#Mûmak

[sailorotter]

Inktober 29 "Massive". The soldiers at his feet were a pain, but quite necessary to fill the prompt!

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

STRAIGHT OUTTA SOUTHERN HARAD -- LIVING, BREATHING, RAMPAGING SIEGE ENGINES.

PIC(S) INFO: Spotlight on the War Mûmamkil and their Haradrim riders, scenes from the War of the Ring and the Battle of the Pelennor Fields as depicted in "The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King" (2003), directed by Peter Jackson.

"New forces of the enemy were hastening up the road from the River; and from under the walls came the legions of Morgul; and from the southward fields came footmen of Harad with horsemen before them, and behind them rose the huge backs of the mûmakil with war-towers upon them. But northward the white crest of eomer led the great front of the Rohirrim which he had again gathered and marshalled; and out of the City came all the strength of men that was in it, and the silver swan of Dol Amroth was borne in the van, driving the enemy from the Gate."

-- "THE LORD OF THE RINGS," "The Return of the King," Book V, Chapter VI, written by J.R.R. Tolkien

Source: www.novelforfree.com/the-return-of-the-king_chapter_book-v-chapter-6_1735_199.html.

[silmarillion-ways-to-die]

Sorry, Eagles, Dragons, and Beorn & Elwing can talk, they're not pets.

[loremastering]

Mûmak! Mûmak! May the Valar save us all and turn his path!

[frodothefair]

I made a mistake. Mûmakil is apparently the plural. The singular is mûmak. But mûmakil sounds much funnier. So I’ll just keep saying mûmakil. Also! In the LOTR BTS and making of they kept saying mûmakil, even when they clearly meant the singular. So it’s not just me!

Now I never say elephant anymore in my conversations with Mr. Nisile. I always say mûmakil. It’s one of my favorite words right now.

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Grimbold of Grimslade HC

I decided on this a few years ago when the riders at the stables around here all had to wear masks for a time for obvious reasons. So some fierce ladies who looked something like this:

became my inspiration for Grimbold. An ask from @sillysistersusi this week reminded me, though, that I’ve never written this down anywhere. So…

Grimbold was kin to Théoden’s late wife, Elfhild, and her brother, Elfhelm, and lived on family lands in Grimslade. He had a rough go of it in early life because he was allergic to horses! It took a long time to figure out why he was always wheezing and struggling to breathe, and he wasn’t at all happy to find the answer. He felt ashamed, given the central role of horses in Rohan’s culture, and worried that he wouldn’t be seen as a true Rohirrim if he couldn’t ride.

Recognizing that he would never give up on horsemanship no matter what his challenges, his grandmother made him special gloves and a cloth mask to tie over his nose and mouth whenever he rode to try to reduce his exposure and ease his discomfort. That didn’t fully solve his problem - indeed, he lived his whole life unable to breathe all that well and with various other unpleasant symptoms – but it made things manageable enough that he could learn to ride and fight like anyone else. And when he grew up and turned out to be an extremely formidable warrior, the mask actually became like a calling card, something really distinctive and cool looking. Orcs and Dunlendings near the western borders all knew to fear the masked rider of Rohan.

Grimbold captained an éored that came under the supervision of Théodred as Second Marshal. The two spent a lot of time together and became very close friends on top of being cousins. Grimbold was deeply traumatized by watching Théodred get struck down in such a horrifying way at the Isen and then having to fight orcs for possession of his cousin’s body. He ran on adrenaline for the rest of the battle and managed to report for the muster of Rohan a few days later, but his trauma soon caught up with him and followed him on the road to Minas Tirith. He had trouble sleeping and was easily startled/panicked by little things around him. By the time they got to the Pelennor Fields, he was exhausted and on edge, but he rallied again with the support of Dúnhere and his other men who had seen that he was struggling. Grimbold led his company on the first charge, and he fought valiantly thereafter. Sadly, though, he was killed while taking down one of the Mûmakil. No one knows for sure, but people nearby believed he knowingly sacrificed himself in order to save everyone else in the Mûmak’s path.

The remaining men in the Grimslade éored all took to wearing masks in battle afterward as a tribute to Grimbold, and it became a signature part of their uniform. Many years later, long after anyone who knew Grimbold was gone, the éored still wore the masks and kept alive the memory of the man who would—and did—endure anything for his beloved Grimslade.

[theworldsoftolkein]

The Mûmak of Harad - by Ted Nasmith

[aurore-parle-de-ses-idees]

16, Est & friend(s)-of-your-choice?

poking pelennor until 'au where est does throne... sort of' pops out :D (edit- oh the actual prompt was 'aftermath')

The first sound that returns to you is the thundering of hooves. It’s so great it rumbles the floor of the cage, and beneath it and the jangling of heavy horse harness you can hear battlecries. You try to open your eyes. Nothing moves. Your arm. A foot. Nothing. You can huff a breath in frustration, though, and at the sound someone shifts under you. Someone’s holding you.

“Esterín?” Derufin calls uneasily. “Can you hear us?” You manage another annoyed sound. “Here, get her up-” There’s shuffling, and hands pulling you upright. With great effort, you at last pry your eyes open.

You are still in the cage. Derufin and Duilin are with you, Duilin’s arm in a crude sling against his chest and both of them bloodied and bruised. You shiver, and Derufin rubs at your arm.

“What’s happening?” you croak, and both faces staring too intently at yours sag with relief.

“The Swan-knights,” Duilin says. “They’ve driven off the wraiths, at least for now.”

“Hopefully they’re coming back for us sooner rather than later,” Derufin adds with a tight grin.

“The wraiths...? The Nazgûl?” you demand suddenly, sitting up on your own and regretting it as your head spins worryingly.

“Not the ones in black,” Derufin says, “or the tall red one from the other day.” There were more than that in the field? you think, despairing. Who?

“We tried to fight after you collapsed,” Duilin says more seriously, “but against the red one...”

“We couldn’t touch him,” Derufin says. “There is some sort of truth in what he was saying in Osgiliath.” He says it almost accusingly, and maybe you should regret snapping at them in the stables but you are weary and you are still too angry to do as you think you ought.

“Too much,” you say, slumping against the cold iron of the cage. “Hopefully less than I fear.” You turn to them. “You are lucky you were not slain outright.” They trade uneasy glances and you sigh, thin and with terrible coldness. “What else?”

“He said he would find some use for us,” Derufin says. “We wouldn’t leave you alone with whatever he did to you, so he had us thrown in here all together.” You rather wish you could muster the energy to curse out Mordirith. There would be nothing new in it, but it would make you feel a little better.

“Thank you,” you say instead, “and I’m sorry.”

“Well,” Duilin says with forced cheer, “we aren’t dead yet are we?”

“There are worse things,” you say before you can think better of it. “The wraiths, the Nameless- trampled by a mûmak might be the least of it.” Their looks are dark, but you are right and you are tired and you are afraid, somewhere under it all. You had found Derufin and Duilin far from the rest of the archers of Morthond, separated and on foot, searching for mûmakil to feather with arrows. The beasts were charging in the distance, but you had come upon the boys on the other side of a great set of rolling holding cells from the charge, and they had followed you in search of stranger prey.

Even men who lived in the shadow of the Dwimorberg looked at the Nameless and backed away. They had returned, but they looked at the squirming darklings with revulsion and their bowhands had wavered before the monster barely restrained by the Morgul-sorcerers. After those things, the two Nazgûl had seemed nearly ordinary, cold and dreadful though they were.

The Nazgûl had been uninterested in you, though, and had abandoned their strange hissing fountains at the call of a great war-trumpet across the Pelennor. You can’t even say if they noticed you, and for that you are more glad than you can possibly say.

But Gothmog had waited beyond, and there he had turned something on you, and in your mind you had done battle alone.

“Who is this red one, Esterìn?” Duilin asks. “He seemed to know you personally.”

You heave a deep breath and wearily you face them. “He is a wraith. Lesser than the Nine, but more than dangerous enough. He is a lieutenant of the Witch-king- or, he was- and was his regent in Angmar until a few months ago. He-” you hesitate, then, and wonder how much you should say, and how much you have time for, and how much is true. “He was a man, once.”

“Are they all like that?” Derufin asks, as if you are some storyteller and not just as much a prisoner of the False King as he.

“Do you know who?” Duilin adds.

“It’s the nature of wraiths, yes,” you say. “...he was from Gondor.”

Eärnur is still a beloved figure in the kinds of tales often told to young boys. With everything the wraiths had said on the field, it’s enough for them to put it together. They fall silent, and you sit in uncomfortable quiet until the jingling of the harness of heavy cavalry returns. You tend to Duilin’s arm while they slow; your whole body protests the pull of the runes, as if you had used up all your strength in truth while trapped in Mordirith’s strange illusions.

“Prince Imrahil!” Derufin calls. The man at the cavalry’s head turns, his high feather plume streaked with soot.

“What have you boys gotten yourself into this time?” he asks, reining in near the cage. He nods to you and you wave tiredly.

“Long story,” you say dryly, and Derufin and Duilin shrug concession. “What’s the state of the battle?” Some of the knights behind the Prince look at you askance, but Imrahil answers readily.

“Ships that should have belonged to Balakhôr arrived some two hours ago,” he says, and you start at the realization of how long has passed. “They landed not far from here; you were brought nearly to the Causeway Forts.” You do start at that, paling at the thought of what Goth- Mord- the wraith had in store for you. You knew you had come into the southern half of the Pelennor by the time you met Derufin and Duilin, but you had not thought you were so close to the Harlond.

“Ah,” Imrahil says, “some of them are here now from the ships.” And you look up, and a familiar voice is calling your name in concern and surprise, and you sag with relief to see Golodir standing there.

“Stay back,” Derufin says sharply after introductions are made, pulling you back from the rusty bands of the cage and glaring at Golodir and you make a small sound of protest. “This is the one Gothmog spoke of?” This he directs at you, still watching a confused Golodir with naked hostility.

“Esterín?” But you’re shaking your head already, twisting away from Derufin to reach through the cage for Golodir’s arms because he’s here and you have been terrified for him since you left him in Pelargir and you had feared he- you had feared.

“He was wrong,” you say vehemently. “And he lies. He knows nothing.”

“Esterín, what are you talking about?” Golodir says, returning your desperate grip with great concern. Duilin reaches for you with his good arm but you twist sharply aside. Please, don’t let him have heard, you think, for all the good delaying it can do. Not yet.

“Gothmog,” you say, swallowing hard. “He- one of Sauron’s lieutenants below the Nine. He has command of much of their forces now. He... we saw him in Osgiliath. He claimed that he could not live while...” And you nearly can’t bring yourself to say it, but Derufin and Duilin are still bristling with well-intentioned wariness and they will not be so kind, and so the cage is struck open and you fly out of it to hug Golodir and hide your spinning head against his shoulder, and you whisper: “It’s Mordirith.” Golodir stiffens. He tries to pull away but you cling more tightly to him. “Golodir, I’m sorry,” you whisper pitifully. “I don’t know how. Some of the things he said, today and in Osgiliath... I do not believe them.”

“Esterín, you must explain yourself,” Golodir tries. To Derufin and Duilin he says: “What happened to her?” And you don’t care for the worry there, even if you know you must be acting bizarrely, and everything hurts and you can see all too clearly the things Mordirith showed to you in the Breach of Terror.

Grudgingly, the sons of Morthond answer, and terrible concern wars with some fearful anger you have not seen since Angmar in his face- but you are here before him, and Mordirith is not, and so the worry wins out, at least for now, and he leads you away, back towards the burnt-out farmhouse where the rest of the Grey Company waits. Derufin and Duilin trail unhappily after you, but when neither Golodir nor your other friends show any sign of manifesting an angry eight-foot wraith after hours and the enemy retreats from the field, they return to the city with other scattered soldiers of Gondor. You, despite your best efforts, can hardly keep your feet, and are kindly but firmly made to sit and rest, watching everyone else shuffle this way and that as they try to bring some order to the blood-soaked fields. You surprise yourself by sleeping that night, but perhaps it shouldn’t be so surprising, with so many of your friends gathered close for easy comfort. Explanations will be had in the morning.

[glitteringaglarond]

To his astonishment and terror, and lasting delight, Sam saw a vast shape crash out of the trees and come careering down the slope. Big as a house, much bigger than a house, it looked to him, a grey-clad moving hill. Fear and wonder, maybe, enlarged him in the hobbit's eyes, but the Mûmak of Harad was indeed a beast of vast bulk, and the like of him does not walk now in Middle-earth; his kin that live still in latter days are but memories of his girth and majesty.

OLIPHAUNT!!! OLIPHAUNT!!! OLIPHAUNT!!! OLIPHAUNT!!!

[elgaladwen]

Nimardril looking cool right before she is trampled by a mûmak, probably.

[ironfoot-mothafocka]

Dwarrowtober: Wealthy

King Fara leaned back in his seat, glaring at the takrak board. Queen ‘Rera smiled broadly and held out her hand. “Pay up,” she gloated, and Fara reluctantly handed over five of the worn, red tokens to her. Frowning at his now depleted pile of clay circles, he shrugged. “Lucky,” he mumbled, and took a swig of wine from the canteen on the table beside him. ‘Rera cackled and took a pull of beer, openly counting how many tokens she had won from her husband this evening. “You are not doing too well tonight, Zi,” she remarked seriously. Fara tossed a heel of bread at her and she ducked it quickly. It bounced off the cover of the fireplace and fell into the coal bucket. “It was a long journey — I must still be tired,” he said, feigning a yawn, but in reality he felt completely well rested. They had both come back from their diplomatic trip to Erebor yesterday and had retired to bed early, waking to a morning of few responsibilities, as they had made sure their eldest the Crown-Prince was dealing with domestic matters. ‘Rera laughed again, shaking a fistful of takrak tokens at him. She didn’t have a pretty laugh, but Fara adored it. It was a full-on, throaty screech, like a circling hawk, and Fara couldn’t help but to break out in his own helpless sniggers whenever he heard it. He batted her hand away and snatched up the die, studying his board. “And now you’ve broken my concentration,” he complained. “Did you have any to begin with?” He pulled a face at ‘Rera, flicking one of her towers from its position. She swore at him under her breath and moved it back into place, and in that time Fara had made his throw.

It was the lowest number possible. Fara stared sadly at the solitary dot in the middle of the mûmak bone die and nudged his tower forwards one square. He wished that he could voluntarily close his ears to shut out the sound of his wife’s guffaws. She was wiping away tears of mirth as she rolled for her turn. “But that’s not fair!” he whined, as ‘Rera landed on a far more respectable number. “How are you so— so lucky?” ‘Rera fingered the elaborate golden chain around her neck and pulled on one of the symbols. It had been a wedding present from Fara to her, but it was a replica of a chain that ‘Rera had worn since she was a small child, made out of copper and brass, with small bone, clay and glass figures and trinkets. “Perhaps the gods just favour me more,” she joked, running her fingers over the smooth surface of one of the hanging objects. “Ulmo has nothing to do with it!” Fara exclaimed, nodding to the tiny horn of the Ulumúri. Ulmo was the patron of dockworkers and ‘Rera had carried an homage to the sea-god with her even when she had stopped working as a cargo-handler at Port Nazbukhrin and taken up the throne by his side. Fara felt that all dwarves who had an affinity for the Eastern Sea carried a part of it within them. Like the waters, and in opposition to her husband, ‘Rera was often serene and composed, a mask of confidence even when dealing with the most tricky or delicate of situations. Wrong her, however, and her wrath would be as tumultuous as a hurricane, and even Fara knew to stay clear when she was in a foul mood. Fara thought he mirrored a geyser when he was angered: bubbling emotions kept hidden underneath his affable surface could explode without warning.

But now was not a time to dwell on this: they were both getting tipsy, and though Fara was peeved, he certainly wasn’t going to hold a grudge over a board game. Unlike some — his son’s father in law had refused to speak to Hafar Jazrul for a week over the festive holidays because he’d apparently cheated him at a card game. Fara would never understand that. It was just a game, after all… “HOW—” roared Fara, over ‘Rera’s gales of glee, “DO YOU ALWAYS WIN?” With a flamboyant flick of the wrist, the queen knocked two of Fara’s takrak pieces square off the board. They clattered away and rolled underneath the couch, but Fara was so furious that he didn’t bend to pick them up. He crossed his arms and shook his head as ‘Rera held out her hand for more of his tokens. “No,” he said sulkily, but ‘Rera simply leaned over and counted out five more from his meagre collection of wealth. Though Fara had not always been the brightest at maths, he knew that only having six takrak ‘gold’ at this stage in the game meant a loss was beckoning him steadily onward. There was, really, no point in playing on, except for his wife to get progressively drunker and richer. He thought about what the Royal Household Guard standing outside in the corridor would think of his outburst, but then again old Basri had probably heard a lot worse over his many years of service. “You can give up now, if you want,” the queen taunted. Fara was nothing if not determined and defiantly picked up the die to throw it again, when he had another idea. “King Fara’ouz wishes to negotiate with the Queen of Nazbukhrin,” he said, holding his clenched fist above the board. He raised his eyebrow. ‘Rera looked at him sceptically, but took the bait. “Oh yes?” Fara smirked and leaned closer to his wife, a suggestive grin creeping across his face. “If you trade me half of your tokens, I will, regardless of the outcome of this tournament, do whatever you like this evening.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Whatever the queen wishes.” “I didn’t realise it was that kind of game, Fazi,” ‘Rera remarked lightly, though she stroked the corners of her moustache in contemplation. She took another draught of her beer. “Absolutely not. Now throw the die and get it over with. I am going to wipe the floor with you.” Oh well, thought Fara glumly, as he rolled a number only slightly higher than one, it was worth a try.

[k-she-rambles]

They spoke together in soft voices, at first using the Common Speech, but after the manner of older days, and then changing to another language of their own. To his amazement, as he listened Frodo became aware that it was the elven-tongue that they spoke, or one but little different;

HOW MANY LANGUAGES DID ARAGORN SPEAK GROWING UP?

(Sindarin, Gondorian Sindarin, Westron, Adûnaic, maybe Quenya, maybe Rohirric)

Rangers of Ithilien; for they were descended from folk who lived in Ithilien at one time, before it was overrun. From such men the Lord Denethor chose his forayers, who crossed the Anduin secretly (how or where, they would not say) to harry the Orcs and other enemies that roamed between the Ephel Dúath and the River

Oh that is FASCINATING, and really smart of Denethor to use the people who were pushed out of Ithilien to police it

It was Sam's first view of a battle of Men against Men, and he did not like it much. He was glad that he could not see the dead face. He wondered what the man's name was and where he came from; and if he was really evil of heart, or what lies or threats had led him on the long march from his home; and if he would not really rather have stayed there in peace – all in a flash of thought which was quickly driven from his mind.

So important!

Ware! Ware!' cried Damrod to his companion. 'May the Valar turn him aside! Mûmak! Mûmak!'

...that is the first time I remember a Man invoking the Powers! (Besides Aragorn, who invokes the Star Queen like the Elves do)

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

"THE DARK ONE IS GATHERING ALL ARMIES TO HIM. IT WON'T BE LONG NOW."

PIC INFO: Spotlight on a charging Mûmak of Harad and the Last Ride of the Rohirrim -- the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, from "The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King" (2003), directed by Peter Jackson. New Line Cinema.

SAMWISE: "Who are they?"

GOLLUM: "Wicked men. Servants of Sauron. They are called to Mordor. The Dark One is gathering all armies to him. It won't be long now. He will soon be ready."

SAM: "Ready to do what?"

GOLLUM: "To make his war. The last war that will cover all the world in shadow."

-- "THE LORD OF THE RINGS: THE TWO TOWERS" (2002), screenplay by Fran Walsh, Philippa Boyens, Stephen Sinclair, & Peter Jackson -- after the works of J.R.R. Tolkien

Source: http://elenastr.blogspot.com/2011/03/lord-of-rings-return-of-king-2003.html.

[ekliep]

[lowcountry-gothic]

The Mûmak of Harad, by Ted Nasmith.

[rohirric-hunter]

Not that I needed an illustration of my last post, but immediately after making it I happened to open my copy of An Atlas of Tolkien by David Day (a well-respected Tolkien scholar) to this page, and hooooooo boy.

This is part of a larger project spanning several pages in the book to categorize all the creatures that appear in Middle-earth, and the information, even when factually correct, is organized in such a haphazard and inconsistent sort of way... let’s break it down. I don’t know enough about dragons in- or out-of-universe to really get into that line, so leave it for now, but the Maiar Demons line is interesting. “Kraken” is not a word that appears anywhere in Tolkien’s writing, but one might assume in this case it refers to the Watcher in the Water. The similarities are enough to stake an argument on, but in my opinion it’s an unwise word to use in this context, given the massive cultural connotation attached to it. More concerning is the fact that Mr. Day saw no need to clarify the creature he was referring to, when other creatures are identified individually, such as the Boar of Everholt under Beasts.

Absolutely fascinating that he chose to identify the Nazgûls’ fellbeasts as Maiar: they’re afforded little description but what is given leads to no assumption that they’re anything other than perfectly ordinary animals like the Nazgûls’ horses. “And behold! it was a winged creature: if bird, then greater than all other birds, and it was naked, and neither quill nor feather did it bear, and its vast pinions were as webs of hide between horned fingers; and it stank. A creature of an older world maybe it was, whose kind, lingering in forgotten mountains cold beneath the Moon, outstayed their day, and in hideous eyrie bred this last untimely brood, apt to evil. And the Dark Lord took it, and nursed it with fell meats, until it grew beyond the measure of all other things that fly; and he gave it to his servant to be his steed.” The only thing that hints at it not being as ordinary as a badger or fox, if rarer, is the “apt to evil” comment, but then wolves are also prone to evil in Middle-earth, so where’s their place on the list of things that are secretly demons?

I’m not going to get into the spiders because it’s been hashed out on this blog before, but suffice to say that while it’s not unreasonable to assume they’re Maiar, that can’t be said for certain, as it is here.

Interesting that goblins are listed as a subset of Orc when “orc” is literally just the hobbitish word for goblin.

Interesting that “wolf-rider” is listed as a subset of Orc when that’s. A job. That’s a job. That’s like listing “forklift operator” separately under “humans.”

No particular disagreement with the Troll line.

“Dwimmerlaik” is a Rohirric word that is used once in LotR, an apparently derisive term that Éowyn uses to address the Witch-king. It’s derived from Middle English “dweomerlak,” which refers to dark magic, and seems in context to mean something to the effect of “evildoer specializing in magic.” So. Uh. That’s an insult. Different types of wraiths: Nazgûl, Barrow-wights, asswipes.

Indifferent to the Birds line.

“Oliphaunt” is just the hobbitish word for “Mûmak,” so I don’t know why they’re being listed as a subset of “Mûmak.” Similarly, I don’t know why horses are listed as a subset of “Mearas” when a Mearas is just a specific type of horse, much like a pony. Unless of course the implication is that ponies were bred from regular horses which were bred from Mearas, which is A) factually incorrect and B) implies a family tree sort of layout to this whole thing, implying that theoretically, if you go far enough back, a Mearas was more or less the same thing as a Mûmak, or a wolf. I wonder what those kids would have looked like.

Main issue with the Insect line is [insert “Graphic Design is My Passion” meme here].

None of this is particular shade on David Day, but assumptions were made, things are presented as factual with little to no evidence (an ongoing issue with him -- it’s been ages since I read The Tolkien Bestiary but mmmmmmm), and the information isn’t categorized in a logical or consistent manner. I love David Day’s work! It makes looking stuff up fast and easy, and it was an amazing introduction for little kid Snowy into the world of literary criticism. Plus many of his theories and analyses are absolutely fascinating. I highly recommend them. However. I don’t consider it somehow more legitimate than my own analyses beyond his simple advantage in years spent doing it, not when he appears to have simply not brushed up on the source material in many cases. Certainly his status as a Tolkien scholar does not render him immune to making mistakes.