#theworldisquiettooquiet

[welcomingdisaster]

For the pride month requests, I'd love Nienor and/or Finduilas and the lesbian flag! <3

thank you for the ask!! this was so fun to draw :,) <3

(pride month requests open all of june!)

[welcomingdisaster]

🍽 and 🐍 for the asks!

hi hi hi!! ty for the ask. :) 🐉 A lot of figures in the Silm have weird Eldritch powers or possibly biology. Tell us about your headcanons for one.

OOOO hm.... I really enjoy elven song being, like, tied to the Song that makes up all of Arda. I don't think elves can usually meaningfully shape the world with their song (beyond maybe some aesthetic changes like making flowers grow or something) but I think elves that are very skilled in song-weaving can create very convincing illusions.

Here's what I imagine fighting Maglor is like:

You are in the middle of battle. All around you, elves shout, red lifeblood spilling onto dark black soil. Swords flash in the moonlight, the sharp glint of steel. You stab your sword into the chest of one of those thrice-cursed Feanorian followers, the kinslayers, watching his body crumple to the ground. His blood stains your boots. Your blood pumps wildly through your veins, your heart beating hard and fast against your ears. Your side has gained advantage. Press it, and you will win. You are sure of it.

A sound catches your attention, a low, melodic note. A low, slow song, ebbing and flowing as the waves. You turn, and see him.

His head is held proudly, and his hair is raven-dark, and there is not a spec of blood on his clothes. He is on horseback. What a fool, you think. The battle shall certainly startle the horse, send it running madly back through the battle. And if not, what a target he makes for the bowmen, sitting so pretty over the fray. You reach for your throwing knives. If they do not hit him, they will hit the horse, and likely spell his doom as he loses control of it. But you are a good shot, and he is an obvious target. It will be easy to hit him.

The song is beautiful. You notice how clean his clothes are. Not a wrinkle on that dark blue; no trace of mud or blood on his boots. How fair his face. How calm. How calm the song itself, soothing and lulling and quite unfit for the battlefield.

His horse walks forward, slow steps as a horse on parade, its bowed low to the ground, its big brown eyes half-shut. You cannot hear the men shouting anymore. You cannot hear falling bodies, or the squelch of flesh. This is not what battle sounds like.

Everything is made of song, of sound. You know the trees by their song, the rocks by their deep, groaning voices. You know danger because of the sharp notes that accompany it.

The lulling little tune, ebbing and flowing, is the only thing you can hear. The man in front of you, clean and tidy, raven-haired and fair, is the only real thing. And how beautiful he is. How calm.

You do not see him draw his sword.

🍽️ You are having a dinner party and you can invite five (5) characters from the Silm. Who do you invite?

OMG uhhh. oh this is hard

I definitely want Finrod there. I'm getting my bongo drums and kazoo out to see what he does with them (I do genuinely own both) Then Elrond (post-canon) and Elros (pre-death) because I'm using my god-given powers here to let the twins hang out for an extra hour. That means we also need Celebrian, I think. THEN UHH. I think maybe Celebrimbor (I think he'd get a little tipsy and infodump about jewelry-making for an hour and that's what my friends do at my dinner parties anyways)

[welcomingdisaster]

'a guide to advanced interrogation techniques, attributed posthumously to maedhros feanorian, lord of himring' sounds amazing, I'd love to hear about it!

hi hi hello! thank you for the ask.

that WIP is basically exactly what it says on the tin: a text written by maedhros, discussing what he knows about torture. it has been very weird (my first foray into first person in this fandom!) and very fun to write, though i know know if it'll be quite as fun to read. here's a little excerpt from the intro:

I shall not let that philosophical debate lead me astray in this text; closeness to the subject here only serves to obscure truth, for hope and anger both serve to obscure truth in such matters. Indeed this text shall serve only as a description of the practicalities of pain; of the methods of delivery, the devices of particular importance to such foul arts, the manner and personal characteristics of torturers. 

Another word of warning: to any seeking to obtain information or loyalty by use of methods described in this text would do far better to seek their tools elsewhere. No means are too foul to be used in the war against darkness, but my own experience as torturer has shown me the folly of such things. Information given in torture is rarely accurate; indeed it is only given to obtain momentary relief from pain. Loyalty won so, likewise, is rarely kept. 

Take this text, then, as a scientific chronicle of the unpleasant, as a study of the enemy, and as, perhaps, guide to survival. The power of the enemy is finite; the means of the enemy are predictable,  base, and boring in the banality of their cruelty; pain passes, and flowers bloom again even on burned ground. 

But perhaps I obscure my true motives in writing this text; perhaps I seek to make poetry of a private annoyance. Perhaps I seek only to answer the questions with I see in the faces of all those who lay eyes on the scars carved into my flesh. What? Where? Why? And how awful had it been? 

Read, then, and trouble me no more.