#ALSO WHY HAVE WE NEVER HEARD OF SCHOLAR ELVES???

[linh-song]

genuine question: do elves learn math

[elamarth-calmagol]

What actually is LACE? (an informal essay)

What’s LACE?

Laws and Customs among the Eldar, or LACE, is the most popular section of the History of Middle Earth books.  It's available online as a PDF here: http://faculty.smu.edu/bwheeler/tolkien/online_reader/T-LawsandCustoms.pdf .  There’s a lot of LACE analysis in the fandom, Silmarillion smut fics are usually labeled “LACE compliant” or “not LACE compliant”, and I’ve been seeing the document itself show up in actual fics, meaning that the characters themselves are discussing it.

LACE is an unfinished, non-canonical essay split into several parts.  It covers the sexuality of elves, which is mostly what people talk about.  It also covers elvish naming (which I want to make a whole different post about), the speed at which elves grow up, changes that happen throughout their lives, their death and rebirth, and finally the legal and moral issues of Finwe remarrying after Miriel’s death.  The discussion about rebirth conflicts with Tolkien’s later writings about Glorfindel’s re-embodiment, but to the best of my knowledge, LACE is the best or only source for most of the topics it covers.

However, LACE is not canon since it doesn’t show up in the Silmarillion.  Counting all of the History of Middle Earth as canon is literally impossible, considering Tolkien contradicts himself all over the place.  It is only useful because it has so much information that is never discussed in the actual canon.  Many people consider it canon out of convenience.

Another important thing to remember is that, other than presumably the discussion of the growth of elvish children, the information is only supposed to apply to the Eldar (meaning the Vanyar, Noldor, Teleri, and Sindar) and not the dark-elves such as the Silvan elves and Avari.

The rest is behind the cut to avoid clogging your feeds.

Problems with LACE interpretations

But because it’s hidden in the History of Middle Earth (volume 10, Morgoth’s Ring), barely anyone actually gets the opportunity to read it.  I don’t think most people are aware that you can get it online, so it doesn't get read much.

I feel like this leads to a handful of people saying something about LACE and everyone else going along with it.  I definitely did this.  I was amazed by all the things that were in the actual essay that nobody had ever told me about, or had told me incorrectly.  For example, most people seem to believe that elves become married at the completion of sexual intercourse (whatever that means to the fic author).  In fact, LACE explicitly says that elves must take an oath using the name of Eru in order to be legally married.  Specifically: 

It was the act of bodily union that achieved marriage, and after which the indissoluble bond was complete… [I]t was at all times lawful for any of the Eldar, being both unwed, to marry thus of free consent one to another without ceremony or witness (save blessings exchanged and the naming of the Name); and the union so joined was alike indissoluble.

I’ve seen a marriage oath being included in a few stories recently, but most writers leave out the oath entirely and just have sex be automatically equivalent to marriage.  What would happen if elves had sex without swearing an oath?  I don’t know, but I’d love to see it explored.

Then there’s a footnote that might explicitly deny the existence of transgender elves... or not, but I’ve literally only seen it mentioned once or twice.  Overall, I feel like all of LACE is filtered through the handful of people who read it, and we’re missing out on a lot of metanalysis and interpretations that we could have because most fans never see the actual document.

Who wrote LACE?

I mean within the mythology of Middle Earth, of course.  Since LACE appears in the History of Middle Earth and not the Silmarillion, we can be pretty sure that J.R.R. Tolkien himself wrote it and it wasn’t added to by Christopher Tolkien.  But that’s not the question here.  Remember that Tolkien’s frame narrative for all of his Middle Earth work is that he is a scholar of ancient times and is translating documents from Westron and Sindarin for modern audiences to read and understand.  The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings come from the Red Book of Westmarch, and I believe The Silmarillion is meant to be Tolkien’s own writings based on his research (though it might also be an adaption of Bilbo’s “Translations from the Elvish”, but I haven't looked into that).  So what does LACE come from?

Christopher Tolkien admits in his notes that he doesn’t know.  He says, “It is clear in any case that this is presented as the work, not of one of the Eldar, but of a Man,” and I agree, because of the way it seems to be written as an ethnographic study rather than by someone who lives in the culture.  Honestly, it talks too much about how elves are seen by Men (e.g. speculating that elf-children might look like the children of Men) to be written by an elf.  This changes once it gets to the Doom of Finwe and Miriel, but that could be, and probably is, a story told to the writer by an elf who was there at the time.

Tolkien actually references Aelfwine in the second version of the text.  The original story behind The Lost Tales, which was the abandoned first version of the Silmarillion, was that a man from the Viking period named Aelfwine/Eriol stumbled onto the Straight Road and found himself on Tol Eressea.  He spoke to the elves and brought back their stories to England with him.  So it makes a lot of sense that Aelfwine would also write about the lives and customs of the elves for an audience of his own people.

Does LACE exist in Middle Earth?

I keep finding fics where first age elves discuss “the Laws and Customs” openly, as if it’s a text in their own world.  I usually get the impression that it was brought by the Noldor from Valinor.  But did the document actually exist in that time period?  For me, the answer is definitely not.

First of all, LACE was probably written by a Man, meaning it could not have dated back to Valinor in the years of the Trees, because Men hadn’t awaked yet.  In fact, the closest thing to an established frame narrative for it is that it was written by Aelfwine, who comes from the time period around 1000 CE (though Tolkien doesn’t seem to have pinned him down).  This is at least the fifth age, if not later.

But what if you don’t believe that it was written by a Man?  It still couldn’t have been written in the First Age, because it discusses the way the relationship between elves’ bodies and souls changes as ages go by.  For example:

As ages passed the dominance of their fear ever increased, ‘consuming’ their bodies... The end of this process is their ‘fading’, as Men have called it.

A lot of time has to go by in order for elves to get to the point of fading.  As a bonus, here’s another reference to the perspective of Men. LACE also discusses the dangers that “houseless feas”, which are souls of elves who do not go to Mandos after their bodies died, pose to Men.  How would they have known about that in the First Age?  It further says that “more than one rebirth is seldom recorded” (which isn’t contradicted anywhere I know of), and that’s not something you would know during your life of joy in Valinor, where almost nobody dies.  That’s something you learn after millennia of war.  This has to be a document written well after the Silmarillion ends.

So what about the sex part?  That’s all we care about, right?  Well, it is entirely possible that this was written down by the elves and Aelfwine translated it (though my impression is that he mostly recorded stories told orally to him and that elves were not very much into writing, at least in Valinor where you could get stories directly from someone who experienced them).  However, why would the elves write this down?  They know how quickly their children grow up.  They’ve seen actual marriages.  They don’t need that described to them.  And if they did have a specific document or story explaining the expectations of them when it comes to sex and marriage, why would they call it “Laws and Customs”?  That’s a very strange name for a set of rules for conduct.  I’m sure they had a list of laws written out somewhere in great detail, like our own state or national laws (that seems very in character for the Noldor, at least).  But I seriously doubt that those laws are what we’ve been given to read. LACE is not an elvish or Valinoran document.

Is LACE prescriptive or descriptive?

Here’s the other big question I’m interested in.  Prescriptive means that the document describes the way people should behave.  Descriptive means that it describes how people do behave.  And the more I worldbuild for Middle Earth and the culture of elves, the more I want to say that LACE is prescriptive in its discussion of sex, marriage, and gender roles.

But wait.  I’ve been saying for paragraphs that I think LACE is Aelfwine or another Man’s ethnographic study of elvish culture.  Then it has to be descriptive, right?

Does it?  How long do we think Aelfwine stayed with the elves?  Did he wait fifty years to see a child grow up?  Did he get to witness a wedding ceremony?  Did he meet houseless fea?  I don’t think he could have done all of that.  Maybe a different Man who spent his entire life with the elves could, but then when was this written?  When the elves were still marrying and having children in Middle Earth or when so much time had gone by that they had begun to fade already?

Whoever wrote this was told a lot of information by elves instead of experiencing it firsthand, the same way he heard the stories from the First Age from the elves instead of being there.  Maybe it was one elf who talked to him, maybe several different ones.  But did those elves accurately describe their society the way it was, give him the easiest description, or explain the way it was supposed to be?  If I was describing modern-day America, would I discuss premarital sex or just our dating and marriage customs?  Maybe people would come away from a talk with me thinking that moving in together equated to marriage for Americans in the early 21st century.  And I don’t even have an agenda to show America in a certain way, I'm just bad at explaining.  Did the elves talking to what may have been the first Man they had seen in millennia have an agenda in the way they presented themselves?

Or did the writer himself have an agenda?  Imagine going to see these beautiful, mythical, perfect beings, and you find out that they behave in the same immoral ways Men do.  Do you want to share the truth back home?  Or do you leave out things that don't match your worldview? Did Aelfwine come back wanting to tell people what elves were really like?  Or did he want to say “this is how you can be holy and perfect like an elf”?

Anyone studying the Age of Exploration will tell you that Europeans neber wrote about new cultures objectively, and often things were made up to fit the writer’s idea of what savages looked like. For example, my Native American history teacher in college told a story of how explorers described one tribe who (sensibly) didn't wear clothes as cannibals, because cannibalism and going around naked went together in their minds and not because of any actual incident.  Unbiased scholarship barely existed yet. Even Tolkien was extremely biased and tended to be imperialistic, as we all know.  There’s absolutely no reason to think that Aelfwine wasn’t biased in his own way.  (Of course, now we have to consider what biases a Danish or English man from the centuries around 1000 would have when it comes to things like gender roles. I assume he would have been more into divorce and female warriors than the elves are said to be.)

But is that what Tolkien intended? Probably not. He probably wanted LACE to be descriptive. But he also never got much of a chance to analyse the essay after the fact, which might have led to him discussing its accuracy and even the exact issues I just pointed out about explorers. Anyway, we know he's biased, and honestly, what he intended has never slowed down the fandom before.

Conclusion

In short, I take LACE to be a prescriptive document describing the way elvish culture is supposed to be, not a blueprint I have to stick to in order to correctly portray elves.  I also don’t believe the document that’s available for us to read existed even in the early Fourth Age, where The Lord of the Rings leaves off.  There maybe have been some document outlining the moral behavior of elves, as a set of laws, but thats not the Laws and Customs we have.

Of course, canon is up to you to interpret.  If you want Feanor discussing LACE with someone back in Valinor, go ahead.  If you want to throw out LACE entirely, go ahead.  It’s not even a canonical essay.  All of this analysis is honestly useless when you consider the fact that no part of LACE exists in any canonical book.

But that’s Tolkien analysis for you.

[feanorianethicsdepartment]

heeey! so back when @eirianerisdar posted chapter 12 of their fic the ransom of the house of fëanor - that’s the one where they finally let the brothers hellspawn and their idiot dad out of the void, but they have to throw elrond in, all very sad - i thought up my own somewhat fluffier vastly dumber au for the end of that chapter. in honour of the fic being finished, i’ve decided to write up the various scattershot ideas i’ve had for it, with the caveat that i’ll be working off my own slightly different background headcanons

the divergence point is roughly when elrond announces that he’s totally going into the void now, for realsies, the local ainur are nodding solemnly, and the fëanorians are running preliminary can-we-take-them calculations. except for maedhros, who’s very sad to hear that they must sacrifice his nephew to the eternal dark for their freedom, ‘tis truly a shame, they will honour his memory and GET THE BOAT, BOYS

or, the original elf mad scientist, his murderous blood-hungry spawn, a guy who’s extremely grouchy about not getting to do his dramatic self-sacrifice, and their somewhat-less-reluctant-than-he-should-be getaway driver go on the lam

how they got away from the valar:

námo: already knew this was going to happen, but it’s not like anyone ever listens to him, is it? in the moment, was a little more concerned with how morgoth had started belly-crawling towards the doors of night

manwë: never wanted to throw elrond into the void in the first place, and has been silently hoping elrond would call his bluff for the past week. the children are all safe and inside like they should be, and isn’t that what really matters?

eönwë: no it isn’t boss the fëanorians are a completely unpredictable wildcard we cannot afford to let them run around unsupervised!!! would probably have at least delayed the family hellspawn until backup could arrive, except

olórin: realised what maedhros was planning almost immediately and had to consciously force down a shit-eating grin. as soon as the brothers started moving, divetackled eönwë

-

[from a note attached to a harpoon lodged outside the highest window on the white tower of the isle of seabirds]

elwing - it went better than i expected, honestly. the sons of fëanor took about as much offense to elrond’s plan as everyone else has, except when words didn’t work they resorted to action. they dragged him onto vingilot and i followed them, and then we cast off together. we’ve set sail for as far away from the doors of night as we can get. i’m coming with them, of course, i’m not letting these lunatics crash my baby

i’m not entirely certain when we’ll be back? the fëanorians seem worried the valar might come after us, which wouldn’t surprise me, really. i’m taking us out towards middle-earth, we’ll see where we go after that. they’re all screaming at each other and running across the deck, i’m not convinced they have much of a plan. elrond is yelling too, he’s arguing with either caranthir or curufin, can’t tell which. the one i suspect is maglor has wrapped himself around his neck and refuses to let go. our son is alive and healthy and not in the eternal darkness, and for that, at least, i am grateful

the redhead who’s co-opted the harpoons says we’re coming up on your tower. no one’s done anything to threaten me or elrond, or even looked at the silmaril. there’s something nice about sailing with a crew again, no matter who it is. i love you, and i’ll be back as soon as i can - eärendil

[from a note attached to a harpoon found among the ruins of a house in the tirion stonecarvers’ district]

you were right, nerdanel. you were right about everything, and i was wrong. i’m sorry. the boys and i are going on another adventure right now, but we’ll come back to you someday, i promise

[from the same note, in much neater handwriting]

tell tyelpë i love him, and also that the coordinates are [rest torn off]

-

the first sign of this mess that reaches arda is the morning and evening star disappearing from the sky. gondorian astronomers, haradren scholars, avarin priests all stare flummoxed as the star of high hope simply fails to appear before the sun. no matter how unsuperstitous they are everyone agrees this is a really bad omen, and all across the globe the high halls of power tremble in fear over the new horror this must portend

the first sign of this mess that reaches the shire (except for that one took who’s really into astrology) is when eight-year-old elanor gardner rushes into bag end the next day, all ‘dad! dad! there are elves in the woods!’

sam is pretty chuffed to hear this. the fair folk don’t pass through the shire half as often as they used to, and it’s been some years since he heard their song. if they’re in the neighbourhood, why, it’d only be polite to say hello, wish them luck on their journey, hand them a letter. he packs up a nice tuck-box full of goodies to share, and then sam and elanor (and frodo, who’s going through a following-his-big-sister-around-and-copying-everything-she-does phase) set out to meet the elves

first they hear the shouting. then they see the smoke

at the end of the path his daughter leads him down, sam finds the wreckage of what looks like a crashed boat strewn across the forest, still faintly smouldering. at least a dozen elves are rushing between and up the trees, yelling at each other in the angriest quenya he’s ever heard. in the middle of the impact crater stands a blonde elf carrying a stone that shines like the phial of galadriel, wailing something sam knows just enough sindarin to recognise as ‘MY SHIIIIIIIIIP’

as sam’s gaze pans over the unfolding catastrophe, his eyes land on one of the last elves he’d expected to see, master elrond. elrond is rubbing his temple, groaning like someone who knows he’s the most responsible person around and really wishes he wasn’t. a vaguely familiar sketchy-as-fuck elf is clinging onto his shoulders, in a not-dissimilar way to how frodo-lad is currently riding on sam. elrond catches sam’s gaze

‘greetings, master samwise,’ says the wisest elf-lord of the west, ignoring the scuffle that’s breaking out behind him. ‘i must apologise for my relations’

(fëanor and elanor become fast friends, teaching each other their languages and exploring the shire together. absolutely no one else is okay with this)

-

fëanor, dragging an incredibly-put-upon elrond around the citadel of minas tirith: grandbabies!

fëanor, marvelling over the embroidery arwen is showing him: great-grandbabies!

fëanor, carrying a tiny giggling eldarion all the way up the tower of gondor: great-great-grandbabies!

fëanor, staring fixedly at an increasingly apprehensive aragorn: great-great-great...

celegorm, on dad-watching duty: actually if you lay the maths out it’s very likely every human in middle-earth is descended... from... elros... fuck

fëanor: has gone completely still

fëanor: massive grin spreading across his face, eyes sparkling like the two trees brought back to life

fëanor: eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

[herenortherenearnorfar]

This Tornado Tolerates And Respects You

A little story about Gothmog and orcs that I’ll probably put on other sites later. But for now, a tumblr exclusive! CW for the terrible reproductive politics of evil (implied reproductive coercion, forced childbearing, light eugenics), orc awfulness, disdain for incarnates, radiation poisoning, chemical weapons, Fingon’s fate, mentions of cannibalism, malnourishment, ear cropping, and all of the above with the implied harm to children.

Orcs, Lord Melkor’s special pet project, a blasphemy first and a strategic asset second, didn’t make the best troops. They could swarm over a target in a useful mass of bodies but they lacked skill and drive. For the Captain of Angband’s own force of fire and shadow, spirits sprung free from the tyranny of the Valar, orcs were a sea of troublesome bodies, cluttering up the field of battle. More flesh to whip through, barbed wire quick, more lungs to choke with lime gas. An annoyance, not an ally.

He didn’t have very high expectations of them as a source of soldiers and there were very few individual orcs who he respected. Gorfaunt was one of those rare exceptions.

They’d fought on the same battlefield under the taunting stars, in those blissful days before the heavens changed, and he’d been impressed by the orc commanders ability to marshal troops. Very few in that division ended up trampled beneath Balrog feet. Even the retreat was prompt, almost orderly, without sacrificing that wild spirit which was one of the orcs’ few redeeming qualities.

When it came time to capture the stripling-king of the elves he’d requested Gorfaunt’s orcs in particular. Once again they’d proven their mettle and the commander had become of of the Captain’s favorites. If orcs had to be stationed next to their betters it was preferable that it be Gorfaunt’s orcs, who knew how to comport themselves and could fight near Balrogs without dying in droves.

Now with the latest glorious battle (and another successful collaboration, the Captain still glowed at the memory of the Noldor’s latest king cracking open to spill his red insides over his silver banner) behind them and Lord Melkor demanding Nargothrond and Gondolin, they met once a month to strategize, share intelligence, and complain about everyone else. To an outsider they might have passed as friends. There was less formality between the two of them than another high general of the iron fortress might have demanded, they sat at the same table and spoke freely.

(The Lieutenant still asked commanders to bow before him; that was why even his own troops called him Sauron behind his back. Gothmog was a superior appellation, less insulting, more fearful, but he still didn’t hasten to encourage its use.)

Despite their surface level amicability and the handful of tried-and-true inside jokes—mostly having to do with how enemies had died— they could bat at each other, they knew very little about each other’s lives. Meat and smoke only mixed when making a brisket, trying to relate two such different ways of being seemed impossible.

But when he saw Gorfaunt waddling into their monthly kvetch with a belly round and swollen like a tick’s, the Captain felt driven to say something. He was the marshal of Angband, he couldn’t let his king’s forces go to seed.

“Are you ill? Cursed?”

Gorfaunt managed to pull out a chair, made for a Balrog three times the size of an orc, and hoist themselves into it with rangy arms. “No? Just five months with a baby kicking around in my insides. The little bugger’s finally starting to show itself.”

That took a second to decipher. “You’re having a baby?”

Of course the Captain knew the basics of how incarnates made more of themselves. It was a topic of great fascination in the old days, when Yavanna was first figuring the system out, and of course the Lieutenant would prattle on about warg breeding to anyone who’d listen. They had sex— another thing that did not come naturally to beings of spirits, though some Maiar had made astounding progress in the field, for pleasure was pleasure and even Nienna’s acolytes sought catharsis and comfort—then there was lots of squishy biology on a level invisible to the incarnates themselves, then a little parasite was somehow blessed with Erú’s fire, to be nurtured until it could nurture itself.

He also knew that orcs, like elves and dwarves, had little distinction between men and womenfolk. Useful when it meant you could channel your entire adult population to battle. Startling when you realized that a key ally had been quietly pregnant for months without you, a greater being able to perceive stalactites growing and the scales on insect wings, noticing.

In truth he’d been doing a lot less noticing of late. His senses were dulling. Perhaps it was the light of the cursed gems, which painted everything in blinding, indistinguishable holiness. Or he was just losing his touch.

If he focused now he could see it. It was easiest to sense on the plane of wraiths. There was Gorfaunt, a guttering candle; wheezing, weak. All orcs had that fire, however dim. No one had managed to fully extinguish it though it had been much suppressed. Tucked against her, nearly imperceptible, was a little spark. Not much yet but given tinder and carefully fanned it could grow. “You’re having a baby,” he marveled.

Gorfaunt’s face was… orcs were hard to read at the best of times, bubbling over with noisy pain and anger that obscured their true emotions, prone to skin diseases and horrendous eye infections that muddled their expressions. She didn’t wear her gas mask around him anymore, though most were quick to cover up around any Maia of Morgoth. It helped little, her face was still opaque as the mountain itself. “Yep, Captain.”

“Good?” You congratulated an ally on a new weapon, a new bond, a promotion. Which one was an infant classified as? What was the correct form?

“Hopefully it’ll be over and the little goblin will be in the caves with the old’uns by the time we find either of the cities.” Gorfaunt provided, only barely contextualizing his felicitations. She was chewing on the inside on her cheek; sometimes she would gnaw until she spat black blood. “Terrible time for it. Terrible time. But the high ups are worried about reinforcements down the line, I suppose.”

Orcs came from orcs. It was a fact so simple it barely bore considering. Another department handled it. The new ones just showed up, springy and long limbed, faces still soft and unmarred. “Goblins” he’d heard older orcs call those fresh pale creatures. Barely even monsters, more like stunted, crepuscular versions of the elves and dwarves they fought.

“How much longer?” They had a few good leads on Nargothrond, a promising word about Túrin Turambar. The Captain could not sack that city himself, the honor had already been promised to the sulfurous worm. Apparently they wanted to test the mettle of these dragons. But Gothmog could assign a few good orc commanders to supervise, make sure the worm was not overstepping his bounds.

Dark blood trickled out of the corner of Gorfaunt’s mouth. “Five months, I’m told. Could be more, could be less. Then I have to wait until the thing is independent enough to leave alone, that’s another few months.” She was probably counting months as the orcs had started to, by the moon. Wretched traitor, Tilion, who’d laughed with them at the idea of running away then turned his face when the time came to flee for freedom. They hated it as much as everyone else but in their hatred they were aware of its cycles. They rejoiced when it went dark.

“You’ll still be able to manage your underlings?” Orcs, and freed Maiar, were fractious. They did not respect a leader who lacked the strength to force them to obey. It could be exhausting. And Gorfaunt was already so round. The Captain did not wish to lose her support over one orcling.

“I think so. So far… in old days you’d den up somewhere for a year, avoid everyone prowling for blood, but I don’t want to fight my way up the ranks again. I’ve got an ax and I’m using it.” Despite that she sounded tired.

Long heartbeats stretched between them, that exquisite embarrassment of two coworkers suddenly forced to talk about private affairs.

“This is your first,” the Captain didn’t reach the tone of a question with that one.

“Yes. The recruiters were getting growly so I grabbed a fellow. I’ve been avoiding it for too long.”

“You don’t want a child.” Again, not quite a question. He was feeling it out as he goes along. This is the longest conversation about orc reproduction he’s ever paid attention to, for the Lieutenants diatribes we’re always dull.

It was no matter to him, except that this was the only orc commander he could tolerate working with and she was chewing through her own cheek in discomfort.

“They take something from you,” Gorfaunt admitted. “Dame and sire both, but worse for the dame since she has to carry the clot. You go… stretchy. Bleached like old bone. I’ve seen soldiers and after twenty children they’re not good for anything but shoving onto a line of pikes. Raw meat for the wargs.”

That didn’t make sense to him, but he was never a scholar of flesh or spirit. He knew how a skull split and how a soul fled, how this matter-sprung life withered, how it died. That was all that counted. He also knew how to value a resource.

“There won’t be any after this,” he said firmly. “Not if you don’t want them.” If need be he’d escalate to Lord Melkor, frame it as sapping strength from their command structure and propose making officers off limits from breeding programmes.

“As you command, Captain,” she said with a bowed head, but she looked gratifyingly relieved, and their conversation could finally move on to the latest stories of occupied territories and the search for the hidden cities.

The next few months Gorfaunt somehow managed to get bigger and bigger, until she was no longer able to swing herself into a chair and had to take their meeting standing. Her leather armor no longer fit and with just a thin layer of rags over her distended stomach it was easy to see the squirming creature inside.

Ferocious little animal. It would go so still and then kick out again, as if it could burst free of its creator by force of will alone. The kernel of its mind was forming too, a hazy bubble of sensation and half formed emotion. He could see what had the Lieutenant fascinated. It wasn’t his field but it was morbidly interesting, seeing the shape of something new and moldable come together right in front of you.

But he had not been made a sculptor or a craftsman. He’d been born a wild thing, a tornado, a volcano, every disaster meant to fell cities, and though he had not known the words yet he’d sensed in his core, seen in glimpses in the song, that he was a creature of war. Like many other wild things—Ossë, the simpering coward tied up in Uinen’s tresses, excluded— he’d found his way to Melkor in the end. Oh, he’d idled for a time with Vána, heard Námo’s dolorous call, but it was Melkor who he came back to and Melkor who he picked in the end.

Melkor taught him so many more ways to be. The smoke, the blood, the screaming not in sorrow but in anger. He taught the others who came to him as well. In the Captain’s little squad alone there was one who learned the slaver’s whip and the threat of fire, one who learned the ooze of pus and malodorous air, one who came to appreciate the ravenings of rabid beasts. From the dragons in the treasure-caves to the cat in the kitchen to the vampires in the highest towers, they were all Melkor’s creations.

Gorfaunt, born and raised here in the shadow of his ancient power, was even more Melkor’s than most. This was how the Captain rationalized his continuing fondness for her as she weakened, his interest in her spawn. Works of the same maker might gravitate together. They could see parts of themselves in each other, the way he could once see himself in other Ëalar born of the same bit of song.

When Gorfaunt came in four months after their revelatory meeting with a sagging belly and a bundle nestled against her chest he was excited to finally see what had been made.

It took a bit of coaxing to get her to show him the baby but no orc would outright refuse an order from anyone stronger than them, they knew better than that. The newborn was dutifully unwrapped and presented, though Gorfaunt’s expression suggested that she considered this all a silly waste of time.

It was a rumpled wet creature; mostly skin and bones, with a cranium as big as its rounded torso. Small too, barely bigger than Gorfaunt’s hand, and Gorfaunt was smaller than all elves and many humans; based on overheard complaints failure to grow was an ongoing issue with their kind. When it was unswaddled sticklike limbs flailed out and began batting at the air ineffectually. Despite this wriggling its face remained in a sleepy scowl. It wasn’t until Gothmog moved one cherry-hot finger closer to it that it opened its hazy grey eyes and tried to focus on him. Even then the dismayed frown stayed put.

An unscarred orc was always an interesting sight; for it revealed the scale of their reworking. How much orcishness was self-replicating, as the Lieutenant liked to claim, and how much had to be beaten in? This one had a droopy brow bone and already peeling corpse-grey skin but it did not look much like an orc besides that. It even had hair, which most orcs lacked (aside from a few lank patches). The fine red down covered its whole body, thickest on the head and face and arms.

“It’s supposed to fall out,” Gorfaunt said, “Everyone says it’ll fall out soon. Even the prisoners lose their hair after a while, especially in the deep mines.”

That was probably because of the miasma of decay that emanated from the ores of Angband. Not macro-decay, of skin and bone (that came later) but the infitesimal decay. Every piece of metal— every piece of existence, when you got down to it— was made of little stars. There was a gaseous center of energy and little orbiting specks around that, spinning in probabilistic loops. Like stars some were bigger and some were smaller and some were ready to collapse. Ilmarë loved to speak of supernovas. The yellow and blue metals below the mountain were full of little stars collapsing, reforming, giving off energy in great sums as they did so.

The Captain had noted the negative effects of this energetic output on incarnates some time ago. Elves sickened and humans just died— Lord Melkor had moved the man he hoped would give him the location of Gondolin far from those mines for a reason. A few of the spirits with natures inclined towards metal, salt, and industry had already incorporated the burning energy into their signatures. The Lieutenant doubtless had some wicked little experiment running with it. It was a part of life here, that background hum of a trillion crumbling particles, and the Captain never thought of the effect on orcs, though they were exposed from birth.

Now that he focused he could see the little crumbs of decay glancing off the baby.

Hmm.

It would probably be fine.

It was already rubbing its eyes and going back to sleep, one hand curled next to a crumpled, not-yet-cropped ear.

“Are you recovered?” he asked Gorfaunt.

“I’m fit enough to fight,” she said shortly, defensively, as if afraid he’d snatch her command from her. “I’ll be better soon when this thing is gone.”

The Captain’s huge palm hovered over her infant. He knew better than to touch; his ability to change forms was not what it once was, he could not stop being a bipedal avalanche, to strong, too close, too dangerous. Even just containing the noxious gases— the pustulent yellow and choking green— simmering inside this war shaped body was difficult. If he kept a few feet distance the chaotic heat of his skin faded into the air and the baby wriggled contentedly in the ambient glow, like a little lizard.

“And how long will that be?”

Gorfaunt’s hand twitched. Another few months, till it can manage worm meal and listen to the grands.”

It seemed impossible that anything could be big enough to leave alone in such a short time; but incarnation was not the Captain’s specialty. “And that’s the accepted practice?”

“A little young, but safe now that the master put a stop to the baby eating problem.”

“I wouldn’t want it to be a concern,” the Captain said very seriously, even though his fingers curled slightly around the baby’s limp body. “We can make modifications if the child must stay longer.”

Gorfaunt glanced down at her sprawled offspring. “I don’t— I don’t want this to last any longer. I’d rather have my life go back to normal.”

That, at least, he could understand. It has been a rather troubling experience overall. Revelations are not always useful and though he’s gained some knowledge it’s not very practical stuff.

“One more question, commander, then I’ll drop the matter. What is it named??”

That nascent mind bubble had sharpened with time and experience but was still comprised mostly of sensation. He could not even grasp at a basic sense of self. The child’s mother should know what if calls itself, if anyone did.

(He wanted to remember the name, for forty years from now, when he needed more good orcs. All those rants about the fundamentals of inheritance left him with some ideas about how incarnates develop traits. Another Gorfaunt would be a helpful tool to have on hand.)

The question left Gorfaunt unimpressed. “It doesn’t name itself anything yet, it hasn’t got the common sense. And no one’s given it a name because it hasn’t done anything interesting.”

“It has an interesting look” the Captain pointed out, “Tell them to call it Red Cap,” he slipped into the elf tongue, which had better color words than the one the Lieutenant devised, and in the process accidentally named the child after a former king of the Noldor. “Or something like that.”

Gorfaunt apparently had a better memory for politics than he gave her credit for, or perhaps just a distaste for the elf cant, because she quickly translated it back into Angband’s crackly tongue . “Rotbint.”

“Yes.” A Balrog, even the chief of Balrogs, could not give much to something so soft and incarnadine. A name, incorporeal, existing in the plane the Captain knew best, was the only thing he could offer. “Now, to business?”

Gorfaunt wrapped the little creature away— it woke halfway through the rolling to stare at them once more— then tucked it against her chest.

The Captain was sad to see it go, though he couldn’t say why.

He remembered that he had come to this physical world for a reason once. He had wanted to see all there was to see, to feel and taste everything, chew chunks of Arda up and spit it out new. Disasters hungered as much as anyone. Yet all he’d had lately was war fare; blood-soaked mud and rage-tinged fear.

Deprived of fresh experiences, he clung to the potential, the novelty, of new life.

Perhaps Gondolin would see him out of his funk, he thought. It couldn’t hide forever.

“We’ll find it, Captain,” Gorfaunt assured him stubbornly. “And we’ll tear it down brick by brick, raze their gardens, fill their streets with blood.”

Even with a baby trying to gum her collarbone her firm tone allowed no questions.

Orcs were, as a rule, bothersome, unruly, walking corpses. Fractious, ugly, difficult, bothersome, recklessly stupid. The Maiar serving under the Captain were sometimes stereotyped as simpleminded brutes but at least they were able to perceive the world around them, even if few bothered to use that perception. In comparison orcs were stumbling around in the dark. They were inefficient as well, you needed three of them to take down any decent enemy. But when they were well made they were well made. Those were the ones that made it all worth it.

It had to be worth it. This was freedom, after all.

[jokertrap-ran]

(未定事件簿) EVENT!「致斯卡提的情诗」 [Tears of Themis] EVENT: A Love Poem to SKADI Translation (莫弈偶遇  想不到的喜: Chance Encounters with Mo Yi ~Unexpected Surprises~ )

*Tears of Themis Masterlist / Mobile Masterlist *Spoiler free: Translations will remain under cut *The tracking tag for ALL Event Stories will go under: #Tears of an Event

临时计划: Last-minute Plan

Location: Town of Elves

MC: What are you doing here, Dr. Mo? Didn't you have a Seminar to attend?

Mo Yi: It was postponed a couple of hours due to reasons, so I'll be heading over a little later.

MC: I see… Speaking of which, was this plan to come to Skadi Island one that was made a long time ago?

Mo Yi: Unfortunately, no. Coming here was a last-minute decision.

Mo Yi: I didn't actually intend to travel overseas at first, but I can't really turn my friend down like that when he gives me such a warm invite.

MC: What do you think of your trip here then?

Mo Yi: Pretty good; it has actually surpassed my expectations.

Mo Yi: But I can't help but to be a little fortunate that I didn't turn him down; Otherwise...

Mo Yi: How else would I have met you here, out of pure coincidence?

☆⋅⋆…⋅───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ────⋅…⋆⋅☆

课题内容: Subject Content 

Location: Town of Elves

Mo Yi: What a coincidence; we meet again.

MC: Dr. Mo? Is your Seminar over?

Mo Yi: Not yet. But we've already gone through a few rounds of discussions, so we're having a break now.

MC: Speaking of that, I've actually just heard a couple of Scholars discussing your paper.

Mo Yi: And what did they say?

MC: They say that the angle in which you approached the subject was very new; and that they'd never known that that sort of thinking was even plausible.

MC: What did you even talk about?

Mo Yi: Nothing much.

Mo Yi: Mainly just about how some legends of Skadi Island evolved as time went by and using it as a comparison to the development of Occultism itself.

MC: Sounds like a rather interesting topic… I want to hear you talk about it too...

Mo Yi: The Seminar also allows non- professional Scholars to sit in, so you can come by anytime to hear it, if you like.

Mo Yi: As long as it is my "class", the best seat will always be reserved for you.

☆⋅⋆…⋅───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ────⋅…⋆⋅☆

你眼中的光: The light in your eyes

Location: Town of Elves

MC: Can I "Interview” you for a bit?

Mo Yi: It is but an honor to be “interviewed” by you.

Mo Yi: What sort of questions are you going to ask me?

MC: Did you make any unforgettable memories while taking part in the Seminar here?

Mo Yi: Of course; and this particular memory might have left a bigger lasting impression than all others.

MC: How curious… What is it about? Do you mind telling me about it, Dr. Mo?

Mo Yi: Sure; this memory is related to you anyway.

MC: ???

Mo Yi: When you sit in front of the podium, listening to my speech; and when you look at me...

Mo Yi: The light in your eyes is absolutely dazzling.

☆⋅⋆…⋅───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ────⋅…⋆⋅☆

朋友的建议: A Friend’s Suggestion

Location: Town of Elves

Mo Yi: ……

MC: What's the matter Dr. Mo? You don't look too happy...

MC: Did something happen during the Seminar?

Mo Yi: No; the Seminar has already ended. It's just that my friend gave me a couple of suggestions, and they're...

Mo Yi: I'm not sure they might really work out.

MC: What suggestions?

Mo Yi: Suggestions that can fulfill my wish.

MC: Suggestions that can fulfill your wish? Why don't you just try it out then…? Taking action might be more helpful than just dwelling on it.

MC: They do say that "practice makes perfect" after all.

Mo Yi: You have a point. If that's so, then...

Mo Yi: May I have the honor of joining you for the rest of your trip?

☆⋅⋆…⋅───── ⋆⋅A Love Poem to SKADI⋅⋆ ────⋅…⋆⋅☆

[timeforelfnonsense]

Looking to Make Friends

Dafni x Astarion || T ||  Ao3 ||  Sunshine & Starlight: My on going bg3 series 

Some pre relationship fun before any feelings were caught.  Astarion has a pretty good WIS score and with his background, I think he'd be quite good at reading other people. It's interesting to contrast that with Dafni, who is also very perspective but in a very different way. (and they were narrative foils)

Astarion padded along softly behind Dafni, bow drawn and at the ready. He’d offered to help her catch dinner for the party. To be perfectly honest he wasn’t much for hunting. Not with a bow anyway. In truth, he’d followed her out here to pick her brain. He wanted to get the measure of each of his newfound associates and the peculiar cleric seemed the best place to start. She was far and away the most open of the bunch. The rest of their number all carried an air of privacy about them. Dafni, in contrast, was completely transparent or at least presented herself to be. She could also serve as a bridge to gaining the trust of the more discerning among them. She’d already created a respectable rapport with Gale and the pair they’d picked up in the grove, Wyll, and Criella. She’d gone out of her way to offer hospitality and kindness to each person in the party, even those who seemed less than interested in playing nice. 

You do seem the type. Inquisitive. Looking for connection… It’s every man for himself and you are looking to make friends.

The corner his Astarion’s lip turned up. Shadowheart was canny. That much was clear. She was, however, too short-sided to see the benefits of having someone of that sort on her side. Dafni wanted friends and he needed to secure an ally- It was an ideal fit. He’d noticed the way she blushed at his teasing. How eager she was to keep his company. She almost certainly found him attractive. That made things a bit easier at least. 

“Can I confess something to you?” He inquired, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her pointed ear, “I asked to tag along because I wanted to spend time with you.” Dafni’s cheeks turned cherry red as he traced the blade of her ear. A coy smile forming across his lips. “Aw, I hope I haven’t embarrassed you. I couldn’t help but overhear the way Shadowheart rebuffed you this afternoon. It’s her loss really if she can’t see what an intriguing woman you are.” 

“I-Thank you, Astarion.” She stammered, tracing a small circle in the dirt with the toe of her boot, “What did you want to know?” 

“Tell me about your life before all of this?” He asked, gesturing to his temple. 

“In the city or before that?” She asked, tilting her head thoughtfully, “I can think of several ways to answer that question.” 

Astarion mulled his response over for a moment. He was curious about her life in the city. Dafni was a creature of the wild through and through. She seemed very much at home among the plants and creatures of the forest. It was hard to picture her strolling about the lower city. But, he’d observed her to be the sentimental sort. An inquiry into her more distant past would yield far more. 

“Tell me about where you grew up?”

He heard her heart give a worrying lurch. Her honey-brown eyes falling to the faded leather of her shoes as the flush that covered her cheeks grew even deeper. That was not the reaction he had been expecting from her. Was she embarrassed? No. Nervous. Her arms crossed over her chest as she let out a rush of air from barely parted lips. 

“Umm- Well, as you might have overheard Criella saying, I’m from the Feywilds originally. I should have told you the truth when you asked about my being from the city. I don’t like lying! Even by omission! I just wanted you to trust me...”

Astarion knew a thing or two about conceding one’s nature. He had to stifle the chuckle building in his chest. It would seem he and lovely little Daffodil had something in common. 

Her reaction had been rather dear. But, the logic did follow. The creatures of Faerie had a certain...Reputation. View by the common folk as at best, fickle, whimsical beings, ruled by emotion and a strange sense of decorum. And at worst as wicked, Unseelie tricksters or hags looking to strike duplicitous bargains. 

She wants to be liked, He thought,  Her reputation is important to her. 

“Think nothing of it!” He soothed with a wave of his hand, “We are all entitled to our little secrets. I’d still like to hear more if you’d be kind enough to indulge me?” 

“Of course!” The tension in her shoulders loosened and she continued, “I’m actually quite proud of my heritage, despite my omission. Of all of the Protectors' children, the eladrin of the Faerie are the most like the first elves that sprung from his blood. The plane of Faerie is magnificent. As close a place to Arvandor, there is. It teems with the most beautiful plants and colorful creatures in all of creation. It is a place of enchantment and wonder, both deadly and delightful. Many creatures who stumble into a crossing by mistake lose their wits to its irresistible splendor but my people, we prosper where others wither.” 

He took note of the way her back straightened when she spoke. Her posture took on an elegance he hadn’t seen in her before. He couldn’t help the smile that touched his lips. For all her charity and warmth she still held a small taste of that classic elven haughtiness. Interesting indeed. 

Even more interesting still was the specific pride she took in her ability to survive what overs could not. He was not easily impressed but spirited Dafni had made quite the impression on him. She was tenacious and spirited. She would not surrender herself to their grim fate.

Another similarity. 

 He thought back to their first night in camp, to her girlish snickering at his unease about sleeping outdoors. She had called ‘N'Tel'Que'Tethira’, a city elf. 

But, no sooner than the words left her did a modified expression fall across her pretty round face. Her next sentence had been a string of apologies and assurance she felt no superiority to her city-dwelling cousins. 

Astarion had gathered the fondness she felt for the elves was not limited to her own people but rather all varieties of elves. He’d overhead her with Gale, insisting she was no scholar yet there seemed to be no question of elven lore or history she could not summon at the drop of a pin. He’d not given much thought to his own elveness in quite some time. On the list of things, Astarion was, elf did not fall very high on the ranking of importance. Yet Dafni, from the moment she set eyes on him, saw kin and ally. He’d even seen her extend this esteem to Shadowheart. 

Pride in her culture and people. He’d found another piece of her puzzle. A bit obvious but important nonetheless.

“I was born in the Faerie reflection of the Moonshaes, on the Isle of Gwynneth.” Dafni continued, “In a village called PeleiraI. It was an oasis created by the primal elves who first came to the feywilds after being cast out by Corellon.”

Astarion nodded along as she spoke. He recalled the images that had flashed through his mind upon their first meeting. Tucked away in a forest of mythical beauty, her ‘village’ had been a far cry from the thatched huts and dirt floors the word brought to mind. He’d seen spires and structures of flawless marble reflecting a breathtaking, sunset of burnt orange and vivid violet. The ethereal structures scattered among the woodland didn’t detract from the wild nature of the glen but enhanced it. Appearing as if they had been grown from the earth just the same as the imposing trees that sheltered them. 

“I saw the fleeting image of a settlement when our minds touched. It looked like something out of a fairytale. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He affected his voice, coloring it with wistfulness and awe, “I can only imagine the adventures you got up to there.”

“I did a lot of nothing most days.” She snorted, “Read. Practice medicine or magic. Explore the forest. Pester my older sisters. Maybe a hunt with visiting Seelie knights if I was lucky. I was never really allowed out without my sisters or some sort of escort.” Dafni scoffed the heel of her boot hitting the tree behind her with a soft, repetitive thump. “My mother, Thesmia is our clan’s leader. She’s a well-respected wizard and historian of a sort. I think she knew I was curious about what was on the other side of the mirror so to speak. Gwyneth is littered with fey crossings and she didn’t want me wandering off to the material all alone.” 

She was the sheltered daughter of a noble (or close to it)? Right within his bailiwick! Her story wasn’t an unfamiliar one. Many of his marks in the city had been young lords and ladies smothered by the expectation and duty. All itching for the taste of freedom they were certain they’d find in Astarion’s honeyed words and dark charms. 

This revelation did not yield new information so much as clarify an impression he already had. He’d seen more than her childhood home that day on the beach. The worried face of an otherworldly elven woman and bone aching wanderlust still burned through him when he played the memories over in his head.

“Is that why you left to live with the wood elves?” He asked, tilting his head to the side, “To see this side of the mirror?”

“You remembered?” The flush returned to her cheeks as she fidgeted with the string of her bow.

Astarion smiled his most beguiling smile, “I told you I thought you were intriguing, did I not?”

 “I suppose you did!” She hummed, “Well to answer your question, yes. In apart anyways-'' She shrugged squeezing her biceps, “I wanted to explore, I was never going to know myself in Thesmia’s shadow. She was very...resistant to the idea. She’d seen how cruel people could be. That was part of why she made a home for us in PeleiraI. If she had it her way I would have spent the rest of my days in tucked away safe in her tower.” Dafni paused for a beat, her hands anxiously toying with the edge of her sleeve, “Please don’t misunderstand me. I love my mother dearly. She can just be a bit…”

“Overbearing?” He suggested.

“Yes.” Dafni giggled, releasing the worried fabric from her fingertips, “I know she wanted what was best for me. We just didn’t agree on what that was. I wanted to live my life and she wanted me to live hers.”

“I can sympathize to an extent.” He said, his mouth turning down into a scowl.

“You had a loving but smothering ancient being as a mother?” She tittered, playfully bumping her shoulder against his.

“No.” His tone came out a bit sharper than he’d intended. He ran his hand through his hair composing himself before he continued, “But, I understand the feeling that your life isn’t really your own.”

It was a risk to offer such information up. One he maybe shouldn’t have taken but, something about her vulnerability made him feel a little less guarded. A skill that could prove dangerous. At least his slip up hadn’t been for not. Her heart had slowed to a steady thrum. The jittery shuffling of her feet had stopped. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Dafni responded, placing a hesitant hand on his arm. He had expected her to pry. She was painfully curious and astonishingly open with her own feelings. Yet, she seemed to sense pressing the matter would upset him. Instead, she moved on. Her voice coming out small and far away, “I think she wanted me to be more like her. Refined. Intelligent. Graceful.” She sighed pressing her back to the mossy tree trunk, “Sometimes I worry I might have been a bit of a disappointment.”

Ah-

There it was. The piece he’d been hoping to find. She wanted reassurance. Validation. To be valued and appreciated by her own merits.

“I don’t know your mother or her mind but, for what it’s worth, I think you are quite remarkable.” 

“Really?” Her voice quivered as she looked up at him with sparkling doe eyes. 

“If not for the tadpole’s intervention you may well have, how did you put it, cut my smug head right off my shoulders?” He snickered toying absentmindedly with the pommel of his dagger, “Or made a respectable attempt at any rate. I’m not often bested by my quarries.” 

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad I didn’t.” Dafni leaned in close, the sweet scent of her dizzying his senses. Her breath tickling his ear as she whispered, “Your head is far too lovely to be parted from your shoulders.” 

“Why, Daffodil! I’m flattered!” He stated a pleased grin plastered across his face, “Not surprised but, flattered. You did strike me as a woman of taste.”  

“Are you always this cocky?” She chided in a teasing tone.

“Probably.”  

“Hmm. Why am I not surprised” Dafni had tried to sound vexed but the edges of her voice teemed with amusement. Her big, topaz eyes gleaming with joviality, “Fair is fair. Tell me about your life before the tadpoles?”

He felt a slight unease creep into his chest in response to her innocent inquiry. He’d played fast and loose with the truth countless times with his marks but Dafni was different. She was observant, always picking up on the little subtleties of people's deminers. He would do better to stick to omissions rather than out and out mistruths. He brought his hand to the back of his neck giving the tender mussels a gentle rub.

“Oh, what is there to tell.” He put on a dispassionate expression. Careful to sound cool and nonchalant. “I was a magistrate- it’s all rather tedious.”

“Really? I can’t picture you as a bureaucrat.” 

“And why not?” He gasped clutching his hand over his chest.

“Well for starters, you despise rules even more than I do. You like to stir up trouble. And your sense of morality- How do I put this, seems a bit...crooked? No offense.” She explained, indicating her points on the tips of her fingers.

“Oh, none taken!” Astarion gave her a peal of hearty laughter, shaking his head, “Daffodil, I hate to be the one to tell you there is a great deal of dubious morality in government.”

Her expression soured, her lower lip quivering ever so slightly as she stuck it out, “Well, I still can’t picture it. You are far too much fun for such a stuffy job.” 

“People have many sides, dear.” He shrugged glancing over at her with a playful look, “But thank you.”

[gayregis]

boppinrobin replied to your post: “Question. Part 1. Hi. I like your blog and your analytical analysis of books,”

aauuuughhh tysm for ur analysis as always

thank you for reading and liking it!!

arinasassymessi replied to your post: “Question. Part 1. Hi. I like your blog and your analytical analysis of books,”

Thank you again for your response! I wrote anonymously because I was a little embarrassed by my English, but to be honest, I've been reading your blog for a very long time, and I've always wanted to discuss some topics with you. Thank you, I feel more confident now. First of all, I apologize for the fact that I considered this scene pro-life.

The thing is, I've reread the witcher books countless times (mostly because of Regis, lol). And if in the first times I was so fascinated by the plot and characters that I did not notice any obvious sexist/homophobic moments, then after rereading the books more consciously, I caught very unpleasantly, conservative motives, which Sapkowski is not shy about.

I remember that the first time this scene, even though it caused a bit of misunderstanding, still touched me with its warmth and how Geralt emotionally supported Milva, helping her make a rather difficult decision. And the way Regis was pleased with his actions, smiling at him, awww.

But after studying the books in more detail and the messages that Sapkowski puts in them, it seems to me that I began to see a catch everywhere. At first, I was also delighted to learn about Ciri's relationship with Mistle, wow, progressive author, LGBTQ+ representation! But after seeing this relationship "live," I felt cheated, and since then, I have returned to this scene with Milva.

I thought, oh no, isn't everything here the same as I believed? Most of all, I was afraid of Regis because he is my comfort character, the voice of reason, and a progressive medic. Does Sapkowski put pro-life ideas in his mouth?.. After a couple of discussions with friends, this fear only took root.

However, after reading your in-depth analytical analysis, I agreed with it, looking at the facts in a new way, and was glad that my first guesses and feelings from this scene were close to the truth. Now I can rest in peace, lol.

About "medicament/medicine" and "agent." I have read books in Russian, and now I am rereading "Baptism of Fire" in English to practice. I think the difference between the words "medicament" and "agent" in English is somewhat unclear, and it is impossible to say precisely which of them has a negative connotation.

Both of them sound entirely neutral and normal to me, but again, I'm not a native speaker, correct me if I'm wrong. In Russian, instead of the word "agent," we have the word "snadobye" (the closest translation is 'potion,’ and in Polish, it is 'ziola’). And while "medicament" means only medicine, a remedy, the word "snadobye" can also mean medicine, but has more folk properties (?).

It is brewed from herbs and a synonym to a potion/drug — a poisonous, magical, and forbidden drink, usually attributed to witches and wizards. For me, Geralt's refusal to use the word "medicament" — neutral and scientific-medical — in favor of a word that has a more magical/negative connotation seemed rather strange. But again, this is just my guess.

I consider the Russian translation closer to the Polish one because it belongs to the same language group, but I don't have access to the original to check what words were used there. In any case, I think that since Geralt decided to use one instead of the other, they should differ in some way, but it is not known in favor of which word this works. I also like your version.

I also had a lot of questions about Milva and her actions. She's probably my second favorite character after Regis, and I didn't understand her actions until a certain point. She was not satisfied with a woman's position in her society, so instead of the usual role, she decided to participate in Geralt's journey?

I was also not very clear about their conversation and Geralt's conclusion: "someone else's child for your own, life for life." Why? After all, she could stay in Brokilon and give birth, but if she didn't want a child, she could have an abortion (for example, she rather cruelly compared her child to young wasps that eat caterpillar alive).

Recently, the Russian Witcher community posted a short theory that Milva was in love with Geralt and therefore went after him. Milva's thoughts in Brokilon speak in favor of this — she finds Geralt attractive (although she felt something similar for Cahir when they were waiting for Geralt and Buttercup to be released from prison at night).

*not Buttercup (have no idea what is it), JASKIER

Also, their conversation outside Regis' hut at night, when Milva bitterly remarked that Geralt needed another woman — a scholar, a wise one, a beloved one (Yennefer), desire to get emotional support exactly from Geralt and and insisting on his presence during the miscarriage, her further refusal to marry the baron, and perhaps Sapkowski's sometimes ANNOYING idea that any woman should go crazy in Geralt's company. But again, these are just guesses, and I would be interested to hear your opinion.

I also didn't know that tumblr has a word limit in comments, so my replays look pretty stupid now, lol.

yes!! i also read the books first just for the plot and then went back and later, when my mind was clearer, noticed a lot more of political views in the writing. it’s the fact that a lot of sapkowski’s other takes are shitty (re: feminity, lgbt individuals and relationships), or at least come off as shitty because they are not explicit enough to actually be a progressive opinion, compounded with the fact that the scene with milva is not very clear on exactly what regis is asking geralt, why he is polling them, why geralt is upset, or what they even intend to do. i think also, because the subject is so important and people have very intense opinions about it, it makes you nervous to see it come up in a fictional story, even if the author is promoting a good message - it’s the feeling you described of, “oh no, isn't everything here the same as i believed?” 

and yeah, you’re right, in english i’d say medicament and agent both have neutral connotations, “agent” to me sounds more scientific, somehow? like it would be used in an experiment? i think i have usually heard it more in descriptions of products, like “cleansing agent” in relation to something dealing with chemistry... but then again, i am not a scientist, doctor, beautician, etc...

and about milva - agree, i love her too :D!! these are my personal opinions and takes on her character motivations but:

i think her ‘not being satisfied with a [traditional] woman’s role in society’ extends beyond not being satisfied, it’s being disgusted with it - in tower of the swallow, she describes how she as a teenager experienced sexual assault at the hands of her stepfather, and her mother didn’t do anything (assumedly because of the societal roles involved, and you can (unfortunately) see this occur in real life as well, mothers don’t protect their daughters from the men they stay with). milva beats him to death and runs away, and never goes back to that life. additionally, in baptism of fire, she talks about her name - milva, and why she changed it, and she says that her original name, maria, along with a lot of other “feminine-sounding” names beginning with M (this is at least what i got out of it, they sound like sweet names given to peasant girls), get your ass pinched in taverns (this is my best recollection of the quote). 

it’s clear that she has not only experienced discomfort, but really just blatant violence at the hands of “traditional feminity/women’s societal roles,” and so she goes to rely on only herself at first, hunting in lower sodden, and then finally being ‘adopted’ (kind of) by brokilon and eithne, becoming affiliated with them and working for them and the scoia’tael. this makes sense to me, because of course brokilon is a matriarchy, and the elves are mentioned to raise (and thus, treat) male and female elves the same way.

i won’t rule out that sapkowski intended for milva to have romantic interest in geralt, but i think that even if he did, it wasn’t interesting and i disagree with that direction for her character. my takes continued are that:

re:  "someone else's child for your own, a life for life." in this conversation, she talks to geralt about the differences between “milva” and “maria,” her two identities that seem to be at ends with each other. she didn’t want to stay in brokilon to have the child, because by societal means, she is no longer a “woman” in the traditional sense - she’s milva, not maria - she kills, she laughs as she pulls out the arrowheads from corpses, etc., like her chosen name, ‘milva,’ she is a red kite, a bird of prey. 

she doesn’t fit the societal expectations of a woman, and was never trained in being a mother (she ran away from home as a teenager, she hasn’t done ‘traditional woman things’ like keep house and cook, raise and deal with children, weave (?) and work in a house since she was 16, and she is older than that now (i’d say she’s at least past her early 20s, because she is described as a “young woman” compared to angouleme’s “very young woman” in lady of the lake, and angouleme is approx. 18-19). but since she doesn’t fit these expectations, how can she expect herself to raise this child? thus, she likely wanted to drop the baby, but since she was raised in a conservative rural society in which women are expected to bear children and not have abortions, she may have felt guilt and shame for wanting to do so. thus, she wanted to follow geralt - although she would have intentionally lost her child, she would have intentionally saved another, absolving her of her guilt. it’s like as regis described to geralt in the middle of the book, about penance and running up debts, this is a large theme of the book - a baptism of fire, fire which not only purifies, but burns (a challenge which absolves one of guilt, but it is painful). 

these are just my takes, i think sapkowski’s intentions were more along the theory that milva had a crush on geralt, but as i said i think that’s just boring and the “easy way out.” he also did that with cahir and ciri, making heterosexual love the motivation for a noble deed, and it’s just like... these characters have so much other depth and serious individual issues, and you want to reduce their motivations to just simply “they were in love”? okay... so yeah i don’t think sapkowski really may have intended any of the above, or if he did, it was to a lesser degree, but this is my interpretation of it.

[escritorian]

How to (not) be an Adventurer by Althea Dawnwind Chapter 2 - Role models

All right, so I figure if he’s going to hear all this the first time around, anyway, I may as well keep recording.  Or...asking him to transcribe, I guess.  We talked about it.

While I take no offence to your choice of pronouns, I feel I should remind you I have no gender.

Gotcha.  Sorry.

No need to apologize.

Thanks.  Still sorry.  Wait, so is all this side commentary getting transcribed, too?

Yes.

Lovely.  Perfect.  All right, whatever.  Let’s go.

So there are a bunch of new people at the house.  Most of them are super cool, but one of them’s a total creeper.

Predictably, Julia’s hot into the creeper. (Ugh, her taste) But whatever.  Her romantic graveyard.  Let her dig it.  Besides, I’m sure Galen would never let this guy actually hurt Julia. (If he could actually hurt Julia).  It does make me wonder about why he lets this skeezeball travel with him, though.  I mean, I guess he’s not always the most perceptive, but-

Whatever.  I’m getting off topic.

Can journals be said to have an incorrect topic, properly?

Shush.  Anyway, they were all just here, suddenly, talking about the pact and my plague and my future. I wanted to scream, but I was just so tired and scared. I think I’d have accepted anything that gave me hope at that point.  

Okay. No. Wait. Not anything. They were saying in some alternate past (?), they thought I was about to make a pact with some god of entropy? And honestly, that just sounds bad all around. Like sure, okay, I was pretty sure mine wasn’t one of those cases of spell plague you live through, you know? But some things are just worse than death.

Honestly, I was- am really offended that they thought so little of me. Okay not “they,” really. I barely even know most of them, but Galen…I really though at least he’d have some respect for my integrity. I thought maybe he could see me as more than just the little sister who needs protecting and can’t be trusted to make her own decisions I only even made this pact because everyone seemed so sure it was my best shot. And I- I mean, I wanted to live. Guilty, okay? Who doesn’t?

I felt the same, Althea

Yeah. So… yeah.

It is not wrong to wish or fight for life.

Thanks, Sha- uh, do you have like, a nickname I can use or anything?

Shadhavar is the only name I have ever known.

Wow, that’s…kind of sad. For the record, you can call me Thea. It’s what everyone in the family calls me.

I thank you, Thea.

Ha. Ummm. I was about to say I was smiling, you know, to transcribe it? The idea? Feeling? But, what is it, really? Can you even smile here?

There is no physical form or structure here to demarcate itself into what you call a smile.  The underlying ideas and feelings that cause the smile, however, can be recorded.

Oh. Cool. I mean, no really. Seriously. Cool.  Anyway, what was I saying?

Is this question rhetorical?

Um, yes? I mean it was, but you can- you know.

Those who found me presented you the possibility of a pact.

Yeah, that’s pretty much it, and I said yes.

Do you regret having done so?

Pfff, no. I’m not going to pretend I understand the full implications of having formed a soul bond with an ancient, sentient sword-bridge-focus thing born from both the feywild and the shadowfell? But it’s for serious better than the alternative. I can say that with total confidence right now.

Anyway, most of Galen’s new friends seemed like they really cared for me despite having just met me. It was weird, but also kind of nice? Oh! And Galen’s girlfriend. (!)  Apparently she left after everyone else but flew here the whole way to catch up!

Bad.

Ass.

And they all helped him defeat a death priest (or something) who was after me. I mean, okay. Julia helped. That…doesn’t count for nothing, I guess. I know mom and Nicon have trained her a lot and she’s freelanced a bit without telling mom. But now I have this whole group that seems like they’re sticking around for a bit? And maybe giving me some lessons?

This. Is going. To rule.

I also intend to provide you with instruction regardless of anyone else’s actions.

Really?!

Yes.

That’s…Ioun’s Wisdom, I don’t even know what to say! This is…am I going to cry? Fuck. No. I’m not going to start crying in here. Quick. Help me out.

Focus your mind on a task. You’ve mentioned these friends of your brother, but only just. Describe them.

Y-yeah. *sniff* Okay, yeah.

Breathe deeply and slowly.

Nono, I’m okay. It’s okay. Thanks. I’ve got this. Okay, strong feelings first. Let’s start with that creeper.

So, Creeper Creepzoidington is basically like a broody shadow who shoots everyone dirty looks, and I don’t say he’s a shadow because he’s drow.  Like, that’d be rude and also really inaccurate.  I say it cause this guy loves shadows.  Like, he loooves them - practically lives in them. They’re his home and they keep him safe and warm. Nicon says he’s already stolen from them, and I think the only time I’ve heard him talk was to swear. So yeah, whatever his deal is, I am not training with him.

Then there’s this other drow, Phaedra. I mean, I only point out they’re drow because they’re supposed to be really rare.  Surface elves are, too, but not as much? And I think I’ve only ever seen one of them. And now? Bam. 3 drow. More than I thought I’d ever met in my life, and everyone’s reaction has pretty much been, “Oh, hm! What a perfectly normal occurrence!”  It's just a little bit surprising.

Anyway, Phaedra, she’s about as different from Slimeus Slimeballius as you can get. She’s really elegant and nice. She came by later that night to see how I was doing. I didn’t feel much like talking, so…um…I didn’t, but she was really calm and polite about it. I could tell she knew I wasn’t really fine, but she didn’t press it. She just…did her best to be reassuring then left me alone. I kind of didn’t want her to go, but I appreciate that she did.

And how she moves! I mean, okay, so that probably sounds weird, but you should see her! She’s like floating silk or flowing water. She doesn’t even seem human, sometimes. Well, I mean, she’s not human, but you know what I mean.  She’s just ridiculously graceful, like she’s dancing in slow motion all the time, and my brain wants to learn the secret to it so much it can’t look away. So yeah, her I would totally train with.

Then there’s this younger drow, Tsabura.  (Tsubara?  Someone keeps messing up her name, and it’s really throwing me off.)  I thought she might’ve been be their kid or something, but even without speaking the language, I picked up that was not the case real quick.  She’s super cute but really quiet, and – I mean, I don’t know if the same standards culturally apply (nor am I sure whether or not it’s rude to consider that) - she has such nice skin.  She seriously just glows. Her skin is literally, physically lustrous.  But she’s just so angry.  Like, all the time.  Also?  Really sad.  I hope we can be friends.  I guess that’s a bit random, but it’d be great to have someone to relate to on a different level while on the road (more on that later), and maybe having a friend will help her not be so sad and angry.

It's weird, though. Like, no one’s saying anything about her, but she doesn’t seem like she’s been taking lessons from anyone, and she was pretty much dressed in rags? Mom tried to give her some of my old clothes, but that didn’t go so well. Maybe that’s why she’s in rags. Or maybe it’s a religious thing? Either way, I should probably stop calling them rags. When I tried talking to her, she barely even looked at me.  Honestly, I’m not sure I didn’t just imagine the brief glances she did give me, either.  I just...I want to know why she’s deliberately making herself so distant.  It’s like a mystery my brain needs to solve.

Moving on, there’s this really cheerful gnome named Tielka.  She’s...interesting.  She’s covered in armor and has a sword that drips frost but somehow seems super approachable?  Paradoxically, that makes me kind of nervous to approach her.  She also sounded really smart.  So I guess she’s...what?  A friendly warrior scholar?  I don’t know.  I mean, the image I’d always had of paladins is super stiff and serious, all thees and thous, but this?  It’s a weird vibe.  I mean, she looks like she’s 20, but she’s got this really motherly aura making me unsure if I want to befriend her or make sure she doesn’t catch me at mischief, so she’s got that, “inspiring the best behavior in others” thing down, I guess.

She’s also got a huge dog named Axle with the best leg.  I mean, omigosh, okay.  So his natural leg would’ve been the best leg, of course, but out of potential replacements?  This thing is, literally, divine.  Like, it’s full of clockwork, but it makes almost 0 noise, and it moves with him.  It doesn’t just sit there.  I really want to know how it works.  I mean, I’m guessing the answer will be something like 50% divinity, 40% magic and 10% mechanics, but still.

And then there’s Max.  I’m getting to her last, but she’s easily the biggest personality of the group.  (As befits a bard.)  She’s pretty much the polar opposite of Broody Broodfacerson.  She’s super friendly. She’s always smiling the brightest smile.  She has a siren’s voice and sings all the time.  She has a whole troop of animals who follow her around, all of whom I’m pretty sure she actually talks to.  (I think they’re all named Annie for some reason?)  And she’s so pretty.  Seriously, everything she does is extra charming.  There’s just something about how she moves, how she talks.  Just like, everything she does is so captivating.  There must be some lesson on mannerisms in bard college that teaches you how to keep people’s eyes on you cause there are like hooks on her gestures that grab the brain and don’t let go.  Basically, what I’m saying is she definitely made the right career choice.  Honestly, I wish she were a little quieter, but, well, no one can have everything, you know?

sighs

“You know.”  I have to stop that.

This is your fifth time using that phrase in this entry.

Fuuuck, really?!

Yes. Would you like me to alert you when you use it?

Nooo. I mean- auuugh, Vecna blind it! Yes. Yes, please do.

Very well.

Thanks.  Anyway, moving on...actually, I think that’s about it.

Oh!  And Galen.  But you know about Galen.  Well, I know about Galen, but will you, hypothetical/theoretical mystery future person, know about Galen?  I guess I should talk about Galen.  I mean, honestly, though, it feels like it’s enough to say he’s the best oldest brother anyone could want. Aforementioned rudeness aside, that is.  He’s just, I mean, he’s always giving me his time and teaching me the most interesting things, and he’s smart enough The Academy was too slow for him.  So he just, you know, decided to go adventuring and-

That’s six times.

What?

That you’ve used the phrase, “you know.”

Ugggghhhh.  All right, you know what?  My brain’s clearly tired.  He’s great, and I might end up going adventuring with him, which would be the best.  The end.

…

Sooo, how do I stop...

You can do so in the same manner as you did last time.

Yeah, I’m not really sure what I did last time.

You need simply to “feel” your intent to stop.

Okay, so kind of like-

[esmeraude11]

On Fëanor and Indis

Something that’s always bugged me? Indis and Fëanor’s relationship. Or rather the lack thereof of a relationship. If we go with the canon dates then Míriel died c. 1170 in the Year of the Trees when Fëanor was little more than an infant in Elven terms.

While Indis was Míriel’s closest friend. She was friends with Finwë too.

I doubt that she left Finwë alone during this period. And I suspect that she wouldn’t have left Míriel’s newborn child alone either. Indis might very well have inserted herself into Finwë’s household so as to look after Fëanor. Because something that we can’t forget is that Finwë was devastated by Míriel’s death. Canonically we’re given a hint as to how Finwë must have felt in the passage that talks about his and Indis’ marriage.

This is going to be long. So I’m putting a Read-More here.

"Now it came to pass that Finwë took as his second wife Indis the Fair. She was a Vanya, close kin of Ingwë the High King, golden-haired and tall <…>. Finwë loved her greatly, and was glad again."

That last sentence jumps out to me as particularly important. Especially the last part “...and was glad again.”

Considering that Míriel literally died of depression (general or post-partum, we don’t know) and physical/spiritual exhaustion that bit talking about Finwë’s emotional state stands out suspiciously. I have to wonder if Finwë himself might have suffered from depression after Míriel’s death.

If he didn’t just marry Indis randomly but rather that it was the result of a prolonged relationship of some sort. I suspect that Indis would have essentially moved to Tirion after Míriel’s pregnancy took a turn for the worse so as to offer Míriel her support. Maybe completing the transition after her death. Because Finwë’s alone now. His wife is dead and resting in the Halls. His newborn son has lost his mother and it’s entirely possible that Finwë was in no condition to look after his child here. Indis likely took on the task of raising Fëanáro. She might have even offered what support she could to Finwë here. Helping by taking over the day to day running of the palace’s household. Taking care of Fëanáro’s household as well. Nurses, governesses, etc. etc. Essentially becoming the Acting-Queen/Queen-Consort in absentia while Finwë mourns his loss and struggles/grapples with his grief.

I feel like Fëanáro grew up with a doting and loving but slightly distant father for a few years here (which might have had an effect on a young Fëanáro). Because Finwë more than likely took a few years to begin to recover from his loss. Míriel was gone but her memory never truly faded. Grief is a thing that cannot be underestimated or ignored. Especially in this situation. The elves came to Aman to escape the horrors that hunted them in Cuiviénen. They were supposed to be coming to a land where death among the Eldar would be a historical footnote. Míriel died, however, and became the first and last of the Eldar to (notably) die in Aman until Alqualondë. And elves bond on a spiritual and mental level. Not just physically.

This is something that can’t be underestimated.

Míriel’s death wasn’t supposed to happen.

And if it did? Then their dead were suppose to return from the Halls. But Míriel was so affected by her condition (depression/exhaustion) that she would not leave the Halls. Not even for her husband and young son. She needed the time to rest and recover. She couldn’t or at least was unwilling to subject herself to life while still fraught with the issues that had led to her death.

This is understandable and she shouldn’t be blamed for making her choice. Because it must have been a difficult one to make.

But this left Finwë to deal with the aftermath. And he might not have been up for it. He might have needed help. Indis was there. Indis who had been friends (best friends, even) with Míriel and Finwë. Indis who’d likely joked with Míriel and looked forward to her friends’ child with eagerness. Indis who was the sister of a king and was herself one of the Awakened Elves of Cuiviénen. She’d likely known Míriel and Finwë for a very very long time.

And this is where we come back to Fëanor.

Fëanor likely grew up with Indis as his honorary aunt. Someone who took on a maternal role in his life without explicitly taking on that role in his life. Fëanáro might have called Indis ‘mom’ or ‘mommy’ a few times when he was especially young and she’d have gently corrected him. Indis would have taken care of Fëanáro’s education. Carefully selecting tutors for the young prince from a list of Noldorin scholars and masters. Ever mindful of the fact that she was a Vanya and he was the prince of the Noldor and thus needed to curate his education in a direction that suited his birth.

Indis likely spoke to Fëanáro of Míriel from the very beginning. First as a baby, rocking him in her arms and singing to him songs that she’d heard Míriel sing to her swollen belly as she worked on her pieces. Mindless ditties of shining threads and jewel-tone colors and embroidering. Singing Vanyarin songs of beauty and perspective and thought that Míriel had enjoyed for their rather pretty and bright evocative turns of phrase.

Telling him bed-time stories of laughter and joy and expectation. Míriel’s grey eyes shining with mirth. Her mouth curved into an impish smile. A long-fingered and elegant hand splayed over a pregnant belly. Silver-grey hair falling in a mass of loose curls over a slender shoulder. Each strand shining and lovely. Of a bright and fierce temper that could cow any uppity noble and only gave way before her loved ones.

Drawing a blanket over Fëanáro’s chest. Míriel’s work. One of her finest and final masterpieces. Indis had spun the materials that went into the thread. Brought from Valmar the materials that Míriel needed for her jewel-toned dyes. Míriel had woven and sown the squares that sealed the goosedown. She’d embroidered the blanket itself. Her final gift to the child she’d loved and never gotten the chance to watch grow up.

We know that Míriel’s body lay in-repose in the Gardens of Lorien.

We know that Fëanor went to visit her often. Finwë likely went as well. Not quite as often and more than likely because it was more than he could bear.

I can see Indis being the one to accompany Fëanáro when he was still young enough to want her to come with him. Before the marriage that is. Indis running a careful hand through Míriel’s hair while her other arm is wrapped around Fëanáro. Ensuring that he doesn’t run off or clamber onto his mother’s body.

Let me just say too. Míriel’s body being held in-repose could only have exacerbated Fëanor’s issues here. Especially since Finwë clearly struggled with the loss of his wife. Míriel died but she was never laid to rest. Her memory lingered on. In her husband. In her friend. Among her people as well. Fëanor never had a chance to come to terms with his loss. Especially since his loss occurred when he was a baby and thus never had a chance to properly know his mother and was instead left with her lingering memory.

I don’t doubt that Finwë loved him. But considering that he might have been struggling with depression after Míriel’s death and might have been a distant parent during those initial years of Fëanáro’s childhood. I can definitely see him trying to make up for it by overcompensating. Showering Fëanáro with affection and making time for his wants and needs. Even at the expense of his later children. And Fëanáro himself might not have recognized that Finwë was attempting to make up for those years that he couldn’t be a good parent.

If Finwë was struggling with depression here. He would definitely not have told his son. I tend to think that Finwë kept as much of Míriel’s circumstances from Fëanáro. Because it’d have been very easy for the boy to blame himself for his mother’s death and who knows how servants or nobles saw the whole situation. I can also see him wanting to keep Fëanáro in the dark of his own personal issues out of fear and worry that Fëanáro himself might be susceptible to depression as well. Plus fearing that he himself might fade from grief/depression and not wanting his son to have that on his mind.

All of this would lead to Fëanáro not understanding and not taking it well that Finwë’s immediately affectionate with his and Indis’ children. Because the thing here? It’s not Fëanor’s fault. Finwë was likely in a better mental state and was thus capable of involving himself with his younger children from the get-go. Whereas he couldn’t do the same with Fëanor himself at first. 

It’s incredibly likely that Námo had informed Finwë of Míriel’s reluctance to return. Perhaps even told him that it was unlikely that she’d be ready for re-embodiment anytime soon. This may or may not have worsened Finwë’s own condition. I think that he began to lean more on Indis on a more personal level after this. For mental or emotional support. As well as realizing just how much Indis had taken on for his sake (running the palace and household/raising his son in his stead). Which could have very easily led to a far stronger connection and to marriage.

When we add all of the above to Finwë and Indis getting married during Fëanáro’s childhood? It’d be easy to see Fëanáro taking offense to the whole affair. Fëanáro likely knew that dead elves can return from the Halls of Mandos once they’re ready. Indis herself likely told him of this while relating stories of the Valar and perhaps the reasons for why the Eldar left Cuiviénen. A young Fëanáro would have seen this as a betrayal from the woman that had raised him. She’d told him all of his life that his mother loved him and his father. That she’d come back from the Halls to be his mom again and they’d all be happy.

Fëanáro could and would have absolutely taken this badly. And it’d be easy for a young boy to blame his new step-mother/formerly beloved aunt-figure rather than his father in this situation. Especially if he desperately adores his previously distant but still loving father.

This would then lead to Fëanáro resenting Indis. And Indis herself having to deal with the fact that she’s lost Fëanáro’s love and trust. Perhaps hoping that things will get better as time goes on. But knowing that they won’t once Ñolofinwë is born. Because Fëanáro likely took Findis’ birth with some ambivalence. If he was still young then he might be genuinely curious and affectionate with Findis because he hasn’t had time to internalize a lot of his issues. Plus Findis is tiny and pretty and eager to interact with her elder brother.

A brother, however, changes things. And Fëanáro was likely old enough (the equivalent of a Human 9 year old, I’d say) to realize that it changed things. One: Fëanáro’s position as Crown Prince was potentially threatened by Ñolofinwë. It wasn’t really but Fëanáro no doubt had begun to tie his father’s love and affection to the position which would eventually make him possessive of it. Two: Because Fëanáro watched as Finwë eagerly welcomed the arrival of the new baby. Watched as he didn’t struggle to connect or dote on Ñolofinwë the way he did with Fëanáro himself.

I suspect that ultimately led to his resentment of his younger siblings (Ñolofinwë especially). As well as encouraging his belief that Indis had stolen his mother’s chance at life and intended to take everything from him. Thus leading to Fëanáro possessively and almost obsessively defending his mother’s memory.

Just... give me Fëanor in the Halls of Mandos having to come to terms with his childhood and the Indis that had raised him and the woman he’d come to hate for taking his mother’s place in life as wife and mother. Maybe having a long and much needed discussion with Finwë about what occurred during Fëanor’s childhood. Having to realize that nothing had truly changed between them. He’d simply refused to see it for a very long time.

[himluv]

The Whole World Changed

Happy Dragon 4ge Day! Here is a Solavellan oneshot for the prompt “Beginnings”. 

Solas swung his staff and unleashed the well of frigid cold that had gathered in his chest. A jagged chunk of ice hurtled away from him and into the face of a shade. The spirit shrieked and writhed before collapsing away into the frozen earth. Still, after a year, it surprised him how much effort it took to call on his magic. Once it had been less than an after thought, an innate action like blinking.

But now, in the biting chill of the steppes of the Frostbacks, sweat streaked down his temple. Solas was wearing down. He couldn’t keep up fighting the demons and shades that continued to pour from the roiling green rift above them.

Behind him the sharp clack of Varric’s crossbow announced another deadly bolt hurtling across the battlefield. He turned in time to see the arrow find its mark in the head of a Rage demon.

“We can’t keep this up, Chuckles!” Varric hoisted his weapon and took aim, before releasing another bolt.

Solas spun his staff and gritted his teeth. “Just a moment longer.”

“If you say so.” The thunk and shriek of another bolt sinking into flesh.

He couldn’t explain to the dwarf why he believed Cassandra and the prisoner were close. His story about being a hapless wanderer, a self-made scholar of the Fade, was fragile enough. If he admitted that he could sense the mark in the prisoner’s hand drawing nearer, that the power thrummed and called to him, like a child lost in the fog, well…

Even he could not spin that tale in such a way that Varric Tethras, a notable storyteller in his own right, would believe.

He slung another barrage of ice at a shade as it materialized from the rift, but he could only assume his attack landed. The edges of his awareness went white, brighter than the sun reflecting off the snow, so bright that his eyes stung even though there was no visible light.

The prisoner stood atop the wall that directed the battlefield. Her mouth set in a hard line and her gaze dashing over the scene, scrutinizing and strategizing. Her dark hair was cut tight to the sides of her head, with just a fingers’ length on top. It contrasted with her pale, gently freckled skin to make her look almost ill.

Perhaps she was. She had nearly died after all, and with the Breach unstable she was surely in pain. All the more reason to hurry this along.

She dropped down into the snow and withdrew a plain, steel staff from behind her back. Solas had known she was a mage, of course. He’d spent so much time with her, keeping her alive against the fury of his own displaced magic, that he knew a startling amount about her body.

Especially considering he didn’t even know her name.

She swung her staff in a graceful figure-eight, slamming the butt of the weapon into the snow and calling down a series of lightning bolts to help clear the field.

“Quickly,” he shouted, taking her hand. “Before more come through.”

The mark hummed and pulsed at his touch, but she didn’t cry out. He marveled at how warm her skin was against his, at the shock that snapped at him. The remnants of her lightning energy, no doubt.

She didn’t pull away from him, didn’t demand answers. When he held her hand to the air and commanded the energy in her palm to commune with the rift, she watched with an almost sickly fascination. When the rift fought back, lashing out and drawing her in, she gritted her teeth and planted her feet.

But she never made a sound.

Solas found he was desperate to hear her voice. After long days and nights spent watching over her in those dim cells, seeing her washed in that green glow, her eyes a swirling mirror of the rift, he was utterly enchanted.

The rift closed with a crash, and she stared at her hand. It took him a moment to realize that his was still locked around her wrist. He released her immediately, and she blinked as if awaking from a spell.

“What did you do?” Her voice was gentle, a breeze rustling the springtime leaves in Arlathan. It was clear and cool, like stepping through an Eluvian for the very first time. It was prettier than he could have imagined.

He shrugged, feigning a nonchalance he did not feel. “I did nothing,” he said. It was a lie, of course. Without his gentle instruction, the mark would have flickered and throbbed, but never reached out to the rift. If she were clever, and if her magic proved powerful enough, she would continue to close the rifts as if by instinct. The mark knew its purpose now. His purpose.

He smiled at her, a little sheepishly. “The credit is yours.” He willed her to see him as nothing more than a lowly apostate, but she continued to watch him with wide green eyes that saw too much.

She closed her hand into a fist and then stretched it again. “You mean this?” She looked at the mark on her palm with curiosity and a flicker of pain. But not hatred. Not fear. Her dark green vallaslin, a testament to Dirthamen, made it plain to him that she was a spy, and her magic buzzed in a subtle layer around her skin.

A dangerous woman indeed.

He took a step closer to her, his face animated as warmth blossomed on his cheeks. “Whatever magic opened the breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake,” he grinned, “and it seems I was correct.”

“Meaning it could also close the Breach itself,” Cassandra said.

He glanced at the Seeker, struggling to keep his tone neutral. “Possibly.” He returned his attention to the elf before him and a wry smile twisted at his mouth. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

She frowned at that, a delicate crease forming between her black brows. She was uncomfortable with the spotlight, it seemed. More evidence for his spy theory.

Varric interrupted then, in typical Tethras fashion. With drama and crass language, and a noble effort to get under the Seeker’s skin. Once the banter became fairly specific, the elf turned back to face him.

“My name is Solas,” he said, “if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live.”

She tilted her head, but there was no confusion in her eyes.

“He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept,’” Varric said.

“Is that so?” She pursed her lips, her expression owlish and endearing. Like a child determined to solve a particularly complicated puzzle. “You seem to know a great deal about it all.”

Warning bells rang in Solas’ head, but before he could backtrack or cover his competence with a convenient lie, Cassandra spoke.

“Like you, Solas is an apostate.”

It took considerable effort not to roll his eyes. “Technically, all mages are apostates now, Cassandra.” It wasn’t that he disliked the Seeker. She was an honest, devoted, and hard-working woman. But she was also righteous and devout, which made her a threat to not only his plans, but potentially his life.

He turned his attention back to the elf. “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade,” he said. “Far beyond the experience of any Circle Mage.”

A sudden hunger leapt up like flames in her eyes. She looked him up and down, weighing his words against his appearance, measuring him as he had measured her these past few days.

“I come to offer whatever help I can with the Breach. If it is not closed, then we are all doomed, regardless of origin.”

She was surprised at that, which was understandable. The Dalish were hardly known for their neighborly attitudes towards the humans. And the city elves were little better than slaves. Very few elves would sacrifice to help in the struggles of man. And yet, here he was, in the lion’s den.

So much for blending in.

She looked over his shoulder at the furious, roiling sea of green in the sky. She sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

She turned toward the faint trail that led down to a frozen lake, following Varric and Cassandra as they continued to argue. She paused at the top of the path and waited for him to draw even with her.

“Riallan,” she said. “First of Clan Lavellan of the Free Marches.” She blushed, the faintest blossom of color on her cheeks. “Thank you for all your help.”

They watched each other for a moment and then he nodded. “A pleasure to meet you, Riallan.” Then he stepped down the trail and hurried to join the others before they walked into more trouble. It took a moment, but he heard her feet crunch through the snow as she chased after him.

It brought a smile to his face.

[for-the-dales]

Chapter 9: Iron Bull

Chapter 1 (Leliana): https://for-the-dales.tumblr.com/post/185692342364/the-path-forward-chapter-1-leliana

A/N: This chapter contains a reference to self-harm and mutilation. It’s about halfway through the paragraph where Iron Bull makes observations about Ellana having been a slave. You can skip to the end of that paragraph without missing anything important.

         The Iron Bull pitied the poor horse under him as he rode through the Hinterlands. They’d found a work horse big enough to haul his big ass around, but the beast obviously wasn’t used to being ridden. Iron Bull sympathized; long rides were the worst part of any job. It was boring. It did however give him an opportunity to study his new companions. He had volunteered to bring up the rear, Sera rode in front of him, and then the mage, Vivienne, rode next to the boss up front. Those two were so far the most entertaining part of this trip.  They’d spent the whole morning giving each other extremely specific gardening advice, and a child would have been able to figure out that they weren’t talking about gardening. They were so damn pleasant about it too.

           In Viv’s own words, it was delightful.

           There was one thing that did bother The Iron Bull though. It was obvious that the boss was clearly a very skilled mage with a lot of knowledge about some high concept stuff, and as far as he knew, the Dalish didn’t teach that kind of magic. Dalish had always said her clan almost exclusively focused on useful, day-to-day sort of magic. He doubted that included detailed discussions of the origin of spirit magic or the specifics of how exactly a possession works. The boss had some advanced training. He’d never come across a clan that had that kind of training.  She was definitely Dalish though. Really, really Dalish. She spoke more elvhen than anyone he’d ever met, even scholars. Then there were the vallaslin.  He’d never seen a Dalish elf with that extensive tattooing. There were a few too many oddities about the new boss for The Iron Bull to feel completely comfortable around her.  Though to be fair to her, there were very few people he really let his guard down around.

           The Iron Bull looked up when he realized both of the women at the front of their party were looking at him, studying him. It made him a little nervous. Like he’d pissed off his Tama or something. Finally they looked back at each other and Vivienne said, “Perhaps not that level of pruning, but it doesn’t negate my previous point of…”

           The Iron Bull breathed when he realized they weren’t really talking about him. He rubbed the back of his neck. There were a lot of mages in the Inquisition, and he knew his people’s policy on mages was probably going to come up at some point. Fortunately, it hadn’t yet. He’d never really encountered a lot of Sareebas on Par Vollen.  When he got to Saheron he’d fought alongside them and their Arvaraad, but usually just for the duration of a fight or interrogation. Afterwards they’d be herded back to where they were kept. They had kind of creeped him out. He’d felt bad for them, they were born with a shit lot, but some people just were. They were what they were.

           But then he’d think about someone sewing Dalish’s mouth shut.

           The Iron Bull didn’t like to think about that for long.

           He looked back up at the boss. There was a lot about her that was weird, other than her magic. Her halla for one thing. It was fucking huge. Big enough to carry him. He’d never seen one that big at any of the Clans, and Dalish had treated it weird too. All she’d said was that it was special. She’d touched its intricately carved horns then, and he’d never seen her so amazed before. The boss didn’t wear the same robes as other mages either. They were obviously made by the Dalish, but the quality was a whole lot better than any he’d ever said. Krem had talked to some of Josephine’s people and found out that she was from some special Dalish temple, and she was some kind of priest. He hadn’t ever heard of the Dalish keeping active temples before. The boss didn’t come across as a liar, which meant it was probably the truth. The Iron Bull could feel the Ben-Hassrath inside him waking up and being very, very uncomfortable that there were whole groups of Dalish that the Qunari had never even heard of.

           What bothered him the most was that he heard that the other two elves that had followed the Inquisitor to Haven were also priests, and one of them didn’t have any vallaslin. That made him very uncomfortable.

           The Iron Bull had been working on drafts of progress reports to send back home for a week. If there was a secret group of Dalish that didn’t have vallaslin, Dalish that were essentially the Ben-Hassrath of their people if rumors were to be believed, he had to consider that there were some in Par Vollen. But he didn’t have enough information about them yet. Half-true information was worse that no information. The Iron Bull didn’t want to be responsible for a mass culling of Viddathari, particularly if it turned out it hadn’t even been necessary in the first place. He didn’t include the tattoo-less Dalish in his report home.

           Sera groaned loudly, “Are we there yet? My arse hurts!”

           Vivienne scoffed and the boss said, “We should be at the forward camp in under an hour. From there we’ll walk.”

           Sera threw back her head, “Ugh! More trees and bugs and shite!”

           “After we talk to this Warden we’ll head to Redcliffe.” The boss said, trying to mollify the other elf.

           “Yeah!” Sera responded, jerking her head back up, “Where we’re gonna go talk to a bunch of crazy mages who ran away from their Circles!”

           The boss sighed and Vivienne shot Sera a dirty look, but turned to the boss and said, “I really can’t believe I’m saying this but Sera has a point-”

           “Don’t agree with me, I don’t like it.”

           “Fiona and her malcontents aren’t to be trusted. They’ll break their word to us the moment we attempt to establish some semblance of order upon them.”

           The boss sighed, “Maybe, but that’s why we’re going to talk to them. I don’t know Fiona, but I’d like to give her the chance to make her case to us. They may prove to be wonderful allies. You said yourself Lady Vivienne that one of the biggest issues with the break was the timing. Maybe we can help the rebel mages patch up some of the problems that came from such a quick and brutal separation from their traditional role.”

           The boss and Vivienne continued to argue, and The Iron Bull settled back into his saddle. This time Sera was offering the occasional comment, much to the annoyance of Viv. It wouldn’t matter though; nothing those two could say would change the boss’s mind. Wherever she had been trained in magic, The Iron Bull knew where she had been before. He wouldn’t wish slavery on his worst enemy.

           It was in the little things. She always ate her fill at every meal, and while she was a natural caretaker, she was still often first in line. Deprivation has a tendency to make even the most compassionate people selfish. She never took more than her share, but she never took less either. She kept very few personal items, but the few baubles she did carry that meant something to her she always carried. Every time she left her hut or tent, they were tucked into little pockets in her clothing. They’d been bathing in a creek once and The Iron Bull had noticed even then she hadn’t taken off the talisman she wore around her neck. She didn’t trust anything she left anywhere alone to be there when she came back. He also saw the scar then too. It was less noticeable than it likely had been before she’d gotten her tattoos, but it was still there at the top of her left thigh. It was a brand. It had been marred by more cuts overtop, likely self-inflicted after her escape, but he could still see parts of the design beneath. It had healed well, and The Iron Bull suspected magic had been used to help it blend in so well, but it was there. The advanced healing made it harder for him to place exactly how old it was, but The Iron Bull would guess that it occurred when she was a young girl. The other tells gave the same indication. It doesn’t matter how old someone gets, the shit that happens when they’re young stays with them.

           The rebel mages in Redcliffe had fought to escape their cages. The boss would never turn her back on them; no matter what lip service she gave Viv. No matter the danger helping them posed. The Iron Bull was going to have to get used to working with a lot of mages.

------------

           Fucking mages. Redcliffe had been a shit show. He’d laughed it off at the time, but all the mages under the control of an insane Tevinter magister fucking around with incredibly dangerous magic was one of the worst outcomes that could have happened. At least they weren’t all abominations. Yet.

           At least there was more muscle with the group now. Blackwall seemed to be a decent sort, and he did a good job of distracting Sera from her growing panic at the mage situation. He put up a gruff front, but he was a softie. And a liar, but everyone was about something, and so far The Iron Bull didn’t pick up any signs he was the dangerous sort of liar. He’d tell Red if he decided otherwise. Still, he’d keep his eye on him.

           Then there was the pretty Vint mage they’d met in Redcliffe. Too clever for his own damn good, The Iron Bull could already tell. At least the boss seemed just as uncomfortable around him as The Iron Bull, and he could be sure she’d be keeping a very wary eye on him. She’d been on edge since the moment she found out the Vints were there. The Iron Bull had watched her when she sat across the table from the magister. The boss was normally completely in control of her body language and expression, but he didn’t think she really breathed the entire time she sat there. Her face had stayed blank and her spine stayed straight. She did a good job masking her fear, but The Iron Bull saw it, and he was reasonably sure Alexius saw it too. That would make things difficult going forward. At least by the time they met the pretty Vint she had moved on from fear to anger. The Iron Bull half expected her to rip apart the Vint like she had the demons, but she’d kept her cool and he’d promised his help.

           They were riding back to Haven now, this time Blackwall took the lead with Viv and the boss hung back by The Iron Bull. She was quiet, and anyone else might say she looked contemplative, like a leader going over the day’s events and planning for tomorrow. But The Iron Bull could see what it really was hanging on her shoulders, stress. An old stress. He remembered when Gatt came to serve with him on Seheron. Gatt had already done a lot work to work through his past, and The Iron Bull really thought he had been ready to face the Vints without his anger getting in the way. He was proven very wrong the first time they came across a Vint camp holding slaves. Gatt had gotten his hand on the Vint ‘managing’ the slaves, and The Iron Bull didn’t think the Vint’s mother would have recognized the poor bastard after Gatt was done. Gatt fought him on it, but The Iron Bull sent him back home after that. He still didn’t know if Gatt would ever really get past what happened to him when he was young.

           He watched the boss now and realized that, while she put up a good front, she hadn’t move past it either. The Iron Bull was certain that the only thing she was thinking about with her blank face and stiff back was what she had experienced in Tevinter. He didn’t think anyone really moved on from something like that, you just learn how to live with it better.

           “Bull.”

           The boss’s voice pulled The Iron Bull from his thoughts, “Yeah boss, what’s up?”

           “Would you do me a favor?”

           She wasn’t looking at him, instead staring over the top of her Halla’s head, “Depends on the favor boss.”

           She opened her mouth but hesitated a moment before speaking, “When we get back to Haven I am going to meet with the others about how best to handle the situation in Redcliffe. It will almost certainly involve me returning to Redcliffe while it is still occupied by a Tevinter magister and his people. Agreed?”

           “Yeah, almost definitely. You want me to come with you? Watch your back?”

           “No. I want you to go to Crestwood with the Chargers to help clean up undead and reassert order in the region.”

           “Okay,” The Iron Bull hesitated, “what’s the catch?”

           “I need you take Sahren and Rasa with you. I will tell them that I want them to learn more about how the humans live and how to work with non-elvhen. Rasa already has plenty of experience on that front, but they will assume I am sending them to keep and eye on Sahren. You will need to leave quickly, before they catch wind of whatever plan sends me back to Redcliffe. They can’t know about it until it’s resolved, one way or another. Sahren will do what I tell him. Rasa will too but they’ll ask more questions.”

           “Are you sure lying to them is the best solution here?”

           The boss paused a moment, “The Qun doesn’t allow you to raise children, does it Bull?”

           “No boss. But I’ve mentored younger kids before.”

           The boss nodded, “Did you care about them?”

           The Iron Bull thought about Gatt, about how when he first met the elf The Iron Bull could toss him with one hand, “Yeah boss.”

           The boss turned to him, “Is it wrong to not want to put them at risk? To not expose them to even the chance of-”

           The boss stopped talking, but he could see the end of the sentence in her eyes. She looked forward again after that.

           “They’ll be pissed.”

           “Better than enslaved.”

           “The rest of us can keep you all safe, not to mention those two can look after themselves.”

           “I know they can, and I know you’ll do your best, but I can’t risk it.”

           The Iron Bull could hear she was resolute. He knew this was a terrible idea, but she wouldn’t change her mind.

           “Sure thing boss.”

           “Thanks Bull.”

Chapter 10 (Dorian): https://for-the-dales.tumblr.com/post/189537555854/chapter-10-dorian

[whitemoonkitteh-blog]

Goddess Freya

💕Freya is the goddess of love in Norse mythology, but she is also associated with sex, lust, beauty, sorcery, fertility, gold, war, and death. 

💕Freya (“Lady”) is one of the preeminent goddesses in Norse mythology.

💕She’s a member of the Vanir tribe of deities, but became an honorary member of the Aesir gods after the Aesir-Vanir War.

💕Freya is the daughter of Njord however her mother is unknown, but could be Nerthus. She has a twin brother named Freyr. Freya is married to the god Odr, but he somehow disappeared but it might be Odin. Her husband Odr in late Old Norse literature is certainly none other than Odin and accordingly Freya is ultimately identical with Odin’s wife Frigg. She has two children with Odr, their names are Hnoss and Gersemi.

💕Some of the weekdays in Norse mythology originate from some of the gods and goddesses, and Freya might be associated with the day friday, but there are conflicting sources so it could also be the goddess Frigg.

💕Freya is famous for her fondness of love, fertility, beauty, and fine material possessions because of these predilections she’s considered to be something of the “party girl” of the Aesir. In one of the Eddic poems for example, Loki accuses Freya (probably accurately) of having slept with all of the gods and elves including her brother.

💕She’s certainly a passionate seeker after pleasures and thrills, but she’s a lot more than only that. Freya is the archetype of the völva, a professional or semiprofessional practitioner of seidr the most organized form of Norse magick. It was she who first brought this art to the gods and by extension to humans as well.

💕Given her expertise in controlling and manipulating the desires, health, and prosperity of others she’s a being whose knowledge and power are almost without equal.

💕Freya presides over the afterlife realm Folkvangr. According to one Old Norse poem, she chooses half of the warriors slain in battle to dwell there.

💕Seidr is a form of pre-Christian Norse magick and shamanism concerned with discerning destiny and altering its course by re-weaving part of its web. This power could potentially be put to any use imaginable and examples that cover virtually the entire range of the human condition can be found in Old Norse literature.

💕In the Viking Age, the völva was an itinerant seeress and sorceress who traveled from town to town performing commissioned acts of seidr in exchange for lodging, food, and often other forms of compensation as well. Like other northern Eurasian shamans, her social status was highly ambiguous. She was by turns exalted, feared, longed for, propitiated, celebrated, and scorned.

💕Freya’s occupying this role amongst the gods is stated directly in the Ynglinga Saga, and indirect hints are dropped elsewhere in the Eddas and sagas. For example, in one tale we’re informed that Freya possesses falcon plumes that allow their bearer to shift his or her shape into that of a falcon.

💕While the late Old Norse literary sources that form the basis of our current knowledge of pre-Christian Germanic religion present Freya and Frigg as being at least nominally distinct goddesses, the similarities between them run deep. Their differences, however, are superficial and can be satisfactorily explained by consulting the history and evolution of the common Germanic goddess whom the Norse were in the process of splitting into Freya and Frigg sometime shortly before the conversion of Scandinavia and Iceland to Christianity (around the year 1000 CE).

💕Freya and Frigg are similarly accused of infidelity to their (apparently common) husband. Alongside the several mentions of Freya’s loose sexual practices can be placed the words of the medieval Danish historian Saxo Grammaticus, who relates that Frigg slept with a slave on at least one occasion. In Lokasenna and the Ynglinga Saga, Odin was once exiled from Asgard, leaving his brothers Vili and Ve in command. In addition to presiding over the realm, they also regularly slept with Frigg until Odin’s return. Many scholars have tried to differentiate between Freya and Frigg by asserting that the former is more promiscuous and less steadfast than the latter, but these tales suggest otherwise.

💕Her emblem is the necklace Brisingamen.

💕Hers is the magic of reading runes, trancing, and casting spells. She is said to have taught Seidr to Odin.

💕She owns a falcon cloak, takes dove form, rides in a chariot drawn by two cats, or rides a boar.

💕As leader of the Valkyries, she takes half those slain in battle and is traditionally associated with death and sexuality.

💕She weeps tears of gold, which become amber, called "Freya's Tears". A kenning for amber. When she could not find her husband Odr, Freya shed tears of gold. The tears that hit trees turned into amber.

💕Freya is incredibly beautiful and she has many admirers, not just among the gods and goddesses but also among the dwarves and giants. She loves jewelry and other fine materials and she has quite often used her beauty to get the jewelry she desires. A big passion for poems and loves to sit and listen to songs for many hours. 

💕Freya is living in Asgard (the home of the gods), the name of her house is Sessrumnir and it is located by the field Folkvangr which means “field of the host”, “people field”, or “army field”. It is a place where half of the people who die in a battle go for the afterlife, while Odin will receive the other half. Freya is always given the first choice among the brave warriors, after she had picked the ones she wanted, the rest were sent to Odin.

💕Freya loves to travel and she would sometimes take a ride in her chariot. She is often depicted riding her golden chariot through the skies, the chariot pulled by two large blue cats who were a gift from the Norse god Thor. She was also able to fly by using her cloak of falcon feathers, which she willingly loaned out to the other gods and goddesses in Asgard, when they needed to fly to one of the worlds in a hurry. Freya also has a boar named Hildisvini “battle swine” which she rides when she is not using her cat-drawn chariot. It is also said to be Freya’s human lover, ottar in disguise, and that is the reason why Loki consistently accuses her of being immoral by riding her lover in public.

💕Freya chastised Thor soundly one morning for awakening her from her beauty sleep with his boisterous and noisy preparations to "go fishing" for a sea dragon. While he was on the way to his fishing spot, Thor kept hearing lovely song-like noises that seemed to be lulling him to sleep. Stopping to investigate the source of the odd sounds, he found them coming from a nest of mewing blue kittens being tended by a tomcat. The sound that Thor had heard was the male cat singing to the kittens, "sleep, sleep, my dear little ones". Thor suggested (in forceful terms) that the cat stop singing the lullaby and the cat sassed him back, suggesting that Thor had no idea how difficult it was for a single-parent male to rear his children and asking if he knew any women who would be willing to take them in. Immediately Freya came to mind and Thor agreed to take them to her. Like all cats, this one was not quick to show appreciation and added that being blue,  they were very unique cats and deserved an especially fine home. Thor took offense at the comment and thundered back at the cat who, not the least impressed, bared his claws and then turned into a bird and flew away. Kindly Freya was enchanted with Thor's present and did the kittens honor by letting them accompany her on her daily rounds across the sky.

💕She was also called upon to comfort those who were dying, to ease their transition into Valhalla ("the otherworld"), serving as a guide and companion on the journey to Valhalla for many Viking heroes who had died nobly.

💕When Freya and the Valkyries rode forth on their missions, their armor caused the eerily beautiful flickering light that we know as the Aurora Borealis or Northern Lights.

💕Freya and Odr were wed, but soon after their wedding Odr disappeared and all feared that he was dead, perhaps killed by the ruling deities for disobeying their orders. Freya was distraught and cried tears of gold, but refused to accept that he was dead. Putting on a magical cloak made of falcon feathers that allows the wearer to fly across vast distances very quickly, she rose into the sky and searched all over the earth for him.

💕Indeed, Odr had not died but had been banished and lost at sea. When Freya found him he had already degenerated into a sea monster. Hideous as he appeared, Freya stayed by his side and comforted him. When someone stumbled upon the sea monster and killed him, Freya was enraged and threatened to take her revenge for the slaying the most noble of the gods.  Fortunately it all worked out as Odr was admitted to Valhalla even though he had not died in battle, and was allowed to have conjugal visits from Freya so that the two were never separated by his death.

💕Usually depicted as a strawberry blonde with stunning blue eyes, none could resist her. To make matters even worse, she possessed apparel that made her irresistible to men. A magickal necklace reputedly made of amber and rubies that was called a "Brisings" or "Brisingamen".

💕Freya had left it a bit late to leave her friend's house to start home. The sun set, and it began to snow. Soon she was becoming disoriented and frost-bitten. Luckily she was found by four dwarves who rescued her and took her to their home. The dwarves were named "North, South, East, and West". Freya volunteered to pay them for their hospitality and the four dwarves cheerfully agreed saying that they would like to be repaid by having her sleep with each of them for one night. Freya wasn't at all interested and promptly declined. Until she saw the incredibly beautiful necklace that they had just made. She had to have it and offered to return after the storm and pay for it in gold. They may have been dwarves, but they weren't stupid. They told her it was not for sale at any price, but countered with an offer that they would be delighted to simply give it to her if she were willing to pay their price for her room and board during the storm. When Freya returned home after the storm subsided, she was wearing the stunning "Necklace of Desire", "Brisingamen", or "The Necklace of the Brisings".

💕The goddess Freya's passions were abundant, vigorous, and unrestrained.  Clothed or not, she is usually shown in sensual poses.

💕Freya is associated with all female animals, especially domestic animals in heat or giving birth. She has several specific animal associations, as well, each of which illuminate some aspect of her power.

💕One of Freya's titles is "Mare of the Vanir", giving her a connection with horses and emphasizing her role as a fertility goddess.

[happyorogeny]

The Gossip Chapter 10

(~3800 words)(Illidan, Kael’thas, Rommath)(tw violence, near drowning, substance abuse like behaviours)

Rommath didn’t get the chance to go challenge Akama over what, exactly, he’d said. Kargath stood and cried out what sounded like a ritual challenge. Rommath wasn’t quite sure of the correct response, but he found the nature of these things tended to hold true across all languages and instantly snapped back a classic Sin’dorei acceptance, to many delighted ohhs and ahhs from the surrounding crowd.  

Rommath was ready to start there and then- only nobles needed to wait until dawn to get their act together- but apparently the orcs had regulations about this kind of thing. Five of the elders immediately called out for a halt, bringing both him and Kargath to a rather abrupt stop. Wait, they could just challenge their leaders decisions openly like this and it brought everything to a standstill? How did they ever get anything done?

The issue of his obvious illness was raised, rapidly followed by whether or not an underling could accept a challenge on behalf of their prince. He bristled as one rather withered looking man waved a cane at him.

“Tis a mage. It’s not right to fight a skinny mage.”

“I am not skinny!”

The woman who had handed him a mug when he first entered the hall appeared at the old man’s elbow.

“The elves tend towards a slender frame when compared to ourselves. That might well be normal for him.”

This garnered him a number of sympathetic glances, and three elderly women near him put their heads together and started to speak rapidly to one another. Some interactions transcended all language barriers. He wasn’t getting out of here without a meal.

It was immediately decided that the circle needed to be an oval, so that Rommath had enough time to get his spells ready, and that he also needed a second and at least one assistant. No, he most certainly was not going to drag any poor unfortunates into this nonsense!

“There’s no need for such theatrics. I’m a busy man. Let us end this.”

“It wouldn’t be fair. Name your second.”

Romamth flatly refused. And it was at this point that Akama decided to get involved.

“Why not that courtesan you spend so much time with?”

Rommath felt himself pale. Mei’le was quick with her little knife but she wasn’t a fighter, not the way the average orc was, and Xi’an was a scholar. Neither of them were fit for this kind of work. Let him send for Kayn if he had to. But he was gone, and though he knew the second in command of the guards her name quite slipped his mind- worrying in and of itself, for his memory was usually ironclad- and the courtesans were too brave for their own good, and the courier was sent to summon them before he could stop them.

So now he had to worry about that, too. Great. He already had precisely one white hair at the back of his head and he wanted no more.

Mei’le appeared in the most practical blouse she owned and couldn’t quite resist cracking a number of lewd jokes as she offered to help him grease up. Xi’an couldn’t quite keep the worry off his face, but was clever enough to hide his expression with a fan.

“He’s huge.”

“I’ve fought larger.”

They both shot him an odd look. Honestly. Folk tended to assume an affinity for the magical arts left someone physically inept. As if! In fact if a person was anything like himself, they immediately noticed such a weakness and took steps to render themselves adept in physical combat. A feature that had led to the assassin’s guild in Qual’thalas refusing to accept contracts on him. Rommath was bad for business, they said. Made them look incompetent.

“Please let me fetch one of the soldiers, or a duelist-”

“No.” He kept his response short. More rushing around would only weaken his position, and possibly his ability to actually fight this fool. Besides, he needed to concentrate on this potion.

The Sin’dorei at large tended to disregard potions. It had always struck him as strange, given how much they loved their cooking, their weaving, their brewing. A potion was all these things with extra arcane added in. Everyone ought to have excelled in potion craft, but no, and now they looked at him askance as he called for a vintner, for the tea set from the Den, for coffee and a number of dried herbs, and laid them all out with the four multicoloured flasks he brought with him wherever he went.

Halduron had called him paranoid for bringing these to Outland. Just as well he had nerves of glass. He fussed at Xi’an and Mei’le until they were opposite each other, one with the wine and one with the coffee. This had to be done just so or it all tended to go a little askew. Himself and Kael’thas had designed and perfected this potion themselves, in order to constantly function through nightly study sessions and ornate balls and magi exams that had made up their life for so long.

He set the four flasks around an empty carafe and stood. His magic grumbled. It was as weary as he was, and to think he would have no rest when he returned, only a million jobs needing personal attention and-

Come on. Once more into the breach.

The courtesans poured together and he brought his hands up, lifting the potions out of the flasks and weaving all six streams into one with a quick motion. It was somewhat rewarding to have the crowd gasp and cheer at such a complex display, but the bulk of his attention was focused on the potion.

It was icy cold as he drank it, enough to make his stomach clench. He made himself relax, finishing it to the last drop. Not a pleasant draught. Not something he liked to rely on. But it was perfectly suitable for situations like this, or perhaps to bolster himself and Kael’thas through their final mage exams. All at once his lungs and muscles forgot he was yet recovering from an illness. So this was what it felt like to breathe easily once more!

He would of course suffer for this over the next few days. The last time he’d done this he’d ended up bedridden, never mind while still unwell. But such were the requirements of duty. All going well, Kael’thas would arrive back any minute now and stop this before it started. He had an instinctive sense of dramatic timing.  

He waited for the doors to burst open.

Nothing.

His ears went flat with annoyance. Fine.

The orc’s had an insistence upon fighting shirtless and greased. This struck him as profoundly unsportsmanlike. Was it not a show of skill to get a grip on someone they couldn’t escape from?

He didn’t particularly like disrobing in public. But so be it.

The angular scarlet tattoos on his arms remained still, vivid and unyielding. But they were the ones he’d inked last, after he perfected the process. Those geometric patterns on his chest, his stomach, his back and his neck, they moved. Not with the fluid grace or sinuosity of living things but in a strange and fractal pattern, spinning and splitting in angles and lines, hexagons and whirling squares that swelled and merged to form shapes anew. He’d used his favorite sewing needle to etch them and thus enchanted himself quite without realizing.

An extremely intricate crosswork of triangles unfurled across his chest and stomach as he tucked his hair into a bun. They fit together as close as armour and nearly resembled the scales of a dragon.

Kargath’s second was the very same woman who’d pushed a drink on him as he came in, alerting him to the chalk circle. She glared at him from across the battlefield. Anyone else would have thought it a glare, at least. But he was a gaze, very intent and very focused. A spotlight rather than a glow.

Rommath suddenly felt himself in the presence of a fellow spirit.

What is it? What are you trying to show me?

She inclined her head, just slightly.

Akama? What about him?

He had no time to demand clarification, for the orc managing the fight slapped the ground to signal the start of the match. Rommath startled everyone by charging Kargath head on, ducking under his guard and punching him in the kidneys. The trick with a big fellow like this was to get in close, where they couldn’t use their long reach and greater strength to full advantage. Distantly, he heard Xi’an whoop.

Kargath’s back was covered in stitches. Poorly done ones at that- the healer mustn’t have liked him very much. Or perhaps he was the kind of fool who would barely give a healer time to do their job.

“So, the lapdog has teeth.”

Rommath resisted the urge to bite him in retaliation and skipped back out of range as the orc closed on him. He was damned fast for such a big man.

“Why did you try to lure Prince Kael’thas here for a duel?” A damned silly idea that was, in and of itself.

“He dishonours us with his behaviour.”

“What are you talking about!?”

Kargath took advantage of his good will by tripping him and Rommath suddenly found himself pinned.

Spending so much time around Kael’thas had caused his magic to shift, subtly, over the centuries. The princes magic was gregarious thing, mingling with the powers of nearby mages and altering them, if mildly. Kargath recoiled with a curse as he burst into crackling flames, jerking loose.

“I fear we are been set at each others throats, to weaken the Temple.” He squinted meaningfully at Akama.

“The shaman is more honourable than all of you combined! I’ve noticed how the orcs are abandoned but for war- we’ll not become the fodder of another demon!”

“There is no secret from which you are excluded!”

“No? Then where is the Highlord? Where is the Prince?”

Mei’le’s face slipped into his mind.

“They’ve eloped.”

Kargath blinked, but he didn’t laugh or instantly become suspicious. What in the name of the Sunwell were they doing, that this was a commonly held notion? Rommath pushed his advantage.

“Think, why would they vanish alone in the dead of night with no guard?”

Kargath frowned, face suddenly thoughtful, and then twisted so that half his stitches burst loose. Rommath winced even as the referee called a halt.

“Go, take water,” Kargath said, voice meaningful. For Akama was slipping away down a side passage at a remarkably quick pace for an old man with a limp. Despite his growing suspicion Rommath couldn’t help but admire the cloak. It was very finely made, indeed, and…

He frowned. The…wool didn’t just unravel when cut like that. It frayed as well, turning into a fluffy mass.

While illusions weren’t his favourite thing to dabble in, Rommath had made it his business to be competent in the eight major schools of magic, as well as having a strong understanding of the magics utilized by sorcerers, druids, shamans.

This felt wrong.

That wasn’t Akama.

…

“FOOL! YOU’VE FLOWN INTO MY TRAP!”

Illidan, already in mid-air so as to avoid Maiev’s attack, started as the demonic voice boomed through his head. A burning purple shape hurling itself out of the lake at him and he recognized the Nathrezim immediately, having killed this one once already. Xas’icus was a brute and an assassin, somewhat heftier than him and infinitely more awkward in the air on account of his short wings. What was that wretched creature doing here-

Ah. Demonic politics. The council of incubus was low-ranking in the Legions army, usually the servants and footsoldiers to the shivarra and the succubi. Ma’niqu had been sent after him in an effort to boost their reputation. But clearly the Nathrezim wanted the honour of killing him for themselves, and had stationed an operative here to snatch the prize away. All the information he had about the demon flicked to the forefront of his mind in a matter of seconds and he forgot Maiev, forgot about everything as he turned to face the attack.

“YOU WILL DIE HERE, ALONE-”

Kael’thas knocked the demon out of mid-air with a spectacularly explosive fireball, cackling as it went skidding over the ice. Maiev turned her furious gaze on the demon, then to him, then to Kael’thas, briefly torn in her choice of targets.

“Get in line, demon! His head is mine!”

“What fool are you to come between the Legion and their prey?!” Xas straightened out of the snow and snarled as a dozen arrows rebounded off his armour and sank deep into the joints of his wings. Illidan knew a surge of glee. Let them have at each other and he would very graciously bow out, snatch Kael’thas away from this nonsense and dash through the temple towards home. But sadly it wasn’t to be. The skin of his arms prickled in warning of portal magic and he flicked himself away as Xas tried to cut him in half.

Imbecile. That hadn’t worked the last three times he had tried it.

And Illidan, much to his frustration, still hadn’t figured out precisely how he did it. But now an opportunity presented itself. For when he fed on demons it sated more than his hunger for magic- he devoured fragments of their memories, of their spells. And Xas was very adept with his portal work.

He dived upon Xas as the demon left the ground, harrying him over the ice, and behind him metal sang as Kael’thas unsheathed his sword and turned to face the wardens.

…

“Ladies, please! There’s plenty of me to go around!”

The wardens plainly didn’t appreciate his attempts at politeness for he almost immediately lost an eye. He hurled a fireball at the offending warrior, then threw himself flat and rolled up as metal hissed through the air behind him. These Kaldorei threw the circular glaives one handed as if they weighed nothing, bouncing them off the heavy armour of their mounts so that they ricocheted in from unexpected angles. The women themselves attacked him head on with short blades so that he was in a virtual vortex of weaponry, testing his wards and armour for weak points. A distant part of him now understood why Illidan had so many scars.

A trio of throwing knives bounced off his wards, striking sparks. One of the wardens let loose a ringing cry and bulled through his ward on saberback. So determined was she that she managed to knock him across the head before his magic threw her back. The spell after that was almost instinctive, flash heating the upper layer of ice so that it burst into steam around them. The scalding cloud was harmless to him, and it gave him a moment to breathe as the wardens twitched back.

Illidan was brawling with the demon in mid-air, beating it around the head with his wings. The dreadlord tried to shout some spell at him only for Illidan to immediately kick it in the midriff, winding it and bullying him back further. Illidan was much more adept in the air to Kael’thas eye, his wings rotating in their sockets to pull him just out of range before diving back into the fray. One ear tilted towards him and he half turned, hovering.

Idiot. He wouldn’t be able to disengage without leaving his back completely open to attack.

“I’m fine! Kill it!”

And then he had no more time for the largest warden shook herself and leaped through the steam to chase him. He gave her his most dazzling smile as he moved back, step by step, steady and sweet as a dance. Five. He counted only five of them and their mounts prowling along in the edges of his vision. Where was Maiev-

Something smacked into his side. He looked down in confusion. A feathered shaft jutted out of his ribs, gleaming with anti-magic runes. His armour had slowed it, but not enough to-

Ah. There was the pain.

He blinked away from them, thirty feet to the left. Maiev observed him as he tried to force himself upright and stumbled. Content that he wasn’t going to escape her, she turned back to study Illidan. The other wardens eyed him briefly and came to a swift decision amongst themselves, for two of them drew long, incredibly sharp knives from their belts and moved towards him, one circling left and one circling right, before their outlines blurred and vanished into the snow. Ah, yes, all the night elves could do that. Unfortunate.

Plainly they thought to kill him and let Illidan and the demon maul one another, before sweeping in to finish them off. And to think folk had the nerve to call the Sin’dorei arrogant.

Gritting his teeth, he wrenched the arrow out and burned the wound closed in one swift motion. For a minute the agony rendered him nearly blind. That was a lot of blood. And that piece of flesh there rather seemed like it should be inside him. Perhaps this wasn’t his best plan.

Illidan seemed to have gained the upper hand. Having driven the dreadlord through the air above the lake he now harried the demon against the mountainside, pinning him against the temple steps. His wings were spread wide and his tattoos blazed as streamers of green mana flowed from the demon into him.

He was eating it.

Ah. No wonder he hadn’t wanted breakfast, part of him thought distantly. He’d probably eaten enough of Ma’niqu to keep himself going for a few days.

Now that he was distracted, Maiev whistled to her sisters and they all took off across the ice. A nasty trio of daggers gleamed between her fingers. He gathered himself, blinked forwards and bashed into Maiev’s shoulder as she threw her weapons, sending them skittering over the ice.

“May I have this dance?”

She punched him in the head and only his wards protected him from a cracked skull.

“Get out of my way and I may allow you to leave.”

The hell she would.

“Illidan comes with me.”

“You realize that isn’t Illidan, do you not?”

“If that’s the case you really ought to go figure out where he really is.”

“I would rather he didn’t claim another victim, even a Highbourne as wretched as yourself.” Maiev swayed slightly on her feet, testing his reactions. Her sisters circled past, ignoring them, racing to attack Illidan while he was distracted.

“Illidan? You have houseguests.” Aloud he said;

“The term you’re looking for is Sin’dorei, there’s an emphasis on the S.” He barely deflected the boot dagger she tossed towards his eyes and had to lock Felo’melorn into the grooves of her vambraces to prevent her scalping him. Maiev leaned into him, unbelievably and inevitably strong.

“He’s corrupted, just the same as everyone that touches fel and thinks they can master it.” She spoke with an absolute certainty and Kael’thas felt himself quail a little. He had suspected as much, deep down. Fel magic was famed for its corruptive qualities, and elves well known to be particularly weak to its lure. And Illidan had been alone with that and nothing else for endless ages.

“If you’ll forgive me saying so, ma’am, you may not be the most reliable source of information.” But it was important to present a united front. He radiated enough heat to melt the outer layers of Maiev’s armour and it trickled down his sword, dripped onto his hands, into his hair. He was briefly glad for his magic, protecting him from burns.

Maiev had no such power and she didn’t seem to care a whit.

“You think he’d want to be a vector for such a thing? It’s a mercy to kill him. More than he deserves.”

Demonic energies were well known to drive the bearer to madness. Illidan might well believe he was battling the Legion, rather than spreading it’s contagion to many other worlds. That would explain why he had yielded to Kil’jaden so easily, how the demon overlord had found them in the first place. Why he allowed demons into the Temple.

And yet. He hesitated in teaching the Sin’dorei how to feed on fel, concerned they wouldn’t be able to control it. That seemed somewhat counterproductive, did it not? And Kael’thas had touched the magic and minds of creatures corrupted by fel. All of them lived in a state of chaos, a churn of energies. Not the sensations he’d felt from Illidan last night, an orderly if idiosyncratic library.

“He tells you he can control it, promised that there’s a cure for your hunger? Lies. It ate him up from the inside just the same as his mother, the same as you will be in time. You are lost.”

Lost? Did she think he would be here if he had any other choice?

He had always had something of a temper, but largely controlled it. A fire mage with a hot temper was too much of a cliché for him to play into. But all at once it came bursting out.

“You don’t remember, do you? I wrote you letters pleading with you to take and train some of the women, so that they’d have food and shelter.” Rage flared through him. “Illidan brought aid and rescue where you and your precious Kaldorei would have let us hang, where the humans let us starve. We needed refuge and in the grimmest hour of our existence everyone turned away.”

And he still couldn’t understand it. What had they ever done that was so wrong that the whole world abandoned them? No sympathy for them, no compassion, nothing.

It was the oldest damn trick in the book, yet he fell for it. Maiev suddenly stopped pushing him back and he lurched forwards towards her. She grabbed his ears and spun him to slam into the ice, pressing a knee into his chest. It splintered beneath him. Icy water soaked into his hair, slipped around his throat as she shoved his head underwater. He slammed the pommel into her helm to no avail, and she tilted her head so as to catch it against her shoulder so he couldn’t strike her again. Her hand tightened around his gorget as he boiled the water around them, trying to clear it away from his face.

And then suddenly the pressure was gone and he was falling, through a portal, to land completely winded on the ground. Illidan’s voice echoed in his mind as he rolled to avoid a deluge of lake water.

“Kael’thas!” And he recoiled at the sound, half-deafened. Illidan rattled off a stream of incomprehensible demonic. Since when could he make portals!? That would have made this whole thing so much easier!

He lurched upright, coughing, in time to see the portal snap closed.

[frckld]

Unraveled [2]

[Read also on /r/HFY] "You, shiny hill?" the chieftain spoke, Imperial Common rough through his mouth. Diana simply nodded. "How long there?"

"Three weeks," she answered back truthfully. He was looking at her with an ever-so-slightly raised eyebrow -- at least, she thought that was supposed to be a raised eyebrow. It was hard for her to tell with only the light of the campfire illuminating his face.

"Why watch?" he bristled. She heard the rumblings in Orcish from the others behind him, statements of distrust that translated perfectly in her mind; it took a fair bit of her mental energy to try to not show that she could understand their language -- it was her only ace in the hole.

"Curiosity, mostly." She could see that her reply caught them all off-guard, but it seemed to only amuse the chieftain.

"You enjoy watch us?"

"Well, 'enjoy' may be a bit of a stretch, but it's definitely not boring if that's what you're asking."

When the chieftain started laughing, she joined him -- if softly. "Book girl enjoy staring, yes?"

"Book girl?"

"You learner, yes? Speak like other learners."

Diana couldn't stop herself from raising her own eyebrows in shock at that -- there had never been a single implication in any of the talks that she'd had that anyone had visited any Orc tribes before. At the very least, she knew that they understood what a scholar was. "Is this really a good idea?" she heard one of the Orcs with an ax lean in to whisper to the chief. "Alice..."

The chief shook his head in a way that silenced his brother in arms before they could continue. "Even if she is armed, there's only so many of us she could kill -- and if she wanted us dead, she would have fled. Alice may have tried to tell us about what humanity could be like -- but if they were all like that, she herself would not have found her way to us."

The revolver against Diana's back weighed heavy in her thoughts at the mention of being armed. She tried to just keep a smile on her face, tilting her head ever-so-slightly at the discussion of the Orcs as if she didn't understand. "Is there a problem?"

"Human work elves, yes?"

"The elves were the first to try to help us out when we arrived, yes."

"Human know problem with elves."

With a deep breath in, Diana nodded. "As much as I can, I think. I've found the story the elves tell to be... rather biased, I feel."

"Not first human say that," the chieftain responded. He seemed to sigh as he did, though it was hard to tell if that was just how they breathed or if it was deliberate, and he shook his head. "We meet one before. Say story elves and Orc remind her of home."

Furrowing her brow, Diana nodded once more. "I... never really lived on the other side of the stitch, but... I can see it."

"You live here most?"

"My father was responsible for a lot of the early communications. We were among some of the first people to live on the mainland here, too. Or... so we were told, it seems."

"Metal arm." She could feel it lock up. "From then?"

Tensely, she nodded.

"Do blame Orcs?"

For what little it could do, she tried to take in a deep breath to steady her breathing -- had it always been this shaky in her chest? With far too much effort, she managed to squeeze out, "No. I don't."

"Interesting. I would." There was a pause, the chieftain looking back to the other Orcs behind him. They seemed to shrug, and he laughed. "Much strength in young one. You come eat. Meet daughter. She able talk better."

She'd never expected something so simple as meat to taste so good, but three weeks of shitty food had really done a number on her ability to taste. It had been almost to a point where the simple fact that there was seasoning to the stew that had been made almost overwhelmed her poor taste buds. It was spicy in a way that she could only barely comprehend, but out of a mixture of both gratefulness and a desire to never want to have to think about hardtack again, even as she listened around the campfire to the Os laughing about how flushed her face was from the heat. "You'd think she was about to throw up!" she heard one of them call -- and for that alone, she at least let herself slow down a bit. They did have a point.

Diana could feel almost every set of eyes that were bearing down on her, but she did her best to just give herself an air of a naive scholar, a dopey smile broad on her face when she wasn't contorting it to some reaction to the food. Her pack rested on the ground beside where she was sitting; there were several logs that had been flattened just enough to be comfortable to sit on -- and to not roll. From the hill, there'd been many things she would have never noticed if she had made her way down here -- but there was one thing that stood out to her the most.

This camp was heavily overpopulated. She tried to let those worries echo aimlessly in the back of her mind, but there was no way to not -- it wasn't her problem, she knew, she was just a scholar. No matter how many times she tried to remind herself that, it never cleared up. All she was supposed to do was report on the language and culture of Orcs, see how it suggested that they weren't as stupid as elves claimed, and she'd already had ready proof of that. She was more than free to just leave and let it be handled by themselves, and yet --

"Heat good?" someone called from behind her. She'd been left alone at her spot on the bench, with everyone giving her a wide berth -- though, she had shown up rather late for the communal supper, she admitted. Bringing her smile back to her face as best she could, she turned to look at it's source, nodding -- red-faced as she was -- at the chieftain.

"Of the fire or the food?" she clarified, even if she'd already answered.

"Both? Both good?"

Gently, she laughed. "Yeah. Both are wonderful. I'm... beyond grateful."

"Not is problem. Honor smart woman. I found daughter. Name is--" the chieftain had begun to reply, before being cut off as a slightly shorter woman than him -- though still well taller than Diana -- stepped out from ever so slightly behind him. Almost immediately, it was obvious that she wasn't entirely an Orc -- but she kept that comment to herself. It only raised more questions in her mind.

"Elenora. My name is Elenora. And... you are?" she spoke in accented, but almost perfect, English -- itself the language that had formed most of the basis for Imperial Common, though she had to admit that "common" was just a creole (or was it still a pidgin? Were there any primary speakers of the new common tongue here? Diana's mind was drifting, she knew). When her mind stopped letting itself be distracted, she became all too acutely aware of the woman still waiting for her response, with a slightly amused look on her face. "Or... does the cat have your tongue?"

Blanky, Diana managed to ask, "You know what a cat is?" before she rapidly shook her head and replied, "Sorry, no, just got distracted. I'm Diana."

"Diana the scholar! What a wonderful name," Elenora chirped back, a smile bright on her face even with the slight shades of sarcasm that seemed to be steeping her voice. "So my father tells me you need someone to talk to."

"Well..." Diana muttered back, her brow furling -- though her answer seemed to be largely irrelevant, as she watched Elenora sit right beside her regardless. The bowl she held in her lap shook with the force transmitted to the log, almost threatening to spill what remained all over, and she could only squawk somewhat awkwardly and indignantly as she only watched Elenora smile brighter. "I take it I don't have much of a choice?"

"Did you really want to be left alone?" Elenora responded with a loud laugh, shaking her head as she looked over her back. With a simple motion, she shooed her father away, to which, much to Diana's small amusement, he actually did just that. "And pass up the chance to talk to a half Orc who won't immediately gut you in the name of familial honor?"

"Is... that common?"

"Well, I've never met another half Orc, so I can't tell you that, but I can tell you that most orc tribes are steeped in enough honor -- and enough anger at their treatment -- to condemn humans right alongside the Elves."

Diana could only blink a few times at Elenora in response.

"Didn't expect it to be so bad?"

She shook her head no.

"Well, there's the shame of it all. Maybe you'd have better luck with someone who spoke their tongue alongside you, but I guess that won't be happening, miss lonely scholar." Every word that Elenora seemed to bear down with frustration, even as much as she seemed to be dressing it up to be as lighthearted as possible.

"Technically, that... wouldn't be necessary."

"Oh, you mean to tell me you can speak Orcish?" Elenora burst out laughing, shaking her head. "Too small. Have you ever wondered why Imperial Common is so hard for Orcs to speak?"

"I've... had a few guesses."

"Do you want it explained to you, or do you want to figure it out?"

"...Well, you pointed out me being small as a reason why you think I can't speak Orcish, so is Orcish comparatively too deep to be easily spoken?"

"Getting there, but missing something."

"Can't be the vocal cords, as Orcs can make the sounds... does it have to do with the mouth?"

"And to think I was about to kiss you to see if that could help you figure it out," Elenora joked -- was it a joke? Diana couldn't tell, it'd caught her off guard all the same, and she was glad that the spice of the food prevented her face from going any redder -- "but you're correct. Orc tongues are too big to easily make all of the sounds. Skipping words in common makes it easier for Orcs to be able to speak, but..."

"It has the side effect of making them sound like they don't know the language, even if their point is clear."

"Now imagine trying to speak Elvish."

Diana only had limited experience with spoken Elvish -- the Elves were far too glad to just speak common -- but she could shudder all the same as she pictured trying to pronounce the language. From what others told her, French was almost a close language to it, if French had existed in a vacuum for thousands of years in isolated communities with no external trade and had to be spoken to a musical rhythm. "I see. How did you --"

"My mother. She spent five years here figuring out just the basics, writing it all down. She knew what it was like to barely read or write English, and could... relate far too well."

"Where is she now?"

"So eager to get rid of me, huh?"

"I didn't mean it like --"

"Relax, I know. Truth is, no one knows. For Orcs, last names aren't really important, just your community, so all I know is her name was Alice."

Diana bit her tongue. She knew that much. "Do you think she still uses the tribal name, then?"

"Even if she did, it's a matter then of finding anyone who cares enough, never mind that you'd have to speak Orcish."

With a deep breath in, Diana paused. Gently, she then asked, "What's the name of this tribe?"

With a cocked eyebrow, Elenora stated, "It translates to 'of the forgiven'. It changed with my father."

"No, in Orcish."

Rolling her eyes, Elenora -- to the best of her abilities, it seemed -- added, "The Forgiven."

"Of the forgiven, or the forgiven?" Diana replied back.

They both blinked at each other for a few seconds more. Then, Elenora laughed. "It wasn't photographic memory after all."

[lavellanlove]

Meta: city elves vs. flat-ears

City Elves

Elves living in the city would never think to identify themselves as “city elves”. 

To them, they’re just elves.

Even among humans, unless their village/town/city is frequented by Dalish, there would be no purpose for the distinction. Even then, it would be ‘elves’ versus ‘Dalish elves’, as the elves in their immediate environment would be the default in their cognitive schema. 

The only group with reason to distinguish elves from the city as “city elves” would be the Dalish themselves. 

This could either be done innocuously -- a note that an elf’s origin is not of the Dalish -- or as a more intentional effort to distance themselves from their city-dwelling counterparts.

It would be a false equivalency to compare the term ‘city elf’ to the term ‘Dalish’. The nomadic elves of Thedas self-identify as ‘Dalish’ as a demarcation of their unique culture & religious beliefs, whereas the term ‘city elf’ would only be othering to an elf who had only ever thought of all their people as one.

Flat-Ears

Flat-ear, on the other hand, is a derogatory meant to imply that the elf is more like a human than a true elf. 

But it not unique to the Dalish as a term for city elves. 

In fact, Sarethia, the hahren of the Highever Alienage, uses the term to describe those elves born in the city who choose not to live in the Alienage.

This leads me to believe that the term is not a pejorative term for city elf, but rather a relative term for betraying elven culture, however it is defined.

The schism that occurred after the fall of the Dales and the truce with the Chantry left both groups of elves struggling to maintain a sense of identity and develop a new sense of culture. Even ~720 years later, the widespread oppression and persecution of elves has left them continuing that ongoing quest. 

When a Dalish calls someone a flat-ear, it is because they view the willingness to subject themselves to second-class citizenship and mandated Andrastianism a betrayal of their shared heritage. When an elf from the city calls someone a flat-ear, it is because they view the desire to leave a tight-knit community of elves to live among humans an abandonment of elven identity and camaraderie.

(Supporting codices below the cut.)

To illustrate the use of “City Elves”, consider how the codex of the same name changes in DA:O based on origin (bolding is mine):

Human author, Non-elf!Warden codex text:

When the holy Exalted March of the Dales resulted in the dissolution of the elven kingdom, leaving a great many elves homeless once again, the Divine Renata I declared that all lands loyal to the Chantry must give the elves refuge within their own walls. Considering the atrocities committed by the elves at Red Crossing, this was a great testament to the Chantry's charity. There was one condition, however--the elves were to lay aside their pagan gods and live under the rule of the Chantry.

Some of the elves refused our goodwill. They banded together to form the wandering Dalish elves, keeping their old elven ways--and their hatred of humans--alive. To this day, Dalish elves still terrorize those of us who stray too close to their camps. Most of the elves, however, saw that it was wisest to live under the protection of humans.

And so we took the elves into our cities and tried to integrate them. We invited them into our own homes and gave them jobs as servants and farmhands. Here, in Denerim, the elves even have their own quarter, governed by an elven keeper. Most have proven to be productive members of society. Still, a small segment of the elven community remains dissatisfied. These troublemakers and malcontents roam the streets causing mayhem, rebelling against authority and making a general nuisance of themselves.

--From Ferelden: Folklore and History, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

Dalish author, Mahariel!Warden codex text:

It is hard to tell our children about those of our people who have decided to live in the shemlen cities. They ask, "Why would anyone want to be treated like that?" And sometimes I do not know what to say. I do not understand it myself. They were freed, but they have returned to live in the service of their former masters. They are housed like animals in walled sections of the shemlen cities. They do the meanest of tasks and are rewarded with nothing. Why? I do not know.

We tell the children that the elvhen are strong, that we are a proud people, but they hear of these city elves who choose to toil under the humans' heavy hand. How do we teach them pride when they know there are others who would allow themselves to be trampled into the dust? So we tell them that these city elves are to be pitied, that they have given up on their people, given up their heritage. We tell them that some people are so used to being controlled that, when freed, they know not what to do with themselves. They are weak and afraid--afraid of the unfamiliar, afraid of our life of wandering. Above all, they are afraid even to hope that one day we may have a home of our own.

--Gisharel, keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish elves.

Alienage author, Tabris!Warden codex text:

The humans tell tales of Andraste, and to them, she was a prophet. To our people, however, she was an inspiration. Her rebellion against Tevinter gave our people a window through which to see the sun, and we reached toward it with all our strength. The rebellion was brief but successful; even after the death of the prophetess, we fought on for independence as the human Imperium began to crumble. In the end, we won freedom and the southern land known as the Dales, and we began the Long Walk to our new homeland.

There, in the Dales, our people revived the lost lore as best we could. We called the first city Halamshiral, "end of the journey," and founded a new nation, isolated as elves were meant to be, this time patrolled by an order of Emerald Knights charged with watching the borders for trouble from humans.

But you already know that something went wrong. A small elven raiding party attacked the nearby human village of Red Crossing, an act of anger that prompted the Chantry to retaliate and, with their superior numbers, conquer the Dales.

We were not enslaved as we had been before, but our worship of the ancient gods was now forbidden. We were allowed to live among the humans only as second-class citizens who worshiped their Maker, forgetting once more the scraps of lore we had maintained through the centuries.

--"The Rise and Fall of the Dales," as told by Sarethia, hahren of the Highever Alienage

Alienage author, Codex entry: Alienage culture

There have always been alienages. They have been around for as long as elves and shems have lived in the same lands. Ours isn't even the worst: They say that Val Royeaux has ten thousand elves living in a space no bigger than Denerim’s Market. Their walls are supposedly so high that daylight doesn't reach the vhenadhal until midday.

But don't be so anxious to start tearing down the walls and picking fights with the guards. They keep out more than they keep in. We don't have to live here, you know. Sometimes a family gets a good break, and they buy a house in the docks, or the outskirts of town. If they're lucky, they come back to the alienage after the looters have burned their house down. The unlucky ones just go to the paupers' field.

Here, we're among family. We look out for each other. Here, we do what we can to remember the old ways. The flat-ears who have gone out there, they're stuck. They'll never be human, and they've gone and thrown away being elven, too. So where does that leave them? Nowhere.

--Sarethia, hahren of the Highever alienage

Dwarven author, Codex entry: Common curses

So, lad—you're getting your sight straight in your first days topside, so here's some advice: you're not just trading with kin. You're selling to all kinds of folk now, with different customs and tongues. As I've learned here, the most important part of any language is the cussing. It gets you trust. It gets you coin.

Most elves you see in the city are servants, and a human looking for a fight might call one "knife-ear." If the elf returns with "shem" or "quick," blood's about to spill. Those Dalish elves use "flat-ear" to insult the ones who live with humans—like our unenlightened kin below calling us Stone-blind up here.

Even the humans who pray to some woman they burned alive—and her god they call "the Maker"—say something when they knock their shins. It's a curse to say "Andraste’s..."—well, any body part, really. "Maker's breath!" might get you in with a swaggering fool, but the lady priests won't be pleased. Chantryfolk also don't like mages. If you hear a mage called a "spellbind," hide anything flammable.

Then there are all those beautiful words that just mean "Sod it!" When that loose cobblestone flips and the ankle cracks, an elf will cry, "Fenedhis!" while a human might, "Damn it!" A Qunari will mumble, "Vashedan!" I've even heard a couple Tevinters yell, "Kaffas!"

If any of these get aimed at you, hopefully all that gets killed is a sale.

—Note from Hardal, a surface merchant dwarf, to an apprentice adjusting to life outside Orzammar

[hogwartslessons-blog]

Mythology| Thursday. July 6th, 2018| Lesson Thirteen: Celtic Pantheon, Otherworlds, Seers, and Enchantments

Pantheons and Great Families

All of the mythologies we have covered in this class have had a very distinct pantheon. Some of the names may have changed or been adapted to fit local history, but they have remained more or less the same. This pattern changes with the Celtic people.

One very important thing to remember when discussing Celtic myths is that the Celtic people migrated significantly during their time, and therefore there are three distinct areas - often with distinct stories and pantheons as well. These areas are Ireland, Wales, and the mainland - now parts of modern-day France. The two most prevalent pantheons are the descendants of Dagda, also known as Daghda (Ireland) and The Children of Don (or Donn - Welsh), which are depicted below.

 Ultimate Encyclopedia of Mythology

Some of you may be pondering why these charts seem shallow as compared to some of the other civilizations we have covered in this class. The truth is, they are much more complicated. Throughout many stories the genealogy of the gods is discussed, and these stories quite frequently contradict each other. There is so much contradiction, in fact, that scholars simply cannot agree on one interpretation over another. As such, there is not a genealogical chart that I can show you that will work for all of the stories we will discuss. You will simply need to understand each story on its own, disconnected with the others we will encounter.

Another factor that differs from other mythologies I have covered in previous lessons is that Celtic myths focus much more on the heroes than the gods. Certainly, the gods may be involved now and again, but it is the men and women of the great families that make up the vast majority of the myths. The three most notable of these families are those of Ulster,  Fionn mac Cumhaill (Finn Maccool), and the Children of Llyr (Lir)

There are numerous other characters and genealogies that can be found when closely looking at Celtic mythology, however the ones above are more than sufficient for our brief foray into the topic.

 The Celtic Otherworlds

Featuring prominently in Celtic mythology are references to the Otherworld, or Otherworlds. Similar to Norse mythology where Midgard, Niflheim, and the other worlds existed alongside each other, Celtic mythology also features several other parallel worlds to our own. Some scholars believe that these Otherworlds are simply different areas of a singular parallel world, but most believe that they are all separate, as journeys between Otherworlds do not occur in the myths.

The Otherworlds are the realms of the gods, spirits, fairies, elves, and giants. They are said to be the source of magical creatures, items, and practitioners, however their environments varied greatly. You could find yourself in an utopian paradise, or just as likely in hell. The landscape could be wooded or sterile, warm or cold - one could never tell before crossing over. Many characters in the myths travelled to one of these worlds, whether on purpose or by fateful accident, however, within these Otherworlds, time passed at a different rate. You could find yourself spending an hour in one, only to find that a decade or longer had passed in your own world.

Norse mythology featured a physical bridge connecting worlds, however Celtic mythology speaks more of a veil between worlds, a barrier that was thinner or thicker, depending on magical concentration and use, interference of the gods, and the time of year. It was universally acknowledged by the Celts that the veil between worlds was thinnest at Samhain.

One of the most famous Otherworlds was known as Annwn. This Welsh Otherworld was full of lush gardens, places to rest, and soothing bird songs. It was also home to a magical cauldron guarded by nine maidens. This cauldron was said to heal the sick and restore the dead to life. However, even the most beautiful and appealing Otherworld had its dangers. In this case, Arawn, Lord of Annwn, and his pack of hell hounds flew throughout the realm at night in pursuit of human souls. Best not to be out in magical forests after dark, wouldn’t you say?

Another well known Otherworld, this time of the Irish tradition, is Tír na nÓg, sometimes called Tír na hÓige. It is in this Otherworld where the majority of the Irish gods, called the Tuatha dé Danann, dwelled. The gods chose to live in this Otherworld after the arrival of the humans on their shores as it was the realm of everlasting youth, beauty, health, joy, and abundance. Humans were often lured to Tír na nÓg either by its eternalness or by the beauty of one of the gods.

The most famous story involving a human crossing to Tír na nÓg is that of Oisín and Niamh (or Niam). Oisín was a mortal man, son to Fionn mac Cumhaill, who fell in love with Niamh, who was from the Otherworld. Loving him as well, Niamh begged him to come to Tír na nÓg where they could live together, seemingly forever. Aiding Oisín in their journey was a horse that was capable of travelling over water, and together they crossed the veil.

Oisín and Niamh cross the veil

After about three years, Oisín grew terribly homesick and begged Niamh to let him return home to visit. She reluctantly gave him leave, but bade him to stay on the magical horse who would bring him back after his visit. Oisín agreed, and crossed the veil once more.

Upon Oisín’s arrival home, Oisín discovered that 300 years had passed on Earth during his absence. He was so shocked at this realization that he fell off of the magical horse. Alas, once his connection with the magic was broken, his connection to the Earth was renewed and he immediately aged as the missed years caught up to him. He passed away quite quickly.

Seers

Another common feature in Celtic mythology is the practice of divination, specifically by Druidic seers. As mentioned in Year Four of Ancient Studies, Druids kept no records of any kind. Therefore as we examine the myths involving seers, it is important to note that we are uncertain to this day if these myths are fact, fiction, or, in the most likely scenario, a combination of both. Three of the most famous of these seers are Amairgen (Amergin), Taliesin, and Cathbad.

Amairgen

Amairgen, High King of Ireland 

Amairgen was a very early Druid - one of the first of the Irish Druids. He was also the first High King of Ireland. He is most famous for a historic and lengthy battle, during which he negotiated - through sword and word and most definitely magic - permission to settle Ireland. During the largest sea battle of this conflict, Amairgen worked an incantation to call a great storm. His divinatory abilities made him aware that the casualties on both sides would be extensive, however he was running out of options. The incantation in the myth is more of a poem, and has been translated as follows by the Muggle Lady Gregory Augusta:

"I am the wind on the sea; I am the wave of the sea; I am the bull of seven battles; I am the eagle on the rock I am a flash from the sun; I am the most beautiful of plants; I am a strong wild boar; I am a salmon in the water; I am a lake in the plain;

I am the word of knowledge; I am the head of the spear in battle; I am the god that puts fire in the head; Who spreads light in the gathering on the hills? Who can tell the ages of the moon? Who can tell the place where the sun rests?

Now I am certain that these words are not really part of the spell. As far as magihistorians can tell, there are no specific incantations in this passage, however if this myth were true, Amairgen would have been using a rune-inscribed staff and the words he said would have been superfluous to the spell - perhaps said even before he actually cast it. Regardless, this is one of the earliest myths to feature a druid.

Taliesin

Taliesin the Bard 

Perhaps you have heard of our second druidic seer, Taliesin. On occasion you may see Taliesin as another name for Merlin, or as a companion of Merlin and King Arthur, however this is not accurate. They are indeed two different people living in two different times. Taliesin was known to Muggles as the greatest bard. In fact, one of his nicknames was Father of the Bards, for he could spin a great tale. Of course the ability to use charms to enhance those stories went a long way to bolstering his reputation!

It is, though, the lesser known abilities that make Taliesin stand out from the others. It was he who foretold and tried to warn the people about the arrival of the Saxons on their shores. He also warned of the resulting oppression his people would face, as well as his own death. The myths indicate that deep meditation gave him the visions of the future, and that he also journeyed to the Otherworld. It was also thought that he was an animagus who could turn into an eagle.

I’m sure most of you have noticed that Taliesin’s story sounds more historical than mythical. These stories are some of the most difficult for magihistorians to examine and sort into one category or another. I will leave you to decide for yourselves what you wish to believe. Regardless of your choice, you will become part of a debate that has lasted for centuries!