nihthelm-moved-blog

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This is likely unsurprising given how long it’s been since I even logged into this blog but my inspiration here is pretty much nil at the moment. I’m not going to say I’ll never come back to this giant ridiculous elf but for now, I’m going to just slap the word hiatus on this account.

In the meantime, you can find me here (primarily) and also here.

Love to all, and I hope your holidays were spectacular!

[nihthelm-moved-blog]

This is likely unsurprising given how long it’s been since I even logged into this blog but my inspiration here is pretty much nil at the moment. I’m not going to say I’ll never come back to this giant ridiculous elf but for now, I’m going to just slap the word hiatus on this account.

In the meantime, you can find me here (primarily) and also here.

Love to all, and I hope your holidays were spectacular!

[nihthelm-moved-blog]

“We are all of us, gods and mortals, made up of many pieces, some of them broken, some of them scarred, but none of them the total sum of who we are.”

— Robin LaFevers

A Caranthir mood board for @nihthelm

(X)

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They have done this before, many times. Sometimes he vanquishes; other times, she does. They are matched more evenly than any could believe to look on them. She is but small, she is but mortal -- but she burns so brightly, so bright and fast and hot. How can he not be drawn to her, heedless of the dangers of her flame? His lips draw back from his teeth as she presses him, all grasping hands and wiry strength, a vixen plucking at the tail of the wolf. Stepping to one side, away from the hooking angle, he ducks a shoulder, seeking a controlling grip on her to throw the woman down.

there’s a brief moment where they both stand still, two stones in a rushing river. but they are not stones, and the current drags and bends and shapes them so that they continue to twist about each other until they are face to face once more. a sharp laugh catches in her throat as she crouches down, and she spares not a single moment for him to move on the offensive, for that will be her end. another dart forward, hands pressing hard against his chest and her ankle attempting to hook behind his and yank—-

[nihthelm-moved-blog]

“ as you wish, o mighty lord of thargelion. ”     swift steps bring her close, and closer,aggressive and entirely unlike her typical patterns of attack. perhaps it is enough of a difference to catch him off guard. at least that’s what she tells herself when she puts him on the defensive, fingers wrapping tight around one of his wrists to tug his arm behind him when she steps deftly past.

Caranthir laughs aloud, a bright bark of sound like a wolf’s bay. “You are learning!” he declares as he feels small but strong, callused fingers wrap part-way round his wrist. Stepping into her attack, he moves with her momentum, turning nimble on his feet as she, despite his size. For a moment they stand back to back and dipping his chin, he can see her smile. That, and not the attack itself, is nearly enough to vanquish him. Nearly.

@guthcwen

[nihthelm-moved-blog]

Unintentional act of habit or no, Moryo’s request rang far too similarly to a command not to draw a bristle out of Revka. Dark eyes narrowed and flashed as they finally were drawn away from the carcass and to the back of the other elf’s head, the first prickles of temper tingling along her neck and fingers curling a might tighter at her sides. It took a great effort on her part not to spit back some barb about fetching his own blighted mage, the words only just caught between her teeth and held back with a tightened jaw. Much as she might not have appreciated the idea of being ordered about by the likes of an overgrown elf, arguing the point was far from worth the extra time it would see them stood out half-drowned in the middle of this blighted downpour. So instead she shoved her protests aside for another time, boot heel sliding in the mud as she turned herself about and trod off towards Dorian, grumbling out her frustrations beneath her breath.

“Decided to join in after all, have you?” the mage called to her as she drew near, sarcastic verve not dampened in the least by the weather. “I’m afraid you and the Dalish fellow already missed all the fun.” Lowering his staff to prop on the point of its blade, Dorian made a sharp gesture with his chin to the bottom of the hill where Beata stood looming over a last pale and blubbering bandit. “Our dear Inquisitor is just seeing to the last of the filth now.”

Revka sniffed, eyes lingering over the spectacle only a moment before falling back on Dorian. “Had our hands full. Druffalo those idiots pissed off was a bit too keen on seeing something trampled.”

“Clearly,” he said as he gave Revka a quick look up and down, mouth slanting into an amused looking smirk at the sight of the muck still clinging to her leathers. “I suppose it’s true what they say about Fereldens taking after their dogs, rolling about in the mud included.”

“Better a dog than a peacock, Pavus,” Revka taunted back with a snort, the quip a wholly good natured one. Pressing on, she made a jab back in Moryo’s direction with her thumb over her shoulder. “Says he needs your help with something.”

“Oh? And that is?”

“Haven’t the foggiest. Has to do with butchering the thing before the meat spoils, though.”

One artfully sculpted brow arched itself across Dorian’s forehead. “This ought to be interesting. The only experience I have with beef comes paired with a glass of red wine and formal china.”

“Don’t worry,” Revka said dryly while she turned herself about to make her way back to where Moryo still sat crouched by the dead druffalo, nodding towards him as Dorian made to join her. “Seems to like tossing ‘round orders well enough. Probably’ll take to bossing you next.”

Moryo rocked back on his heels, tossing the last of the innards aside for the wolves and the ravens. He heard a tread behind him and cocked his head, spotting the Tevinter mage with Revka trotting at his side. Standing, he brushed his hands together, shaking the druffalo blood off them. It still pooled beneath his nails, spread in thin rivers through the creases of his palms; he’d wash more thoroughly later.

Dorian’s lip curled slightly in an elegant expression of distaste as he regarded the bloody little tableau; Moryo would have laughed except that the mage was spattered in at least as much gore as the elves were. Clearly he’d been doing his own fighting, and not stinting. Not so squeamish as he liked to pretend to be, was Dorian Pavus.

“No idea what you expect me to be doing… with all of this,” Dorian said by way of a greeting, gesturing one-handedly at the bloody mud.

“Freeze it,” Moryo said easily, stepping away from the carcass. “Won’t last otherwise. Freeze it, we’ll come back for it. Or send scouts; put them to work for once. Far as I can tell they just sit in their camps not doin’ too damn much anyway.”

Dorian’s eyes widened a little and his smile turned bemused; clearly, he wasn’t accustomed to being ordered about by anyone, but certainly not by elves in bloody armor. Mockingly, he snapped his heels together and sketched out a light bow. “Always happy to be of service, I’m sure,” Dorian drawled. Ice-blue light glimmered and smoked at his fingertips and a moment later the druffalo flashed solid, frost creeping along its thick fur.

The mage dusted his hands together in a gesture ironically similar to the one Moryo had just used, but what flaked from his fingers was not blood but ice. Moryo grinned and clapped the mage heavily on the shoulder; Dorian half-staggered but chuckled companionably.

“Right. If we’re all finished, then?” came Beata’s voice from downslope. The woman sounded amused, however, and Moryo laughed, dipping his chin in acknowledgement before loping off to join her. Dorian glanced sideways at Revka, rolled one shoulder in an abbreviated shrug, and followed.

Here Lies the Abyss || Revka & Moryo

[nihthelm-moved-blog]

Selfish

Even with the heavy haze of near sleep weighted against her eyes and fogging her thoughts, Revka knows this is more than she should ask of him.

Hours have passed since Moryo joined her somber vigil over the campfire, the stench of smoke and blood which clung to hair and skin after Adamant either faded or turned familiar enough to leave one blind to their notice. They have both found comfort staring into its flames together, a few swallows worth of whiskey shared while pretending they cannot still hear Fear’s words hissing in their ears. A thing of harmless mutual benefit only, some balm and distraction from thoughts Revka, at least, would have no luck of sleeping with while they rattle loose and unchecked in her head. That from there they somehow manage to strike up a conversation more cathartic than the liquor in her flask is startling enough of its own right. That Revka quickly finds herself enjoying it – utterly astounding.

It should be enough. He has given her everything she needed and more, the fact that he must lift her, pull her away from his side where she had started dozing near a quarter hour prior in order to bring her to her tent a gift she would be a fool not to be grateful for. But even with as precious and infuriatingly rare a thing as sleep is, Revka suddenly finds herself possessed of a greed she has not felt in years. The night is cold, her heart – lightened as it might be – still cast in shadows she knows too well might swallow her alone in the dark, and the press of Moryo’s arms about her as he sets her on rough woolen blankets feels like the safest harbor she might ever find in this storm.

Weariness and insistent want push her to act, no scrap of decency left to be found in her as she reaches out to catch his hand before he can slip away.

“Stay. Please.”

That he does is yet another surprise she does not have the wherewithal to question, her only response when his moment of hesitation ends with his joining her beneath the covers the closing of her eyes and a shift which nestles her firmly against him. Warm, solid and steady, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes is as soothing as the tattoo of his heartbeat in her ear. She sighs to hear it, turns her head closer still until her lips brush the hard line of his collarbone, a soft, contented hum pressed against it with a kiss far more effortless than she knows she has any right to claim. Not that she cares for such petty things, at least for now. Moryo is here, a willing brace against the night’s demons. Sleep is soon to come, and for the first time in far too long, her last thought before she slips into unconsciousness will fall on something other than the cool touch of the silver and gold collar draped about her neck.

Selfish of her, she supposes. But perfection enough to fend off guilt until morning’s arrival. 

[nihthelm-moved-blog]

Moryo cast a surprised glance her way; he’d not have expected her to take such a practical attitude toward this. It’d be a damn shame to let the animal just rot in the countryside, even if it would provide food for the carrion crows and wolves and other, smaller creatures. The Inquisition scouts stationed in the area would likely appreciate some fresh meat, too, he reasoned; there were lots of uses for horn, the hooves could be boiled down for glue – and the druffalo’s hide would make a damn nice cloak against the wintry Skyhold winds.

“I’m fine,” he answered in unconscious mimicry of her own answer, taking a second to take stock of himself. No injuries, no twisted tendons or pulled muscles. Hadn’t been an easy encounter but not so very hard, either. “Bath and a drink wouldn’t go amiss though, that’s for fucking certain.” He grinned over at her, not missing how those loose strands of hair had plastered themselves to her cheeks and determined he’d braid it for her next time they made camp somewhere dry enough. She was pretty, even miserable as she was, and it wouldn’t be any hardship at all to touch that hair of hers.

But for now, he turned back to the dead animal at his feet. “Go fetch one of those oh so useful mages of ours, would you? Meat won’t keep long,” Moryo said slightly peremptorily, nearly an order. He was used to command and habits like that died hard. They could damn well deal with this. If they could take the time to slaughter their way through the countryside, they could spare the time to clean up the consequences, too.

He knelt and unsheathed the knife at his belt; even if they were going to come back to butcher the druffalo later, he still had to remove the entrails now before they could poison the meat. He slipped the point of his blade through the heavy hide just at the pelvic bone and drew it up toward the ribs, careful not to perforate the stomach or intestines. Luckily, Moryo had quite a lot of experience field-dressing his kills and it shouldn’t take him too long. The carrion crows and the wolves could eat the entrails as easily as the finer cuts, after all.

Completely engrossed in his somewhat messy task, the big elf barely noticed whether or not Revka had gone to fetch Beata or Dorian.

Here Lies the Abyss || Revka & Moryo

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Some serious kinslaying is about to happen

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            “Do I awake from my long sleep to find only this awaiting me? Shadows and ghosts of what once was who walk the world and yet dare call themselves the People -- and of those who recall the world that once was, only the willing slaves of falsely elevated gods are yet wakeful?”

His brow furrowed, silver eyes flashing back the anger he saw on the Sentinel’s face. He had come to the great Temple of Mythal in search of others of his kind, in search of some explanation of what had befallen since he and his kin had gone into their rest. And only this remained?

            “The Evanuris created nothing but empire,” he spat. “It is you who disgrace the legacy of our People, in falsely elevating those who stole the accomplishments rightfully belonging to all and yet named them theirs alone.”

   It is a look he returns in kind, staring with flinty eyes from beneath the shadow of his vallaslin.  When he speaks, his words are limned with an edge of hard censure, a recognition that they are of the People – but there is no kinship between them.  He has endured heathens enough for millennia; he tolerates no more of their kind.

            ‘ You disgrace the Mother with your seditious tongue. Despoil not the sacred stones upon which you tread.  They are not yours to pollute.  Dirth ma, brandless one – would you so callously disrespect the legacy of our People, even if you care not for our Creators? ’

[nihthelm-moved-blog]

He had grown to maturity in and around this place, and the turnings of the passages were as familiar to him as the flow of veins which stood out upon the backs of his hands. The courtyard had once been a place to play, ringing with the laughter and taunting of small boys, brothers tussling and competing in the way of siblings. The carefree lightness of those days had long since passed, and Morifinwë at times wondered whence it had fled, and how, and why.

But there was little use to such maunderings, and mostly he did not think on those days at all. Should he care to, he could take each memory out and gaze upon it at his will, a perfect jewel shining with crisp clarity in every facet and sharp angle. In memory was the great gift of the Eldar, memory as undying as their fëar were undying. Of age though still young as the Eldar counted such things, yet Morifinwë had already his own storehouse of such treasures, to tell between his fingers like strings of Teleri pearls in the silences of the silvered night.

The courtyard had once been a place to play, and now it was become a practice-ground for the craft of making war. Where brothers and cousins had wrestled and competed, now together they would train, swords ringing instead of laughs.

At his father’s invitation, Moryo unsheathed the long curve of the blade. It was like sharpness reified, a slice of silver light cut out from Telperion’s gleam and hammered into something more deadly far, though just as lovely. As he had been taught, Morifinwë’s tested its edge by just touching it to a thumbnail and feeling how it bit with yet no pressure behind it.

He grinned, and whipped the blade out before him in the first of a series of martial postures only before practiced with lead-cored wooden wasters. It made a sound like ripping silk and he grinned more fiercely still to hear it.

“A masterpiece, Atar!”

The forge had two entrances: the first he had positioned so that it would face the square of the craftsmen, at the very end of the boulevard like the focal point of a perspective. In white marble and silvery steel, half monument and half building, the façade paraded the work of his hands. The other entrance was his only (once Nerdanel used to reach him through that second door during his hours of work, but seeing her do the same now would have evoked his surprise at best, his annoyance at worst).

           From the corridors of his house and directly into the smithy nearby, Fëanáro led his son through a path that both of them knew. They found themselves in the courtyard of his forge, where statues he had not touched in months waited for his chisel, covered by cloth. He had no patience for them and their smooth features, not now that he often brandished his heavier hammers and beat metal into shapes sharper than obsidian. 

          The main door was closed and his workshop was silent. No commissioner waited in the main hall, no assistant tended to the fires, and all was left to blissful solitude. He led Morifinwë under the colonnade, to the rooms that were closer to his storage of crystals, rocks and coal. Such places felt private to him, in the same way that organs hidden behind a rib cage are private, and it had been long since anyone whose loyalty was not certain (as certain as the knowledge that flames always stretch toward the heavens) had received the permission to walk on those floors. 

           Fëanáro halted in front of his secondary forge, the one with thicker walls, chest of his experiments and of his swords. « Wait here », he said, and entered. No light was lit, and he came out soon enough with his own blade. Its hilt felt now almost as comfortable as his tools against his palm, its weight was becoming familiar, but it was not an extension of his hand yet, not like pliers, like the wedge, the file, the hammer and the chisel. Not yet.

          With a hint of his head and the sword still inside its scabbard, he headed toward the courtyard again. « Do you want a fight, Moryo? I will give you one. But you shall become acquainted with what you are wielding first. You will notice how easily the edges cut. »

[nihthelm-moved-blog]

“Can’t it be both?”

Still shaking with adrenaline fueled laughter, Moryo bent and wiped his blade on the druffalo’s shaggy hide. In this downpour, nothing was particularly clean, but it was better than nothing. He’d spend some time later, in the relative comfort of an Inquisition camp, properly caring for his blade. After all, if he didn’t, he was somehow certain his father’s disapproving stare would reach him all the way from the Free Marches!

“Shame we don’t have time nor resources to butcher this properly; there’s good eating on one of these, and the hide and horn and hooves are useful too,” he said regretfully, kneeling beside the druffalo’s corpse, one hand resting lightly on the still-warm hide. It went against all his instincts and all he’d ever been taught to just leave an animal to rot like this; as a hunter for the clan, it had been his responsibility to bring meat back and keep all fed. Though he knew, to his disgust, that some shemlen hunted for what they called ‘sport,’ Moryo wouldn’t have killed this animal at all if it hadn’t attacked them first. “This is… such a fucking waste.”

Standing finally, he shoved his greataxe back into its frogs on his baldric and turned back to Revka, affixing a grin back onto his face. She’d not care about his conflicted grief over the damn druffalo, and why should she? City elf that she was, would she ever understand?

“Not so difficult. Well, the mud made it a bit harder,” he allowed. His feet had threatened to slip under him, but he had decent traction and good balance. “When we were just little back in the clan, we played this game with the halla. Let them run at you and then leap onto their backs. The adults don’t approve, or say they don’t… but then again, they played the same game when they were little, too. Improves balance, reflexes, strength. Halla were trained for war, once. We rode them into battle. Vaulting between their horns like that, very old tradition left from those days, according to some records we have.”

Rolling his shoulders to resettle the weight of his weapon, he cast a glance toward the two shemlen mages, only to find them standing downslope with an air of expectancy about them – clearly waiting on the two elves’ return. “You injured at all?” he asked Revka, turning back. “Should have asked that first, I suppose.”

Here Lies the Abyss || Revka & Moryo

[nihthelm-moved-blog]

all right, i did the thing....

nihtsceadu -------------> nihthelm

[nihthelm-moved-blog]

considering going back to the url nihthelm even on this newer blog because i miss it... ?

[nihthelm-moved-blog]

The great beast stumbled and nearly went down. Nearly. It was bleeding, it was weakened, but it was maddened with anger and pain. Tiny eyes rolled wildly in a heavy skull; given the creature’s sheer size and sheer power, it was going to take some time for the signals from the druffalo’s wounded legs to reach its brain, informing the beast it was time to fall over.

Moryo saw the precise moment the druffalo focused on him, and the precise moment it made the connection between him and the source of its pain – and then, on its heels, the slowly dawning decision to charge. He grinned, a laugh ringing out as the druffalo’s head lowered, wicked horns pointed forward. Moryo set himself, heavy ax held before him in both hands, body lowered into a pose almost the mirror of the druffalo’s own.

The wounded animal bellowed. Muscles bunched. Clods of wet dirt flew up behind it as hooves dug into the rain-slickened turf and the massive bulk of the animal burst forward with a nearly shocking suddenness. Moryo grinned more broadly, shifting his weight slightly but not otherwise moving, as the druffalo charged him at breakneck speed. At the absolute last moment possible, he threw himself, not sideways and out of the animal’s path, but forward. He leapt with impossible, muscular grace and vaulted himself between the druffalo’s rending horns, landing between its plunging shoulder-blades.

His laughter rang out even louder with the success of the maneuver and Moryo turned himself, leaning forward to grasp one curved horn and wrench the druffalo’s head down and to the side, making it stumble on the already wounded and raggedly bloodied leg. With a shrieking moan that was horrible to hear, the last tendons gave way and the leg failed utterly. The sharp, green-wood sound of splintering bone was loud even against the hissing susurrus of endless rain and the vast muscular bulk of the druffalo fell with what felt like a slow and ponderous grace toward the wet earth.

Moryo leapt free and brought his greataxe to bear, severing the pumping artery in the druffalo’s thick column of a neck. Blood spurted high and hot and red, mixing with the dark mud and spreading thin beneath the pounding rain.

Breathing hard, Moryo threw back his head and laughed into the sky. “What fun!” he all but crowed.

Here Lies the Abyss || Revka & Moryo

[nihthelm-moved-blog]

What are your thoughts on bell peppers?

My thoughts on peppers are deep and profound. You just wouldn’t understand.

[nihthelm-moved-blog]

kiss from moryo

Send me ‘Kiss’ and my muse will kiss yours somewhere according to their feelings for your muse. (Status: closed meme)

Kiss on the fingertips: I care about you

Kiss on the lips: Romantic love/Attraction

“Think you’regoing soft, Hero.” Moryo’s smirk is smug as always, slanting itsway across his face as he watches Revka work. He dips his chin in agesture towards battered knuckles, his one hand almost comically overlarge where it sits cradled between both of hers. “Thought thiswould earn me a little scowling at least.”

The snort Revkagives is paired with a long, hard roll of her eyes. “You didn’t getyourself knocked over the head or run through. Way I see it, a fewbloody fingers are a damned blessing with you,” she says flatly asshe finishes dabbing elfroot salve onto torn skin and begins wrappingthe wound with a roll of bandages. “'Sides, bastard probably had itcoming.”

“They always do.”

“Right. Anyreason you couldn’t hit him with your gauntlet on though?”

“Nothalf as satisfying that way.” The smirk spreads wider across hismouth, silver eyes taking on a mischievous glint and voice turningsuddenly warm, low. “And being fussed over by a lovely woman afteris always nice.”

Sheknows there’s no sense trying to hide the heat that rushes to herskin, the wash of pink which spreads quickly over cheeks and ears nodoubt exactly whatMoryo had intended to prod out of her. Dark brows knit themselvestogether on her forehead, giving an irritated huff more a product ofpride than any real annoyance as she tears and ties off the end ofthe bandages.

Oncefinished she lifts it higher, brings her lips to brush softly againstthe tips of his fingers in a careful caress with one hand while theother fists itself in the front of his tunic. A firm, insistent tugdrags him within her reach, pressing a second kiss against his mouthbefore he has time to hide the surprise she sees flit through hisexpression.

“Flatterer,”she murmurs against his lips, more than a might satisfied when foronce he comes up with no quip to fire back.