theshipwright

[theshipwright]

Hey Cirdan? I love you. You’re fantastic.

       as are you, as are you! 

[theshipwright]

masteroftheseas‌:

With anyone else, kicking and splashing was annoying. With anyone else, he would make his displeasure known. But with Nowë, it was somehow less irritating and intrusive and upsetting, and was more of an invitation than taunt.

Still, he couldn’t resist some level of teasing as the waters chilled and darkened to announce his arrival. Acting out some playful horror, he materialized swiftly from the depths all big sharp teeth and glowing eyes to snap his jaws audibly just shy of the toes splashing in his home.

His fins fluttered playfully as he surfaced only enough to stare up at his Elf, all falsely-innocent wide-eyes and pleasant little trills. 

oh he knew of the monster lurking in the depth, the TERROR, but he did not fear it.  he loved it chief among all others and was waiting with baited breath for the arrival.  when bubbles circled around his toes, he did not hold still but rather a lazy smile curled at his lips and dimples formed beneath the neatly cropped beard.  when the snap of teeth was audible, he closed the notebook on his lap and he peered down over the edge of the pier to his love.

“ good morning, meleth, “ his tone was heavy with affection and none of it with annoyance or ennui.  “ clearly you were not with me last night, someone has burgled my chambers and absconded all of my footwear.  if only you had been with me, you could have prevented such a grievous action from occuring. “

The next day, when Cirdan wakes, it is to find that all of his shoes have 'mysteriously' disappeared while he slept, with only a little puddle left behind in their place.

mornings with a maia could make life a little interesting.  sometimes it meant the tub was occupied when he entered the washroom.  sometimes it meant there were various degrees of gifts ( traditional to … the kind only ossë could provide ) left around his living quarters.  in this case, it meant walking past part of his dressing area and stepping in a puddle.  silver eyes focused on the wet spot and a soft sigh followed, even as strong shoulders slumped.  

círdan pulled a hemp rope out and used it to tie back the majority of his hair – which was steadily starting to work itself into ropes again – before heading out.  bare footed.  it wasn’t often that he bothered with shoes anymore but some days, there simply wasn’t an option.  

—

it was not long before he was sat upon the end of the pier with his bare toes drifting back and forth in the water as he lazily kicked his feet.  eventually ossë had to show up.  work could be delayed just a bit.

[theshipwright]

look, i think about it and i think about it and i think about it but . . . i cannot deny it anymore.

cirdan has dreadlocks.  like the well kept kind.  they’re long, they’re clean and they’re decorated with silver beads and clasps, pearls, shells and bits of coral.  he normally keeps them either half pulled back, fully pulled back or braided in some manner.  salt water is not kind on hair and this is the easiest way to handle all of it.  

[theshipwright]

The next day, when Cirdan wakes, it is to find that all of his shoes have 'mysteriously' disappeared while he slept, with only a little puddle left behind in their place.

mornings with a maia could make life a little interesting.  sometimes it meant the tub was occupied when he entered the washroom.  sometimes it meant there were various degrees of gifts ( traditional to . . . the kind only ossë could provide ) left around his living quarters.  in this case, it meant walking past part of his dressing area and stepping in a puddle.  silver eyes focused on the wet spot and a soft sigh followed, even as strong shoulders slumped.  

círdan pulled a hemp rope out and used it to tie back the majority of his hair -- which was steadily starting to work itself into ropes again -- before heading out.  bare footed.  it wasn’t often that he bothered with shoes anymore but some days, there simply wasn’t an option.  

---

it was not long before he was sat upon the end of the pier with his bare toes drifting back and forth in the water as he lazily kicked his feet.  eventually ossë had to show up.  work could be delayed just a bit.

[theshipwright]

                                     by the grey shores until the last ship S A I L S 

[theshipwright]

i never know how to come back to this blog.  like i want to, but i never know where to start or how to start.  so i just sort of fart around and then log off and then studying goes HA YOU GET NO FREE TIME and the cycle repeats.

[theshipwright]

The Silmarillion aesthetic | t h e   t e l e r i

The Teleri were the third of the Elf clans who took the Great Journey. At first they were known as Nelyar (“The Third”), and were the largest of the three houses of the Firstborn.

According to legend, they were descended from Enel, the third Elf to awake in Cuiviénen, his spouse Enelyë and their seventy-two companions; most of the Avari originally belonged to this clan.

[theshipwright]

Osse // What The Water Gave Me

They took your loved ones but returned them in exchange for you

Character // Song aesthetics (2/?)

[theshipwright]

                       my veins are filled with stories of SURVIVAL.

[theshipwright]

ok but the tolkien fandom is sneaky and tricky.  you guys have infiltrated the marvel dash and keep trying to lure me back.  i’ve got a lot of rebuilding/rebooting i want to do but i’ve got a lot of school work that needs to be done first.  but good job, you’re on the to do list officially.  

[theshipwright]

a most gentle reminder . . .

círdan is one of the original elves that woke by the lake.  he has no parentage and the kinship he holds is assumed as much as it could be argued by blood, this is why distant kin is dubious at best.  he will always be more than welcoming to the idea of others being his kin.

as one of the original, he is of the stock where they were . . . larger than subsequent generations.  he towers over others, his height well above seven feet and ranging more towards the eight foot mark.  ( 2.4m for those that prefer metric )  

he also has a far sturdier build than others.  for nearly 11,000 years he has worked hard labor and it shows.  his strength is not subtle as it is with many elves, he is as broad as he is tall.  then you add in the beard and he looks wholly unlike any other elf ( save mahtan but he’s all the way across the sea ).  

his hair is the silver shade expected of the falathrim but he does not keep it meticulously groomed.  his braids are slept on and well worn, they’ve been in the sea and dried time and time again.  he has silver beads, shells and pearls worked into the braids and, quite frankly, they’re venturing more into the range of dreadlocks.  often times his hair is pulled back into a loose tie at the nape of his neck or haphazardly gathered into a bun ( and falling out of it ) as it is safer to work with his hair restrained.  

[theshipwright]

dokkstjarna:

      Hush. An ancient purr resounded beneath the sea-arm’s surface. Reverberations from that elusive lullaby leapt into the harbor; rattled the docks and scalped pebbles from the promenade. Amid the swarming noise and seismic tremors, Darkness did not waver. It did not twist its torso to face the Shipbuilder nor affably upend its gangly, arachnoid proportions fit to shred Arda. Brine winds encouraged It to turn. It didn’t oblige. Shadows from its murky frock tumbled over the edge of the dock like a fount.

       Lune bowed and bent. It wasn’t enough to mollify Eternal Night. Several ships bobbed like corks in the tide, which the Void mercifully stemmed without any physical signal. Then the brontide ceased. Holy grey blanketed the horizon. None of the hazy halos garnishing each cloud reflected in those binary black holes weighing down its head, but they did glint off the gold ring adorning its right index ‘finger’. The band had been modified as if forged around that pitch-black claw. 

       ah, that feeling rose and klaxons of warning blared within the very core of his being but yet he approached with steady steps and no outward show of hesitation.  others might assume a more familiar, more . . . RECENT name for the visitor that stood so stoic upon the dock.  this was older, this was LARGER than anything many had seen in the recent ages.  the threat of nothingness to those that fell and did not heed the call of mandos, the consuming darkness that saw to it that elves disappeared without a trace.  

      the aging shipwright watched the ships, showing greater concern for them than the exertion of power.  he had helped craft each one, they had withstood the full fury and might that TERROR could bestow upon them and he knew the mettle of his mariners.  they would mind this storm as much as any other, even if it was hardly typical.

        “ i know one that might be so pleased that you played with his waters, “ he mused, a lilt of amusement warming the words.  standing so close to the other, he did his best to assume a less imposing stance though still he loomed over her.  “ you are familiar to me in the abstract.   tell me, do I inspire such familiarity within you? “

[theshipwright]

There is an obligatory and required greeting ritual for The Very Best Elf Ever, any time he returns. It involves a certain Ainu of the Sea, the bellowing of "NOWË" in the stillness of dawn, and a certain Teler being tackled by a wave.

there was a routine to this: he pitched his tools further up on the sea wall and the shore.  he did not want them washed out to sea but he knew the wave was incoming and that it would show no mercy.  he curled in on himself, arms protecting his head as the water crested and crashed over the broad expanse of his shoulders.  then he changed his stance knowing the water would try to draw him out like a rip tide but this was something more, this was the means to an enthusiastic greeting that might look like drowning to those not quite so familiar with them.

he drew in a deep breath before he was drawn out into the gulf, waiting for the ainur that was undoubtedly waiting for him.

[theshipwright]

@dokkstjarna

there was a sense that had no name; it made the hairs raise on the back of the neck and skin prickle across the body.  it was the same sense that provided the voice in the back of the mind that said RUN, BEWARE and to steer clear of the shadows.  círdan was a child of cuivienen.  he had been born unto a world of darkness lit only by stars, he had learned to avoid the shadows and be wary of the beings that emerged from within them.

one day things changed -- a cold light filled the sky and following it, a bright and burning one that painted the world in new colors.  gone were the inky shadows and cool tones, suddenly there was warmth and vibrancy.  the creatures of the shadows retreated and for many, they were naught more than legend and fable.  for those old enough, they were simply forgotten as the night did not bring the threat.

the old falathrim would know that sense anywhere, he would recognize and remember the PRIMAL sensation that it brought him.  it was tangible and it was fierce but all that stood upon the docks was a diminuitive figure.  the gulls did not cry above her and it seemed a hush followed as if the shore itself remembered just as the aged lord.  

              a stranger.  something old, something new.  

                               something -- SOMEONE -- that warranted his attention.  

“ one could lose themselves in watching the turn of the tide or the approach of the storm, they are both known for a ferocity within the gulf. “

[theshipwright]

                                 every day is like the last.  he is up with the dawn; the clarion call of the gulls an alert to the breaking of the day.  he works before he eats his breakfast, as has always been the way.  a meal is earned and the time is there to savor it, the work must be done as others rely upon it.  the word L O R D might denote title and status but he is a worker as much as any of those that stand by him in the shipyards on the docks.  check traps, cast nets, ensure lines are tethered and see to it that the fishermen are set out to sea safely as always.  

it meant each day was the same as the one before save one difference : there were always fewer.  so many heard the siren song of the west and followed it but here he would remain until the last ship sailed.  here he would remain until the work was done and even then, here he might yet remain upon grey shores that had been home longer than not.  the west would be a different world, one where he suspected each day was like the last but the work was not the goal.  he suspected his kin savored a meal first and foremost, they languished in days of peace and in the land of plenty.  

círdan was simple.  he had no need for fine fabrics or meticulously crafted jewels.  he was content with coarser fabrics softened only by repeated wear of surf and sand.  he was content with shells and pearls woven into braids ( that looked more and more like the coarse dreadlocks of the years of the trees and dawning of the first age ).  he enjoyed the unpredictable nature of the world, to see the surprises that it might bring even to one with such vision and sight.  

even then, every day is like the last.

[theshipwright]

Nonetheless it is said that for love of his kin and allegiance Círdan was the leader of those who sought longest for Elwë when he was lost and did not come to the shores to depart from Middle-earth. Thus he forfeited the fulfilment of his greatest desire: to see the Blessed Realm and find again there Olwë and his own nearest kin. Alas, he did not reach the shores until nearly all the Teleri of Olwë’s following had departed. Then, it is said, he stood forlorn looking out to sea, and it was night, but far away he could see a glimmer of light upon Eressëa ere it vanished into the West. Then he cried aloud: ‘I will follow that light, alone if none will come with me, for the ship that I have been building is now almost ready.’ But even as he said this he received in his heart a message, which he knew to come from the Valar, though in his mind it was remembered as a voice speaking in his own tongue. And the voice warned him not to attempt this peril; for his strength and skill would not be able to build any ship able to dare the winds and waves of the Great Sea for many long years yet. ‘Abide now that time, for when it comes then will your work be of utmost worth, and it will be remembered in song for many ages after.’ 'I obey,’ Círdan answered, and then it seemed to him that he saw (in a vision maybe) a shape like a white boat, shining above him, that sailed west through the air, and as it dwindled in the distance it looked like a star of so great a brilliance that it cast a shadow of Círdan upon the strand where he stood. As we now perceive, this was a foretelling of the ship which after apprenticeship to Círdan, and ever with his advice and help, Eärendil built, and in which at last he reached the shores of Valinor. From that night onwards Círdan received a foresight touching all matters of importance, beyond the measure of all other Elves upon Middle-earth.

J.R.R. Tolkien,The History of Middle-earth XII: The Peoples of Middle-earth, “Last Writings: Círdan” (Círdan receives a message and vision from the Valar)

[theshipwright]

REVAMP IN PROCESS.  

new theme.  going to be making new icons.  TA-DA, I’M BAAAAAACK.