thethundersmith

[thethundersmith]

Hello! Mod Snow here. In light of the awful negativity in the rpc Mod Ice & I have decided to make a positivist book! Please send in positive messages about your fav blogs and reblog this post to spread the word!

[thethundersmith]

hmu while i work on drafts on my other blog. would love to plot some stuff out of this muse.

[thethundersmith]

who do i have to sell my soul to to get more writing partners with this blog. -lays down face first on the concrete-

[thethundersmith]

like this to plot in Arion’s A Prince Of Stone And Sand verse and i’ll pop in your DM.

[thethundersmith]

                                          where now is boromir the fair?? he tarries and i grieve!!                                                                                                                           ✢

                                 private + selective boromir from tolkien’s the lord of the rings

[thethundersmith]

Beginnings...

A clear day. The sun at their backs. Yet still...there is a dampness to the day time air that has him brushing at his brow. He misses the dry heat of his home. The kind of heat that saps the very sweat from your brow even before your skin can really bare it. But here...here it is a boiling sort of warmth. And while he can not decide which is more lethal...he can decide he prefers the temperament of his homeland. If for no other reason than a prince might be very well homesick already. Though its been mere months since they departed the borders of the Brunlands.

      Við ættum að hætta fljótlega. Hádegisverður er að nálgast. Og gamli maðurinn sem ég trúi gæti notað hvíld.

The voice is his cousin and blood captain Hadar. The tone kept quiet as it is meant only for Arion’s ears. The young royal casting a look back, as though simply surveying the view from whence they’d come.  The river they had been following winding far to the south, where he briefly wonders where it ends. But then a silver gaze settles on his adviser. The elder brun’s pace not what it had been that morning. Leaning heavy upon his staff (that had been a spear once in his youth). And the prince makes a rather executive decision. Turning back to his blood guard captain. 

          “Ég trúi að þú hafir rétt, frændi. Við munum hætta fljótlega. Leyfðu okkur að snúa við beygðu í ánni. Finndu stað þar sem vatnið rennur varlega til að fylla götin okkar.”

A nod from the younger (and shorter) male, before he’s hurrying ahead to catch up with the guard at the head of their party. To help keep an eye out for an appropriate place to stop. And Arion himself falls back. Aligns his steps with Hfren’s. A hand lying to rest along the hilt of the sword at his belt. 

          “Hadar er að leita að stað til að hætta. Ég er með steina í stígvélunum mínum, held ég.”

The old man chuckles in response, sending a stray stone tumbling with the end of his staff. A gold gaze cast upwards for a moment at his charge. He knows already it has little to do with stones in the prince’s boots, and everything to do with his own fall in pace. But he says nothing. And allows the royal this small grace, because it was how he was raised was it not? A prince among them and yet, no greater than any of them in his own mind. It is a humbleness that can not be taught.

      Eins og þú vilt, hátign þín. Það mun gefa mér tíma til að tryggja að við förum á réttan hátt. Konungur álfa ætti ekki að vera langt ... miðað við að sjálfsögðu stendur það enn sem konungur Minas Tirith lofaði. 

A nod and nothing more to the elder’s words. His gaze tracking the road ahead. The road that he finds is missing his cousin and that of one of his other guard. And while there is a faint narrowing of his eyes, he makes no further mark of it. They must have gone ahead to ensure the way was safe.

         “Ég trúði honum. Hann virtist maður af orði hans.”

       Já, prinsinn minn. Ég myndi sama--

A sound that would be perhaps alien to other peoples of middle earth but to the prince and his guard it is a sound of warning. A mimicked cry of an injured köttur and in an instant the entirety of the afternoon shifts. The guard that are left close ranks around the prince and Hren; the ten of them moving forward as one breathing unit. Their once unguarded steps turning silent. Until they reach the bend in the river. Concealing themselves behind an outcropping of rocks, where Hadar and Jarek had hidden themselves.The prince and his captain exchanging  words.

       “Hvað er það?”

       Svartur blóð.

A breathed curse leaves Arion’s lips in reaction, as Hadar continues.

        Það lítur út eins og þeir ráðist á hjólhýsi. Það eru stofnanir, vistir ræktaðir í gegnum. Ég gat ekki séð meira.

         “Það er kannski eftirlifandi þá.”  The smallest of pauses.  “Allir líta útspil?”

       Ekki það sem ég merkti.

         “ Við tökum þá þá. Við höfðum ekki haldið þessari línu á svarta fjöllunum til að virðast þá plága annars staðar. Hren er hér með það sem ekki fæst, Jarek þú með honum. Afgangurinn af þér ... ”

Whatever he might have said it is lost their forward motion. Small giants as they are, creeping through the tall grass and rocky terrain along the river. Each of them aware of their duty. Aware of fight ahead of them. For each had held that line at the black mountains. Each had proven his medal. And there were none else a prince could wish to watch his back. And it is this that allows the royal to focus wholey upon what lay ahead of them. 

The wide heavy hammer at his back pulled loose of it’s sling. One step...then another; and with all his weight he throws himself out from behind a bolder. The head of his weapon slamming into the chest of an orc. Sending it screaming into the dust. Another blow comes quick and clean. The ear shattering cry cut short with the bits of skull buried into the dirt. And those with him follow like a small wave. The orcs scurrying to recover, to fight back. And though it is not the longest of skirmishes, it is bloody. 

Two of them setting upon the prince at once, in the aftermath of him felling another of their kind. A grin that etches itself in the corners of Arion’s lips. Something murmured and the hammer in his hands hums faintly. A quiet light to the edges before one becomes two, and he’s striking the ground with the pair of them. The earth about him quaking ever so much, and the orcs...turn to flee. One taken down by an arrow from ahead, while the other’s last lesson in life if the prince’s aim is as good as his arm. The orc slamming into one of the carts where he sticks for moments before sliding down to the ground with a deathly thud. Arion stepping heavily forward to retrieve the other half of his weapon from the corpse, as he shouts orders.

       “Náðu Hfren og athuga líkama. Ég vil ekki yfirgefa þá sem þurfa aðstoð á bak við.”

[thethundersmith]

online. hmu if u like.

[thethundersmith]

Travelling Hazard

A soft day. The sun drifting between scattered clouds. That waned the heat of the day into something not unlike easy waves. All framed by the good luck of a gentle breeze. The solid thuds of Wyndle’s hooves connecting with the packed earth, that accompany the symphony the blacksmith’s own. Birds hearkening from trees set back along the road. All in all a fair day for traveling. And Arion could find little to complain about. 

However that had been an hour before things that could go wrong did.

Now he is sitting in a mud bog along the road side. His cart over turned and the contents of it spilled in either direction. One of the wheels that had gone flying off to shatter among the boulders on the other side of the road. Wyndle thankfully unharmed though a bit frazzled by the sudden disaster. A pair of broken wagon poles dragging the ground on either side of him. The blacksmith huffing a bit irritated.

               “Auðvelt að hjálpa þér. ”

A nicker of a sound, the horse resettling his feet in the dirt. He’ll deal with that lip later. For now…he needs to get himself out of this muck. Find out if there’s any hope of salvaging the cart out of this small landslide. So feet squelch and slide in the sticky earth. And rather tentatively the smithy gets himself upright. Every step a fight, but eventually it sees him up and out. Covered in mud but otherwise unharmed. Sling the silt from his arms and hands, trying not to think about the fact it’s found its way into places he’d possibly been unaware he had.

But that particular discomfort would have to wait. Now he needed to figure out exactly how he might free the cart. Without damaging it further than it already is. And only with three wheels at that. It’s a right mess. One he really wasn’t expecting to have to deal with today. But here he is and now he’ll have to do just that. So feet carry him forward. Hands reach up to grasp the side, pulling with everything he’s got, in order to at the least get the cart back on its three remaining wheels. But it won’t budge beyond and in. The mud not well keen on giving up one it’s victim.

               Aegus’ dick.

So if pulling isn’t going to work…back into the mud sink he goes. A few frustrated moments of trying to find the other side, but once located feet plant. At least as well as is possible, and he lifts.The cart shifting and groaning with the strain, though it continues to rise. Enough until he can get a shoulder beneath it, foolishly believing he might actually manage it this time. Until his feet slip and slide. Arion flailing backward into the silt and the cart sinks back in. Even deeper this time; and the small giant sighs. Collapsing back against the opposite bank of the sink.

            “I am not going to reach Bree with any amount of punctuality at this rate.”

[thethundersmith]

Plot call!

Come talk to me via ask or Dm if we’re mutuals. Love to plot out some threads. Trying really hard to get things going again with this muse. He’s super awake again and im really excited to get back into this fandom after my long absence. 

[thethundersmith]

Love does not stop when someone dies.

Jem Carstairs, City of Heavenly Fire (The Mortal Instruments #6) by Cassandra Clare (via paperwhisperings)

[thethundersmith]

Travelling Hazard

A soft day. The sun drifting between scattered clouds. That waned the heat of the day into something not unlike easy waves. All framed by the good luck of a gentle breeze. The solid thuds of Wyndle’s hooves connecting with the packed earth, that accompany the symphony the blacksmith’s own. Birds hearkening from trees set back along the road. All in all a fair day for traveling. And Arion could find little to complain about. 

However that had been an hour before things that could go wrong did.

Now he is sitting in a mud bog along the road side. His cart over turned and the contents of it spilled in either direction. One of the wheels that had gone flying off to shatter among the boulders on the other side of the road. Wyndle thankfully unharmed though a bit frazzled by the sudden disaster. A pair of broken wagon poles dragging the ground on either side of him. The blacksmith huffing a bit irritated.

               “Auðvelt að hjálpa þér. ”

A nicker of a sound, the horse resettling his feet in the dirt. He’ll deal with that lip later. For now…he needs to get himself out of this muck. Find out if there’s any hope of salvaging the cart out of this small landslide. So feet squelch and slide in the sticky earth. And rather tentatively the smithy gets himself upright. Every step a fight, but eventually it sees him up and out. Covered in mud but otherwise unharmed. Sling the silt from his arms and hands, trying not to think about the fact it’s found its way into places he’d possibly been unaware he had.

But that particular discomfort would have to wait. Now he needed to figure out exactly how he might free the cart. Without damaging it further than it already is. And only with three wheels at that. It’s a right mess. One he really wasn’t expecting to have to deal with today. But here he is and now he’ll have to do just that. So feet carry him forward. Hands reach up to grasp the side, pulling with everything he’s got, in order to at the least get the cart back on its three remaining wheels. But it won’t budge beyond and in. The mud not well keen on giving up one it’s victim.

               Aegus’ dick.

So if pulling isn’t going to work…back into the mud sink he goes. A few frustrated moments of trying to find the other side, but once located feet plant. At least as well as is possible, and he lifts.The cart shifting and groaning with the strain, though it continues to rise. Enough until he can get a shoulder beneath it, foolishly believing he might actually manage it this time. Until his feet slip and slide. Arion flailing backward into the silt and the cart sinks back in. Even deeper this time; and the small giant sighs. Collapsing back against the opposite bank of the sink.

            “I am not going to reach Bree with any amount of punctuality at this rate.”

[thethundersmith]

my blog is no longer a mess. my apologies to those that may have visited in the last few hours. i was clearly not expecting any visitors. thank you for your understanding.