, you were left unsettled as it was abandoned too— there was not a soul in sight. It left you with questions you couldn’t answer. What happened? Where was everyone? 

You stayed in the city for a day, using the abandoned fishing equipment to catch some fish to feed yourself. With luck, you managed to find some maps and other useful gear. You decided to try your luck with the nearest dwarf city. If even the dwarves had abandoned their underground homes, then there wasn’t a single soul left in Beleriand. 

Following the map, you traveled to the mountain where the dwarven city was located, and to your relief, it was not abandoned like all the other places. The dwarves seemed surprised to see you but did not deny entry. They allowed you to stay and told you everything that had happened over the past decades. 

Morgoth had been defeated and forced into hiding. However, before his defeat, he did something that caused the magic of the world to become untamed, tainting the elves. The taint turned them into something so sinister that even Morgoth became terrified of them, going into forever hiding. Their once bright nature turned them more prone to evil and their beauty combined with the world around them. They hunted down the orcs to extinction and even humans were not safe from them. The humans fled to the east, even far away to Rhun where the tainted elves did not follow them. Some of the untainted elves tried to escape the taint by sailing west, and not a single thing was heard of them since. The dwarves refused to leave their mountain homes. The tainted elves lacked interest in the dwarves thus they were relatively safe from their twisted nature. Some dwarves decided to continue dealing with these elves as they shared a love for gold and jewels, while some were forced to fight them.

Their description made you think of the faeries, or faes for short, one of the most dangerous types of fairies in your world. Now that you have thought about your experience so far, the state of the world and the woods made more sense to you. 

The dwarves shared they hadn’t seen a human for many years and marveled how you managed to survive without being ensnared by the tainted elves. You were most likely lucky because you would have fallen into a trap now that you knew the elves had become something like the faeries. 

Most of the elves who dwelled near the shores had fled to the west or whatever islands they could find, so their fates were uncertain. The Sindar had become one with their woods, so they mostly stayed in their forest. However, the Noldor were most affected by the taint becoming twisted rulers of the north, filled with lust for blood and other things unimaginable. The Feanorians had become hunters who hunted down anyone who dared to cross their lands. 

You did not want to imagine your Maglor as a bloodthirsty hunter, but since the world had changed, you decided to believe what the dwarves said. It only made you more worried about what became of Camilla. There was a chance that she fled when things began to go wrong. But what if they did something to her before she could do so? 

The dwarves said you should leave Beleriand, go to the east, and reunite with your kin in Rhun. Since you were a human, Beleriand was now the most dangerous place for you. You considered their words and decided that it was for the best. The faeries of your world adapted to your world’s society, but their tricky nature still made them dangerous as they sometimes twisted the rules and found loopholes to do what they wanted. If the elves became anything like them, you did not want to take any chances. 

You stayed with the dwarves for a few days, reading everything they had on the now-tainted elves and learning all the necessary tricks you needed to avoid them. It had been forever since you did such research but it was better to be ready than sorry. The dwarves provided you with some supplies and items in case you encountered tainted elves. They showed you safe routes you could use and you managed to plan out your path. They gave you a pony and once you were set, you bid them farewell and a thank you for their hospitality. They wished you good luck and hoped Aule would look out for your safety. You will need it because if you got caught, then there was a high chance you would suffer a fate worse than death. 

You were nervous but kept up a calm head as you started your journey. 

You first came to pass the great woods of Doriath. The place looked more ominous than last time, so you could only wonder what it was like in Menegroth. You thought about Luthien and her family. You hoped they were safe even though it had been years. If things weren't so serious, you would have entertained the idea of visiting them, but since it was not safe for you, you left the idea.

You heard voices coming from the woods and realized it must have been elves singing. You knew the elves’s singing could cause you to follow them or get enchanted and one way to prevent that is to sing a catchy tone to distract them. So, you started singing one catchy travel song you knew. The singing stopped. It was a good sign but just to be sure, you continued singing until you passed the woods.

You came across a small lake and saw what seemed to be a white long-tailed duck and a cooper’s hawk. An odd pair, but not just as odd as the hawk being in a color of purple and pink. They observed you with keen caution and you looked at them back. They must be some kind of faes, so you kept caution as you rode past them. Oddly enough, there was something familiar about them. 

The ride went smoothly despite the oddities. You then continued toward Ossiriand. Due to the feanorians’ influence over the north, you decided not to risk using the road across the blue mountains because it would force you to go to their lands. However, you did need to be cautious since Ossiriand was known to be home to some elf groups. 

All seemed well, but your luck seemed to have run out as one coming night, you heard the dreadful sound of a hunting horn. The dwarves warned you about the feanorians playing their horn as it was a sign that they were nearby and on a hunt. However, hearing the horn made even the wendigo feel weary which was not a good sign. 

There would be no way to outrun them if they caught track of you, and having met Celegorm, you did all you could to hide your tracks. You released the pony, taking her gear and wishing her good luck. You felt relieved that you didn’t decide to set up a fire and once all tracks were hidden and the pony was gone, you hid yourself and all your items beneath a small cave that had running water. One way to hide any scents and sounds was to be near running water. You then listened when you heard horses coming to your former campsite. 

You heard them talk in their language. You flinched as the Quenya came out of their lips like whispers and hisses like a snake. You recognized the voices of Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir as they looked through your camp. You counted them through the sound of the hooves and voices. One, three, four, five, and six. You counted six riders. Where was the seventh? Which brother was missing? 

Celegorm found tracks of your pony and you could nearly feel the thrill of a hunt in his voice. It was enough to send shivers down your spine. You didn’t get along with him before since he was a bit of an asshole, but now he sounded like a psychotic killer. You did not want to imagine what he would do if he knew you were there. 

They decided to go after your pony’s tracks. You sensed through the earth as the thundering hooves galloped away and you counted that all six of them left. You quietly released a breath of relief and prayed for your pony’s sake. 

You waited till the morning before continuing your journey on foot. If Maglor and his brothers were anything like the faeries of your world, then daytime should provide you some safety and time to travel. Faeries usually allowed their twisted nature to flourish when it was dark. 

Walking through the land was tiring, but you forced yourself to continue. You stopped for a moment to take a drink from your bottle. It allowed you to notice the purple hawk and the white long-tailed duck from Doriath sitting on a tree, observing you. They were together and seeing them there made you feel odd. 

However, since their appearance did not alert the feanorians on you, you concluded they were not there to rat you out. You continued your walk after your break. 

After an hour or two, you tried to find your way to one of Ossiriands great rivers, but for some reason, you were walking in circles. The day was also hot as hell and you soon realized that most of your water was gone. You settled beside a river, concluding it was clean and attempting to fill your bottle with it. But then, the white long-tailed duck showed up, quacking and flapping its wings at you. 

“What do you want?” You asked, confused as it was stopping you from taking the water. 

You then heard what seemed to be soft humming. You looked around as there was no one yet the voice seemed to be trying to lure you to the water. You soon realized why the duck stopped you and quietly stepped back into the woods. Despite your heart being compelled to return and follow the voice, you ran as fast as you could away from the river. 

One of the positive perks of being cursed with a supernatural spirit was that it made you immune to other supernatural beings. Something like a siren lurked in those waters and that duck just saved you. 

When you noticed you came back to another circle, you took out a normal compass and the arrow was spinning like a crazy. It made your blood run cold. The good news is, you now knew why you were going around circles. It was because you were inside a magical fae trap that made you unable to leave. 

You then heard the horn again. They were on to you. You were being hunted. 

You took out another compass, a special compass given by the dwarves. They had discovered that the fae traps were never perfect, thus there was a hole the person could escape through and the compass showed the way to the hole. You felt relieved when you got a direction and started running.

Unfortunately, the feanorians weren’t the only ones hunting you. They had hunting hounds. Their dogs snuffed you out and came after you. You were forced to use drastic maneuvers to evade them as they charged at you. Unfortunately, one of the mutts managed to plunge its teeth into your leg, tearing through your flesh. You cried in pain but used a dagger to stab the hound, forcing it to let you go. 

However, the hounds surrounded you, ready to tear you apart. In pain and crippling anxiety, wendigo took control. You struck one of the hounds with your strength before growling and charging at one of the hounds, tackling it down and plunging your teeth into its hide. 

The sudden display of savagery scared the hounds away. You snapped back to reality after killing the dog and tasting its blood in your mouth. You panicked. You apologized to the dog and continued running away.

With your wound, you were forced to stop. You became desperate as you lost the compass when you got bitten by the hounds. It was too big of a risk to go back for it. You then saw the duck and hawk again, waiting for you. They let out sounds, indicating you to follow them. You decided to trust them and they led you to a hiding place, where you managed to address your wound properly.

The hound got you hard. Adding the medical herbs felt awful but the pain subsided after you managed to tie it with bandages. You fell sick and dreaded what would become of you. You were in some real shit hole and possibly got rabies. 

The purple hawk suddenly landed beside your head, looking down on you with its pink eyes. It felt ominous as it then laid its wing over your eyes. 

“Sleep,” You heard a familiar voice but fell into a painless slumber. 

You then woke up in the morning, feeling something strange in your mouth. You pulled out a strange leaf with weird spots in it. It left your mouth dry but you didn’t feel sick anymore. You tried to figure out what happened last night and only one person came to mind about who that voice belonged to. 

Your thoughts vanished when you saw a giant leaf with clean water in it. You grabbed it and drank the water, quenching your thirst and feeling refreshed.  

You looked around for the strange birds. You were now certain that they were helping you, even though you didn’t know why. Perhaps they were good faes as that was not impossible. Maybe not all elves turned evil. 

You found the duck, who quacked and patted its feet. The hawk stood on a tree expectantly. You didn’t know what it wanted but it looked like they wanted you to follow them again. Without your compass, you were going in blind so you decided to trust them and follow them as they led you somewhere. 

The birds led you to a forest. You hid yourself when you saw horses and elves, dancing around, singing. They looked nothing like their former selves as some had features of animals and some had features like they were part of nature itself. They looked like the fae though more unnerving. The duck quacked and flew in another direction. You were confused as to why they would lead you right to your pursuers but decided to trust them as they didn’t alert the elves of your presence. 

The duck and hawk stood on the trees as you were watching the horses. The horses nearly looked ordinary except that some of them also looked different. You saw a few with extra eyes, some in other colors and some even looked like birds. You guessed they were changed too as some of the horses were from Valinor. You tried to guess what the birds wanted you to do because you did not want to risk trying to steal one of the horses. Elves shared deep bonds with their equine companions, so the horses were loyal, they would definitely either kill you or alert the elves of your presence. 

You bickered with the birds as you couldn’t risk stealing. The pair then looked away from the horses and you followed their gaze. Away from the horses, stood a black horse, without a saddle and eating grass alone. You narrowed your eyes as the horse looked familiar and sneaked closer to have a better look. When you recognized the horse, you finally realized why the birds led you there. They led you to your salvation as the lone black stallion was your own horse, Goliath. 

“Goliath…” You uttered in disbelief. 

The giant picked up its head and looked toward you. There was some gray in his snout and coat, most likely due to his age. You noticed feathers on his coat and figured he had been morphed like a raven. However, he still looked young and healthy like the last time you saw him. It was your sweet giant Goliath. 

Goliath looked at you with caution but when you showed your face and called him again by his name. His tail whisked and he whined as he nearly galloped to you, allowing you to embrace him and nearly cry with joy. He still remembered you. 

It also seemed he had remained loyal to you even after your supposed death since he bore no saddle or didn’t stand with the other horses. 

You patted him and gave him sugary treats he liked. You realized the birds had reunited you with your equine best friend and possibly given you your salvation. There was a high chance Goliath knew how to get out of the trap. 

You asked him if he was willing to help you escape. You did not need to guess if he agreed because he then laid down, allowing you to climb on his back. You had no hesitation to climb on him and ride as he then took you away from the elven camp. 

You held onto his mane as he ran through the woods and fields. You felt hopeful as the path seemed new. However, you felt slightly anxious as it would not probably take long for the elves to notice that one of their horses was missing. The hawk and the duck followed you through flight. 

You were right as you heard the horn in the distance. 

You also heard hounds so you guided Goliath to run beside a river in hopes of hiding your scent. However, the white duck suddenly quacked in alarm as it flew near you. You didn’t have time to question why it was suddenly alerted but your answer to the missing seventh rider was answered when a dark rider with his horse jumped out of the river, reaching out to you with his clawed hands. You pulled back, falling from Goliath’s back. 

You groaned from the fall as the impact caused the wound on your leg to open, but quickly fled into the forest. However, with your wound burning like a hot knife, you didn’t get far and when you heard the rider coming for you, you lost control of the wendigo again. 

When the rider was about to strike you, you screamed and pounced high enough to tackle him from his horse. The helmet he wore got thrown on and you roared at him as you laid on top of him. His horse whined and tried to attack you, but Goliath came back, kicking and preventing the other horse from approaching you. 

Seeing the rider’s face and realizing who was below you snapped you back in control. You stared in shock as it was Maglor who looked back at you. His skin was pale as snow and his hair was darker than ever. He had what you could describe as scales dressing the skin below his eyes which were sharp like that of a snake. You then realized that he must have been your siren from before as he was the one who came out of the water and most likely kept track of you. Now it made more clear why the white duck was so alarmed when you were near water. 

“Maglor?” You uttered in disbelief as you stared at each other with shock and bewilderment. 

However, when you heard the horns and sounds of horses, you quickly climbed back on Goliath and rode away from Maglor. You looked back for a moment, seeing Maglor looking after you but making no attempts to chase after you. You shook your head and focused on escaping. 

Goliath ran like the wind and when you got to the end of the forest, you suddenly felt like you went through something and like a heavy spell had been lifted from you. You realized that you had finally escaped the trap and urged Goliath to keep running, you did not want to risk Maglor and his brothers coming after you now that you had officially escaped them. Celegorm would most likely not take it lightly that his prey got away. 

However, it did not stop you from thinking about Maglor and how he had changed. There was a chance he didn’t know it was you when he tried to lure you into the water. Now you were concerned about what he would do now that he knew it was you. For a moment you thought you saw his old self when you looked at him in the eyes. However, you did not decide to stay and find out. 

You rode toward the east on Goliath, guided by the white duck and the hawk as you left Ossiriand. You could only hope your journey would get easier from there. 

[thesummerestsolstice]

I would love to see more about the orc librarian of Rivendell. How did he come to choose that life? How and why did Elrond let him in? Perhaps you could put it on AO3.

Thanks for the ask!

I do want to write a proper fic with Garthaglir eventually but I've got a few WIPs going already so it'll probably be a while. For now, I'll try to answer some of your questions here:

(Content warning: this post discusses the creation of orcs, and their indoctrination and subjugation under Sauron, as well as non-graphic violence)

My headcanon is that while the first orcs were elves kidnapped by Morgoth, the later generations of orcs basically became their own species (subspecies? arguably they're still kind of elves). They're born in Angband/Mordor, undergo pretty brutal training and indoctrination from an early age, and generally don't interact with the outside world unless they're on a raid.

The only interaction orcs have with men, elves, etc are violent. They only ever see peope when they're at war, so they aren't really exposed to life outside of the constant struggle of war. They have a very warped view of the world. And because there's a language barrier, there's no way for them to speak with anyone else. Even the language they use is designed to isolate them; Black Speech was created by Sauron, not the orcs, and doesn't really allow for free expression– it's not built for that. There are a few stories and some carried over words from the original elvish orcs, but it's more myth than reality for most of them.

It's a long story, but Garthaglir ended up getting separated from his party sometime in the early Third Age, and hiding out in some elvish ruins to avoid sunlight (and the human warriors they were running from). He ended up spending weeks there, every night he'd go exploring; finding old paintings, books, toys. The remnants of a people who weren't forced into a life of war. Eventually, he realized that there was more to Middle-Earth than fighting, and that he didn't want to go back to fighting for Sauron. He ended up wandering, unsure of what else he could do with his life. And, well, doorways to Rivendell have a habit of showing up when they're needed.

As for Elrond– that's a long story. He was taught Black Speech as a survival tactic at a young age, but has also used it to communicate with orcs. There was also a kidnapping incident with some surprisingly nice orcs. You know. Normal means of cultural exchange given Elrond's life. So he was much more open to letting orcs who wanted to to escape Sauron and live a better life into Rivendell. Since Garthaglir wasn't the first orc to live there, many of the other residents were also pretty used to the idea by that point.

Bonus: Garthaglir found Mittens when she was a small kitten. She showed up outside the library one day when it was pouring rain, trying to get out of the storm. Garthaglir let her in and dried her off. They've been inseparable ever since.

[koisuko]

The winner of the pole, The Hobbit series! Time for some fluffy bilbo action. Bilbo is so adorable, gotta protect him at all costs❣️

Tw: none, fluff, gn reader, use of “you”, aimed to be platonic but can be whatever you’d like

An early nights rest, that’s all you wanted. On top of the nightmares, a grueling several days constantly walking and fending for your lives, all for the sake of bringing the king back to his mountain. You signed up for it, you suppose, but you certainly didn’t sign up for the heavy snores and coughs of Bombur blissfully unaware of the moths he was inhaling.

The constant tossing and turning was futile, an exasperated sigh leaving your lips as you finally flip on your back. You stare up at the stars, sinking ever so slightly into the bed roll beneath you, the fabric providing just a little bit of cushioning from the cold hard ground. Yet another night where sleep seems to escape you, slipping from your grasp like an empty promise. As you squint up at the sky, you could almost see the nightmares taking shape. The darkness of your half lidded eyes harbored flashing images of orc raids and troll kidnappings, it made you shudder at the core.

The images seem to vanish with a huff of frustration sounding beside you, breaking you from your fear ridden trance. Your gaze lands on the company burglar, Bilbo Baggins, sat beside the fire, on a stump of a long forgotten willow tree. You couldn’t quite make out what he was doing, his back facing you and posture hunched. You were too curious to ignore it, and much too restless to even try and sleep now. With a stretch, you stand from your bedroll, quietly approaching as to not wake the others. The closer you got, the more you picked up on the brittle sound of something being cut with a crude knife. You also caught a glimpse of flashing reflections from the flames dancing on the metallic surface. Now, you stood just behind him, peaking over his shoulder to reveal a pair of shaky hands attempting to whittle what looked like a small animal.

“Can’t sleep?” You whispered, watching him jump and nearly drop the items in hand. You giggled at how jumpy he tends to be, watching his eyes go from big, doe like orbs and back to normal again. “Not at the moment,” he replied, patting the seat beside him, to which you obliged. “What’s on your mind Bilbo?” You didn’t look at him, instead, looking to the stars once again. “Home sick, I suppose,” he paused for just a moment, staring down at the wood in his hands. You could see him caress the texture of the bark, skimming over it with his thumb whilst deep in thought. “I feel like I was wrong to come along,” he kept his head low as he spoke, “I don’t belong here.” You halted your fixation on the stars to shoot him a look of confusion. Your brows knit together, letting the words hang in the air for a moment in silence. “Bilbo, you belong more than you believe,” you placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze before dropping it back to your side. “We all need you,” you give him a gentle smile, watching him mirror it as his own. “You really think so?” He asked, his voice became a little more confident, and a light tint of red spread on his cheeks. You nod, “I know so.”

You sat together in a peaceful quiet for a moment, soaking in the heat of the fire to fend off the chills of the night air. A thought popped into your mind, remembering the task he had previously been doing. “You whittle?” You asked, jerking your head to the knife and wood he held. He looked down, as if forgetting he was even holding anything before gently pressing the blade to the surface of the wood. “Learning to, although it’s a lot harder than I believed it would be,” he twisted the wood in his hand, probably envisioning the completed artwork. “What were you aiming to make?” You questioned, your head tilted slightly to portray your curiosity. He shrugged, averting his gaze to the bright flames of the campfire, “A sheep, it reminds me of home.” He smiled at the thought, taking a deep breath of the crisp night air. “There are plenty in the Shire, perhaps you can see them someday,” he looked to you for a reaction, grazing over the features of your face before looking back down at the fire. “That sounds pleasant,” you felt your eyes grow heavy from just the thought of the Shire, the friendly halflings and bountiful sheep population combined with the smell of freshly grown crops. He nodded in agreement, looking back to the stars ahead, “I hope to show you after all of this.”

[doodle-pops]

Tears of the Sun

Maedhros x reader

A/N: Since this came in 2nd on the poll, you all can have the treat you've been voting for. You all have no idea how long I've been dying to release this :) 🙈

Warnings: 3rd Kinslaying, death, blood, heavy angst, hurt and not an ounce of comfort (the bucket is dry), major character death

Words: 1.6k

Synopsis: We always regret the things we do when the worst happens, and Maedhros finally seems to have enough.

His body moved with less grace and more aggression, leaving behind a trail of victims struck down by his ruthless blade. The horror and grief in the eyes of each lifeless body meant nothing to him; they were just obstacles on his path to his ambition. Their deaths only fuelled his determination, pushing him further up the hill and past the point of no return. His once–pristine armour was now stained with splatters of crimson, matching the colour of his hair and sword. His usually well–kept hair was matted and frizzed from the chaos of the battle, and his helmet lay discarded in the heat of the mindless fight. None of his opponents were formidable enough to engage him in a true battle of skill; they were merely obstacles to be obliterated.

He found himself growing bored with the resistance he encountered. He had come for his treasured heirloom, and the stubborn defence he faced only made him scoff. He swung his sword recklessly, striking down anyone who dared to challenge him. If kindness couldn’t win him what he desired, he would take it by force. The last shreds of sanity that had held his emotionally compromised heart together had shattered, leaving him with no option but to resort to raiding and plundering. Blood was his familiar companion—it was what he had come to know intimately, the colour of his hair and the blade he wielded. The hand he had been dealt in the losing game of life resembled his sword’s hue: crimson.

Existence was his only reality, a reality driven by the notion that death wasn’t yet ready to claim him. He existed because he couldn’t die, and death toyed with his life as though it were a mere game of chess. One moment he was a pawn, the next a bishop, then a king, and back to a pawn. It was a cruel dance of fate, and he had long accepted his role as its unwilling participant. In this twisted game, he found a perverse pleasure in taking what he believed was his by-right, regardless of the consequences.

But you changed everything. You brought light into his world, giving meaning to the bleak and dreary existence he had grown accustomed to. A smile, a look from you, and his heart would soar, mending itself and allowing him to experience the simple joys he had been denied. With you, the cage he had felt trapped in was shattered, and he no longer felt like an animal awaiting its inevitable demise. You gave him purpose, a reason to believe in something greater than the cycle of violence and death he had become ensnared in.

A scoff escaped him as he remembered your influence on him. He wiped away the blood that had trickled down his brow, the metallic scent of iron filling his nostrils. The smell was familiar, a reminder of countless battles and massacres he had orchestrated. Despite the carnage around him, this was a relatively minor raid, akin to dealing with a few dozen orcs. Most of his men had switched sides to prevent further destruction, but those who had stood against him now lay lifeless, their bodies strewn across the ground. The balance between valuing his soldiers’ lives and discarding their lifeless forms after insubordination was a precarious one, and in his current state of mind, the line was blurred beyond recognition.

He continued his macabre dance, his temper a raging fire that consumed everything in its path. Lifeless bodies, once vibrant with vitality, now littered the streets. The urge to be repulsed by the sight was a fleeting burden; he was too consumed by his frustration at his failure to reclaim the Silmaril.

“Háno!” A pained voice, his brother Maglor’s, reached his ears, and his heart clenched with dread. After coming this far, losing another of his kin—his last kin—would be the final blow, shattering what little remained of his fractured soul.

He rushed forward, his steps heedless of the broken bodies that lay in his path. He cut through the streets of Sirion with a single–minded determination, following the urgency in his brother’s voice. What he found was a scene of sombre desolation. Maglor stood there, his sword hanging limply in his hand, his shoulders slumped, his legs wobbling, and his head bowed in defeat. A pit formed in the depths of his heart as he approached his brother’s broken form, his own anger momentarily forgotten.

And then he saw you, lifeless. Your body leaned against the wall of a nearby home, your form covered in your own blood. Your expression held a haunting mixture of pain and resignation.

He didn’t want to accept what he was seeing. It felt impossible, like a cruel illusion playing tricks on his senses. You were supposed to be safe, wrapped in comfort and far from the clutches of death and destruction. This had to be the work of darkness, a sinister fabrication that twisted reality into something nightmarish. This couldn’t be you lying lifeless before his eyes; it had to be some twisted trick, a distorted reflection of his fears.

Convincing oneself of falsehood, even in the face of an unfathomable and horrifying sight, was a coping mechanism that allowed one to shut their eyes and turn away. He chanted to himself repeatedly that what he saw couldn’t be true—it couldn’t be you lying there lifeless at the cost of his hands. His footsteps, once soundless, turned into thunderous beats as he rushed toward where you were slumped against the wall. The scene before him was surreal, and he desperately needed some kind of proof that what he was seeing wasn’t real. His trembling fingers inched closer to touch your form, seeking that moment of realization that would tell him the world had deceived him.

His eyes were narrowed in disbelief, his brows furrowed, lips pursed, and fingers trembling as he gingerly reached out. His boots made contact with your foot, and he half–expected to hear your familiar ‘Ouch’ in response, a playful reaction you often had to his touch. But there was no response, no movement from you. Your eyes were cast downwards, avoiding his gaze, avoiding him. He knew that after your last bitter exchange, you wouldn’t want to look at him. He understood that. Yet, the sight of blood staining your clothes and your lack of breath sent a spike of panic through him.

He blinked back tears that threatened to spill, his teeth gritted, nostrils flaring. Slowly, cautiously, he extended his hand to touch your head. He crouched over your lifeless form, keeping a respectful distance as if he feared that even in death, he was intruding on your personal space. His hand made contact with your head, and when you remained unresponsive, he slid his hand lower to cup your face, lifting it to meet his gaze. But your head lolled limply in his hold, and the puppet–like motion of your head sent waves of terror through him. A cold heat engulfed his body, sending shivers down his spine.

The motion of your head was unnaturally limp, like that of a puppet with its strings cut. His hand quivered as it cradled your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Y/N?” he called, his voice cracking with anxiety. The silence that followed was deafening, and suffocating, and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

“Háno, they’re dead—” Maglor’s words were met with a feral growl that erupted from the depths of Maedhros’s chest. He snapped his head in Maglor’s direction, his eyes blazing with a mixture of rage and desperation. A mere glare and a low, menacing command silenced his brother’s words.

Sinking to his knees, he carefully gathered your lifeless form into his lap, cradling you close. He adjusted your position, holding you as you liked to be held, your head resting against his chest so you could hear his heartbeat. His mutilated hand cradled you, his fingers gently caressing your skin. He rocked you back and forth, murmuring soothing words in a broken symphony of promises that he knew he might never be able to fulfil.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he whispered, his voice a fragile melody of reassurance. He pressed rough kisses to the top of your head, his lips brushing against your hair. “I’ve got you now, I’m here. I’m going to keep you safe when you wake up.”

The juxtaposition between the past and the present hit him like a wave of sorrow. He remembered the times he had pushed you away, the harsh words he had spoken, and the pain he had caused. And now, here he was, holding you tightly, his heart breaking with the weight of his regrets.

“This will be over soon,” he promised, his voice laden with emotion. “You’ll be safe and happy. I promised you that, didn’t I? I’ll keep my word, my love.” He continued to sway with your lifeless body, refusing to acknowledge his brother’s pleas for him to accept the reality.

He whispered to you over and over, his tears mingling with the blood and sweat on his face. The saltiness of his tears against his wounds was a numbing sensation, a reminder that he was still capable of feeling something amidst the darkness. He was hollow, consumed by the curse of his actions, bound to live with the consequences of his choices—he took your life with words. A simple command and you fell innocent to his sword.

The cycle of violence and suffering that he had perpetuated had led him to this point, where he held the lifeless body of the person he loved more than anything. He had pushed away his chance at happiness, his heartless actions sealing his fate.

In his arms, he clung to you, the only source of light in his life, hoping against hope that this was just a nightmare, that you would awaken, and that the blood on your skin was nothing more than an illusion. But deep down, he knew that he was living the nightmare he had created, unable to escape the prison of his own making.

Masterlist

Taglist: @lilmelily @mysticmoomin @rain-on-my-umbrella @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @sakurayaxd @ladyenchanted @stormchaser819 @aconstructofamind

If you would like to be tagged, click the taglist link.

[thelordofgifs]

the fairest stars: post iv

Beren and Lúthien steal two Silmarils, more sons of Fëanor than anyone ever needed or wanted get involved, things go extremely sideways: you know the drill. You can find the first 18 parts of this bullet point fic on AO3 here, and parts 16-20 on tumblr here.

We're starting out part 21 with a timeskip!

One year after the fall of Himring, north Beleriand remains bitterly contested.

The East is overrun. In Barad Eithel's great war-room the map of Estolad is covered in black arrows stretching from Lothlann down to the Andram Wall.

Caranthir and Amras maintain a last stronghold on Amon Ereb, with the people of Himring who fled there after its fall; but Ossiriand, they fear, will only remain undefiled so long as Morgoth's attention does not turn towards it.

Their Eastern allies, too, are unimpressed. Bór and his young sons were all slain not long after Himring burned; the few of their people who escaped the orc-raids have joined themselves to Ulfang in Thargelion, but they are none too friendly to the Fëanorians these days.

"And Nelyo says I'm bad at making allies," Caranthir remarks.

[yeah he's in this now. damn it why will they not stay in their place.]

"I wouldn't say this is Nelyo's fault," Amras says quietly.

It is a debate held, in one form or the other, in every free kingdom in Beleriand.

But anyway, the East does not seem to be Morgoth's main concern for now.

It is Hithlum, Fingon is sure, where the next assault will come.

Hithlum, the realm of the High King of the Noldor; Hithlum, where he reigns who once humilated Morgoth so thoroughly; Hithlum, where Maedhros holds a Silmaril yet.

If the last true stronghold of the Noldor falls—

And he is facing plenty of internal pressure, too.

His lords – many of them survivors of the Grinding Ice, and arch-loyal followers of the House of Fingolfin – are less than impressed by the rumours that have reached them of the fall of Himring, and Maedhros' actions there.

Fingon has tried to quell the whispers as best as he can. But it is impossible to deny the fact that the attack took Himring by surprise because its patrols were cancelled on Maedhros' orders, or that Maedhros left the field as their position worsened.

The healers who treated Maglor's stab wound have not been quiet, either, about the fact that it was an elvish blade that caused the injury.

And some of those who were at Himring have heard that Maglor was found in a pool of his own blood with Maedhros, subdued too late, unconscious beside him—

If only they knew, Fingon thinks furiously, they would not cast sly aspersions on his judgement and his taste in friends. They would not stop talking of anything consequential when Maedhros drew near, as if he is not to be trusted with the secrets of the war.

Of course when he dares to suggest to Maedhros that this might bother him, Maedhros laughs and says, "Finno, do you think this the worst humiliation I have ever endured?"

So. There's not much Fingon can say to that.

His father was a diplomat, a politician, a builder of alliances. Fingon is not doing a very good job of living up to that legacy.

Thingol returned no response to the letter Fingon sent him, informing him of Curufin's disappearance.

In fact, Thingol is kind of just Done.

So the Noldor turned out to be faithless. What else is new?

Also he didn't really want Curufin's head anyway. Where would he even put it?

Fingon cannot give him what he truly wishes for: his daughter.

In Lúthien's absence old age has fallen upon him, who has lived unwithered for long Ages of the Stars since his birth at distant Cuiviénen.

Melian sings no longer. The people of Doriath, who have known little but peace and splendour since the Girdle was first raised, begin to wonder if their blessings have been withdrawn.

So it is a Menegroth much changed into which Beren and Lúthien walk, hand in hand, one afternoon.

Their return is met with both joy and some consternation. Youth comes back to Thingol at the touch of his daughter's hand; but Melian knows that she will never smile again.

Lúthien bears it all, the feasts of celebration at which none can look her in the eye, her father's overwhelming gladness and her mother's sorrow, the halls that ring yet with the memory of her grief, for exactly two weeks; then she announces that she and Beren are leaving.

"Daughter," Thingol protests, "you have only just returned to us – and soon—"

(Thingol does not know how he will ever handle the parting that is to come.)

"Will you not stay?" he asks. "This is your home."

Lúthien is not sure she knows what home means any more.

"I am sorry," she says, regretful but firm.

The next day finds her and Beren walking through Brethil, debating their next course of action – just as they did not so very long ago, when Celegorm and Curufin attacked them in the woods.

It is of that little skirmish that Beren is thinking now.

"They say Curufin is still out there somewhere," he argues. "It mightn't be safe—"

"I sang Morgoth himself to sleep," Lúthien cries, "and you think I can't take Curufin Fëanorion?"

"Tinúviel," Beren says, with a laugh, "I do not think there is anyone you can't take."

Lúthien allows herself to be placated.

"I am not suggesting we dwell alone in the wilderness," she says; "you made your earlier thoughts on that very clear. But I – I cannot go back to being Doriath's Princess, Beren, as if every part of me is not changed irretrievably since first you called my name, as if – as if you didn't die there, and—"

"Sweetheart," says Beren, kissing her forehead. "It wasn't permanent." And when she chokes out a little laugh through her tears, he goes on, "I know you do not wish to stay in Doriath. But we must choose somewhere – and somewhere safe. It seems as though the Enemy's reach has lengthened in the time we were, um, gone."

"I thought to go to Ossiriand," Lúthien says. "My kin the Green-elves still guard those lands."

"But only those lands," says Beren. "Estolad and Thargelion are overrun. The sons of Fëanor keep no watch upon the Eastmarch. If Morgoth were to learn that you dwelled there—"

"I'm not afraid," Lúthien says. "And even if I were – am I never to venture beyond the Girdle again, for fear of him? Is all my father's kingdom to be naught to me but a prison, as Hírilorn was? I cannot stand it – I will not."

Beren takes both her hands in his one and looks at her. "Tinúviel," he says, very seriously, "I will never cage you."

Oh, he knows her. What a wondrous, terrifying thing, to be understood so completely.

Perhaps Lúthien is still a little delirious with the rush of living once more, for she dips her head to capture Beren's mouth in a delighted kiss, and for a time they both forget all other matters.

Plucking strands of grass from her hair some time later, Beren says, "I have another idea."

"What! I thought I argued my case quite passionately," Lúthien teases.

"You said you thought of dwelling among your kin," says Beren. "What of going to mine, instead?" And, when Lúthien shoots him a puzzled look, "The House of Bëor is mostly ruined, but there are still remnants of my people who escaped Dorthonion ere its fall. Some of them dwell nearby, with the Haladin. And others went north to Dor-lómin – my little cousin Morwen is the lady of that land now."

"I do not wish to stay in Brethil," says Lúthien; "it is rather too close to Menegroth for my tastes. But the Land of Echoes, on the other hand..."

Her eyes are alight with that same fanciful gleam they used to get when Beren told her stories of the world outside the Girdle, of holy Tarn Aeluin and the dread Ered Gorgoroth alike.

You would think, Beren muses, that she would have had enough of adventure by now.

"I have," says Lúthien, catching his thought. "We are to live a very peaceful and retiring life. I insist on it! That is what I told Mandos we deserved. None shall dare assail us, in Dor-lómin." She rolls the name on her tongue as if trying to taste it.

"They call it so because of the terrible cry of Morgoth when Ungoliant assailed him," Beren tells her, "not for any sweeter music."

Lúthien laughs and flings her arms around him. Oh, his living body warm and solid against hers! It is a gift she does not intend to waste.

"Luckily," she says, "I am good at changing the melody."

Another conversation between lovers:

"Do you think it could be done?"

“I have already told you what I think.”

"But you haven't explained," Fingon persists, "you have only looked at me dolefully and proclaimed that it is not possible."

"Well, it is not," says Maedhros. He is lying curled in Fingon's arms, their ankles hooked together, and he is loath to disturb their contentment with arguing. Keeping his voice measured, he says, "If our strength were doubled I do not think it would be enough, Finno."

"The attack will come either way," Fingon says, also without much vigour. They have had this debate so many times now that it is become well-worn. "Why not meet it head on?"

"Because you have a defensible position here," Maedhros says patiently, "and a greater chance of holding than you do of storming the gates of Angband."

"My father did it," Fingon mutters.

"Your father died," Maedhros says, voice suddenly sharp.

Fingon looks at him. "Don't look so worried, beloved! I am quite turned off the idea of wasteful heroics these days."

"Then look to strengthening your defences," Maedhros says, "and drop this fool notion."

"But if we did try," says Fingon, "if we united all the Free Peoples under one banner, and marched on Angband together – think what we could achieve!"

His eyes are bright with hope. Maedhros hates to crush it, but crush it he must.

"Finno," he says, "the East is lost. My brothers do not have so strong a position in Amon Ereb that they can afford to march north to join in a war that could prove ruinous. Bór and his people are dead almost to a man. Belegost will no doubt have heard the rumours—"

Fingon glances at him sharply, but he speaks without bitterness. Which is concerning in itself, but Fingon decides to let it slide for now.

"—and there is little help to be expected from other corners," Maedhros continues. "Doriath has strength to spare, but Thingol hates you."

Fingon shifts uncomfortably. He never actually told Maedhros why Thingol hates him now.

"Nargothrond," he says, to change the subject. "Orodreth will answer to his High King."

"Orodreth!" says Maedhros, dismissively. “A king too ruled by the whims of his people. If he had any spine he would have turned my brothers out of Nargothrond immediately, and Finrod might have lived.”

If Fingon were crueller he might say, You didn't manage to control your brothers that well yourself. Instead he says, "But the people of Nargothrond are many and valiant. We should not discount them."

"If Nargothrond wishes to stay out of the wars of the north," says Maedhros, "I think it would be prudent to allow them to do so." There is a thoughtful, uneasy look in his grey eyes.

Fingon gauges it correctly and says, "Are you worried for your nephew?"

Maedhros looks at him unhappily. "Everyone in Beleriand knows what a mess – Curvo – made of – everything," he says.

(A year might have passed, but Maedhros still does not much like to speak of Curufin.)

"Tyelpë is safe in Nargothrond, where his father's deeds cannot taint him," Maedhros says. "I would keep him so." Then he shrugs. "But my opinion carries no weight now, beloved. Do as you will, and I will support you, for all that is worth."

"It carries weight with me," Fingon says fiercely. "And I am not ashamed to say so. But you have not yet heard the key element in my plan."

Maedhros smiles despite himself, propping himself up on his elbows so that he can keep his eyes focused on Fingon's face. The mass of his silken hair is pooled on Fingon's bare chest. "Go on, then," he says, indulgent.

"Gondolin," Fingon says triumphantly. "My brother took a third of our host with him when he disappeared, and yet more of the Sindar went with him. They have lived in peace for more than three hundred years; their numbers must be great."

Maedhros does not seem as delighted with this idea as Fingon is. "Finno, you don't know where Gondolin is."

"The Eagles bring them tidings, clearly," Fingon points out; "else they would have opened the leaguer and come to our aid when they saw the fires of the Dagor Bragollach on the horizon."

Maedhros frowns, attempting to parse this extremely backwards logic. Eventually, he says, "If Hithlum falls, Gondolin will be the last stronghold of the Noldor in the north. I do not know if its position should be risked."

"All war is risk, beloved," says Fingon, "and if I were to call upon my brother, Hithlum will not fall."

Maedhros says, as if he has been saving this blow for last, "Finno, if you call upon Turgon, will he even answer?"

It has been more than three hundred years, since Fingon last saw his brother.

“Do you think he won’t?” he asks, more sharply than he means to.

(Turgon didn’t tell him he was going. He didn’t tell anyone. He just – vanished.)

Sometimes Maedhros thinks things were easier during Maglor’s long convalescence, when his only concern was his brother, when every sleepless night was because Maglor needed someone to sit up with him and every meal was whatever invalid's food Maglor could be persuaded to choke down – when Fingon was his strength and steadiness, and Maedhros could yet wrap his blue cloak around him like armour.

Selfish – selfish. Maglor is better now, and Maedhros is so, so glad; and Fingon cannot always be his strength. Sometimes Maedhros must be his.

"I am sure he will," he says, contrite. He presses a kiss to Fingon's tense jawline. "I just don't think it wise to ask him."

Fingon sighs and puts his arms around Maedhros. "Fine," he concedes. "Perhaps you are right."

But later, when they have extricated themselves from their warm tangle of limbs and risen for the day, he sits down to write a letter.

A few days later the High King's messenger, having ridden swiftly along the Ered Wethrin and into Dor-lómin, nearly collides with a small child playing near the road.

"Be careful!" cries Lúthien, dropping Beren's hand and rushing forward to snatch the child up.

The messenger gapes at her, for it seems to him as though she has materialised out of the shadows themselves. Then, when he gets better look at her beauty, he gapes even more.

Lúthien is not paying attention. All her focus is on the little golden-haired creature in her arms. "That was nearly very dangerous for you, wasn't it, sweetheart?" she coos. "But you don't seem frightened at all. What's your name, dear one?"

The little girl giggles and hides her face in Lúthien's sleeve without answering.

Beren feels a little dizzy, looking at the picture that they make, and at the bright tender look on his wife's face. Someday, he tells himself, someday.

He looks around. The messenger has dismounted; it seems the great house up ahead is his destination. A house of lords, clearly, surrounded by gardens as lovely as any in the chilly northlands, and with a bubbling stream running just past its walls.

Well, here they are.

He is pondering what the etiquette is here – should they knock? wait here until someone spots them? – when he catches sight of a second child, a little older, dark-haired, watching them intently from around a tree-trunk.

"Good day, lad," Beren says gravely. "Might I ask your name, and those of your parents?"

The boy regards him with suspicion for a while, before he finally says, "I am Túrin son of Húrin, and that is my sister Lalaith."

(One little-appreciated consequence of the fall of Himring: for the last year, Morgoth's attention has been on the final desecration of the March of Maedhros. He did not have time to send the Evil Breath to Dor-lómin.)

"Lalaith!" Lúthien says, delighted. "What a fitting name."

"Then, son of Húrin," says Beren, "we have reached our destination indeed. Might you do me the honour of introducing us to your parents?"

Túrin looks unimpressed. "Who are you?" he asks.

"My name is Beren son of Barahir," says Beren, "and we are kinsmen, son of Morwen."

Túrin frowns even more. "How do you know my mother's name?" he demands. "And Beren is dead."

Kind of hard to argue with that.

Before Beren can come up with a suitable response there is a small noise from the direction of the house: the children's mother has come out to call them in for the evening meal. She stands so still she might be made of stone, were it not for the wind whipping up her dark hair behind her.

Beren finds his own mouth is very dry.

He buried Baragund his cousin, and avenged him; and he has not thought of his slaughtered companions for a long time.

(There's only so much survivor's guilt one person can have, and it is usually the screams of Finrod and his Ten that haunt Beren's nightmares.)

Morwen is not now the thirteen-year-old he remembers, her face sterner and more sorrowful, but somehow she is the image of her dead father.

"Hello, little cousin," he croaks out.

Morwen stares at him.

Lúthien comes to the rescue. "You must be the lady Morwen," she says warmly, setting Lalaith down so that she can drop into a graceful curtsey. Her Taliska is hesitant, but beautiful. (Everything about Lúthien is beautiful.) "Beren has told me so much of you. And your children are charming."

"Beren's dead," Morwen says at last, shakily. "And – you—"

"I was dead," says Beren, "but now I'm not. I don't know how to explain it, cousin, but—" He holds his hand out to her, letting the Ring of Barahir gleam green upon his finger in the setting sun. "It really is me."

Morwen makes another small sound, swaying where she stands. Her hand rests on her son's dark head as though he is the only thing keeping her upright.

"Mother?" Túrin says nervously.

Before things can get any more awkward the lord of the house comes out to seek his family, perhaps wondering what is taking them so long. "Morwen," he says quietly, seeing her stiff posture.

But Morwen takes a breath. "We have guests, Húrin," she says, composed again. "This is my kinsman Beren Erchamion, and his – and his wife, the Princess of Doriath."

Lúthien turns her dazzling smile on Húrin. "A pleasure to meet you," she says gaily. "But call me rather the Lady of Dorthonion."

(to be continued)

[rosybetta]

Who’s your DnD character? And, did you defeat a dragon with the power of friendship??

I'M SO GLAD YOU ASKED

Okay so when I say "defeat", it was more like "she surrendered", but a win is a win!! I'll get to that in a second -

This is Pip! Short for Piperre, she's my houndfolk glamour bard!! I'm in the process of redrawing her to suit my current art style, so this is the best art I have of her right now lol. She's just a little ouppy that plays the harmonica and the banjo and I ADORE HERRRRRR.

Her backstory is a bit convoluted, but the major highlights are: She was kidnapped from her clan as a pup and sold to some drow royalty, where she was trained as an entertainer/handmaid/servant for the princess (yikes). She escaped with a gang of orc thieves who raided the drow castle. She acted as their "distraction" getaway person for a while, until she inevitably got caught while distracting the city watch, so she ended up in jail.

I'll put the rest under the cut bc I got kinda carried away lol

That's where this new campaign picks up! I'm a bit busier than the other players, so my character needed to be able to disappear occasionally. So I worked with the DM and we landed on this... While in jail, Pip was visited by "The Jester", the main antagonist(????) of our campaign (I think?? It's confusing). He offered to free her and set her up with a secure comfortable life far away from the people looking for her... she just had to agree to complete tasks for him on occasion. When she made the deal, she was told it would be "nothing that would weigh on your conscience", but it turns out that she just has no memory of what happens. Long story short, when the rest of the party meets her, she's an entertainer at the local inn, and disappears some nights, waking up in odd places with unexplained scrapes and bruises. But she's not gonna let that get her down!

Buncha other stuff happens that I can't easily summarize, but anyway. The green dragon stuff!! Long story short, we've found ourselves in an underground fighting competition thing, essentially a dungeon crawl where each room is another fight closer to the exit. This is the opening "qualifier" match, so we're allowed to pick our opponents, and Pip obviously chooses to face off against the other bard in the lineup. What ensues is a brief but spectacular...

BATTLE OF THE BARDS!!

Pip pulls some showstopping bardic ability shit and the crowd goes WILD, her opponent forfeits the match, and she's doing a victory lap around the ring with the rest of the party, when one of the competition organizers approaches her. Essentially, this woman "collects unique talent", and was very impressed by Pip's performance. Pip politely declines because "I don't do residencies, sorry! ^-^", and the woman is like "Oh, I Wasn't Asking". And that was the end of the session for the night.

SOOO before next session, we brainstorm a plan. Essentially, we challenge the green dragon to a fight using the terms of the competition - not to the death, but each party wagers something of equal value if they lose. We wager one of ours, for one of hers. (We suspected she was holding a beloved NPC hostage.)

She accepts, and the battle begins! Predictably, it's a TOUGH fight, but she's not in FULL dragon form, just partially-tranformed, so it's a bit easier. The turning point is when our aaracokra monk, who is kinda the glue holding our party together, gets targeted. He had just dealt some serious damage to her (thanks to my bardic buffs), but left himself vulnerable in the process. The dragon goes in for the kill, delivering a wicked slash that sends him across the ring, unconscious.

He's making death saves now. This is bad.

The dragon moves in for a killing blow, BUT that gives the rest of us a chance to make an opportunity attack against her! We had some really ulucky rolls, which we explain narratively by saying we're all in utter shock at our friend being taken down like that.

And then it's Pip's turn. She turns and makes eye contact with our aasimar paladin. The paladin nods. Pip turns back to the dragon, snarling. They've NEVER seen her this angry; it transforms her whole demeanor. That's her FRIEND, and she is ABSOLUTELY FURIOUS.

Now, some background here: When Pip first met the party, her nightly disappearances were linked to some bad shit that the rest of the party was there to investigate. There was a lot of suspicion initially, but once they filled her in on what had been happening, Pip was wracked with guilt, and swore she never knew she was a part of it all. The aaracokra monk was one of the last to put aside his distrust, but once he did, he became one of her strongest supporters. He ALWAYS had her back, assuring her that he wouldn't let anything take away her freedom again, even if they didn't know what was causing her disappearances (and apparently crimes). He was the first to run out into the ring to celebrate with her when she won the battle of the bards! He means A LOT to Pip.

So when he's taken down by the green dragon, our little supportive healer switches into fucking Attack Mode. And uhh I could just describe what I did mechanically, but it's more fun to make it a whole dramatic scene.

Pip plays the banjo, right? Well, I decided she can probably pull some bard magic bullshit to make it sound however she wants... Mostly so I could justify using a certain song for what she does next. Imagine the opening notes of this song in the following moments. >:)

She strums a sinister chord, then raises her banjo up as if it was a bow, pulling back a glowing magical bowstring. As she fires, an arc of magic shoots across the ring like an arrow. And in that split second, a deafening, discordant screech thunders from within the dragon's ribcage, shaking the earth, shattering nearby rocks, raising a cloud of dust in the air. The dragon's scales rattle, bones crack, muscles shudder as this wave of pure sound thunders all around her.

Pip cast the strongest spell she knows at the highest level she possibly could, dealing enough damage to send the dragon to her knees. This buys our paladin just enough time to slip past her and heal our monk, stabilizing him. But before the dragon can fully recover, the paladin is back on the offensive, going ALL OUT, sword blazing with divine fire, body radiating light in a way I can only describe as Going Nuclear. She tears through the dragon's wing, and that was the final nail in the coffin.

The dragon, grounded and badly hurt, cries out, "I yield!" Our monk rises to his feet and looks down at her, tired but triumphant.

And THAT, my friend, is how we defeated a green dragon with the power of friendship and incredible violence.

[outofangband]

language in Angband

My Angband World Building and Aftermath of Captivity Masterlist touch on this a few times and I’ve talked specifically about Maedhros and the languages of Angband (which I go into more later here too)

but I definitely want to do a full post on it and I wanted to compile my thoughts from various posts too!

Names and titles in Angband 

Note: this is obviously a purely fantasy setting however control over language and culture is absolutely a method undertaken by real life groups and governments and weaponized against marginalized communities. The languages of my culture for example have a history of being intentionally obscured, demonized, or even banned. I just wanted to say this both to acknowledge and to warn that this has the potential to hit home in this regard. Access to one's language and culture is a right.

First, an incomplete list of languages spoken:

-Avarin language and its many dialects and Primitive Quendian, in pockets of older thrall families that were never transformed or never fully transformed into orcs -Older/proto Sindarin: see above

-Earlier versions of Sauron's Black Speech including the formalized Orcish tongue which has its own alphabet, that which is used most commonly in Angband.  -A distortion of Valarin that Morgoth uses among his Maiar (primarily in giving orders to the higher ranking Maiar) -The more organic orcish blend of the distorted language of Morgoth's Maiar, Primitive Quendian and several Avari tongues. This was created by the first elven prisoners of Angband during and after their transformation into the first orcs (in larger pockets of both elven and orcish populations, usually non fighting sections of the orcs) -Later Sindarin and Noldorin Quenya  (rarer, among some groups of prisoners and more isolated throughout the fortress)

Most common in the fortress is the orcish blend that more heavily drew from Elven dialects, the formalized Orcish Sauron utilizes, early forms of Sindarin, and Morgoth's Valarin with the formalized Orcish being perhaps the most used and the language most if not all prisoners pick up on at least some. It is also the language most heavily associated with Angband and with The Enemy by the outside. It is this that elves hear from their enemies during attacks and raids and it is often this that the few escaped prisoners who make it home will sometimes be heard speaking and will be stigmatized for.The developed alphabet is what many thrall brands use, especially those given to designate specific roles (there are examples on my branding overview post).  Though Morgoth's Distorted Valarin invokes dread upon its evocation, it is far rarer for elven prisoners to hear or learn any of this.

Many prisoners especially in the mines, forges and kitchens learn the formal and informal Orcish tongues through a combination of osmosis and direct instruction by older prisoners and sometimes higher ups or orcs who have been assigned to work with them. That most are unlikely to understand the instructions and speech around them adds to the atmosphere of fear and chaos. Abandoning their own languages and picking up on that of their captors becomes incentivized for survival. Though of course it is a difficult task and there is no formal instruction.

It’s important to note that specifically the less formal blend is constantly evolving as prisoners who were not directly taught certain words guess or pick up words in context and occasionally these might be incorrect interpretations or translations that are passed down and it leads to still more branches of this already mixed language. What a word means in the forges might have evolved differently in the mines until a prisoner is transferred from one place to another. Words from original languages are added and changed and substituted when necessary. 

For example a word for blanket might be passed on as meaning clothing or warmth.

Language in Angband, as I have talked about more extensively, is an area heavily controlled. I talk about this on my post about trauma and freedom and on many of my Angband World Building posts (namely my post about supplies, rules and punishment and in individual sections of the fortress on their respective posts) but speech among the prisoners is heavily policed and often punished and this very much includes what language is used in what places at what times. 

Control of language and control of information are intrinsically linked. I mentioned that formalized orcish has one of the only alphabets used in the fortress. Very few prisoners are taught to read and write in this (though some are if their captors deem it necessary for their duties). Even the many who are branded with letters from this alphabet may not know what those letters represent. 

Prisoners are often punished for talking back, for speaking their own language, for praying or singing,  for verbally comforting others, for sharing or even having information that they should not, for simply talking when they had been ordered to work, etc.

It’s what I always inevitably return to with Maedhros; I cannot over emphasize the devastating effects of being in an environment where one cannot enact any effect on their environment by their words. The utter helplessness this inflicts on the prisoners has devastating effects that last well beyond the physical walls of the fortress. 

Advocacy, even decision making, becomes extremely difficult, even terrifying.

It would be incorrect to say that there are eyes upon each being in the fortress at all times, secret words are possible but they are dangerous and the atmosphere of mistrust organically created and intentionally reinforced means most are reluctant to even attempt them.

Temporary or permanent removal of speaking ability through hypnosis, spell, damage to vocal cords or removal of the tongue is not an infrequent event. A small number of prisoners are modified in this way prior to any infraction as a preventive measure or because their role is best served in silence (these will be elaborated on in more detail on an upcoming post)

Unless work necessitates exchange of instructions, which will be monitored by higher ups most of the time,  an elven prisoner is not necessarily placed with others of their kin of who speak their tongue and in fact, separation is not uncommon. One might go for years or decades without hearing their original language. Punishments for speaking out of turn, even and especially harmless words of comfort such as song, cultural stories, and prayer, are also not uncommon.

Knowing any elven language is not a requirement for being in charge of slaves in Angband (except in cases where prisoners are used for specific or precise enough work that instructions are clearly needed). Sometimes prisoners who have been there for a long time are given permission to speak to newer captives to inform them of rules or give them instructions. For the most part conversation in the mines is heavily policed but plenty of the slaves there have worked out systems of how to avoid detection if they choose to risk it, the overseer to elf ratio is pretty large. (as in many elves per overseer) These older prisoners are both loved and hated by their kin.

Case studies:

Maedhros learns a blend of the formal Orcish and mixed Orcish tongues. Some he picks up from context, some he’s instructed in. I’ve talked before about how him speaking these after his rescue becomes the subject of rumors and speculation. Maedhros is also among the few prisoners who learn any of Morgoth’s Valarin, albeit only a few words and phrases. I have a few other post about this but I think so much about Maedhros’s knowledge of Angband and the ways it is both vital and also highly stigmatized and his knowledge of the languages of Angband, even so incomplete, is absolutely part of this. I have one post here but I always, always want to talk more about this!

Rog becomes well versed in both formal and mixed Orcish during his time in the mines. Through contact with older prisoners he learns phrases of the Avari tongue as well as other Eldarin dialects. He loses a lot of these during his time after Angband, due to lack of practice and the stark differences in the languages he does use. 

Gwindor learns some phrases in mostly the mixed orcish. Unlike Rog he was not recognized as an authority in the mines and largely sought to be ignored

Húrin learns a few phrases in the mixed and formal languages but mostly forgets them by the time of his release. He does occasionally hear Morgoth speak his distorted Valarin but learns very little and intentionally tries to forget it (unsuccessfully)

[middleearthpixie]

Living Proof ~ Chapter Eighteen

Summary: When he puts himself between the Uruk-hai and Merry and Pippin, Boromir knows it means sacrificing himself. But it also means redemption for his near betrayal of Frodo and the Fellowship, and so it is a price he is more than willing to pay.

Kaia has been on her own for as long as she can remember, having escaped a terrible life in a village not far from Mordor. When she hears the sounds of battle, she knows what it means and when she ventured forth and finds a gravely wounded man lying amongst the leaves and debris, she takes him in, not knowing he is actually the son of the steward of Gondor.

Angry at himself and faced with a long road to recovery, Boromir does not make things easy on Kaia and it is only through her own sheer will that she does not give into the urge to hit him over the head with something on a daily basis. That refusal to give up brings about changes neither one of them could have foreseen.  She just wanted to save him. She never thought he would save her in return…

Fandom: The Lord of the Rings (AU, Boromir lives)

Pairing: Boromir x ofc Kaia 

Warnings: Battle violence, death, nothing too graphic

Rating: T 

Word Count: 3.3k

Tag List: @sotwk @heilith @fizzyxcustard @evenstaredits @way-too-addicted-to-fandoms @emmyspov @finnofamerica @lathalea @ass-deep-in-demons @quiall321 @mistofstars @justfollowtheroad @guardianofrivendell @glassgulls @doctorwhump @kmc1989 @estethell @emrfangirl @emmanuellececchi

If you’d like to be added (or removed) to the tag list, please just let me know!

Previous chapters can be found here.

He stared at her. 

Kaia was all too aware of the pale blue eyes that had been on her since the moment the gaunt man swept into the courtyard of the White Tower. She didn't have to turn and look at him. The burning on her back told her he stared. 

She’d never seen him before and she knew that if she had, she certainly would have remembered him. Tall. Long, almost flowing white hair and beard, dressed in immaculate white robes that seemed to glow around him. 

And yet, he stared at her as if he knew her, but could not place her. She tried to ignore it, but after a while, it troubled her more than the wounds on her arm did, so she crossed the rain-dampened courtyard to stand before him. “Excuse me?”

The gaunt man looked down at her. “Yes?”

“Have you a problem with my being here?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you think I’ve not noticed you?” She held his piercing gaze with only a hint of discomfort. “You keep looking over at me and if you are troubled by my being here, I’d like to know what it is.”

“I’m not at all troubled by you, my lady,” he replied, his voice low and almost soothing. “I was simply wondering how your mother fared these days.”

“My—my mother?” Her stomach twisted slightly. 

“Aye. You look very much like her.”

“How do you know what my mother looked like?”

“How do I know? I knew her, of course. And your father, also.”

Kaia felt as if she’d been punched in the gut as she just stared up at the old man. “You—you knew him? Knew them? But how?Who are you?”

“Oh, yes, I suppose my name would help, wouldn’t it. I am Gandalf. You were but a wee lass when I last saw you. No more than two summers old. I’m not at all surprised you do not remember me.”

She just stared up at him for a long moment, but before she could say anything, he added, “I was there, at Erebor, when your father fell.”

“You were?”

“Indeed, I was. And he fought bravely. Tell me, how is your mother?”

To Kaia’s surprise, her throat tightened and her eyes stung. She swallowed hard as she shook her head. “She… she was killed in an orc raid the summer before last.”

Gandalf’s eyes widened. “Oh, I am so sorry.”

“Thank you. I—I wasn't expecting to bump into anyone who knew her. Not here, anyway.”

“Tell me, how did you find your way here from Mirkwood?”

She blinked away the tears and managed a slight laugh. “It’s a long, boring story that ends with my finding the steward’s son and later on joining his brother’s soldiers.”

Those blue eyes widened now. “The steward’s son? You are the woman Boromir brought off the field out there?”

Kaia smiled even as she felt a bit of a pang at hearing his name and tried not to think about where he was, what he was doing at that moment. Nodding, she said, “I am, yes.”

To her surprise, his eyes softened and a hint of a smile creased his already-creased face even more. “And what does the steward think of this?”

“Think of what? I’ve not met him.”

“Think of his son, his heir, bringing a woman home with him.”

She chuckled. “He didn’t bring me home that way, you know.”

“And yet you are here still.” Gandalf glanced out toward Osgiliath. “And I assume you are waiting for his return.”

“You have me there, so,” she chuckled, “I suppose he did bring me home that way.”

“Good. His mother used to worry about him, you know. Afraid he would grow old alone and regret it.”

“I did not know,” she told him, shaking her head. “He does not speak of his mother often.”

“Come.” Gandalf gestured to the center of the courtyard, where a dead tree stood amidst the lush grass surrounding it. “Walk with me.”

She did as he requested, strolling across the courtyard to the low white stone wall surrounding the dead tree. Gandalf sank against the stone. “What has he told you of her? Of his family?”

“Not much at all,” she confessed, also settling on the stone. She glanced up at him. “His brother is younger than he is and his life has been devoted to Gondor’s defense.”

“His mother died when he was but a child and her greatest fear was that Denethor would have him forsake everything else for the glory of Gondor. Denethor cared not of the personal cost, but cared only about keeping Gondor in his grasp. Not that much has changed since then.” Gandalf turned to stare out in the direction of Osgiliath, although all they could see from their vantage point was angry gray sky. “He does not want to relinquish that power. And he made certain to drive that home to Boromir, to remind him at every turn how he will inherit the stewardship, and until now, he has made it clear Gondor comes before everything. Boromir’s mother used to worry that would lead to a very cold and lonely life for him.

“But, you might change that and I can only imagine how Denethor will react to the knowledge that someone other than Gondor has won Boromir’s heart.”

She sighed softly, her eyes stinging as she also stared off toward Osgiliath. “I only wish for him to return safely. I do not think I could bear losing someone else I love.”

His thin, wrinkled hand came to rest on her shoulder. She waited for him to offer up some words of comfort or wisdom, but all he said was, “You may not have the choice.”

“I know. And that’s why it was so much easier before I happened upon that blasted clearing. Now, he is down there and I am here waiting and waiting is not my strong suit. I should be there, fighting alongside him.”

“You are no soldier, though.”

“No. I’m not. I’ve had only a few lessons from Faramir’s second, Madril. Everything else I’ve done, I’ve done alone, out of the need to survive.” She sighed softly, her shoulders slumping as she added, “I’ve fooled myself for a long time, you know. Let myself believe I could take care of myself, but the truth is, the only thing I’m actually good at is running away. I ran when my village was attacked. I ran after I found Boromir—although that was to bring him to safety—and I ran after he and I—”

She stopped abruptly, her cheeks growing hot. “I ran.”

“So stop running.”

“That is easier said than done, you know.” She looked up at him this time, the wind picking up to send her hair flying wildly about her face. Raking her fingers through the curls, she pulled them back. “Although, this time… perhaps it won’t be.”

Beyond the walls of Minas Tirith, there came a great loud rumbling, and what started as a faint hum rose to a clear shout. Kaia and Gandalf both jumped at the sounds, practically sprinting across the courtyard to the far end, where she stopped dead in her tracks and just stared.

What had been an empty field not long ago now held an army of orcs and where they parted, a lone horse moved toward the main gates. Kaia’s heart stopped as she peered down and realized who the wounded man was being dragged along by that horse.

Sweat prickled along her back at the sight of Faramir, in his battle armor, with two arrows protruding from him. The only thing she could do as her belly twisted into sickening knots, was a clap a hand to her mouth and whisper, “Oh… oh, no…”

Both she and Gandalf spun about at the same time and hurried down along the city’s tiers until they reached the Great Gate, where she stepped back as soldiers tended to Faramir, freeing him from his horse’s stirrups to spirit him to a litter and bring him up.

Gandalf went with him, while she stood where she was, waiting to see Boromir as she heard one of Faramir’s men say, “They were outnumbered. None survived.”

Kaia’s knees went to sponge, but she caught herself before they gave way. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head even as the gates slammed shut. “Oh, please… no…”

There had to be some mistake. There simply had to be, because as she’d told Gandalf, she could not lose another person she loved. And until she saw Boromir’s body for herself, she would not believe he was gone. She just couldn’t believe it. 

Men all about her rushed into their positions as a thunderous clanking filled the air. Then came the shouts and she had no idea why anyone was shouting until she looked up and saw what the orc army had fired over Minas Tirith’s walls.

Heads. The heads of the Gondorian soldiers who’d followed Faramir and Boromir back to Osgiliath.

Her gut kinked sharply. A brackish taste flooded her mouth.

She was going to be sick.

This time, when her knees crumpled, she hit the stone with a low moan of pain and as she did, her stomach clenched, twisted, and emptied itself onto the cobblestones before her. She couldn't look. She simply could not bear to see if Boromir’s head—

“No,” she whispered as her stomach revolted once more and she vomited again. 

A shadow fell over her and an arm came about her shoulders, tightening as a woman shouted, “Come! We need to get away from the walls!”

She let the woman tug her to her feet and as they pushed through the throng of people, a second wave of decapitated heads flew over the city walls. With all of the horrors Kaia had seen over the course of her life, nothing would ever compare to this. Nothing ever could. This was beyond her worst imaginings and vile beyond belief. All around her, horrified shrieks blended in one scream of mourning as heads were recognized by loved ones. 

She didn't know who had her arm, but the woman pulled her back, closer to the city’s interior as the first massive boulder slammed into one of the many turrets, knocking a huge chunk free and crumpling the stone as if it was made of sticks. 

“Abandon your posts!” Denethor bellowed, his vice rough and panicky. “Flee! Flee for your lives!”

A dull thwock followed and Denethor went quiet, while Gandalf hollered, “Prepare for battle!”

With those words, Kaia forgot her nausea. Forgot her worry over Boromir. Forgot her own fear. She had had enough. Enough of battle, enough of death, but mostly?

Enough of orcs. 

She shook off the woman still holding her arm as Gandalf thundered by astride a white horse, and without looking back, she hurried back to Boromir’s flat, where she’d left her things. He’d pressed the key into her hand before leaving for the stables, and the lock gave without trouble.

Inside his flat, it was eerily quiet and she paused. Only twenty-four hours had passed since he and Faramir left. That was it. And yet, it felt as if he’d been gone a lifetime already. 

And now, he most likely was not going to return. 

“No,” she whispered, “do not—”

But it was too late. The memories were there, comforting and torturing her all at the same time, beginning when he was but a strange, wounded man lying on her sofa. She didn’t know his name, but that wouldn’t be the truth for long. 

His eyes slid shut again and he drew in a deep breath, then winced and exhaled sharply. “Take care,” she told him. “You’ve had a bit of a go there yesterday.You need to give yourself time to heal.”

Another nod. Then, silence stretched for a few minutes before he murmured, “Boromir.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My name.”

For the first time since finding him in the clearing, Kaia smiled. “Rest then, Boromir. I’ll return shortly.”

She smiled, remembering the first time she helped him with his trousers. 

She slowly rose, easing the trousers over his hips, and paused as she straightened before him, suddenly very aware of where her hands where and where she was in relation to this half-naked man before her. It was wrong, and she knew it, but at the same time, she couldn’t help but notice how broad his shoulders were and how wide his chest was. He was a warrior, no doubt, for heavy bands of muscle wrapped about his legs, about his shoulders and arms, across his chest. 

The air stirred as she peered up at him, warmer than it had been only minutes earlier, and she realized then that his eyes were not as pale as she’d thought, but were more of a gray-blue, off-set by the honey-gold color of his hair. 

“I think I might manage this on my own.” His low growl—almost a purr, really—broke the thickening tension swirling between them.

“What?” She glanced down at her hands, only a fraction of an inch from his bare skin, and let go of his trousers to step back. “Oh, of course. I beg your pardon.”

A hint of a smile curved his lips as he fastened his trousers, while embarrassed heat swirled through her. “Y-yes, of course. You have this,” she stammered, gesturing to the pot simmering over the fire. “I’ll just let you—that is, I’ll get supper on the table while you… well… I’ll get supper.”

With a soft sigh, she grabbed her sword, pausing in the doorway once more, as her next memory was powerful enough to bring tears to her eyes. 

“Of course.” He smiled then. “You know I love you, right?”

Her hand tightened on the sword grips. 

Boromir was not dead. 

She refused to believe it.

Silence.

Boromir’s ears rang with it as he lifted his head and squinted through the smoke, at the utter devastation around him. Forget foolish, trying to reclaim Osgiliath had been beyond idiotic. They didn't stand a chance. 

He eased onto his back with a low groan. Every muscle in his body ached and it was only through divine providence that when his horse threw him, he’d landed amidst stone and rubble and vegetation that had begun claiming Osgiliath’s crumbling stones for itself. If not for that mess, he had no doubt he would have suffered the same fate as so many of his and Faramir’s men. 

Faramir.

He’d seen his brother felled by two arrows that pierced his armor. Faramir toppled from his saddle, but his foot got caught up in the stirrup and before Boromir could get to him, said horse had bolted, dragging Faramir behind him. 

His stomach clenched at the thought of his brother bouncing over who knew how many miles of rutted, rock-strewn field. His eyes closed of their own volition and stung with tears he fought to hold back. Not now, he told himself sternly, shaking his head as he tried to fight down the grief roiling inside him. He didn't want to think about it. He couldn't think about it. He had to get return to Minas Tirith before it was too late, and that meant shoving all other thoughts aside and focusing on this one single task. Minas Tirith first. Everything else after. 

Slowly, he sat up and looked about, steeling himself to rise. The scars on his thigh ached, the hot burn spreading slowly up into his left hip. With his first step, Boromir bit back an oath at the starburst of pain erupting in that same muscle from which Kaia had pulled not one, but two arrowheads not too many weeks earlier. For a moment, he wondered if he’d been struck again. The pain was that bad. But upon examination, he found no evidence of any arrows anywhere on his person. He’d been lucky, for so many arrows rained down upon them, it was only a miracle he hadn’t been hit.

His head, however, thundered beyond pain, which receded as he paused. His forehead felt damp and when he swept the back of his hand over it, a hot sting erupted in its wake just above his right eye, out toward that temple. He drew his hand away to find himself staring down at the blood smearing it. Wonderful. He had no idea what struck him or what he might have struck when he fell, and he couldn't recall so it was entirely possible that was how he’d fallen from his mount. Or perhaps it had happened when he landed amid the rubble, as his helm was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he’d been struck and lost it before falling. He didn't know and honestly? Thinking about it only hurt more, so it was best to not trouble himself with it at the moment. 

His blade glinted in the dimmed sunlight, and when he crouched and reached with his right arm, another fireball erupted along his upper arm, into his shoulder. The fabric of his sleeve was torn, but he’d thought that was because of the brambles he’d landed in. But, upon closer look, he realized the dark wet stain was not from the river, but from the blood oozing from the chunk taken out of his right shoulder. For a moment, he wondered if some creature had taken a bite of him, the wound shiny and raw and red. But that was silly, of course. The Nazgûl’s fell beasts wouldn’t trouble with that. He had to have been hit either by a misguided arrow or perhaps an axe. He couldn't say. Chaos reigned from the moment they drew within sight of the orcs guarding the city. From that first shower of arrows, until just now, Boromir could remember only bits and pieces of what had happened.

He bit back another oath as he lifted his sword, then tucked it into its scabbard. His legs felt steadier now, but when he found his horse cut down not fifteen feet from him, a heavy sigh rose to his lips, partly for the loss of the animal, but also from the knowledge he now had to get back to Minas Tirith by foot.

But that wasn't the worst part. Just beyond his horse’s body, he found other bodies and, despite his years of experience in battle, his stomach knotted to send a sour taste flooding his mouth. 

The bodies were those of his men and not a single one of them still had its head. He stood there, dazed as he just took in body after body after body. Men with wives, children, families who loved them, who were now huddled in Minas Tirith, hoping they would return safely.

Minas Tirith.

He looked up the, wincing at the sharp pain that streaked through his temples with the sudden moment. Osgiliath was mostly vacant now. The orc army had left a few behind, but as he stood there, trying to wrap his head around the death around him, they had marched on.

To Minas Tirith.

Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he slid his sword free and started his trek. Any orc he crossed paths with lost his head in return. No battle. No mercy. He simply swung and wherever he cleaved, so be it. 

He paid no mind to the black ooze of orc blood that spattered across him, that stained his cloak or trousers or boots, that slapped him across the face like a spurned suitor. He didn't care. He didn't slow down. He didn't stop. He had almost twenty miles to cover, almost twenty miles between him and his home. Between him and his family. 

Between him and Kaia. 

With Osgiliath and the remaining orcs behind him, and a fresh rain stinging cold against his skin to wash away the remnants of war from his face and hands, Boromir set out for Minas Tirith. 

[miseryscrowned]

Edgy OC asks for Angra! 2, 14, 23 please?

Thank you for the ask 🥺 it really helps me to define Angra and her character a bit more 🫶🏻

2: What's something about your OC that people wouldn't expect just from looking at them?

I think with Angra being a half-orc pirate most people - especially at first impression - expect her to be just reckless and chaotic which she is sometimes (and she doesn’t mind people seeing her that way) but Angra is also pretty smart, she’s logical and even strategical but she doesn’t really share her thought process with others so they don’t expect this of her, she’s the type to always have a plan B or escape plan that she hasn’t revealed to anyone, most of it is because she learned from her dad’s reckless mistakes so yea she’s a lot less reckless than people think!

14: How does your OC want to be seen by other characters?

Angra likes to be seen as strong, but not in the “I’m the strongest haha fight me!!” way, she wants to be a strong person that her friends can count on, the one that will protect them, the one they feel safe around she wants to be seen as someone who encourages others and gives them hope, like an unsinkable ship or like the safe land after a long journey at sea.

23: What emotion is the hardest for your OC to process? How about express?

Probably sadness, she hasn’t really experienced much sadness, most of her life was exciting adventures raids and songs sung by the sea and feasts and fun, she would not really know how to deal with sadness or express it. When feeling sad she would go somewhere away from everyone so they don’t see her.

[necromatador]

A list of my TTRPG OCs

Here's a bunch of them for reference if you ever want to send asks!

You can also find them with way more detail over on Toy.House!

Kesk Amanita (they/them) is a nonbinary minotaur cleric of the god of Plague & Outcasts. They survived a horrible magical disease with no known survivors at a very young age, losing their parents in the process, and were raised in the extremely remote mountaintop quarantine temple by the head of the religious order there, alongside his half-orc child Jukha. They are demi-romantic, asexual, intersex, and have vitiligo.

Reverence Trouble Malephar (he/him, yes the T does stand for Trouble) is an ex-mafia private eye. He is also a "paladin" of the same deity of Plague & Outcasts as Kesk, though they're from very different settings. I often use Trouble or Trubs to denote his younger mafia self from his older self, who I refer to as Reverence or Rev. He had a bad experience when he tried to skim money off his mafia grift and ended up getting his boyfriend and their team killed in front of him. He also had a girlfriend who disappeared after that and he finds out much later that he has twin kids with her: a daughter named Adventure and a (trans) son named Confidence. Reverence is cis, bi, and polyam.

Aeron Merla (he/him) is a Kenku Revenant and a rogue/warlock. He lived in the city of Avon's Keep and was a member of the local crime family (Cosa Corax) and the oldest of 14 kids. He was murdered by assassins from a rival group (Cosa Noctua). He was found and brought back by a creature called the Nachtraven, a generally malevolent fragment of the kenku deity The Raven Queen. He ran away from home to try and find a way to fix this because it's generally anathema to the worship of The Raven Queen to refuse death, but he still wants to live. He's kept alive by a small eye-parasite that the Nachtraven implanted in his slit throat. Aeron is cis and gay.

M'rai Scourgemaw (she/her) is a gnoll wild-soul barbarian. She was raised as a fighter to help out in the Three Scars War on behalf of a kingdom-state neighboring her homeland. She helped lead a group of trained mercenaries known as Blood Battalion, specializing in fighting magic-users. She was nearly killed by an immense major backlash in a fight and was left behind to heal by the Battalion. They never came back and the war finished while she was recovering, leading to her becoming her own merc and eventually getting arrested and thrown in jail. From there she escaped during a dragon attack, helped stop a coup that would restart the war, and discovered that she has a wellspring of raw wild magic within her now. Also she reconnected with the Battalion and her old flame, Amaranthe. M'rai is cis and gay.

Sidewinder (they/he) is a Yeremy Copperhead. The Yeremy are a culture of people indigenous to the continent of Ush'dvania, the home of the ancient Witch Kings. Yeremy wear masks to hide their true selves from strangers, so Sidewinder is almost never seen without his mask when around other people. Copperheads are alchemist-assassins and masters of poison and shadows. Sidewinder grew up wandering from place to place helping their mother with spirit-work and healing. They grew fascinated with magic and poisons and eventually moved to Ironwood, a small town on the frontier of the wastes, to set up a home and attract the attention of the Copperheads to earn the right to request membership. He has since: raided the secret warehouses of the powerful Havlan Trading Company at least 3 times, destroyed the entire Strychnine Syndicate's presence in Ironwood, unleashed a still-living Witch King, made friends, started dating the town deputy, and stuck his originally-normal arm in so much magic that eventually it had to be fully rebuilt.

Otylia Byalas (she/they) is a Trau Stitcher. The Trau are the fourth indigenous group from Ush'dvania and the only one that doesn't wear masks as a cultural practice. Or at least not physical masks; they culturally respond "I am but a humble [x]" to any particularly probing questions. Otylia and her fathers used to be just as nomadic as Sidewinder and his mother, and the two groups ran into each other fairly often on their travels, becoming friends. Otylia and Sidewinder dated briefly as teens, before deciding to remain as friends only. Otylia moved to a major city to attend medical school, and while there ran into trouble after turning to a life as a resurrectionist in order to properly gain experience. She fled to Ironwood and took up an apprenticeship under Doc Huxelby, becoming the medic on Sidewinder's team and helping him out with a little magi-medical problem as well.

Ori'Xiros (he/him) is a blue dragonborn draconic sorcerer. Orphaned at a very young age, he grew up on the streets of Port Estersall, a gaslamp fantasy city with Prohibition vibes. Helped along on the streets by a low-level thief, he learned about his magical ability and became determined to practice enough to turn himself into a real dragon, with which he is mildly obsessed. Then one day, while working for the thief, he stole from the wrong jewelry store and attracted the attention of a red dragonborn named Arkasi who took an interest in Ori. Not long after that, Ori was hired and given free room, board, and meals by a mysterious organization dedicated to hunting down dangerous magical items and protecting the world from them. Eventually he learned that Arkasi got him the job and that Arkasi was secretly a red dragon.

Exul & Velata (he/him for Exul, she/her for Velata) are two of the last surviving Nightbrothers and Nightsisters after the Dathomirian Massacres. They were originally slated to be paired according to Nightsister custom, but when the Nightsisters were decimated by the Sith, teenage Velata was told to flee into the forests and swamps to hide. When the Nightbrothers were attacked later, she broke her cover and dragged an injured Exul away from the fighting. Exul was heavily injured, and Velata scrambled to keep him alive, eventually hijacking a scavenger ship that came to investigate the now-quiet Dathomir, and fleeing off-world with Exul. They got Exul a black-market cybernetic heart implant to replace the heart he lost (zabrak have two hearts) and were forced into bounty hunting in order to pay back the loan that it took. Eventually they took a bounty on a pair of suspected ex-Jedi in hiding and were forcibly adopted by the two old Twi'lek ladies they ended up finding. Later they joined the Rebellion.

Telthe Baid (she/they/it) is a Harch demolitions expert. Drafted, as many Harch were during the pre-Empire era, into the military, Telthe specialized in explosives and ordnance engineering and while she started out in an artillery factor, she was soon deployed to the front lines as an advance saboteur and demolitionist. Not long after her deployment, her team was caught in an explosive ambush, and Telthe was one of the few survivors. The experience left her in a form of traumatic shock and not long after recovering physically, she went AWOL and deserted. Fleeing to Nar Shaddaa, Telthe set up a small business making explosives for bounty hunters until she was offered a position on a team of thieves working for a Hutt named Teemo. After several successful heists for Teemo, the Hutt eventually betrayed Telthe's team, attempting to kill them. The survivors planned out a revenge heist, emptying out Teemo's vaults...

...and leaving Telthe behind as a fall guy. Now betrayed by her team as well, she escaped from Teemo's dungeon with a group of rag-tags, and currently seeks revenge on her once-allies, especially the leader and her close confidante, Naash Vit. Oh and she lost her arm and partial use of one eye to an enemy sniper on one of the new team's missions.

Hide of the Beast (he/him)

Rok Merla (he/she/they/it)

Kol Fizzleblast (he/him)

Redemption Crosslaw (he/him)

Theodosia Sylvaine (she/her)

Chesslin Ken'ana (she/her)

Salakesh Marivaldi (he/him)

MORE COMING SOON!

[suntiger745]

Still not at the number of Fallout 4 characters (or Skyrim characters before I re-installed it), but I am at the point where I've had to write down some key points about my BG3 characters to keep track.

Anyway.

Dusk Cloudberry, orc shadow monk who works for the Zentharim. She was sleeping in a safe house in Baldur's Gate when the lookout's warning whistle had her scramble from her bed, running out in just her skivvies thinking there was a raid from the Flaming Fists. Turns out it was a nautiloid instead, and she was one of the people captured.

She escaped from the nautiloid with a few others, but she's a bit uncertain what to do now. She's not sure where the closest Zentharim agents are, and the tadpole in her head is... a problem.

Dusk look the way she does because I went with the WoW formula of orcs being morphologically sensitive to magic and changing skin color when enough magic affect them. In Dusk's case it's a mix of magic and alchemy that the higher ups in the Zentharim used on her and a few other agents to enhance their performance. She has excellent reflexes, sharper hearing, actually move between shadows and can see as well as a drow in the dark compared to how she was before the process she went through. (Also, from a purely layer perspective, damn the orcs have like no subcutaneous fat on them.)

Crimson Aria was one of the prize possessions of H'than Mariander; businessman, collector and owner of several taverns and an arena at the Rock of Bral in astral space. He had gotten hold of a githyanki egg and, knowing how they fancy red dragons, decided to create an amalgamation of the two. Partially to annoy the githyanki, partly to see if he could. He hired a wizard and called in a favor from an archfey, and Mariander's "little jewel" was born. As she grew up she was taught to entertain, both on the stage and in the arena. She's a very good singer and a good fighter, at least in a gladitorial arena where the opponent knows that if they kill the boss' favorite there will be hell to pay.

She was kidnapped along with two magical items by a rival to the H'than and shipped planetside to Toril by the mercenaries on the job. They were passing through Baldur's Gate to a potential buyer in Waterdeep when happenstance had Aria caught by one of the massive tentacles and transported her onto the nautiloid.

While not body shy in the slightest, Aria isn't dumb. She realize that she will need allies and that fighting in the arena is different from fighting for your survival, so she got some armor as soon as she could. Now she is looking for a way to return to Mariander and the Rock of Bral, though meeting a real githyanki outside the supervision of her "father" is a rare treat and something she's very curious about, despite Lae'zel's harsh attitude.

Amarantia Celestria is a female dragonborn from a noble family, with a strong current of magic running through her from her ancestors. However, Amarantia chafed at the duties piled on her by the rigid community she lived in. She had dreamed of becoming a bard ever since she was a hatchling, and one night she acted on her desires and ran away to fulfil her dream. She was on the road to Baldur's gate, the city in sight even, when the nautiloid snatched her up.

The whole tadpole situation is a bit scary and a lot inconvenient, but she's determined to pursue her dream anyway. Also, she met a one-horned tiefling from Avernus who called her 'Sparkles'. After the initial shock, which was short-lived because Karlach turned out to be really nice and friendly, she rather liked it. She does sparkle after all, at least in sunlight, and it would be a good bard name.

Lorken to Bairn (Lorken the Child) was on a spirit quest to find his Heart Beast when a giant squid ship flew past over him and snapped him up like a tasty snack. He managed to escape by a combination of luck, a direct application of brute force and some allies he made on the squid ship. Shortly after crashing back on Toril, he could feel the connection to his ancestors in the land around him, even if it was faint, he met a wise and friendly undead. Seeing it as an omen that the first undead he encountered was friendly, he decided to explore the area.

In a battle before the entrance to a druid grove he called out for a Heart Animal to aid him, and a spirit answered. A great bear spirit bonded itself to him, its strength enhancing his already considerable strength, its tough hide letting him absorb blows that would have felled him before. Having found his Heart Beast and thus becoming an adult he took the new surname Bearheart, as was tradition. Seeing the druids as having aided him in his spirit quest, he pledged he would help them as best he could, and by extension the refugees trapped in the grove.

Ash Lightbringer is a devout cleric of Lathander who was raised in a small temple to the Morninglord between Baldur's Gate and Waterdeep. Her parents had met as slaves in one of the Hells, but were freed by a group of adventurers. The paladin of Lathander in the group, Evelyn, was particularly friendly towards them and helped them with a bit of money to find a place of their own in a village when they returned to Toril. Her parents were devout worshipers of the Morninglord from then on and raised their daughter to be the same.

Ash is well trained though she lacks any actual combat or adventuring experience. She had just reached Baldur's Gate to visit the Morninglord's temple there and look for a group of adventurers to join when she got snatched up by the nautiloid. Although she's nervous and frightened by the quite extreme situation she suddenly finds herself in, she is determined to help the new allies she has found. She knows better than many that even in the darkest places there can be a light that brings hope and salvation.

Fionalar Torilastra is a high elf noble lady of Waterdeep whose parents were in turn nobles in Myth Drannor, which she and they will tell anyone who will listen, and quite a few who don't want to listen too. Arrogant, and an outright snob when it comes to drinks and jewelry, Fionalar is nonetheless genuinely talented with magic and a dedicated scholar. She was passingly familiar with Gale via Elminster Aumar and finds it suspiciously that both of them just happened to be snatched up by a nautiloid and implanted with tadpoles altered with [redacted] magic.

Although a bit put off with the "commoner" skills of lockpicking and sleight of hand, she's quite impressed with Astarion in the little party of people she finds herself in. She is determined to find out who and what has collected them and for what purpose. If she and Gale put their minds together, they will surely solve that riddle in short order. Or so she tries to convince herself.

Dog doesn't remember much after waking up in the tent of a small mercenary company led by a half orc named Captain Stonefist. The Captain said she'd lost some people and needed to fill out her ranks. He looked big and strong, and if he could follow orders he could be very useful to her and be well compensated for it.

With little in him besides anger, pain and visions of blood, the man simply did what the Captain told him to do. Dig latrines, no problem. Carry feed for the mules, sure. Kill? Oh yes. He was good at killing. Since he never argued back, Captain Stonefist started to call him her dog. The others in the company adopted the name as well. Dog didn't mind. I felt good to have direction after the broken hole his mind and past was. And he got to kill. He was very good at killing, grabbing a rage he wasn't sure where it came from and harnessing it into a sharp, bloody tool.

The company was about to enter Baldur's Gate, which Dog felt some anticipation towards. That was nice, he hadn't really cared about where they went in the two months since he'd been found by the Captain's scouts. He didn't know why, but it was nice to have a feeling other than rage, or blankness. They never got to enter the city however, as a nautiloid appeared in the sky above them and Dog got grabbed onto the alien ship. Dog didn't really know what to do, but the ilithids and devils were clearly enemies, so he killed them. The woman who called herself Lae'zel that he met seemed to know where they were and how to get away though, so he followed her lead and did what she told him to do. That was familiar. Comfortable. Plus, he got to kill again.

[unabashedrebel]

Proud Parents

“Single Fathers Support Group,” read the lackluster banner lopsidedly hanging from one side of the shoddy halls ceiling to the other. Chairs that looked all too uncomfortable were arranged around a circle as a few of the others of the group began to gather and find their seats. Complete with a makeshift table baring luke-warm coffee and snacks well passed their prime. Oddly enough, a sentiment the rogue was starting to relate to.

Kirollis felt his soul cringe as he read over the words, a defeated sigh escaping him marked his acceptance of the situation, “At least they have free coffee,” he muttered, though sounded far from enthused. While he was constantly reminded to look at the best in every situation, he strained hard to find the upside of this little experiment- the product of a bet gone awry between him and the very reason he had claim to a group such as this. “She thinks she’s sooooooo funny,” the rogue grumbled in mocking disdain, mostly to himself, as he made his way over to the table sitting out of the way to the side.

Now standing shoulder to shoulder with an Orc easily a foot taller than him, they both raided the snack table with their respective pallet; For Kirollis, it was a cup filled nearly to the brim with coffee he wouldn’t even dare to call ‘black’, while the Orc beside him loaded a napkin with biscuits.

“Your kid making you come to this thing too?” Kirollis started the simple throes of casual conversation, figuring that was easier then joining in on the circle of small talk behind them.

With a grunt the Orc replied, “Hmph. Your kid had to convince you to come?”

“I lost a bet…”

“Thrak just trying to be a better father.”

Tilting his head to the side, slightly surprised, Kirollis gave him a nod to show support. “Well, at least you’re not getting blackmailed into sharing your feelings so your daughter could get a laugh.”

Thrak chuckled in reply as he shook his head, “My son brings great honor to my family, I wish to bring honor to him. My fighting days are behind me, so I thought this would be a good way to show it. I wasn’t… as open as I should have been when he was younger.”

“Admirable,” the rogue replied with a side eye, though insecurity soon set in as he asserted, “Yeah well, just because she’s a little shit doesn’t mean she doesn’t bring honor to the family, you know?” he challenged.

“Hah! Thrak’s son joined the Kor’kron, he fights to protect the Horde. There’s no greater honor I could think of.”

Dipping his head back, now offended, Kirollis quickly quipped, “Yeah, well, my kid could totally kick your kids ass.”

Striking a nerve in the Orc’s psyche caused him to turn, facing the shorter rogue and getting in his face, “What did you say?!”

Puffing up his chest Kirollis proclaimed, “You heard me! Your Kor’kron kid ain’t shit!”

“AT LEAST THRAK’S SON DOESN”T HAVE TO BLACKMAIL FOR THRAK TO BE EMOTIONALLY AVAILABLE”

Kirollis blinked.

Before fists started flying a Forsaken with an interesting story stuck his hands between the two feuding fathers. “Geeeeentleman, why don’t we take our seats and work this out in a sharing session.”

Both Kirollis and Thrak groaned at the idea.

Two weeks later…:

“Uhm… so hey dad….” Soriya chirped while looking over a letter she received while away, “Why am I getting notified that you’re fighting with other dads?”

Kirollis tumbled as he tried to sit up straight, his ears perked and at attention as he looked every bit like the unremorseful cat who had just knocked over a glass of water, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really? Because it says here you got really irate with an Orc and almost caused a brawl?”

“Look it was totally justified okay?!”

“….”

“I was defending your honor!”

“…”

“Yeah okay I almost started a brawl…”

“I swear I leave you alone for five minutes. You’re worse than a murloc.”

“Uhm, hey, quick question…. Do you think I’m emotionally available?”

“Don’t try and change the subject.”

“I’m not, I swear!”

(You guys can blame @caedun & @kyuusei-shadowleaf, there 698 words.)

[galderthefuzzy]

Callisto

Callisto Ebonlocke, child of Clarissa and Alden Ebonlocke, has had very little stability in their 35 years. As a young draenei, they survived the orc raid on Karabor, and hid with their fellow draenei survivors on the shattered Outland. They traveled from place to place for years, losing many of their friends and comrades before escaping Draenor into the great dark beyond on the Exodar. The trauma of the constant bloodshed and movement has stuck with Callisto, and they have clung to the only consistency they had throughout this journey: their parents. Over time, they learned the ways of the arcane, but Callisto’s faith in the Naaru began to waver. And when the Exodar finally crash-landed on Azeroth, that faith was finally shattered. Alden did not survive the crash-landing. Clarissa, Callisto’s mother, survived the crash, but she was afflicted by a mysterious, terminal illness soon after that not even the most experienced alchemists, paladins or priests of the naaru could cure. Grieving and vulnerable, Callisto was then contacted by a mysterious patron, who offered them a bargain: help them gain access to Azeroth, in exchange for stalling Clarissa’s sickness forever and a boon of dark power. Callisto agreed to this deal, and as soon as their mother was stable, set out on a journey across the world. Carrying the ashes of their father with them in their urn necklace, Callisto now seeks to fulfill their end of the bargain. How far will Callisto go for the power to make their wish reality? Despite their years, Callisto remains somewhat naive and has not realized the imminent threat of their patron to Azeroth…

I have finished this piece as a supporter reward for the wonderful astralfox0893. Callisto exists both as a Draenei and a Tiefling - both of which are among my favorite fantasy races. Astral was kind enough to let me experiment with a b/w sketchy portrait and it lead to me actually starting an entire series of these, as I fell in love with it. I hope you like how it turned out! Thank you for your support!