#ancient elves of doom

[childofthestone]

im tearing myself APART over soladash btw. if you even freaking care

[starsofarda]

I have seen that post about Maedhros being found in Moria by the Fellowship after being woken up by the longest unvoluntary nap ever. And yes, I know "Archaeology", anfic on a similar premise.

But today I wouldlike to linger on the comedic aspects of "the Fellowship expected a Balrog to come, but instead First Era Maedhros Feanorian appeared, albeit slightly charred, and now the Fellowship is adding a 10th member to the Fellowship".

For the sake of story I am still gonna say that Gandalf fell down the bridge, because ACTUALLY there was a Balrog.

Anyway the Fellowship minus Gandalf and plus Maedhros waltz in Lothlorien giving Galadriel a whole new range of emotions.

"I WAS EXPECTING GANDALF YOU ALL HAVE BROUGHT BACK A WAR CRIMINAL FROM AN ERA BYGONE AND ALSO MY COUSIN THRICE REMOVED."

Maedhros picking up IMMEDIATELY on the effect that the Ring is having on everyone and having a heart-to-heart with everyone and explaining the whole Silmarillion ordeal.

"Yikes." Everyone nods in agreement to the sentiment epressed by the Hobbits.

As an extra layer Mae asks if they are bound by any oath. "No, Elrond was quite insisting that we would NOT swear ANY oath."

Cue Mae crying.

Somehow Sam clicks immediately with Maedhros and when Frodo leaves the Fellowship Sam is already there all geared up for literal war and with all advice and tips on how to effectively kill orcs.

Somehow Merry and Pippin manage to make Mae smile. Their next mission is to make him laugh.

This reminds him of the Ambarussa. Mae cries again.

Gollum will underestimate that and it will be his doom.

"No Mr.Frodo, Sir Maedhros explained to us very clearly what happens with cursed artifacts, we are leaving Gollum here. Sir Maedhros was so kind, he explained to me everything I need to know."

Boromir lives, because killing Orcs turns out way easier with someone who can instill in them the very fear of the Valar.

Saruman has an incredibly short span.

"Oh? A palantir? My father's invention? Here? Yeah, I am gonna take that."

Somehow everything is a little easier?

Gimli crying because somehow he heard (ancient) Khuzdul from an Elf and now Maedhros has to understand since when Dwarves and Elves do not get along.

The company coming back to Imladris and causing Elrond to break down crying uncontrollably and in a very undignified manner.

"Lindir" hears the cries and when he sees Mae he's crying as well. It is revealed that "Lindir" is actually Maglor.

When the last ship sails for Valinor, the Valar grant M&M to come back due to repentance and various services in aid to destroying the Ring.

Galadriel is still not over the fact that MAEDHROS FEANORIAN was in Lothlorien and she could not even slap him.

At least in Valinor M&M can now hug mama Nerdanel and stay with her. Eventually all brothers will be reimbodied.

Thoughts? Comments? Prayers? Silmarils?

[senseandaccountability]

the healer has the bloodiest hands

I wrote some thoughts after the finale of Veilguard. Solavellan heavy.

This is just me, parsing through some feelings. "My people had a saying long ago -'The healer has the bloodiest hands'. You cannot treat a wound without knowing how deep it goes. You cannot heal pain by hiding it. You must accept. Accept the blood to make things better."  Solas to Thom Rainer in DAI.  ***

One can wonder, of course, what Mythal has to do with a Solavellan reunion and Solas’s choice to become the Veil’s protector, but hear me out. 

It is significant that it’s Mythal because she is the embodiment of his terrible past, the epitome of their brilliance and boldness and good intentions turned to terrible truths. The horrors they did, they did together. It is significant that it’s Mythal that sets him on this new course by removing the chains of his guilt and regret. Lavellan can’t do that, she didn’t forge them. Solas’s journey as the Dread Wolf begins and ends with Mythal. 

Mythal literally pulls Solas out of the Fade to use his wisdom, first to not lose herself to the other gods' vanity and brutality, then to gain advantage against them in an endless power struggle that breaks them both, I’d argue, though most significantly it breaks Solas. Retribution and revenge has no room for understanding, there is no wisdom in conquering. And Solas, for all his faults, isn’t brutal or cruel, doesn’t want power for his own gain. Instead he’s wise and creative, doomed to see the faults of his actions even as he carries them out, arguing in vain that the Evanuris too must see it - don’t cross these lines, don’t do it like this, don’t warp and twist your powers to forces of destruction. You must know this is madness! He objects to the creation of the bodies for the ancient elves, objects his own People’s physical creation. Did the earth not shake? It did, it was horrific and it was wrong and he knows this and it doesn’t matter. What he wants has never been part of the equation. 

Even when he breaks free from Mythal, when he burns her mark off his face, he never stops fighting for the world she once wanted. Because otherwise? Should he stop? Then all that he has done, all that he has given up, all that has been demanded of him both as Mythal’s lapdog and the Dread Wolf, leader of the rebel armies for centuries, cloaked in a persona of strategy and battle orders - all of that has been for nothing. He has made a ruin of himself, of the world, for nothing.  So he begins again, he picks up the pieces, he swears to make it right, to fix what he broke. That’s how he perceives healing, that’s what he thinks he is doing. But you cannot heal pain by hiding it. That’s why the Crossroads are falling apart with the manifestations of Solas’s greatest regrets, that’s why he needs Rook to escape his own prison, that’s why a Regret demon burns through Skyhold.

Solas traps the Evanuris as a final act of the ancient times, the creation of the Veil an embodiment of everything he and Mythal ever were - protection, benevolence, retribution, wisdom, pride. He ties it to the blood of the Firstborn out of spite and anger and it wrecks the world in ways he could not foresee. In ways he cannot fix because you cannot fix what has already happened.

You must accept. Accept the blood to make things better. He holds himself like a broken thing in front of Mythal and you can see it as submissive or as a man finally letting his grief out. There, at long last, he stands beaten and bloodied and blighted and he cries for all that was lost, all that he did and all that was done to him, all the things he cannot, cannot undo. And then: a new way forward.

In willingly binding himself to the Veil he embodies the best of those old myths, the All-Mother and the Breaker of Chains, as he breaks the cycle of punishment and grief and protects the sun and the moon. This oath, as opposed to the oaths of the empire that made him, is not to someone but to everyone, to all the innocents of the world. Instead of being the one who makes the terrible sacrifices of other people - the things I have done - he becomes the protector of the world that his people broke once upon a time. Instead of being the Creator of a new world without the Veil - the god he vehemently does not want to be, that he arguably thinks nobody should be - he becomes a caretaker, a guardian. A healer with bloody hands. And yes, it takes Mythal to break Mythal’s hold over him. You cannot treat a wound without knowing how deep it goes. And this one goes deep.  But it’s Lavellan who brings him the light in this story. It’s Lavellan who breaks through the dark, transforms it into something hopeful. 

His prison construct in the Fade was terrible, an abyss of regret made to hold a god. An ancient punishment for ancient crimes but times change, people change, the People change for better and for worse and here Lavellan stands in all her mortal imperfection, offering him not a way to change the past - where all these ancient beings are stuck - but a way to mend the future. It will be a terrible place, he tells her, saying I am terrible because the Fade shifts around our beings. It won’t be terrible, Lavellan argues. Because I’m there with you, walking the dinan’shiral with you, all the way. He doesn't have to fix anything first, he doesn't have to change for her, he just needs to stop hurting the world, hurting himself. Because she loves him, despite all the terrible mistakes he has made. Because she knows all his names, from Dread Wolf to Vhenan, she knows the power of his mind and the fires of his love and she saw more than most of the man he is. The man he wants to be. For a little slice of time there in Skyhold he was that man, he was seen and he saw. He saw the world filtered through her and could forgive it, he saw her through his own ancient, tired eyes and he fell in love no matter how much he thought he did not deserve it. You don't have to deserve love, or mercy, it doesn't demand anything in return, holds you to no oath. It is a gift, freely given. That's what Lavellan offers him by holding out her hand there, at the edge of everything. That's where the light slips in.

She’s real, which means everyone is real and she changes everything, because she can.  Ar lasa mala revas. 

[thewulf]

I Choose You || Legolas

Summary: Request - Hii hope you're having a good day, is it okay if I request a Legolas x reader where reader is Gandalf's granddaughter and joined the fellowship on their quest to destroy the ring? They both slowly fell in love with each other along the way and when the incident in Moria happened where Gandalf dies, Legolas comforts her.

A/N: Thank you for the amazing request! Had a blast writing this as usual :) It's a lil long, so enjoy!

Pairing: Legolas x Female Reader

Word Count: 5.5k +

TW: Talks of war/death, war, death, orcs, general LOTR triggers

You stand silently amidst the gathered council fading into the background as best you could. The murmur of many voices echoing softly through the vaulted halls of Rivendell. The air is crisp, filled with the mingling scents of ancient scrolls and the distant freshness of autumnal leaves. Elves, men, dwarves, and even a few hobbits have come to discuss the fate of Middle-earth, their faces marked by concern and resolve.

Your grandfather, Gandalf the Grey, stands at the center of it all. His presence both commanding and comforting. You’ve always admired his wisdom and strength and today, more than ever, you feel the weight of your lineage. You are his granddaughter, gifted with a touch of his magical prowess and a deep love for the mysteries of this world.

As the debate swirls around you, Elrond, the lord of Rivendell calls for silence. His gaze settles on the small golden ring laid upon the pedestal. It’s simple form belying its terrible power. The task is clear though the path is fraught with peril: the ring must be destroyed in the fires of Mount Doom. "We must form a fellowship," Elrond declares. His voice resonant and clear. "Those who will take this burden upon themselves and walk into the shadow to see this evil undone."

A hush falls over the council. Eyes turn, some in fear, others in anticipation, seeking those who might step forward. This is the moment you’ve prepared for, not just since you arrived in Rivendell but throughout your life under Gandalf’s tutelage. With a breath that steadies your resolve you step forward. The rustle of your cloak is like a whisper against the stone floor and several members of the council turn in surprise as you move into the circle of light cast by the morning sun through the high windows.

"I will go," you say, your voice firm and clear. "For the love of my grandfather and for the safety of middle earth. I will see this quest through to its end."

Murmurs of approval ripple through the room and Gandalf meets your eyes across the circle. There’s pride in his gaze and a touch of sorrow, knowing well the dangers that lie ahead. But in this moment you see also the unspoken bond between the two of you. An acknowledgment of the shared commitment to what is right, no matter the cost.

Legolas, a prince of the Woodland Realm, nods to you with respect clear in his bright eyes. Beside him, a stout figure grumbles under his breath, yet Gimli the Dwarf gives a curt nod of assent, recognizing your courage. Beside them a young hobbit named Frodo, who is to be the Ringbearer, looks on with wide, earnest eyes. It is for him, and for all who call this land home, that you pledge your strength. As the council disperses to prepare for the journey you stand beside Gandalf feeling the ancient power of Rivendell around you and the even older strength that lies within your own heart. This is just the beginning you know but you are ready. For the Fellowship, for middle earth, for Gandalf.

You will face whatever comes, together.

As the Fellowship journeys south from Rivendell the path grows increasingly treacherous, winding through craggy mountain passes and shadowed forests. The air is crisp and the first frost of winter sparkles on the leaves. Your companions walk close together. Each step a testament to the weight of the task ahead.

Aragorn leads with a steady hand, his ranger skills essential as the terrain becomes more challenging. Beside him, Boromir of Gondor often lends his strength. His booming voice echoing off the stone trying to keep spirits high among the group, especially the hobbits—Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin—who find amusement in the smallest wonders along the way. Like the frost patterns on the leaves or a particularly stubborn squirrel.

Legolas glides effortlessly beside you. His elven grace a stark contrast to Gimli who stumps along with a determined scowl, his axe ever at the ready. Despite the solemnity of your mission the elf and the dwarf have already begun what seems to be an endless competition, each trying to outdo the other in tracking skills, strength, and the telling of tall tales.

One balmy afternoon as the path narrows along the edges of a steep ravine the rivalry comes to a head between the two of them. Gimli insists he can clear a particularly large fallen tree with a single vault much to Legolas’s skepticism.

“Watch and learn, Master Elf,” Gimli grunts as he began to back up for a running start. Legolas watches with an arched eyebrow, clearly very amused by the red headed dwarf travelling beside him.

Just as Gimli begins to charge forward you step in placing a calming hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps, Gimli, it would be wiser to assist each other over the obstacle rather than compete with others. After all, the road ahead promises ample challenge for both of your strengths.” You smile warmly down at the ambitious dwarf set out to prove himself.

Gimli stops mid-stride puffing out his chest a bit as he turns to you, then to Legolas. “Hmm, perhaps you are right, lass. What say you, Legolas? Shall we make this journey a test of our cooperation rather than our competition?”

Legolas’s lips curve into a smile. His eyes sparkling with a newfound respect. “I believe our companion speaks wisely. Let us proceed together.” He offers his hand to Gimli who looks at it for a moment before shaking it heartily.

As the journey continues you find yourself often mediating and bringing lightness to tense moments. One evening as the Fellowship gathered around the campfire you recount a humorous anecdote from your days studying under your grandfather. Making sure to mimic Gandalf’s stern voice and dramatic gestures. The group erupts into laughter, the sound carrying through the trees and lifting the spirits of all including the hobbits who clap delightedly and ask for more stories.

Aragorn, sitting across from you nods appreciatively. His eyes meeting yours with a silent thank-you for the lightness you bring. Boromir chuckles, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes clearly more at ease. “You have the gift of your grandfather. Not only in magic but in spirit.” Aragorn comments, his voice warm in the chill air.

Legolas who was sitting beside you leans closer and speaks softly, “Your wisdom brings much-needed peace. And your humor is a light in dark times. It is a rare gift.”

You meet his gaze. The firelight cast dancing shadows across his features. All elves were beautiful but there was something about the Price of Mirkwood that drew you in. “We all carry our gifts, Legolas. Yours is your unerring optimism and sharp eye. Gimli’s his steadfastness and heart. Boromir’s his valor. Aragorn’s his leadership. And the hobbits’ their enduring cheer. Together we are stronger than each individual.”

As the nights grow longer and the path more daunting the bonds within the Fellowship deepen, fortified by shared challenges and your quiet efforts to understand, and support each other. In the quiet moments Legolas teaches you Elvish songs of old. And Gimli shares tales of the great Dwarven halls, their voices blending into the night creating a tapestry of friendship and hope.

As the Fellowship delves into the ancient depths of Moria the air grows thick with the mustiness of ages and the weight of stone. The walls echo with the memory of Dwarven voices, now silent. The path is lit only by the faint glow of Gandalf’s staff. Gimli moves with a mix of reverence and sorrow. His eyes reflecting a deep familial connection to the lost realm of his kin. The narrow passages twist and turn leading you deeper into the mountain’s heart. The quiet is oppressive, only broken by the occasional drip of water or the scuffle of a boot on stone. Tension mounts with each step and even the normally unflappable Legolas seems taut, his eyes scanning the shadows.

All too suddenly, the dark stillness erupts into chaos. A low growl escalates into a deafening roar as the Balrog, a creature of fire and shadow, reveals itself. The ground trembles beneath its weight and the air sears with heat. Gandalf steps forward his face set with grim determination. “Lead them on, Aragorn,” he commands. “The bridge is near. Do as I say! Swords are no more use here!” Your grandfather cries as he gives you a sharp look. Obey. You must listen to him now.

The Fellowship rushes forward driven by fear and the urgent need to escape, but you hesitate, your heart torn as Gandalf faces the monster alone. As the others cross the bridge of Khazad-dûm you watch, helpless, as Gandalf confronts the Balrog. His staff was raised, a brilliant light flaring to meet the darkness.

“You cannot pass,” Gandalf declares. His voice echoing powerfully. It sends a shutter down even your spine.

The Balrog advances and with a defiant cry Gandalf strikes the bridge with his staff. It crumbles sending the creature plummeting into the abyss. But the Balrog’s fiery whip lashes out, catching Gandalf’s leg, pulling him towards the edge. With a calm but utterly sad glance back at you, he murmurs, “Fly, you fools,” before falling into the darkness below.

Shock paralyzes you momentarily, tears blurring your vision. The others tug at you, pulling you away from the crumbling edge. As you flee Moria the loss of your beloved grandfather hits you. A deep ache that seems to echo through the empty halls. Outside, under the grey, mourning sky, the Fellowship collapses in a clearing. Each member grappling with grief. Your knees give out and you sink to the ground, overwhelmed by sorrow. Legolas is at your side in an instant, his presence a silent solace. He does not speak, but his hand finds yours, squeezing gently. A clear reminder that you are not alone.

Gimli joins you. His own eyes rimmed red. “He was the greatest of us all,” he says gruffly with his voice thick with emotion. “I am honored to have walked beside him and I vow to you, we will see this quest through. For him and for all our sakes.”

The words are a balm to your spirit even as you could not reply. Words were too hard for you now. You lean into Legolas, his strength supporting you. You mourn the loss of the only thing you knew. Legolas and Gimli by your side reminding you that even in the depths of loss, the bonds of friendship and love hold firm.

You manage to whisper a weak "Thank you," before the sorrow overwhelms you once more. Tears flood your cheeks, each one a memory, a moment shared with Gandalf that you'll never experience again. Overcome, you turn into Legolas's side, seeking the comfort that only close, physical presence can provide.  Though he was not typically fond of physical touch he does not hesitate to comfort you. He wraps his arms around you, his embrace firm and unwavering. In this moment your need transcends his usual reservations, and he holds you close. A silent sentinel in your hour of vulnerability.

His hands are steady on your back, one arm around your shoulders, the other at your waist, grounding you as your grief spills forth unchecked. Legolas's heart aches for your loss and though he may not express his emotions openly his actions speak a clear language of care and adoration. As you cry into his side, Legolas rests his chin atop your head. His gaze was fixed on the distant horizon where the last light of day gives way to twilight. He feels the weight of your sorrow as if it were his own, yet he knows he must stand strong for you.

Legolas knows that the road ahead will be fraught with further trials but for now, he offers you all that he can—protection, comfort, and an unspoken promise that no matter what lies ahead, you will not face it alone. In the stillness that wraps around you and Legolas there's a respectful pause from the rest of the Fellowship. They were giving you a moment to collect yourself under the cloak of Legolas's support. Aragorn, ever attentive to the needs of his comrades, notices the depth of your grief and the comfort Legolas provides. He understands the significance of this moment, the necessity of mourning and the importance of support in such times.

Standing a short distance away Aragorn speaks quietly with the hobbits making sure everyone is ready to continue but delaying their departure ever so slightly for your sake. His leadership is subtle. His decisions shaped by a deep understanding of his people's emotional and physical stamina.

After a brief moment, Aragorn looks over, his eyes meeting Legolas’s over your bowed head. There’s a silent communication between them. A leader’s acknowledgement and a friend’s gratitude for the support given to one of their own. Aragorn’s face softens, his respect for whatever was forming between you two clear in his gentle nod.

With a deep breath, signaling both readiness and respect, Aragorn approaches. His voice is soft yet carries a necessary urgency as he speaks. His words meant to soothe but also to remind of the path ahead. “We must move on for night will not wait for us and neither will our enemies,” he spoke with his tone conveying both compassion and resolve. “Take the time you need but remember we must not linger long.”

Legolas gently helps you stand straighter his arms still offering support. As you wipe away the last of your tears, strengthened by the comfort you’ve received, you nod in understanding. Legolas gives you a reassuring look. His eyes promising continued support and then he gently releases you. He was ready to stand by your side as you all prepare to resume the journey. With a final glance at Gandalf’s last stand you and the Fellowship gather your gear and set off once more into the fading light. The memory of Gandalf a guiding light that pushes you forward through the darkness.

Emerging into the sunlight of the world again does little to lift the sorrow of the Fellowship which soon deepens with Boromir’s tragic fall at Amon Hen. His valiant defense of Merry and Pippin against the Uruk-hai, though ultimately costing him his life, marked him forever a hero in the annals of your journey. The loss of such a stalwart companion leaves a void in your heart and within the group, casting a pall over your spirits.

Driven by a fierce determination to honor Boromir’s sacrifice, you, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli give chase across the plains of Rohan to rescue Merry and Pippin from their captors. The pursuit is grueling. Pushing each of you to your very limits. The landscape of Rohan is vast and relentless, but the tracks are clear, guiding you unerringly toward the thick fringes of Fangorn Forest. The hope of rescuing the hobbits fuels your weary bodies onward even as your hearts ache with the memory of Gandalf's fall and Boromir’s courageous end.

As you follow the trail into the shadowy depths of Fangorn a sense of ancient watchfulness grows. The forest feels alive, old beyond reckoning, and filled with secrets. It is here among the whispering trees that the unexpected happens. A figure steps out from the shadows garbed in white, his presence bright against the dark underbrush. The shock of seeing what you believe might be Saruman stops you in your tracks. But as the figure approaches the energy changes—the air around him shimmers with a familiar warmth and power. Not the cold malice of Saruman.

"Gandalf?" Legolas breathes. A note of awe mingling with disbelief.

You squint, hardly daring to believe it to be true. As he draws closer, clarity dawns, and recognition floods your senses. Overcome with emotion you shout, "Grandfather!" and sprint toward him. Your heart swelling with joy and relief.

Gandalf opens his arms wide, and you crash into his embrace. The impact strong yet comforting. "My dear child," he murmurs. His voice warm and welcoming as he wraps his arms around you. His cloak envelops you with a familiar scent of pipe-weed and the road clinging to the fabric grounding you in the reality of his return.

"Yes, it is I," Gandalf responds gently, now looking down at you with sparkling eyes, "but as Gandalf the White. I come back to you at the turn of the tide. Stronger and renewed. Just as our hope must now be."

The grief at Boromir’s death and the shock of Gandalf's return blend into a complex tapestry of emotions. The initial shock gives way to a festive air as relief and joy wash over Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli. They join in, their earlier despair replaced by laughter and words of amazement, forming a tight circle around you and Gandalf.

As Gandalf explains his battle with the Balrog and his subsequent rebirth his words filling the gaps in your understanding and rekindling hope in your hearts. His return not only signifies a miraculous second chance but also invigorates the Fellowship with renewed purpose and determination. With Gandalf's guidance now as Gandalf the White you all feel a renewed sense of purpose. The path forward is still fraught with danger but with Gandalf returned, and in memory of Boromir’s bravery, you are reminded that even in the darkest times there can be resurrection and hope. Together you prepare to resume the quest, stronger and more determined than ever.

"Your guidance has been sorely missed, Gandalf," Aragorn says. His voice steady but thick with emotion as he joins you. He captures the mood of the moment, channeling the Fellowship’s relief into focus. "What should we do? Frodo and Sam are gone to Mordor. Merry and Pippin are captives of the enemy." Gandalf releases you from the embrace but keeps one hand on your shoulder, grounding, and comforting. He surveys the small group with a decisive gaze and the air around you seems to thrum with renewed energy and urgency.

"We will split our efforts," he declares. "Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and you," he nods at you, "will pursue the orcs who took Merry and Pippin. Every second counts and your skills will be crucial in navigating this perilous chase."

You try and protest, but he shakes his head continuing along. "Meanwhile, I shall seek aid from the Ents of Fangorn," Gandalf continues, turning to look at the dense woods behind him. "Their strength will be necessary in the wars to come. We must rally all allies for the shadow from the East grows ever bolder."

As plans are made Legolas stands close by your side, his presence a silent vow of protection and partnership. You feel his hand briefly squeeze yours. A gesture of support that sends a surge of warmth through your heart that he had done so many times before.

"You have grown much, under shadow and trial," Gandalf remarks. Looking at you with a blend of pride and affection With the reunion drawing to a close and the path forward set you all prepare to leave. Gandalf’s return has not only brought back a beloved mentor and friend but has reignited the flame of hope within your heart. Together you feel ready to face the challenges that await knowing that the bonds of friendship and duty will guide you through the darkest of times.

As you traverse the expansive lands towards Rohan the camaraderie within the group deepens, each member adjusting to the rhythms of travel and the complexities of intertwined destinies. Amidst these dynamics your relationship with Legolas finds new ground. The elven prince, always serene and composed, begins to show a more attentive and tender side in his interactions with you. His glances linger longer and his conversations, once filled with tales of ancient elven lore, now often drift towards thoughts and dreams of the future, your future.

It’s during one of the long nights while camped under the vast, starlit sky near the borders of Fangorn Forest, that Gimli noticed the growing tension between you and Legolas. He decided to give you both some space. With a knowing wink and a gruff voice Gimli volunteers for the first watch, his tone unusually gentle. "I reckon the night is best shared with stars and heartfelt words, not an old dwarf's snoring."

Grateful, you share a smile with Legolas as Gimli settles a little distance away, his back to you, affording you a semblance of privacy. Legolas turns to you with his blue eyes reflecting the starlight, and for a moment he simply looks at you as if contemplating a thought long held in silence. "I have seen many wonders in my long life," he starts, his voice soft and mesmerizing under the night sky. "But none compared to the courage and kindness I've seen in you. In these trying times you have become a light guiding me."

Your heart flutters at his words, and you feel a warmth spread through you. "And you, Legolas, have been my solace. In you I find peace amidst turmoil. A joy that even the darkest shadows cannot diminish." He smiles. His gaze intensifying with affection and something more, something unspoken yet palpable between you. Then, in a move that surprises you both for its boldness and its intimacy, Legolas shifts closer and gently pulls you into his side. It's a daring gesture for an elf, particularly one as reserved as Legolas. But it feels right as if many paths had converged to bring this moment into being.

The warmth of his body against yours, the protective embrace of his arm—these are things you never expected to find so far from home. "It seems we have found comfort in one another's presence," he says softly. "Would that we might find a way to keep this light alive… no matter what lies ahead?"

"I would like that very much," you whisper as you leaned into the strength of his embrace.

The two of you sit under the blanket of night talking softly of dreams for a peaceful future and the immediate plans for the days to come. The reality of the quest remains but for now, under the stars, you both allow yourselves the luxury of imagining a life beyond the war. Both of you bound by a newfound affection that promises to grow with each passing day.

At Helm's Deep the air is thick with the tension of impending battle. The great fortress, built into the deep folds of the mountain, stands as the last bastion of hope against the relentless march of Saruman's forces. As the sky darkens and the torches flicker against the night you stand on the ramparts beside Legolas watching the sea of enemies gathering in the distance.

Legolas turns to you, his expression clouded with concern. “You should not be here,” he says softly. His voice barely above the howl of the wind. “This battle... it is not like the ones before. I fear—”

“I know,” you interrupt, understanding his fear but meeting his gaze with a resolve that mirrors the steel of the swords of your comrades below. “I know what this battle could mean for all of us. But I must stand with you, with all of you. There is no other place for me now, Legolas.”

Seeing the determination in your eyes, Legolas's expression softens and he pulls you gently against his side. It was a bold move for him, especially in such a public setting. “Then we will face it together,” he says squeezing your hand tightly as a silent promise passes between you.

The night deepens and the enemy’s drums beat a terrifying rhythm that seems to match the racing of your heart. Legolas pulls you closer. His eyes searching yours in the dim light. “No matter what happens tonight, know this,” he whispers, his voice steady despite the chaos swelling around you. “I love you. I have loved you amidst the shadows of our journey, and I will love you beyond the reaches of time.”

Your breath catches at his words. The simplicity and depth of his confession anchoring you amidst your fears. “And I love you,” you repl. Your voice strong even though you felt so weak. “Whatever may come, whatever we face… we face it together.”

As the battle commences the air fills with the clash of steel and the cries of warriors. You fight back-to-back, Legolas’s arrows finding their marks with deadly precision while you fend off attackers with sword and spell.

Gimli joins two of you, his axe a blur as he protects your flank. “Ha! I’d like to see them try to break this line!” he bellows. His voice a rumble of thunder over the din of battle.

The hours stretch. Each moment a lifetime but you fight with a clarity borne of love and the will to protect not just middle earth but the futures you hope to share. Legolas’s presence is a constant reassurance. His quick glances amidst the fray a reminder of everything worth fighting for.

As dawn breaks the tide of battle shifts. With Gandalf’s timely arrival and the charge of the Rohirrim, a new hope is rekindled. The enemy falters and breaks. Exhausted but alive, you, Legolas, and Gimli regroup, your bodies weary but spirits lifted by the victory, however costly it may have been.

Standing amidst the ruins of the battle you all share a look of relief and unspoken understanding. The war is far from over, but the strength of your bonds, the depth of your love, and the courage of your friends give you the fortitude to press on, to fight another day. With Legolas watch the sunrise, the light washing over Helm’s Deep painting the world in hues of gold and red. A daily rebirth, a reminder that after darkness there always comes a new dawn.

After the long shadow of war finally lifts with the destruction of the One Ring the world begins to breathe again. Minas Tirith stands gleaming under the bright sun, its banners waving in a joyous breeze. The streets are filled with music and laughter as people from all corners of middle earth gather to celebrate the victory. The air is sweet with the scent of blossoming flowers brought forth by a spring that signifies not just the changing of seasons but the dawn of a new era.

You, Legolas, and Gimli stand on a balcony overlooking the jubilant city with a cup of fine wine in hand. The Fellowship has been honored by kings and lords, sung by minstrels, and cheered by crowds. But in this moment, the three of you share a quiet moment that speaks of deeper bonds forged in the fires of your shared trials.

Legolas looks out over the city, his eyes reflecting the green of the fields below. “The world is changed,” he says thoughtfully. “I feel it in the earth, I smell it in the air. The darkness that once threatened to swallow us whole is now but a shadow of the past.”

Gimli nods. His eyes twinkling under his bushy brows. “Aye, and it’s time for more pleasant journeys,” he chuckles. “I promised you both a tour of the Glittering Caves, did I not? And I intend to keep that promise. You’ll find no finer sight beneath the mountains, mark my words!”

“And I,” Legolas adds turning to you with a gentle smile, “would have you both come to Mirkwood. The forests have suffered in the darkness. But they recover, much like us. There are places of such beauty and tranquility that they deserve to be witnessed with friends.”

You sip your wine, letting the rich flavors linger on your tongue as you consider the future. “And what of you?” Gimli asks, looking at you with an expectant raise of his eyebrow.

“I think,” you say slowly, smiling at the possibilities that stretch before you, “that I would like to see more of this world that we have fought so hard to save. From the forests of Mirkwood to the caves of the mountains and perhaps even beyond. There’s so much to explore, so much to learn.”

“And so much to rebuild,” Legolas adds. “Wherever we go we carry with us the legacy of those who fought beside us. Those who fell, and those who lived to see this day. Gandalf’s wisdom, Aragorn’s courage, and even Frodo’s quiet determination—they remain with us, guiding us forward.”

Gimli raises his cup, and you and Legolas do the same. “To the future,” Gimli declares heartily.

“To peace,” Legolas adds, his voice warm.

“To friendship,” you conclude. The three of you clink your cups together, the sound crisp and clear.

As the celebration continues below you lean against the stone railing admiring the city sprawling at your feet. Around you the laughter and music rise to the starlit sky, and you feel a profound sense of contentment. The road ahead is uncharted, but you face it not as a lone wanderer but as part of a fellowship that has endured the darkest of times to see the brightest of days.

With Legolas and Gimli by your side you know that whatever adventures lie ahead, they will be filled with joy, discovery, and the unbreakable bonds of friendship. This is not the end of your story but the beginning of a new chapter, one that you will write together.

As the celebrations in Minas Tirith begin to quiet down into a gentle hum of merriment and the evening deepens, Gimli, with a knowing grin and a subtle nod towards Legolas excuses himself to “inspect the integrity of the ale supply,” leaving you two alone on the quieter side of the terrace that overlooks the city’s sprawling, illuminated gardens.

Legolas watches Gimli depart and then turns to you with a serene expression. His eyes reflecting the myriad lights of the city. He reaches into the folds of his tunic and pulls out a small, exquisitely carved wooden box. “I have something for you,” he says. His voice low and filled with a tender emotion that sends a thrill through your heart.

You watch, curious and expectant, as he opens the box to reveal a pendant. It’s a delicate piece, shaped like a leaf but crafted with such intricacy that each vein in the leaf is visible. It shimmered with a light that seems to emanate from within the silver itself.

“This is a leaf from the Mallorn trees of Lothlórien,” Legolas explains as he carefully lifts the pendant from the box. “Galadriel herself gave this to me before we departed and though I cherish it... I believe it was always meant for you.”

He steps closer. His presence so familiar and yet so heart-stirringly profound at this intimate moment. “In the elven tradition,” he continues, his eyes locked onto yours, “to give such a gift is to choose a companion. To offer a token of one’s heart and soul. I give this to you not out of obligation but from a free and willing heart. I choose you and it’s you I wish to be with through all the ages of this world.”

He pauses while holding the pendant up between you. His eyes searching yours for an answer, a confirmation of your feelings. You nod gently, overwhelmed by the emotion in his gaze and the significance of his gift.

Legolas smiles, a soft, joyous curve of his lips, and delicately clasps the pendant around your neck. His fingers brush lightly against your skin as he secures the clasp sending shivers down your spine. The metal feels warm as if charged with his affection and presence.

“I cannot promise that the road ahead will be free from hardship,” Legolas says softly while drawing you close so that your foreheads touch lightly, “but I can promise that you will never walk it alone. Where you go I will follow. And where I go I hope you will be by my side.”

“Legolas,” you whisper. Your voice thick with emotion. “There is no one else I would rather have by my side. No one else I would want to share my path with. I choose you, too, today, and always.”

Without hesitation Legolas leans in to capture your lips in a kiss. It’s gentle at first. A tender meeting that speaks of mutual respect and deep affection. But as you respond the kiss deepens, becoming a profound expression of your shared love and commitment.

The world around you—the city of Minas Tirith, the sounds of celebration—fades into a blissful quiet. In this moment wrapped in Legolas’s embrace, you realize that while the war might have brought you together it is love that will lead you into your future. Beneath the stars and above the glowing city you share a promise of a thousand sunrises to come. Each one a new day to explore and cherish the world together.

Taglist Sign Up: @loving-and-dreaming @kmc1989 @memeorydotcom @matisse556 @buckylov3r @taygrls @ah-blossom @hardballoonlove @rosiahills22 @djs8891 @guacam011y @illisea @il0vebeingdelulu @hiireadstuff @kenn-spencerswifey @avada-kedavra-bitch-187

[housecantori]

Interesting that it's not a more common interpretation of Solas that he wants you to stop him.

By the end of trespasser (with a romanced or friendly Inquisitor, at least.) He lays out his plan and what the consequences will be. He says he's been committed this so long he has to continue. Inquisitor has shown him this world is beautiful too, but he's too stuck on his own mistakes vis-a-vis Elf Mortality.

Solas is too sad of a man about his own future actions to give me any impression other than someone who is clinging to a sunk cost.

He knows it isn't right. His time with the Inquisition proved these people are just as alive and worthy of this world as the ancient Elves. He just can't let go. Not when his actions doomed Elves to a life of being overwhelmingly magic-less and second class citizens, as well as mortal. It's too personal, too "his fault" to let go even when he knows it's not the right action anymore.

So he tells his friend, a doomed mortal who stumbled in to being a hero by being at the wrong place at the wrong time and also the person who has been fighting for the sake of Thedas this whole time. He gave us his plan.

Solas wants the Inquisitor after him, so that he doesn't have to give it up, he wants to be stopped. He's an idiot clinging to a sunk cost fallacy, and he can't let go. He needs us to tear him away from it.

[shewolfofvilnius]

i know I keep hyperfixating on the Solas/Ghilan'nain flashback but there is SO MUCH to unpack there and I want to talk about the VERY FIRST THING we see when we start the FIRST GAME. (DAV spoilers ahead)

The VERY FIRST

This is the very first thing we learn about the entire setting of the game. It's the foundational piece for the Chantry's concept of sin. And as we learned in one of the random Veilguard videos, The Chantry's interpretation is completely fucking wrong.

The Blight not only predates the first Archdemon, it predates the creation of the Veil and the sundering of magic into The Fade. It dates back to late period Elvhenan.

So where did the Canticle of Threnodies originate? Hint: NOT THE CHANTRY.

Slave uprisings? Oral tradition? Hmm, which people relied near-exclusively on oral tradition for centuries? Who did Tevinter primarily enslave? Who has a history of slave uprisings that predates Tevinter itself? Elves. What happened to the Elves of Arlathan after it fell? Enslaved in the founding of modern day Tevinter.

Ancient Tevinter Slaves (hint: Elves) have an ancient oral dirge about a "golden city" being "blackened", and about a singular pissed off narrator telling someone that their every step blackens the city and brings doom upon the world.

A dirge primarily sung during slave uprisings. Whose big thing was a massive slave uprising or uprisiings in Elvhenan and Arlathan?

I posit that Canticle of Threnodies 8:13 is the Chantry's translation/appropriation of Solas telling off the Evanuris once and for all, and was part of his final rebuke to them before trapping them in the Golden/Black City (Arlathan) and sealing the city off and creating the Fade.

The warning survived into Elven oral tradition as they were then enslaved by the humans in the founding of Tevinter. When the Magisters then breached the Black City and found the blight waiting for them (as Corypheus confirms, although I wonder where the Evanuris were hiding), it was retconned to apply to the Magisters when the original sin...was the Evanuris.

(PS: There are literally dozens of these examples of history retcon all throughout Thedas in past games.)

[testyqwcde]

I can’t shake the bittersweet feeling that this was the pivotal moment for Halbrand not just in confessing his feelings to Galadriel, but in revealing the first cracks in his bond with evil.

Their confession takes place just before the eruption that marks Halbrand’s fall back into darkness. There's important significance in that moment: as Galadriel faces the destructive shadow spreading across the Southlands, she later awakens alone, calling out for Halbrand, the one she has already lost.

I still believe there's more to the hilt which was imbued with the power of Sauron's master. Once released, it deepened Sauron's bonds to darkness, the bonds which were cracking because of his good deeds and feelings for Galadriel. Beyond the clues I’ve already highlighted, there are subtle visual cues in the opening scene that support this.

In the prologue, as Galadriel narrates the Elves’ battle against Morgoth, the battlefield shares the same smoky, fiery aesthetic we later associate with Mordor. I don't think it is coincidental: it may hint not just at the cyclical nature of evil, but that Mount Doom itself, awakened by the hilt, could be a site of Morgoth’s ancient power. Ancient power as destructive, chaotic merciless as Morgoth was.

In Tolkien’s world Morgoth invested so much of his essence into Arda (especially into his works, possibly including the hilt) that even after his fall, his malice lingered in the world. And if Sauron was affected by this power during the eruption, it corrupted him further and marked his gradual fall deep into darkness.

That’s why it breaks my heart when I hear him say he wishes he could die.

Perhaps because, deep down, he can already foresee what’s coming.

I hope the showrunners won't leave it and show us later what happened to Halbrand.

[dunmeshistash]

Re: How Dungeons Work

While scolding Laios and Marcille, Flamela mentions that the Canaries would need to prepare a replacement Lord if Marcille wanted to step down. The Lion also mentions falling into the Canaries' hands, and after it is defeated the Queen seems to lament that the Magic/Spell That Grants Any Wish has been lost.

Maybe the Elves were using Dungeons to do something after all?

I find it interesting that the Queen's remark can be read as referring to the Demon itself as a kind of spell, almost like a construct or AI. Thoughts on that?

Lastly, the Ancients built the Dungeons as a counter to the demon's consumption of desires. Do you think they succeeded? Is there a way to use them safely? After all, the Ancients were destroyed by a wish/their own will, not by the demon's agency. Maybe they and maybe even modern Elves know how to act as Lord without getting eaten at all? It seems technically feasible from what we see, Thistle just sealed it away too late.

Hello!

Going by each question

I think they would need a replacement specifically in Marcille's case since she wants to step down, they cant move her to the surface because the dungeon is already spilling out. I imagine the subistitute lord is a temporary solution to remove Marcille from the Dungeon (someone with less destructive wishes)

I don't think the elves are doing anything with the dungeon from their track record, since they collapse dungeons, what Kabru dislikes is how they go about it (with no regard for other's), Utaya is an example of just how destructive Dungeons can be. (The canary plans are always to collapse dungeons and there's no hint about it being anything else is there?)

The queen is a weirdo, but to me the way she talks about it sounds more like a relief "'The spell that grants any wish' has been lost. there is time" as in that is no longer an impending danger for their world? EHScans even translates it as "we have the luxury of time"

In the world there's also no difference between the demon and magic itself, as we learn in chapter 87 the demon is magic given personality so she's not wrong to call him that.

I think the ancients succeeded in the sense that they managed to seal the demon inside dungeons, but they had the plot lost from the start, having all you wish for granted goes against being a living being, craving and wishing is part of living so it was doomed to fail as it did. The demon also doesn't understand ofc

As I said it goes against being human so I don't think it's possible at all to use the demon, you would end up just like the ancients wishing for everyone to die, the best example of why this would never work Kui gives us is the tale Laios tells in the nightmare monster tidbits

"One tires of happiness quickly, but tragedy is bottomless. Seeking further stimulation, it must be that the human heart compels the nightmares to create bad dreams"

The future the Demon wanted granting everyone's wishes would have probably also ended up in a living hell for them.

Also I don't think Thistle 'sealed him away too late', he kept deteriorating even after locking up the demon it seems. Marcille suffers from it too even after sealing him.

hope these answers helped!

[hawke-from-kirkwall]

Solas. The Dread Wolf. He is an incredibly fascinating character to me. He has many names. His history is tangled and twisting with love, loyalty, pain, wisdom, betrayal, pride, power, fear, failure, regret- each part telling the story of a truly complex and nuanced person. In this Essay I will...

Something I find absolutely fascinating about Solas over the course of DAI and now DATV is that I feel you can see him struggle with the fact that at every turn his desperate belief that those around him are on some level not real people (a belief he holds on to with white knuckle fists because he knows he cannot complete his goal if he allows himself to see them as real) is challenged. Varric, Cole, Sera, Bull, Lavellan, or even an Inquisitor that's not Elvhen, Felessan, even to some extent Mythal, they directly challenge his view of them. He has to silence them or he won't be strong enough to continue his mission- he'd fail again. So he kills his closest friend, can't even look him in the eye when he does it, he breaks up with Lavellan (or distances himself from a friendly Inquisitor), and abandons the Inquisition without a word, even cuts himself off from Cole because Cole knew who he was and could reveal too much.

Solas cuts himself off from anyone and everything that could tear down his idea that they could be REAL, that they could deserve the same chance he and the other ancient elves had to live, or he knows he will abandon his work. He'd once again fail. And Solas fears he couldn't survive that.

So he forces himself to be detached, cold, calculating, deceptive, and strategic. He once again bears the mantle of Dread Wolf, once again the cost is never too high if it means the People are restored.

Solas fascinates me in his obstinate determination to not accept what he sees, and I believe he knows deep down, is true - his original plan succeeded, but the cost was great and that there is truly no way to reverse it. The world of Thedas, as it is now, completely changed from anything he ever wanted, is the result. But change is a part of life. It cannot be stopped. Fighting change or seeking to reverse change only serves to change things further and never in the way you had planned. Ultimately, Solas's plan was doomed from the start- he could succeed in pulling down the veil, he could "minimize the damage", but the world that would result from it would still not be the world he wants. It would still be subject to the thousand years of change it had gone through and would change further still at the abrupt return of magic and spirits to the world. He cannot predict the outcome and consequences that would be the aftermath of his success. And he doesn't want to! He cannot reconcile his failure so he pushes forward to erase what cannot be erased. It's futile. And I don't believe he is fully blind to it. I am certain he knows, even if he refuses to sit with it long enough to admit it.

Solas is a broken man who's so focused on his one failure that the cost of "repair" doesn't matter. HE has to fix it. HE has to sacrifice. HE has to go it alone. Else he might be persuaded to change his mind, to do the selfish thing and move on, when the ancient elvhen no longer have that chance.

So he holds tight to his bitter resolve only to be challenged again at every turn by Rook and their team, old allies and friends, those he had betrayed. Again.

His story is one of pain, loss, regret, failure, twisted purpose and the incredible power of a small seed of hope.

If you choose this end, Solas finally removes his blinders to see the light of hope in front of him. With or without Lavellan taking the journey with him, Solas finally sees what he'd been so forcefully shoving out of his view - it just takes one choice. One right decision to start a journey towards redemption. He cannot be absolved of guilt for his actions. He cannot change the past. But perhaps with time he can redeem his future.

[Me, typing this up at 10am on a Tuesday... like a normal person. Lol]

[josefiendelphine]

All my Legacy Challenges!

✨ TVD Legacy Challenge ✨ Channel the drama, romance, and supernatural elements of The Vampire Diaries in your Sims 4 gameplay! 🧛‍♀️🧙‍♂️ This challenge is all about embracing the power, love, and complex relationships of the TVD universe. Are you Team Stefan or Team Damon? Dive in and find out! 🔗 TVD Inspired Legacy Challenge

🎤 Ariana Inspired Legacy Challenge 🎤 Get into the groove with this Ariana Grande inspired legacy challenge! 🎶👑 From "Yours Truly" to "Thank you, next," bring out your inner diva and make your Sims live their best pop star lives. Each generation will take on a different era of Ari's iconic career! 🔗 Ariana Inspired Legacy Challenge

🔤 Alphabet Legacy Challenge (Collab with @macaroonsims) 🔤 Ready for a fun and creative alphabet-themed legacy challenge? 🌈📚 Each generation's name and storyline is inspired by a different letter, offering a unique twist for every Sim in your legacy! It's colorful, quirky, and full of surprises. 🔗 Alphabet Legacy Challenge

🌳 The Elf Hill Legacy Challenge 🌳 Step into the enchanting world of The Elf Hill 🧚‍♀️✨, where magic and mysticism reign. Inspired by a Belgian series, this legacy challenge brings the ancient beauty and magic of elves to your Sims world. Can you keep the balance of nature and the arcane in check? 🔗 The Elf Hill Legacy Challenge

🔮 The Prophecy Legacy Challenge 🔮 Unveil the mysteries of an ancient prophecy that has been long forgotten... 🕯️⚔️ In this legacy challenge, each generation will uncover a different part of the prophecy as your Sims embark on a journey of fate, destiny, and hidden secrets. Can you unlock the full truth? 🔗 The Forgotten Prophecy Legacy Challenge

👑 After Ever After Legacy Challenge (Collab with @mooberriie) 👑 What happens after "happily ever after"? 🌹🕊️ Dive into a whimsical world where your Sims are descendants of fairytale characters! Each generation explores new and unexpected stories beyond the original fairytales, adding a modern twist to classic tales. Can you handle the drama that comes with royal legacies, forbidden love, and magical misadventures?

🔗 The After Ever After Legacy Challenge

💀 Deadly Legacy Challenge 💀 Welcome to the Deadly Legacy Challenge, Simmers! 👻 For those who crave a darker legacy, this challenge tests your Sims with unique and predetermined fates. Each generation faces a different, often tragic end, from drowning to laughter-induced death. Will your Sims fulfill their aspirations before doom arrives? 🔗 Deadly Legacy Challenge

👻 Life and Death Legacy Challenge 👻 Dive into a twisted family history of tragedy and redemption, where murder and hardship define each generation. Dark themes of life, loss, and even forbidden romance with death shape your Sims’ lives. Follow each generation’s journey, navigating betrayal, poverty, and the pursuit of immortality (for one special generation). No death cheats allowed! 🔗 Life and Death Legacy Challenge

🌌✨ The Twilight Legacy Challenge ✨🌌 Calling all Twilight fans! 🌲 Ready to live out the magic of Forks, Washington, and embark on a Sims legacy challenge like no other? The Twilight Legacy Challenge is officially up on Patreon, ready to bring Bella, Edward, and the whole supernatural saga to life in your game. Each generation captures the unforgettable romance, drama, and mystery we all love — with your personal twist. 🔗 The Twilight Legacy Challenge

Feel free to share this with your fellow Simmers and enjoy creating legacies full of magic, music, mystery, and more! 🎮💖

💖✨ The Pop Group Legacy Challenge ✨💖 Step into the world of The Pop Group Legacy Challenge, a Sims adventure inspired by the beloved songs of K3! Each of the eight generations embodies the themes of a different K3 classic, from romance and exploration to loyalty and magic. Your Sims will carry these songs' stories in their traits, careers, aspirations, and life paths, creating a legacy filled with heart, joy, and unforgettable moments. Free on February 13th, 2025! 🔗 Pop Group Legacy Challenge

💀 Kill & Go Legacy Challenge 💀

Ready for a deadly twist on your legacy gameplay? Welcome to the Kill & Go Legacy Challenge, where every generation not only has unique goals but must also face their untimely demise. 🌩️💥 This challenge is packed with chaos, creativity, and just a sprinkle of Sims 4 mayhem!

🗓️ Patreon Early Access: Now Available! 🌟 Public Release: February 27th, 2025

🔗 Kill & Go Legacy Challenge

[lamemaster]

Elves when you break their heart (for a lack of better title)

AN: Idk why I am writing this but here it is. This author likes the idea of doomed relationships both platonic and romantic :D (Also can we have a funny event so I can feel like writing again? Pretty plsss)

Summary: Angst

Characters: Rog, Celebrimbor, Finrod

🔨Rog🔨:

"Oh my," you wheeze folding into yourself as you catch your breath. The elf a few feet away from you looks paler than snow when you look up to smile at him.

A sheepish grin spreads across your face, trying not to show how a flight of stairs came so close to taking you out. But the poor elf turns green and you consciously wipe your lips noticing the blood on the back of your hand. That explains.

"Lord Rog in?" You point to the long corridor that your beloved promised, which definitely leads to his study and not another secret smithy.

The guard, wide-eyed and terrified, can only manage a jerky nod. You heave yourself upright, gathering your robes with trembling hands and a silent prayer to the Valar that the floor stays horizontal for at least another minute.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath – mostly to mask the metallic tang of blood – you dab at your face with the hem of your sleeve before you thrust your beloved into another fit of mothering you.

Pushing open the door (knocking? What's knocking?), you swing yourself into the study with a flourish that would make a bard proud.

"Hellooo my love," you purr, a wide smile plastered on your face despite the throbbing ache in your side. Rog, engrossed in a book held upside down with a furrowed brow, doesn't even notice you at first. It doesn't take elven sight to spot the worry lines etched deep on his face – a sight that makes your smile falter slightly. Hiding an internal sigh, you flop down next to him with a dramatic thud.

"I am not dead yet, dear," you announce, watching him stiffen at the word 'dead.' "Perhaps spare such interesting books for when you are not able to access my excellent presence." You take the tome from his hands and with a playful flick of your wrist, send it soaring across the room to land with a soft thud on a plush armchair.

A frown of complaint settles on Rog's forehead. You can already see the familiar lecture brewing – the one about slowing down and taking care of yourself. An argument you smother with a quick peck on his lips, effectively silencing him before he can utter a single word of protest.

You are, after all, a master in leaving things unfinished. And witnessing his grief and worries was a business you plan to leave unfinished for your given time.

🩶Celebrimbor🩶: (platonic)

"You are the reason for my kin's doom!" You point an accusing finger at him. "You and your larger-than-life creations." Your voice is hoarse from hours of sobbing.

Tyelpe stood frozen, his heart a drum against his ribs. His once glimmering form felt like a dying star. Tears welled in his eyes, blurring the image of the furious spirit before him.

You lurched forward, grasping his shoulders. Your touch, faint as a sigh, startled him from his paralysis. "Why?!" The raw whisper seemed to crack the very foundation of the Halls.

"Why!! Why did you have to make those rings? Why give it to my kin? Even in death, I cannot see the face of my father. My father who killed his own kingdom." The Halls of Mandos shake with the tremors of your little voice.

You, who had never met him in your lifetime, bore hatred greater than any other.

Nothing mattered. Sauron's evil, your father's own greed, none enraged you more than the elf who you made you into a resentful mess.

Tyelpe didn't flinch. His gaze met yours, a well of ancient sorrow mirroring your own. He didn't resist when the Maiar of Mandos materialized, summoned by the sheer force of your grief. He let's himself be pulled away from your grasp.

Then, a tremor ran through him, a ripple of recognition. He looked at you, truly saw you for the first time. Not just a furious spirit, but a child – a child robbed of a life you never got to live. And him being the cause of it.

He sank to his knees, his head bowed so low it nearly touched the ground. "Forgive me," he rasped, the words echoing through the halls. But this time, the plea wasn't just for himself. It was for you.

Even eternities were not enough to lift the burden of some crimes.

✨Finrod✨:

"Love?" you scoffed, a harsh sound that echoed through the cavernous hall. You met Finrod's gaze, your eyes devoid of the warmth that used to reside there. "This isn't love, Your Majesty. It's vengeance."

You leaned closer, the frosty air swirling around you like a cloak. Each word was a shard of ice, piercing the illusions you'd so meticulously constructed. "I never loved you, Finrod. Not truly."

His face drained of color, the realization dawning like a cruel sunrise. A tremor ran through his hand, the one that used to reach for yours so instinctively.

"Months," you continued, a cruel smile twisting your lips. "Months of a meticulously crafted lie, a performance more elaborate than any staged in these halls."

A flicker of pain crossed his features, a flicker that ignited a cold satisfaction within you. You had achieved your goal. Finrod Felagund, the mighty Elf-lord, brought low by the love of an Edain – the very race he deemed inferior.

"Look at yourself, Finrod," you whispered, the words dripping with venom. "Consumed by a mere illusion. A phantom who offered you a love that never existed."

Finrod opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off, your fingers tightening around his chin. "You are in love with a mirage," you declared, your voice a low hiss. "A person who never truly lived. This," you gestured to yourself, the playful warmth you once wore now replaced by a chilling emptiness, "is who I am."

You lean tantalizingly close to his lips. And Finrod as if forced by habit leaned in expectantly. For a moment, Finrod's eyes searched yours, desperate to find a flicker of the woman he thought he knew – the woman who shared laughter and dreams with him.

But there was nothing. Only a cold, calculating stranger.

"Consider this Andreth's debt, finally repaid," you said, pulling away with finality. You turned and walked away, leaving Finrod alone in the vastness of his halls, his heart shattered

And remained shattered accompanied by his body that lay broken in the unlit cells of Tol-in-Gaurhoth.

[scottoro-ramblings]

Continuing with my series of Tarot Card illustrations, I did for my His Majesty the Worm setting conversion to the Dungeon Meshi world. Here featuring three orc women toasting to a victory while a warg naps in the foreground.

As with my Kobold card, I'm attaching to this post all of the lore I attached to the race for the setting conversion, and the majority of that lore is just my wild speculation because the actual information is pretty sparse. If you have any suggestions, or things I missed from canon, let me know!

Orcs

Both the hunted and the hunters, orcs are well used to fighting for survival. Pushed to the brink they will do whatever it takes to make sure they don't end up prey.

Squat and wide, with tusks and pig-like snouts, but built of muscle not fat, orcs are demi-humans with a reputation as fierce and ruthless fighters. So fierce and ruthless in-fact, that most other kith consider them little more than monsters. Adventures are regularly paid bounties to kill orc tribes that settle in dungeons, and in most places killing a lone orc is seen as a sensible precaution in case they are a scout for a raiding party.

This hostility justifies further violence from the orcs. As anyone who discovers their camps or traveling bands could doom the entire tribe, witnesses are quickly silenced and fed to the wargs. Without the option to barter, anything that orcs cannot get from the environment must be stolen. After generations of raiding most orcs are proud of their martial strength and cunning, but if one were unwise enough to question the morality of their actions, they would be swiftly reminded orcs don't have other options.

Disputed Origins

Orcs don't know where they originate and generally do not care. Such questions do not factor into their daily survival, and orcs tend away from superstition and speculation. They certainly once had a much larger distribution than the few scattered pockets they live in now, but how and why that is the case is a topic of much debate.

Dwarven historians claim that elves made orcs as weapons of war, fusing boars and humans with black magic to create super soldiers to use against their foes. This would handily explain why there are no old orcish ruins, or traces of them in ancient records, as well as making orcs entirely elves’ responsibility. Elvish scholars claim that orcs are native to the eastern continent and were transported across the sea to cause chaos in the lands of their enemies. Any discrepancy in dwarven records is easily explained by later censorship to hide fault.

Other human races generally believe the explanation of whatever long lived race they are closest to, but are primarily concerned with keeping orcs from razing their villages. The blame for their actions is far less important than getting them out.

Regimented Society

While orc tribes tend to be small, to keep travel quick and quiet, they have a strict chain of command. As orcs are also polygamous these ranks can be easily distinguished by their number of mates. A ruling chief could have four or more wives, his top enforcers two, all the way down to unmarried low ranked orcs. Sometimes the rank of male orcs can also be distinguished by their number of horns, though in most tribes they are purely aesthetic. These horns are not natural but instead are lumps of sterilized bone sewn under the forehead.

A higher ranked orc can order any lower ranked orc around, and those orders must be obeyed unless the orc is trying to challenge their position. Orcs primarily gain ranks by aiding the groups survival, such as by exceptional feats in battle or finding a secure home. Orcs can lose ranks if they work against the tribe, such as by causing infighting or harming a tribe member without justification. Children, and those rare guests that won the trust of an orc tribe, are outside the hierarchy. They are treated with kindness by all, but have no authority over others or say in decisions.

While orc society is both hierarchical and suspicious of outsiders, it can be surprisingly accepting as well. Any guest that proves valuable to the tribe will be fully inducted into the tribe and given a rank that suits their contributions, regardless of their kith. Ogres, seeking a society where their strength would be admired not feared, are the most common but stories abound of tall-man or even dwarf bandits and exiles who have found a new home amongst an orc tribe.

Orc Names

Orc names vary significantly between genders, though both tend to be rather short. Male names have harsher consonant sounds, while female names are smoother and frequently have double vowel sounds. While descent is important in orc tribes, generational glory wanes quickly, so in place of surnames orcs just take the name of their higher ranked parent.

Orc male names

Bahay, Bahr, Gark, Gohark, Gurn, Kahkark, Kon, Kor, Lazay, Loz, Lunyr, Nor, Nyr, Rark, Rohay, Rok, Rozyr, Zarn, Zlor, Zon

Orc female names

Bayd, Boahee, Boorlay, Gaarn, Geer, Goolay, Kayl, Keer, Koahay, Laarn, Leed, Loor, Nayd, Nayr, Noor, Xeen, Xoor, Zayd, Zleer, Zlolay

Orc Kin

While orcs are widely dispersed across the world, the pressures of survival have keep their cultures relatively similar. Orcs generally recognize each other as kin, and avoid conflict between tribes unless necessary for survival.

*Below are the His Majesty the Worm Game Mechanics, so if you are just here for the headcanon feel free to stop*

Kin Talent: Ultimate Survivalist

While orcs rarely get the chance for any sort of formal education, living off the land gives them a wide set of practical knowledge. You can bid lore to determine the edibility of anything, or to check the safety of a particular location. The safety check is a matter of gut instinct so the GM does not need to describe the nature of the environmental hazards should they be hidden, merely if any of significance are present.

Arete

Orcs gain arete by preforming the following deeds:

Getting married

Creating a fully stocked and secured safe-house

Gaining the right to publicly dwell in a human settlement

When an orc accomplishes all three arete triggers, they gain the following talent:

Orc arete talent: Pigheaded

Orcs can be tremendous stubborn when set on the path they have determined to be best. Whenever you fail a test of fate you can spend a resolve to draw again in place of your original result. This cannot save you from a great failure caused by pushing fate and getting the fool.

Orc role-playing concepts

Orcs often travel with massive canines called wargs, which are normally not fully domesticated. The wargs clean up bodies for the orcs and alert them to danger, and orcs make sure the warg pack eats and heal wounded pack members.

Orc tribes often find refugee in dungeons, which seem to be less hostile to them than most adventurers for unknown reason.

Items of luxury and wealth have little use to orc tribes who have no-one to trade with. It isn't uncommon for orcs to rob a merchant and steal crates of potatoes while leaving gold scattered across the floor.

Orcs have divergent beauty standards to most races, considering wide snouts, small shapely ears, and a solid build with plenty of muscle and fat to be the height of attractiveness. As a result they consider elves very ugly.

[whereserpentswalk]

There's a plane that exists just for people passing through to other dimensions. It's this sort of liminal zone. Most people don't stay there for long, but almost every planner traveler has, for some amount of time, stayed there.

It's shaped like places that people only stay for a short amount of time. Most of it looks like a giant hotel, pale walled and well cleaned, with rooms and pools and the like. Though other places look more like a massive airport of train station, with all those little shops and news stands. It's nice, a place where you can spend time for a little while, but only for a little while. The entire dimension is mabye at best the size of a small city, and entirely indoors. Beyond its walls there's only Astral Choas, the doom between all planes.

The host is something ancient and powerful, older than most planes even are. Few mortals have seen him. He's mostly known by his staff, these androgynous humanoids that don't eat or sleep, sown into their uniforms. The staff are alive and sentient, but they aren't born, just created. Those who project their spirits beyond planes but not their bodies are often given similar forms to the staff when they come here. Those who attempt to harm the staff will end up seeing security, beings who are far less freindly, and far less humanoid.

There's something strange to having so many dimensional travelers in one place. Especially with no base culture to speak of amoung them. You'll see an advanced group of human scientists, walking by an adventuring party containing elves and orcs. A mysterious gentlemen from the fae in a suit and top hat, may be making conversation with a lost starship captain who just escaped a warp storm, as a horror beyond mortal comprehension plays a game of chess with a group of sentient mice. Everyone sees it differently, it's technologically advanced to some, primitive to others, familiar to some, and inhuman to others.

And you only ever pass through. Even the exiles and refugees can't stay forever. It's nice, perhaps nicer than your world, and comfortable, a place to rest without war and horrors around you. But it can never be forever. You have a plane to go to, and it isn't this one. Nomatter how comfortable the bed is you must someday awaken from it.

And not to mention the way people interact with those who they'll never meet again. The paladin who befriended an astronaut who was lost there, and who wept when he found out she didn't know if she had a soul or not. The brass armed steampunk professor, considered young for his mission at forty, who became horrified to talk to a team of superheros whose oldest member was sixteen. The cloned soldier, born to die, too afraid to take off it's gas mask, who met an elven warroir, and let her tell it there was more to life then war and pain, and tell it of beautiful things throughout the multiverse, and let her touch it's breasts, and see it's naked body and face, and both of them knew they'd both be gone when the morning came, but they'd remember eachother, and the soldier for the first time yearned for something beyond death.

[dinogalad]

When the Gods flip a coin...

Daenerys of the House Targaryen and Celebrimbor of the House Fëanor, Heirs of Fire and Doom

I was thinking about this the other day—how Daenerys Targaryen and Celebrimbor are almost like mirrors of each other across worlds.

They’re both the last in line of these ancient, powerful houses—families wrapped up in fire, ambition, and ruin. And they don’t just inherit a name; they inherit a legacy that’s heavy. The kind that comes with expectations, prophecy, and the kind of history people whisper about.

You know that quote from Game of Thrones—“Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin”? They’re either brilliant or broken. Great or mad. That line applies so well to Celebrimbor. His bloodline is basically the Elven equivalent of the Targaryens: genius, fire, obsession, destruction. His grandfather was Fëanor—the one who made the Silmarils and then kicked off several apocalypses trying to get them back. His father, Curufin, wasn’t much better.

And I bet the Elves were watching Celebrimbor like people watched Dany as she rose to power—half in awe, half in fear. Like, “Is he going to redeem his house… or repeat it?”

They both fight so hard not to become their fathers, not to walk the same cursed path. But they have that same fire. That same drive. That same dangerous, world-shaking potential.

And then—both of them go and do something impossible. Daenerys brings dragons back into the world. Creatures of legend, extinct for generations. She walks into the fire and comes out with three living weapons. And Celebrimbor? He forges the Three Rings. Alone. Pure. Hidden from the Dark Lord. The same rings that will guarantee the heritage of the remaining elves of Middle-earth.

That’s not just magic. That’s defiance. That’s legacy-challenging brilliance.

And if they wanted to, both of them could reclaim a throne. Dany has her claim to the Iron Throne by blood. Celebrimbor also has his claim by blood. He could’ve taken leadership of the Noldor in Middle-earth. Their names mean something, enough to rally armies or kingdoms. But it was never just about power for them—it was about proving they could do better.

And yet... they’re both tragic in that poetic, painful way. They stood at the edge of greatness and couldn’t quite escape the flames that shaped them.

In the end, the legacies win. The past swallows them.

They’re both these brilliant, broken inheritors, doing everything they can to rise above the madness behind them.

[xximmortalkissxx]

Where the Shadows Lie

🖤 Chapter 1: Welcome to Mordor

It has been an age since I've posted a fic, but this season of Rings of Power has dug itself into my brain and inspired this one. Thank you for reading!

Pairings: Sauron / Halbrand / Annatar x Móriel  | Adar x Móriel (Original Character: Daughter of Morgoth)

Summary: When Halbrand is brought in chains to Adar's feet, the Lord-Father's consort Mòriel sees him for who he truly is, her father's former lieutenant and her oldest rival.

Warnings: (18+ Only! Adar Smut: Fingering, Oral Sex, Sex, Licking, Biting)

Translations (Black Speech):

Throqu-ni: Devour me.

Sha-ni: Together with me.

Ash Burzum: One Darkness

Word Count: 3k

Chapter Two: 🔥

Divider Credit: @cafekitsune

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

Under the looming shadow of Mount Doom, an unruly war camp of Uruks stretched for miles, the air thick with the acrid stench of burning wood and the faint metallic tang of blood. Within the center of the camp, two crude thrones forged from blackened wood and iron stood atop a dais, watching over the gathering of Uruks and prisoners alike.

Móriel sat languidly upon her throne, her golden eyes catching the light of the torches like embers in the dark. Half-lidded in thought, her gloved fingers idly stroked the coarse fur of the warg resting at her side. Its snarling maw, dripping with saliva, leaned into her touch. Beside her, Adar sat tall, his eyes fixed upon the approaching prisoners dragged forward by the ever-fervent Waldreg. The Uruks jeered as the clanking of chains and hesitant footsteps of the captives filed into the clearing, but Móriel’s attention remained distant while Waldreg’s voice cut through the din.

“Do you swear allegiance,” Waldreg bellowed, “to Adar, Lord-Father of the Uruks, and to our Lady Móriel, Daughter of Morgoth, Mother of the Uruks, and Maiden of Pain?”

The prisoners quaked beneath the weight of the question, eyes wide with terror as they glanced between the towering presence of Adar and the ethereal, dark beauty of Móriel. Some muttered prayers, others stammered weak declarations of loyalty to the dark power that had consumed their land. All who swore loyalty were branded on the nape of the neck with the Mark of Adar and Móriel.

Móriel’s gaze barely flickered at their pleas and cries of pain, her hand still stroking the warg’s fur, until a particular figure was dragged forward. Waldreg pushed a man clad in rough, travel-worn clothes onto his knees. His face was bruised, his eyes steely, but there was something in his bearing-something familiar.

Sauron.

“Halbrand, The King of the Southlands turned himself in Lord-Father, says he wants to negotiate.” Waldreg spat.

Móriel’s interest piqued, her eyes sharpening as she recognized him immediately for who he truly was. Sauron, in a mortal guise, masking his power behind the pretense of this King of the Southlands. She kept her expression carefully neutral. With a voice smooth and honeyed, Móriel leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. 

“Negotiate? What could you possibly offer us, your highness?” 

“Let my people go.” The man commanded, standing up to meet Móriel’s eyes. He held firm even as the jeering intensified. 

“Or yours will die.” he added tersely. 

“Our people defeated the men of these lands, we defeated the elves who came to their aid, we even defeated their allies, the Men from beyond the sea.” Adar replied, standing from his throne and walking towards his prisoner.

“There is no one left for us to fear.”

“There is one.” The King of the Southlands retorted.

“Since Galadriel’s defeat, she sought out a new ally. An ancient sorcerer, to instruct the Elves in forging a new weapon. One you first told her about. “A power over flesh” Do you remember those words?” Halbrand continued.

Adar’s and Móriel’s eyes met briefly, though they quickly returned to Halbrand as he continued to speak.

“A power that will allow him to use your children as slaves in his army once more. Set my people free, and I will tell you where he can be found. So you can destroy him, and rid us both of his evil.” His voice seemed so sincere, Móriel had nearly forgotten how earnest Sauron could sound.

“No, Your Majesty. You will tell us everything you think you know of this sorcerer now. Or I will spill the words from your throat.” Adar threatened, his eyes locked on the man in front of him. 

“If I die, all that I know dies with me. You can’t kill me.” Halbrand’s challenge lingered in the air, and Móriel watched with bated breath.

“In time, you will beg me to.” Adar countered coldly, then turned his head, dismissing the would-be king. Waldreg, sensing the conversation had concluded, struck Halbrand with a devastating blow to the stomach and drug him away into the depths of the camp.

Móriel’s gaze lingered on Halbrand as he was led away, a flicker of intrigue dancing in her eyes. Her hand stilled on the warg’s head as her thoughts drifted, contemplating what she had just witnessed. Sauron, always playing his games. Always maneuvering, weaving his webs of deceit. And yet, he had chosen to reveal himself to her. A dangerous move, but one that sparked something within her. What game was Sauron truly playing, and how could she turn it to her advantage?

The Uruks had been steadfastly loyal to Adar all these long years. He did not seek to rule over them; did not seek to instill fear in them; he seemed to love them, and they loved him in return. But love was fickle, and the Uruks had grown as restless as Móriel of late. None of them remembered the reign of her father or the terrible might she had commanded until he was cast into the Void and her power was collared by Valar. All of the Uruks revered her and saw her as their mother, but they didn't fear her. Not as they should.   

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

In the solitude of their shelter, Móriel moved with practiced care, her fingers deftly undoing the clasps of Adar’s armor. She worked in silence, her gaze steady as she freed him from the worn dark plates. Adar watched her, his expression softening.

“You seem distracted of late.” He broke the silence between them, a hand gently resting on her cheek. Her skin was warm, like the radiant heat of a kindling fire.

“Do you believe him? This King of the Southlands, that Sauron has returned?” Móriel asked, slipping a slight tremble into her voice. 

“No.” Adar replied, his thumb brushing across her cheek.

“You saw him parish just as I did all those long years ago.” he added.

“I warned you then, it is no simple feat to kill a Maia.” Móriel retorted. 

“I did not think the daughter of Morgoth would flinch at the mere mention of a ghost.” Adar replied sardonically.

Móriel's face hardened slightly, eyes narrowing.

“You would risk all we have accomplished, risk our children's very freedom, on this belief? The hubris of elves still lives within you I see.” Móriel broke away from Adar's touch, and turned to leave. He grabbed her wrist in response, just as she intended, pulling her back to him.

“Mortári,” Adar addressed her with a cautionary tone but used his term of endearment for her. 

“Do you remember what you vowed to me, all those centuries ago at Dúrnost?” Móriel asked softly. Adar contemplated for a moment before replying.

“I told you I would never see you bow to another dark lord again. That I would stand by you as your equal, in all matters, for all time.” 

“Then I will speak with this King of the Southlands tonight. There is either truth to his claim, or this is merely the last prayer of a desperate man. “ Móriel said simply. 

“I pity him.” Adar replied, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her pointed ear. 

“Once he feels your wrath, his Majesty will long for Waldreg's gentle touch.” 

Móriel’s mouth melted into a soft smile as she leaned in to his touch. Adar had been a good companion to her. Loyal, attentive, reverent, and accompanied by legions of Uruks for her to command. He saw her as another victim of her father and of Sauron, a kindred spirit in his quest for belonging. There was a part of Móriel that wished that were true. But in her heart, she felt only a ravenous endless hunger. Hunger for power, pleasure, dominion over all others, a hunger to become something truly divine. There was no room for sentimentality, she learned that lesson long ago. Her hands clutched the rough material of Adar's tunic and pulled him closer to her. With a practiced tongue, she traced the curve of his ear slowly. Adar's breath caught at the touch, his eyes darkening with desire.

“Lay with me.” Móriel whispered in his ear, her voice laced with urgency. 

Adar eyed her hungrily as she slipped away from his grasp. Nestled amongst the rough woolen blankets and furs that littered the ground, Móriel removed her silk shift and beckoned him closer. After all this time, seeing her laid bare before him, long hair cascading down her body like a river of night, Adar still felt as though he had strayed into a dream.

His mouth found hers, hungry and unreserved as their bodies met. Adar groaned as her skin began to heat to his touch. His bare hand slid between her thighs, gently teasing and massaging her. Deliberately slow at first until he felt her mouth move beneath his, nibbling, sucking, moaning his name. Mòriel's hips rolled against him greedily, one hand clawing at the fur beneath her while the other grasped Adar's silken hair. He slipped a finger inside her, then another, causing Mòriel to whimper against his mouth. The sound was enough to drive him mad. Adar’s fingers worked eagerly, curved slightly to heighten her pleasure. Móriel bit his bottom lip as she neared overstimulation. He let out a throaty chuckle in response, nibbling along her neck, over her collarbone, and finally making his way to her breast. Adar's tongue took her nipple into his mouth and gave it a tight squeeze between his teeth. Móriel gave a sharp cry in response, he could feel her constrict around his fingers and the trembling of her body. She was close.

“Throqu-ni!” Móriel pleaded in the Black Speech. Adar's eyes met hers and she could see a smirk form from around her breast. Slowly, he continued gnawing along her body, across the tender flesh of her stomach, and down to her thighs. The momentum of his fingers didn't cease, even as Adar added his mouth and began to taste every inch of her. 

“Adar…Lord-Father please!” Mòriel cried, pulling his hair as her climax took over. She bit into her lip as Adar's low guttural growls vibrated against her, sending aftershocks rolling though her body. Loosening her grip on his hair, Móriel guided him back to her, panting hard as she rested her forehead against his. She could smell the smoke in his hair and almost taste the sweat on his skin. As Adar slipped his fingers from inside her, Móriel's eyes met his with a mischievous glint. Shifting beneath him, she spread her legs wide and invited him to claim her.

Adar pulled away momentarily, unclasping his belt. Seeing her under him, eyes tracking him with anticipation, made his chest ache with longing. Slowly, attentively, he inched himself inside her and was welcomed by the sweet sound of his name and a lusty moan. Móriel's toes curled as he filled her to the hilt, savoring the fullness of him.

“Mortári…” Adar breathed against her neck, his thrusts becoming more rapid. Móriel's arms wrapped around his body, holding him close. With each thrust, the weight of him threatened to knock the wind out of her. Móriel relished the moment, the dizzying lightheadedness, the heat building in her core. She threw her head back with the pleasure of his body pounding against hers. Letting out a primal moan, Móriel raked her nails against Adar's back, sending him into a frenzy. But before he could finish, Móriel wrapped a leg around him and used their momentum to overturn them. Now in control, she rode him mercilessly with her hands digging into his thighs. Adar used the sharp points of his gauntlet to dig into her hip and ass, while his bare thumb rubbed her clit. 

“Sha-ni Adar! Sha-ni!” Moriel screamed, as their bodies crashed together violently.

With a deep guttural groan, Adar took hold of her hips with both hands and thrust himself into Móriel as hard and far as he could. She could feel him spasm and the warmth of his seed spreading inside her. Móriel's body tensed around him, quivering with pleasure as the two of them rode out their climax together.

With trembling hands firmly planted on his chest for support, Móriel withdrew herself slowly. She already missed the breadth of him inside her, now feeling strangely hollow. Settling beside her consort, she gave Adar a moment to recover from her touch. Though they were already beginning to recede, she could still see the angry red marks on his chest and face. The inevitable burn of her caress.   This much sustained contact, though undoubtedly pleasurable, was mixed with pain. But Adar was used to pain, and if it were by her hand he welcomed it. Combing his fingers through her hair, Adar brought his lips to hers before withdrawing again. He was utterly spent, panting softly at her side. The Lord-Father of the Uruks would rest soundly this night, but Móriel had other matters to attend to before sleep would claim her as well.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

Entering the dimly lit tent, Móriel was as quiet as a lurking wolf. The scent of charred earth and iron filled the air, mingling with the lingering scent of blood. The light of a lone torch caught her eyes producing a luminous eyeshine. A hint of the true lineage lurking behind them. Halbrand, shackled to a sturdy post, sat slumped in the center of the tent, his body bruised and battered from Waldreg’s less-than-kind methods of interrogation.

He raised his head slowly. Seeing Móriel step closer, his eyes narrowed with a flicker of recognition. She moved with graceful precision, a coy smile on her lips. Móriel felt a sense of satisfaction seeing him in this state, yet there was something else too, something so familiar about the scene before her.

Kneeling beside him, Móriel produced a damp cloth and began dabbing it gently against the cuts and bruises marring his skin. Halbrand’s muscles tensed under her touch, but he remained silent, watching her with calculating eyes.

“This,” she began softly, her voice lilting with a mixture of amusement and nostalgia, “reminds me of when my father was particularly cross with you."

Halbrand’s lips melted into a smirk, though the pain from his wounds made it brief. “Morgoth was often cross with me,” he muttered, his voice low but carrying that ever-present edge of defiance. “I lost track of the times.”

Móriel chuckled softly, her hand continuing to gently clean his wounds. Her touch was tender, so deceptively tender. 

“Yes, well, your penchant for ambition often aggravated him.” She teased studying his face. 

“And yet, here you are again. Spinning your webs, even in chains.” Móriel added, dabbing the cloth against a particularly deep cut, causing him to flinch slightly. 

“Adar believes you are just a pretender-a king of a people long forgotten. It’s almost endearing. Could you imagine if he were to discover who you truly were? With how much he loathes even your memory.”

Halbrand raised an eyebrow, leaning his head back against the post. 

“And you?” he asked, his voice low, testing her. “Do you loathe me too?”

Móriel paused for a moment, her hand hovering over his skin as she looked into his eyes. Her expression softened, but only slightly. 

“Loathe? No.” She leaned in just a little closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. 

“You have always been… beguiling. A rival, a kindred spirit, calling to my very nature.” Móriel’s lips hovered just above his, tantalizingly close. It had been so long since he tasted them, held her soft scalding flesh with his hands and teeth.  

“But prone to arrogance and never heeding sound counsel when presented to you.” she withdrew slowly giving him a knowing look. 

Halbrand chuckled darkly. “I had a long time to reflect on your words. While you were here, playing wet-nurse to an army of orcs, and warming my would-be-murderer’s bed.”

“They have served their purpose, most enthusiastically.” Móriel purred, unwilling to fall for the obvious bait. The charged silence between them lingered for a time, neither wanting to break first. 

“I have missed you.” Halbrand sighed, his eyes softening in feigned affection. Móriel scoffed, but her face lacked any sign of irritation.

“I have missed you too, Mairon.” There was a charming lilt to her voice as she spoke his name. A name he hadn't heard in an age.

“Now, I'm not fool enough to expect the whole truth.” Móriel began, setting the damp cloth aside.

“But you revealed yourself to me on purpose, why?”

“Because, you will expedite my release from these shackles.” Halbrand said giving his chain as sharp tug.

“So I can free you from yours.” He added.

A fit of uncontrolled laughter burst from Móriel's chest. The Vallar themselves had shackled her, suppressing the vast terrible power she had once wielded as her birthright. There was no force on Middle Earth that could break that. Was there?

“A noble pursuit, truly.” Móriel's laughter faded as she met Halbrand's gaze, expecting a glint in his eye, a vicious grin, but there was nothing. He looked at her expectantly, a slight furrow of his brow. He was serious.

“How?” Móriel couldn't contain the slight tremble in her voice, subconsciously touching the hollow of her neck.

“There exist three rings of power, forged in Eregion, which will reverse the very will of the Valar and restore the Great Tree of Lindon.” Halbrand explained, his voice low and conspiratorial. 

“You forged these rings?” Móriel asked, her eyes searching his for any sign of deciept. Mairon had once served Aulë, the smith of the Valar, he had such knowledge. Móriel could feel her heart begin to pound in her chest.

“Inspired. But after I arrive in Eregion, my influence will help forge the rest. Seven for the Dwarf-Kings, nine for the race of men, and one for you my Ash Burzum.” the deep guttural sound of the Black Speech leaving his lips sent a tantalizing chill down Móriel's spine. His eyes locked onto hers with a fire she hadn't seen since that fated day at Dúrnost.

“Out of the goodness of your heart?” She asked, eyes narrowed skeptically. 

“No.” Halbrand replied with a dry laugh.

“But I would rather not make the same mistake twice. I need you Móriel, and if the price is restoring you to your former glory, so be it.”

Móriel contemplated his words carefully. There was enough history between them to fill tomes. Memories of exhilaration, pain, lust, torment, and satisfaction flooded her thoughts. She couldn't trust him, there was obviously a cost to these rings, one that would benefit him greatly. But she had to take this chance…no matter the cost. 

Móriel's hand clasped the chain around his neck, gently pulling him closer until her mouth hovered next to his ear.

“Then you have me Mairon.” Her answer was soft, delicate, like the vow of a lover. Twisting the chain slowly in her hand, she pulled him tighter, until her mouth touched the lobe of his ear as she spoke.

“But cross me, and you will long for the mercy of my father.”

Halbrand's eyes darkened and a subtle smile touched his lips. He was happy to let Móriel think she had the upper hand… for now.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

Chapter Two: 🔥

[krems-chair]

sometimes I'm like do people really hate Inquisition Solas* or did they just decide that he didn't fit conventionally handsome western beauty standards and also talked too much and so he was doomed from the start.

Like, idk. You're telling me if Anders and Fenris (other companions/characters fit here, too) hadn't had the power of ancient elves at their hands that a whole lot of people wouldn't have been dead for their causes a whole lot sooner?

Plenty of characters yap passionately about their interests and get indulged, but Solas does it and it's like "eugh, disGuSting, shut the bald man up!"

I know it doesn't account for the whole sample size. But sometimes I see a piece of hate and go "hmmm."

Put Inquisition Solas into Cullen's character model and tell me how many more people switch to team elven rebellion, ya know?

(if you hate him because dwarven genocide yeah that's fair b/c I know you're engaging with the character and he did play a huge role in that and I *do* wish the games had been about Solas seeking to help the Titans just as much as he wanted to restore spirits, that just isn't the topic of today's babbling session)