#lachol

[ironfoot-mothafocka]

A time for uprooting

3.5/4, for @mrkida-art again. Knocked this out because I had some feelings and decided to post. 

More of my Grór stuff: 

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

2.2k words

—

Lachol zman v’et l’chal-chetef tachat HaShamayim. Et laledet v’et lamut. Et lata’at v’et la’akor natua.

A season is set for everything; a time for every experience under the sky. A time for birth and a time for death. A time for planting — and a time for uprooting the planted.

Grór is Lord of the Iron Hills. She has everything she wants. But there is a time for planting, and a time for uprooting that which has been growing since she was young. Can she let the seasons change?

—

She stares at him. Grór feels as though something unpleasant she thought crushed in an avalanche has re-emerged through the permafrost, unearthed by melting snow. And then the guilt hits her. She swallows and grips the side of her throne. Suddenly, the crown upon her brow is several pounds heavier, the nose-guard cutting into her flesh. Her eyes widen at Ixil. A buzzing, ringing sound fills her ears. “Lord Grór?” Ixil steps forwards, his face eager and earnest. Slowly, imperceptibly, she shakes her head. “Wh— what?” Don’t stammer, she chides herself. She can hardly breathe now. It feels as though there are a trapper’s set of iron jaws around her ribcage. But, maybe if she holds her breath long enough, she’ll fall unconscious and then she won’t have to hear what Ixil is about to repeat. Angrily, she pulls at her collar, averting her eyes down to the smooth, warm flagstone floor. Too hot. Too uncomfortable. Sweat sticks the furs of her greatcoat to her wrists and her shirt to her back. This is all too much. “I said,” Ixil replies gently, “word has come from the East. The dragon inside Ugzharak is dead! The remnants of the Stiffbeard army — which was camped in Ghomal for these many years — ventured to scout the hold, only to find out that the damn beast succumbed to something else!” How can he be sure? she thinks to herself. How can anyone be sure? She opens her mouth to say this— “They checked the body. Dead as kindling!” Reaching into a bag at his feet, Ixil pulls out what is very much the decomposing remains of a dragon’s talon. Grór is mesmerised slightly by this: the roaring hearth fire, built into the western end of the royal chamber in the Iron Hills fortress, plays off the obsidian gleam. It sparkles, as though living once more. Shrivelled flesh still clings to it, jet-black as the bone itself. “It is dead, then — at last,” she says, forcing a smile and slumping back, as though relieved. And she is relieved. She is pleased for him, and for his family, and for all the Stiffbeards. Her thoughts once again stray to her dreams of Khazad-dûm — how would she feel, if she knew Durin’s Bane had been vanquished for good, and all the orcs with it, and that she could return? Complete. She would feel whole.

Grór inhales deeply, looking Ixil, the Ranger of the Iron Hills, the Captain of the Iron Hills’ elite border scouts, straight in his eyes. They shine with unshed tears, and emotion simmers under the surface. A dwarfling’s hope. It suffuses his face — wonder, joy, excitement; and maybe it’s a hope that he’s kept from Grór for the long years that he has known her. Because they have spoken at length about it. One day. Always one day he and his family would return. And Grór agreed, and promised, and oathed to him that she would be the one to make it happen. Together, they would cross the Plains of Rhûn and assail the mountain with a legion of dwarves behind them, banners above their heads and sharp steel by their side. It was a fearless dream. But had she really thought that they could take down a dragon? Had she really hoped as hard as he did?

Burning hot — her face is burning. 

He can tell, a voice hisses in her head, like a trapped gnat. He can tell you’re unhappy. He can always tell. “My Lord?” She stands, just for something to do, and takes a few steps down from the raised stone dais. Her cheeks creak wider; her mouth feels like a nutcracker’s wooden maw, operated by a puppeteer. She smiles up at Ixil and clasps his forearm tight in hers, locking her fingers around his wrist. The leather of his bracer is warm and firm. His eyes are bright. His skin is more weathered now, ruddy-cheeked, but his hair is still sleek, well oiled, and gleaming like wet raven’s feathers. A scar from his temple stretches down to the corner of his lip, cutting into his beard. Her own beard is now almost long enough to tuck into her amethyst-studded belt. How far they have come since the days of dreaming of victory. Of returning. “I am happy for you,” she whispers, reaching up to clasp the back of his neck. Ixil reciprocates in a dance they have danced for decades now. His brow pushes against the metal of the crown, and Grór breathes with the rise and fall of the Stiffbeard’s chest.

How many more of these would they do — and when would their last one come?

“Thank you, my Lord,” he says, bowing his head, “I praise Mahal that I am fortunate enough to restore its splendour. To live to see this day when so many others have died.” He puffs out his chest proudly, shoulders pulled back. He stands taller and straighter than Grór has ever seen him before — even taller than when she had made him the leader of their rangers. She’d offered him General of her Army — but he’d declined. 

Why? she had asked. One day I must leave, he said seriously, and I don’t want any dwarrow getting too used to me. She had laughed, then. Ixil hadn’t spoken for the rest of the evening, lost in contemplation and steeped in a surly, distant disposition for the days after. He had avoided her so much that Grór thought he was ill. That had been years ago. Any dwarrow. Any dwarrow. Seeing him like this forces that memory into her brain, and it is as though Ixil had slapped her.

That was about you. It was all about him leaving you.

—

After King Dáin’s death, Ixil had made another choice, one that had changed both of their lives. Was it to Erebor with Thrór — following the rightful king, and Frór, her brother?

“There is opportunity to be had in those mountains—” Ixil gestured with a lamb shank to nothing in particular. “Iron is always needed, and the Hills have been a historic hold for your people, part of the lands of the Misty Mountains. Your birthright.” “I know, I know…” Grór paused. “You think it wise?” She inhaled sharply and took a draught of crap beer. She hadn’t listened to anyone else, not trusting their opinion of her as far as she could throw them. But she would trust Ixil. The Stiffbeard guffawed and smiled wider, his eyebrows jumping to his hairline. “Are you serious? Of course! Why not?” He was drunk, but he was being honest, Grór could tell that much. “And,” she pressed on, “you would come with me? If I did?” That was the make-or-break. That was what she needed, though she didn’t tell him. He leaned forwards, almost singeing his beard on the campfire; what was left of it, anyway, for part of it was shorn away in grief. “Where you go, I go. Where you make your hold, I will make mine, also. Remember the oath I took for you? That I loose my legs or breath to protect your hold? Your hold — not Thrór’s, and not Frór’s. Your’s.” Ixil glanced hurriedly over each shoulder and lowered his voice. “So — you have my word.”

—

“And I,” says Grór, wincing at how thin and wavering her own voice sounds to her ears, “praise Mahal for you. The proud children of Ugzhar will return again!” Her voice booms out across the hall to rambunctious cheering. Stiffbeards whoop and fill foaming pints, clacking them together with Longbeards and toasting to the restoration; drinking to the shared victory of the dwarf-folk over darkness. Ixil grabs her and before she knows it, he’s squeezing the life out of her, calling to the servants in the corner for ale, and wine, and platters of food. He draws back, and Grór tries to wriggle free, but he kisses her on the crown. “Stop it,” she mutters. He can’t hear her.

—

“What’s wrong, Grór?” There are no pretences here. Away from the other dwarves in the halls, they can be who they always have been: Grór and Ixil. The Lord of the Iron Hills feels as though she’s aged years during the feast. She also feels as sober as a monk. Wearily, she surveys Ixil and her heart sinks. “Nothing,” she lies. She does it to stave off the inevitable, because Ixil always gets the truth out of her one way or another. He raises both eyebrows and his nose wrinkles, the banded black tattoos across it creasing. “You are leaving,” she says heavily. “You will leave.” It hangs in the air between them. Weighty, like the pendulum of a chronometer. Unavoidable. “But,” Ixil says, biting his lip and sitting on the edge of his chair, “I will come back.” Grór laughs for the first time that evening, and it’s icy and bitter. “No, you won’t. To visit, maybe. Once in a while. But you’re not going to come back.” Her nails scratch into her palms, thick gold rings leaving painful indentations in her skin as her knuckles press against the chair’s armrests. What hope had lit Ixil’s face before in the feast-hall is gone now. His brow furrows in a deep frown, and he slides his chair closer to Grór. The noise of it makes her flinch involuntarily. “I am to see the Stiffbeard kingdom restored,” Ixil says, and for the first time, she detects a clip of anger underneath his soft tone, “are you not happy that we — that I — get to go home? After all these years? After all this time in exile?” His hands play with a frayed hem on his trousers, plucking incessantly, and his dark eyes bore into hers. The low firelight refracts in them, and in those embers she sees defiance for the first time. “I am,” she says, her voice matching his, slowing down with each word ground out from deep in her belly. She knows she can’t show her pain, but neither can she hide her own resentment. She feels like a child — on the verge of throwing a tantrum now a borrowed thing is to be taken away from her. They borrowed him, holding the surviving Stiffbeards safe inside Thikil-gundu. None of this was meant to be permanent.

Why are you so hurt?

“I am happy,” she corrects herself, “that your kingdom is safe. I will give whatever you need for the rebuilding. All my resources are at your service. But—” She is outside of her body, looking at herself in the chair, looking at Ixil, who is looking, dumbfounded at her. “— But you are going to live there. And — and I can’t leave—”

Don’t you dare cry.

Her voice hitches, and she can’t seem to expel air from her throat anymore to make sounds. To form words.

Ixil sighs. His shoulders droop down, sagging like pine branches bowed in the breeze. “Your duty is here,” he says quietly. “Duty? Don’t speak to me of duty.” She stops herself too late, and Ixil’s head snaps up in anger, his mouth halfway open in indignation. “My duty is to my people,” he states loudly. A telltale flush rises from the collar of his undershirt to the lobes of his ears, colouring the olive skin with a pinkish blush. Grór shuts her eyes, blocking out this conflict from the world and from her mind. “GRÓR?” Ixil shouts, and Grór jumps from the seat — fight, fight, fight, her mind chants at her, and her hands ball into fists. Ixil sits with his back ramrod straight, and she can sense his fury reverberating through him. His hands clench and unclench. He is barefoot, and his toes curl against the bear pelt rug. “Would you deny my honour? If I do not go — I will be shamed among my clan! I will…” he splutters for words, and then stands himself, crossing the short distance. “I will be beardless. I will not bear it. I will go, whether by your leave or not.” Grór looks up at him, her fists still curled up tight. “I know,” she says. “I know you’d go. I didn’t mean it like that.” “Well,” he sniffs, “you have a strange way of showing your gratitude to me. For my service. For the blood I have shed countless times for you. How many orcs have I taken down in defence of this kingdom through the years?” Like the steel gates of Erebor, somewhere a door inside her plummets down and slams shut. She sits back down and jerks her coat back over her shoulders, adjusts her crown. Grór regards him coldly for a moment, before turning her head away to nod at the door. “You are dismissed. I take my leave,” is what she says. But inside she thinks:

I am losing him. I am losing him. I am losing him.  

[belminiart]

Lachol Male Barbarian Warrior

[444names]

spanish and irish forenames

Abhín Abiann Abuad Adamin Adera Adhán Aibhe Aidiall Aisio Aithe Aitomhín Alaigo Albero Allaoil Almáilín Amacht Ambre Amhán Amhín Amongelia Anarit Andorcán Aogel Aoilia Aoilín Aonait Araogeial Arcia Arrea Aulbh Aulia Azucian Azuleach Baolas Barafio Barbhfhín Barnán Beadh Belia Benanayo Bencach Benza Berafra Bereachla Berna Bernán Beros Beárd Blaith Blislann Bláil Bláilís Boniachán Bramear Braquela Brathfhla Brenailal Bridh Broibhar Bréad Bróch Bróchonn Bundrig Caires Canuelan Canán Caoilíon Caoir Caosaarán Carch Cardo Carga Cariard Carit Carlac Carmas Carra Carto Casim Catina Catry Cayterte Ceane Celiasto Cheana Ciolmha Ciono Cisialbas Cistéad Claidh Claya Clomth Clonnual Cobhidal Cobonaire Coibhla Coiríofán Colanuela Coldal Colorodia Coluill Comas Comhán Conait Conndán Corna Cosear Covar Crion Cúmhghid Cúmhán Cúmhíon Dadria Daidhar Damaos Damia Dearcolal Deigio Dervirea Destavic Diano Dicia Doirín Dolmón Domarifra Domhg Duailís Dubeaceas Dubhay Dubhilda Dubhine Dubhlaura Dubhí Dubhín Dubhón Dympaz Dáinsimo Dúnlau Eachaida Eache Eamhe Ecarre Edian Edubhraul Edwiseben Efach Efradon Eibertín Eiciseach Eidhna Eignespe Eiguirry Eiliomhín Eimanaid Eimheán Emardo Emirín Eodhachán Eodomin Erghe Ermeara Estadh Estimigh Eughade Euladhait Evanoemen Eóirean Fabbán Fabharlor Fabres Fachne Facia Fadna Faorla Feabia Fealeo Feanna Fearion Felita Ferbhón Fercán Fernana Fernarinn Ferque Fertín Fertúr Fiacis Fiaria Fitera Flachrán Flastina Floch Flodh Flodón Forgel Frinain Fulia Fulicann Fulinmha Féthmana Fíofinmch Fíonicas Gelas Genion Gensias Gerto Gilín Ginnán Gorcán Gréadrill Gréag Gundonn Gusaodh Gustéar Harmar Heminna Hinghlann Hinng Hobhlan Hubhfhing Ianntin Ighaitlín Igoncilt Imeirenai Imuinho Insuelix Irear Irtin Ithamhán Ivian Ivionza Jasus Javio Jersus Jestilís Jimher Joaque Johnach Jorbar Jorcia Josentán Jostin Juadh Juainisna Juainne Juaito Julait Julbar Juleagar Julia Kebon Kebréasa Kyletal Lachal Lacholl Lachy Laideca Laislices Lastinn Laurianza Leamaite Leidaoinn Lenseán Leoibelia Lernán Lilín Liodes Lonala Lonicio Lotanto Louro Lubhfhlar Lucaill Lucaodo Lucinn Lucio Lugel Lugus Luilís Luimiah Machal Maelila Maida Mailín Mainn Mairghala Maisim Manis Maoilíne Maoninian Marbheann Marge Margi Maricael Maridol Marna Marnán Maroilia Martúr Masan Mastion Mastín Menina Meren Mintinn Modhbhna Muela Muelia Muirancha Muirch Muire Muiren Muirídín Muiste Mundia Máinne Máirdh Mídín Mórlana Naglach Naitlacht Naito Neonamh Nestominn Nibas Niciel Nicobhflo Nieltán Nieto Nifadréan Nifer Nigha Nisonn Nitlíono Norach Nuelia Oibhardo Oibhinso Oilin Oinato Oisia Orfhín Orislia Oristín Pabria Paquelib Parbhinn Pasán Patic Paulain Paulrit Paurian Pazulasce Peigon Perto Pilfonn Pilla Proilíne Proxa Puridio Puroxa Póireac Ramonn Reaceac Reach Renzo Righeas Riquinn Rodia Roibhrás Rosaach Rosaure Rosne Ruair Rutonn Ráindiann Réadeatin Réadhlín Réamallix Réanzo Réarta Saacel Safra Salgar Saliagar Salundon Sardo Sarne Searafio Segus Seofia Seopolia Siangapio Silibens Silín Solga Stíonn Sulrisa Séadh Séadhna Séann Séaoin Sílenithy Síleárla Síonza Tenifra Teoge Tigín Timhín Tithe Toirteo Trieta Trigio Trino Triúdán Tuaidhán Tuallia Téadh Téamhana Téodhal Uarcosa Uarnait Uisla Ulbara Ulberna Uliana Ulinn Ulmara Vionóis Viosaraul Vivarch Yesta Yolmuiel Zucainn Zucelian Ágabhna Éadha Éaoiléim Éibha Éighach Éighua Étanghdh Óraque Óraxi

[deithe]

Foood

[chaotic-characters]

Lachol 📕Books or ⭐️Divinity?

She is a goddess of thieves, of mystery, of fleeing and freedom and the feminine night, of streetlights and silver and sharp-toothed smiles. People pray, sometimes, for luck, as they take a deep breath and feel a warm, long-nailed hand on their shoulder. Some pray for protection as they run into the dark, escaping the bloodshed behind them and wrapping themselves in a cloak of shadows. Some pray for vengeance, blood on their lips and the cool hilt of a jeweled dagger in their hand.

She’ll always answer. Whether it’s with a smile, a gift or a sudden, cold pain in your back, she’ll always answer a call.

It is known to never pray to Lachol, goddess of trickery and shadows, unless you are certain of her favor.

[boredinde]

Stacia LaChole at the Riverfront Concert Series

Stacia LaChole and The Black Soul Band performing at the Riverfront Concert Series in Wilmington, Delaware #BOREDinDE #UncleTuck #livemusic #stacialachole #blacsoulband #musicians #liveperformance

Finally got a chance to see my little sister Stacia LaChole and her band Blac Soul perform this past Thursday, for the Riverfront Concert Series. Previous attempts to see her play were canceled as oddly enough it would rain each Thursday she was slated to perform. But the weather held up for us and it was such a lovely evening. Filled with good vibes, music, and people. Definitely needed during…

[fanfeline]

I was tagged by @arofili (thank you!) to make myself in this adorable picrew

here’s me!

and if we’ve got the option, here’s my ideal final form

now to be fair: i’ve got the prosthetic pointy ears, i’ve got the cloak, i’ve probably got the sword, i just need the piercings and the longer hair (damn you trich i hate you)

holding a sword like that might hurt your shoulder though, so stay safe! swords are heavy. if you’re at rest, you probably want to hold it by your side~ 

i’m tagging @carrotmarshmallow, @lavenderandlaughter, @sapphiccryptids​, @vierschanzentournee, @ghostplantss and literally anyone else who wants to do it because it’s cute and fun

[bardicknowledgeblogger]

(if you want for the character board thing?) Lachol - half-elf rogue, disaster lesbian extraordinaire. Black/gold, jewels. She is an adrenaline junkie, really impulsive but quite charismatic. Crowning moment: fighting a decent army of large robots. She loves showing off with daggers. She also has a definite sweet tooth, and a slight penchant for drama (especially if said drama involves being able to set something on fire.) Thank you so much!

She sounds like a doll - Adrenaline junkies definitely make the best rogues in my personal opinion (but I’m probably biased)

[zankaadventures]

#Rapel #ixtapazihuatanejo☀️🌴 #ixtapa #zihuatanejo #lachole (en La Chole Archeological Site) https://www.instagram.com/p/B8ADfPPloWF/?igshid=13wk6vruecvhv

[deadhusbandisland]

iVEV IVE BEEN SGDF STARING INTO MY SF CERWEA CEREAL BOWL TRYING TIO FIND THE MANIN MEASNI MEANING OF KIF LIFE FOR LIKM LIKE HAL F AN HOUR MNOW NOW

[chaotic-characters]

yo let the characters introduce themselves. let them speak.

Lachol gives you a lazy smile from her place at the bar, only half-paying attention to the knives spinning over her fingers. She arches an eyebrow as you approach, questioning and challenging you to speak.

Isidore is going over his books, cross-referencing and murmuring quietly to himself. His golden claws tap on a line, and he plucks a quill with the other hand to make a note, ink-stained scales unheeded. You stand in silence, trying to catch his eye through his focus. After a few moments of rustling paper, he notices your presence. Green eyes meet yours through round lenses, and he seems to be awaiting your query.

Vetrya perches on a railing, long fingers playing with the strings of his violin. He hums a few melodies as he tunes the instrument, and smirks to some unspoken thought. As he brushes a stray lock of black hair out of his eyes, he notices your presence and tenses slightly, then relaxes in the manner of a performer - languid and easy. 

Keli sits in the grass, white dress spread around her. She is picking wildflowers and weaving them together, and you can see a few decorations already planted into her dark frizzy curls. The dozens of crystals around her neck clink together as she moves, and you catch a glimpse of the largest, a chunk of rose quartz with black streaks through it like smoke. You clear your throat and she startles, whipping her head around and looking up at you with wide, scared brown eyes.

Harper is, as usual, in the marketplace, chatting amiably with some of the vendors. Eir wings are tucked neatly behind em, mottled feathers shining in the sun. You watch with a smile as Harper waves goodbye to the kindly rabbit woman behind the stall and turns into the center of the crowd. Ey notice you - a clear outlier among the crowd of Humblefolk - and ey tilt eir head, meeting your eyes with surprising determination for such a small and young creature.

Tritta doesn't notice you at all. She is headfirst in an engine, a complex-looking thing wrapped in coils of metal and glass that glow in strange and unnatural colors. Xyr ringed tail twitches as xe scrabbles in the depths of the machine, cursing in xyr rapid, chattering native tongue. Eventually she lets out a cry of success, and pulls herself out with an impressive show of force. Xyr whiskers are singed and xe is streaked with soot, but xe holds a still-smoking twist of metal aloft in triumph. Lifting her goggles to view her prize better, she catches sight of you standing in the corner of her workshop. Xe glares at you with sharp black eyes, and plants a small hand firmly on xyr hip.

So, what do you do?

[chaotic-characters]

Animal lover, lachol

I’m indecisive so I’ll just do all of them.

A thin, scraggly cat.

It’s hers now. It’s her kitty. Kitty shall be fed and cuddled and loved. She’ll probably name it something like Kama (a favorite weapon of hers).

An old dog.

Oh, okay. She’ll care for it for a few days (she’s not a monster) but will probably find someone else to take care of the dog more permanently.

A mouse

I regret to inform you that she would just let it chill out and probably ignore it.

A puppy

Help what does she do with this. She needs to be stealthy. Puppies are not stealthy. Uhhhhhhhhh here small child you have a puppy now.

A really fat cat

Lachol has another cat now. Her name is Mochi. Far from threatening but hey.

A horse.

How the hell is she going to get this into her very non-permanent not-exactly-official home. Have a nice day, horse. What are you doing.

Two dogs.

Feed them and see if any of her friends want them. 

A baby duck.

Give it to Isidore, he likes birds right.

A kitten.

His name is Pocketknife.

A really large dog.

Isidore, why is your dog following Lachol around?

[chaotic-characters]

o h h h h h can i ask for more elaboration on "lachol really did love her" i'm INVESTED

Lachol’s a small-town half-elf with wayyy too much chaotic energy for a small town. Her girlfriend (uhhhhhhhhhh checks notes) Tathareth, promised to help Lachol leave - get somewhere larger, faster, more cultured. On the night that Lachol left, Tathareth backed out, refusing to come with her and abandon her family, career (doctor, especially useful in a remote area) and lifestyle. Lachol, having the temperament of a lit match, was destroyed. She left anyways, screaming curses and vitriol.

The day after, the town was raided. Lachol hasn’t gone back yet. She doesn’t want to know.

[chaotic-characters]

lachol, 1, 2, and 18!

1. Their physical weak spots

her back, probably. she’s extremely fast and nimble, but has no perception cause her wis modifier is trash - if you manage to sneak up behind her...

2. Their emotional/moral weak spots

She’s not good with losing loved ones. Therefore, she makes sure not to have many.

18. Things they’ll never admit

Lachol really did love her....

[chaotic-characters]

All right, here we go I guess

This will be an aesthetic blog / rp blog for my original characters

I will answer questions for/about:

Lachol (D&D chaos rogue, half-elf)

Isidore (D&D member with the braincells, golden dragonborn)

Keli (D&D lil angel, halfling)

Vetrya (D&D chaos bard, half-elf)

Tess (D&D salty bitch, halfling)

Harper (detective kiddo, screech owl [Strig race in Humblewood])

Tritta (engineering student and magic wielder, raccoon [Mapach race in Humblewood])

And in non-D&D:

Isabella (mad scientist, modern human)

Ravonwen (hunter/diplomat, Mirkwood elf)

Phoenix (singer/songwriter, modern human)

Elijah (traditional artist, modern human)

Uhhhhhhh yeah I don’t really know what I’m doing! Feel free to send asks about/to these guys! Whee?

[chaotic-characters]

hey is- is this thing on?

yooooooo it is! hi! people!

i’m bored someone talk to me

bored me = knives in things, and while i have nothing against that personally other people dont seem to like it so out of GENEROUS CONSIDERATION i will pause on the stabbing things

even though its really fun lol