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sonoftydeusthemusical · 13 days ago

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I really wanna do some fanart for SoT!! How do you picture your Diomedes? Be as specific as you’d like!

Oh my! :O We did not expect this so soon, but thank you so much for this ask !!!

Here's our design concept for Diomedes:

Our design is based on the myths and sources & symbolism for the musical, but it might end up changing in the future with voice actors or other changes to the storyline!

General looks:

golden/tawny eyes (appearing grey sometimes?)

probably quite tan and dark haired

his beard is rly short (just enough to count as a beard at the beginning of Troy) but a full/mature beard over time especially after Troy

Tydeus is said to have been short, but we like the idea of Diomedes eventually outgrowing him, physically (and his armour) as well as symbolically

Clothes:

subtle olive branches and leaves woven onto the hems of his tunic, maybe owls too (hinting at his connection with Athena)

his base colors scheme are probably red, pale & golden

potentially a golden circlet to symbolize his rule (if he's not wearing the helmet)

a lion shaped pin that holds up his cloak

a mesh shirt underneath his armour

Armour/Weapons:

a bronze spear

a sword from his father, adorned with a lion and a boar

a round shield ornamented with the image of a boar

potentially a helmet with boar tusks and a horsetail ornament (these are all mostly based on the descriptions in the Iliad and historical/archeological finds, could help with references)

leg splints (optional)

Curiass made by Haephestus

breastplate from Tydeus, blessed by Athena, also with a boar→ he exchanges this one with Glaucus during Troy, so afterwards, he wears a different armor

Boars and lions are VERY prevalent in his symbolism in the Iliad

Overall for his design the earlier sets of armor are very clearly tied to Tydeus' legacy, and as time goes along we can see Diomedes' outward appearance visibly become less and less like Tydeus

Scars:

Before Troy:

a scar on his weapon wielding hand (symbolizing the oath of the Epigoni: the other members of the Epigoni also have such scar)

talon scars on his shoulder (symbolizing Athenas influence)

a (longer/larger) scar on his back, from the events of the Epigoni (symbolizing the backstabbing in regards to his wife and then entire kingdom, also the whole epigoni mission backstabbing him in every way, with his family members dying (Aegialeus, Adrastrus - leading to him marrying Aegialia, which leads to the betrayal after Troy -, Oeneus, Tydeus and even Thesander dying later before Troy, as well as symbolizing his initial vulnerability/youth in the Epigoni, he did not make it out of there unscathed)

During Troy:

scar on his shoulder (an arrow, right before he fought the gods, human inflicted)

scar on his foot (an arrow through his foot from Paris)

Scars from the Gods:

burn scar from Aphrodite's ichor that splayed on his wrist/arm with which he held the spear, a scar that look almost pretty - something beautiful to look at, that causes a lot of agony - not huge, but just enough to be noticeable

the scars from Ares ichor are more noticeable and harsher, a more violent version of Aphrodite's burns, just a light dusting of scars, a speckled scarring effect where the ichor hit his breastplate and sprayed to his more exposed skin: a little on one side of his face, heavier on his arms and a bit on his legs too, a fanning effect of explosion scars radiating out from his heart

the scars from the gods blood's both have hints of gold remaining

After Troy:

throat scar form the time he almost got sacrificed to Ares

Dares the Phygian

This is the most description we get in any ancient sources about Diomedes' "appearance", though they don't really apply to his looks itself (and they're also a later addition, but we take what we can get!)

courageous

steady

graceful self

somber expression

most active in war

filled with shouting

hot angered

impatient

not acting by feelings

daring

Of course you're VERY welcome to take creative liberties as you want :D These are merely our thoughts we had so far, though we by no means want to restrict your creative freedom!

Thank you so so so much for this ask!!!

Genuinely we had a LOT of fun thinking about our interpretation of Diomedes

Initially we expected to keep it very vague but as we kept talking we ended up with a bunch of ideas that barely let us sleep ^^"

#diomedes #tagamemnon #son of tydeus the musical #the iliad #diomedes of argos #sot asks #sot design #sot fanart #I will now go back to either quietly screaming or gracefully crying about how there is interest in fanart for our silly project here #we're very grateful

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thelordofgifs · 2 years ago

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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)

#silmarillion #my fic #bullet point fic #the fairest stars #beren #luthien #fingon #maedhros #russingon #here we gooo!!#very excited for where we're going with this arc #this thing definitely needs more editing but I lost patience so have it now #say hi to a bunch of new characters (more are coming later too)#and a new set of political problems #also guess who DOESN'T appear here for the first time in 21 parts I'm as shocked as you are #(he'll be back next time dw)#also nobody died or got stabbed or had a breakdown or got nearly executed or like. even stubbed their toe here so BE GRATEFUL

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