that-angry-noldo
y'all should've listened to finarfin
she/her, christian || call me Queen, or Noldo || ukrainian (with questionable ambitions) || finarfin stan and eönwë appreciator
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hi um my liege y-you asked me to um. report back to you when the prisoner you sent into the labyrinth had been, um, dealt with by th-the minotaur. well y-your highness t-there seems to be a bit of an, ahem, issue. no, no the prisoner is still in the labyrinth, y-yes the minotaur found them. i-it just ah, um, it appears that the. it appears that the prisoner and the minotaur are, um, they're-
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also I want to get in the film fandom so bad but idk where to start 😔
silm fandom is a fun place to be in! would you like some blog recs perhaps?
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new pfp!
new pfp!!!!
tbh he's the only thing getting me through lately
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oooh unlearn in bitternes for finarfin or this is held true by the wise for finrod/beor?
FANTASTIC prompt beloved <3 <3 <3 <3 <3
TW for unreality, mentions of death and blood
Arafinwë has been prone to strange dreams, lately: of wide green lands and a misty lake, and gems glittering in the darkness. Thus the part of his mind that remains awake at all times, listening for his children, is not surprised at first when he sees Nolofinwë riding towards him.
“We are lost,” says Nolofinwë, “lost, all lost, and our children with us!”
A blink, and they are strolling down one of the winding alleys of Alqualondë, arm in arm. “I thought to send Findaráto to learn from Fëanáro, for awhile,” he says tentatively.
Nolofinwë stiffens. “Why?”
“Well, he is so crafty - and Fëanáro has so much to teach him! And perhaps -” Arafinwë hesitates. He does not want to voice his secret hope.
Nolofinwë snorts. “Perhaps, if he gets to know Findaráto, he will soften towards us - and our mother? Well, if anyone could accomplish such a thing, it would be your eldest. But it will not happen.”
“Well, why not?” says Arafinwë, suddenly defensive. “Our brother is not a monster. I know he once was cruel, but he was young then, and it was so long ago -”
“He is set in his ways,” says Nolofinwë.
“Maybe you are,” says Arafinwë. “But I do not wish to be.”
Nolofinwë sighs. “Well, he is your son. Only - be careful. Fëanáro is hot-tempered, and bears no love for us.”
“He does,” insists Arafinwë. “If it came to it - he would still choose his family over everything.”
Nolofinwë raises one elegant brow. “Strong words from one who dwells far from Tirion.”
Arafinwë sighs. “I know,” he says, “but we were all so young. We are older now. It cannot hurt to try!”
“I suppose not,” says Nolofinwë, “at the very least, he would never raise a hand against any of us. I do not believe violence is in his nature: only hot words. But the words are enough.”
Arafinwë cannot help a small smile. “Not for Findaráto. I know not how he mastered this skill, but anger seems to slide off of him like water off the hull of a ship; such words affect him not.”
Alqualondë blurs around him; there is blood on the streets; and when he turns back to Nolofinwë there is ash in his brother’s hair.
“Nolo?” he asks, uncertain.
“They are dead,” says Nolofinwë. “Dead and gone. Your children and mine. Send them not to Fëanor, brother!”
“Fëanor…?” repeats Arafinwë, confused; but the dream is slipping through his fingers. Is that a child crying, from the next room - is it Angaráto? No, Angaráto is long grown…
He wakens in the dark. His bed is cold; he is in his father’s rooms, ruling his father’s court, and dreaming of dead things.
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PROMPT TIME can I have some m&m and “enduring grief and anger in silence” please!!
hehe yes beloved <3
TW for discussion of death and funeral practices
Nelyo had not cried once after Atar’s death.
He had wept, bitterly and without comfort, after Atyarussa had died. There had been a kind of grim satisfaction in Tyelko’s face; Curvo and Moryo had been silent, Curvo tall and straight at his father’s shoulder; Minyarussa had simply stood, swaying, eyes so bright he looked like a sick animal. Makalaurë’s own eyes had been dry; he had been full of fear so hot he felt as though he were burning along with his youngest brother, and in his mind only one thought had circled, round and round like the wheels of an organ-grinder: at least one of us is now safe.
But Nelyo had cried and cried, doubled over on the ground like he was playing again on Atyarussa’s little drum-set, and Minyarussa had stared at his shaking eldest brother with a dull sort of relief on his face. Atar had half-heartedly said, “Get up,” then shook his head and strode away as Nelyo behind him gasped, “the baby, our littlest one - the baby -”
He had raged at Makalaurë, after. “Why did you not weep? Little Atyarussa! My brother the musician, composer of dirges, can still weep for a pet rabbit lost these hundred years, but not his smallest brother, who we were as fathers to -”
“You were, perhaps,” said Makalaurë, not caring that he was being cruel, not wanting to think about it, “but I had other matters to attend to. In any case, brother, at least he is not here.”
Nelyo’s face had frozen in open shock; but all he had said was a quiet, “It should have been me.”
Only - only now Atar was gone, and it seemed to Makalaurë that some rotted abscess within him had torn open and was draining, for he could not stop crying. There was grief for the father who had lifted him upon his broad shoulders when he was tiny, and swallowed his dislike of the Vanyar long enough to send Makalaurë to Valimar for tutelage - for a little - and taught him his letters. And there was grief for the days of his youth, the bright happy house and his mother’s unshadowed eyes; and finally, finally - where had it been before? - there was grief for his littlest brother, for whom he had fashioned a little violincello and whose piping voice had lifted with him in duets.
It was his turn, now, to lift his voice in mourning; but Nelyo was silent, and refused to help spread what they could gather of Atar’s ashes in the fields that were taking shape by the lake, laying him to rest as close to Cuiviénen as they could manage. He and Minyarussa stood on and watched, twin shadows of Ammë.
Does she grieve for us, he wondered. Will she know he is dead, and did not know whether he meant Atyarussa, or Atar, or himself.
But after, Makalaurë could bear it no more. “Why will you not weep for him? Our father is dead!” he demanded in a whisper in their tent. And then, pouring out of him, “you wept more for Findekáno, who is alive! Atar will not see the hills of Tirion on Túna again, nor Finwe his father; he is Doomed, and all of us with him! Will you not weep! For us, if not for him!”
“He murdered my brother,” said Nelyo, quite casually, “why should I weep? As for the rest, we have been Doomed a long time since, and I shall not grieve twice what I was commanded not to grieve once. I will fulfill our Oath; is that not enough?”
Makalaurë blinked back tears, again, and said, “Not for me; where is my brother?”
“He died on the ships,” said Nelyo; and they did not speak again until the messenger from Moringotto came.
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has anybody seen my pet piece of paper. his name is walter he is very fragile but very adventurous. i should never have left the window open in my tenth story apartment
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just saw a single piece of paper drift past 50 feet in the air over buildings like a beautiful white bird
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Ref Recs for Whump Writers
Violence: A Writer’s Guide: This is not about writing technique. It is an introduction to the world of violence. To the parts that people don’t understand. The parts that books and movies get wrong. Not just the mechanics, but how people who live in a violent world think and feel about what they do and what they see done.
Hurting Your Characters: HURTING YOUR CHARACTERS discusses the immediate effect of trauma on the body, its physiologic response, including the types of nerve fibers and the sensations they convey, and how injuries feel to the character. This book also presents a simplified overview of the expected recovery times for the injuries discussed in young, otherwise healthy individuals.
Body Trauma: A writer’s guide to wounds and injuries. Body Trauma explains what happens to body organs and bones maimed by accident or intent and the small window of opportunity for emergency treatment. Research what happens in a hospital operating room and the personnel who initiate treatment. Use these facts to bring added realism to your stories and novels.
10 B.S. Medical Tropes that Need to Die TODAY…and What to Do Instead: Written by a paramedic and writer with a decade of experience, 10 BS Medical Tropes covers exactly that: clichéd and inaccurate tropes that not only ruin books, they have the potential to hurt real people in the real world.
Maim Your Characters: How Injuries Work in Fiction: Increase Realism. Raise the Stakes. Tell Better Stories. Maim Your Characters is the definitive guide to using wounds and injuries to their greatest effect in your story. Learn not only the six critical parts of an injury plot, but more importantly, how to make sure that the injury you’re inflicting matters.
Blood on the Page: This handy resource is a must-have guide for writers whose characters live on the edge of danger. If you like easy-to-follow tools, expert opinions from someone with firsthand knowledge, and you don’t mind a bit of fictional bodily harm, then you’ll love Samantha Keel’s invaluable handbook
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Sorry for being such a slow writer, it's because I [remembers that self-deprecating jokes are harmful to my mental health and make everyone else uncomfortable] was attacked by dark spirits and washed up on the shore of a mysterious island with no recollection of who I was
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my absolute favorite part of There Is No Antimemetics Division by qntm is when Marion Wheeler said "It's Marion Wheeling time" and Marion Wheeled all over SCP-3125
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There Is No Antimemetics Division
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marion wheeler character of all time. middle aged suburban mother of two. stabbed her boss to death with a fountain pen in 2008. fed the eldritch abomination trying to kill her so many useless trivia facts that now she just carries it around like a purse poodle and it would die for her. likes hiking and birding. lobotomized her husband while making out with him (she didn’t remember who he was at the time). chain smoker. slowly losing her memories of everything and everyone she’s ever loved. is on so many drugs she’s essentially trepanning herself at all times. killed god and then became god. and she’s like 4 foot 11
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Eönwë!!
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sorry i can't come in to work today. yeah sorry they killed me off last night. yeah i just wasn't relevant to the plot anymore. i should be in tomorrow but i'll let you know.
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