Fëanorian Biography Titles
Fëanor: From Fëa of Fire to Fey of Fire
Maedhros: To Hang on by a
FingernailHand and Then Lose it
Maglor: Legend of the Last Fëanorion
Celegorm: How to Lose Friends and Kill People
Caranthir: Mutterings in the Dark
Curufin: Like Father Unlike Son
Amrod: Bloody Beaches and Burning Boats
Amras: The Invisible Twin
Celebrimbor: A Gift-lord and His Mouth
english: coconut oil
english: oh boy
french: oil of the nut of the coco
english: oh no
english: oh geez
french: apple of the earth
French: pls no
english: oh dear
german: oak croissant
english: uh oh
german: lifting screwdriver
english: no don’t
spanish : fingers of the feet
english: oh lordy
spanish: deep plate
english: i changed my mind
polish: that which walks by itself
UK english: ladybird!
american english: ladybug
dutch: the good lord’s little animal
irish, polish and russian: *giggling*
french: …just tell me
irish, polish and russian: GOD’S SMALL COW
English: what yo got Japan
Japanese: ~*~*o c e a n m o o n*~*~
English: omg what now
Dutch: hand shoes
English: … please, no
Dutch: sting pig
JUST KEEPS GETTING BETTER
English: … tell me
Dutch: Clap rose
English: for fuck’s sake
Finnish: salmon snake
english: tell me?
asl: SPICY DINOSAUR
Romanian: a baby of a sleep
English: In the middle of nowhere
Slovene: Behind God’s back
Serbian: Where wolves fuck
Polish: where dogs bark with their asses
English: somewhere really far and isolated
English: what now?
Italian: in the ass of the world
English: a longing for something or somewhere which no longer exists, to which you can no longer return; the longing for the lost homeland of your ancestors, which you know only through blood and tradition, and will never feel under your feet
Welsh: :) :) :) :) :) :)
English: look, you literally just made fun of me for my lexical limitations, why are you -
Welsh: little red cow :)
English: aw :)
English: “I’ll sleep on it”
English: just tell me
Spanish: “I’ll consult it with my pillow”
Welsh: :) :) :) :)
English: ah fuck
Welsh: BIG FUN!
@dovewithscales it has ASL now! Cool!
We are spicy dinosaurs. That’s fantastic!
I love imagining what Ainur could look like in their truest form - being made of the elements they control and purest light and energy with only a bare hint of a humanoid/elfoid? shape. I could write poetry, but no, my brain gives me this instead…
Mairon trying to explain to a drunk, flirty Ar-Pharazon that his true form is *Not For Human Consumption.
Ar-Phar: Hey~ what would your real body feel like against mine~?
Ar-Phar: Hmmm~ Hot~ But what’s between your godly form’s legs?
Mai: More fire.
Ar-Phar: Ooh I shiver~! Will I ever get a taste of your true power?
What Mai wants to say: My metaphorical c*ck is a celestial firestorm that would vaporize your pathetically constructed mortal body in a femtosecond if you ever SOMEHOW managed to make me come.
What he actually says: Perhaps.
this ended in a much more entertaining way than it started
Oh to be Vlad the Impaler
oh to be a monk getting STUPID shitfaced off of monestary wine after transcribing the bible for the 547th time (despite being illiterate)
oh to be a medieval peasant who knows nothing about the prince’s personal life and who dies of dysentry at age 23
Oh to be the noble suitor from another royal family who comes to know of their love instantly and plans an entire plan to get them their happy ending
Oh to be the prince’s best friend witnessing the two fools dance around each other while knowing damn well that the two like each other.
Oh to be the palace guard who discreetly helps to boost the cute gardener boy up the wall for his secret deliveries in the middle of the night
oh to be a cute gardener boy who secretely places roses in the prince’s room because he is in love with him
oh to be a bored prince who keeps rejecting marriage proposals due to being secretly in love with the cute gardener boy
All this Maglor talk makes me think about what he was up to post First Age. Do you think he was a Third Age ghost story, like elves tell their children, don't wander too far from home or you'll be stolen away by the Maglor! Or elves traveling alone in the forest coming upon a lone elf and always in the back of their minds thinking, shit, what if that's him?
“Listen!” cried the bard. “Listen, good folk and I shall tell a tale such as never you have heard before.”
The taproom of the Prancing Pony stilled and quieted, which said much for the skill of his voice, or of the mannish want for new stories.
“The Dark Lord is thrown down and a king crowned in the West!” the bard went on, leaping up onto a table and drawing out his harp. “But Sauron - yes! I shall speak his name! - is not the first nor the greatest foe of the free peoples, and there are kings that sit e’en now in a West more distant than Gondor. A flagon of ale and a warm bed for the night, and I shall tell you of the fall of Morgoth, and the fall, too, of the great Elvenkings of old. I shall sing to you the Noldolantë, as was first sung by Maglor Fëanorian, the greatest bard to ever walk this earth.”
Barliman Butterbur looked around at the crowded taproom and the folk squeezing in from the stables as the news spread and decided he knew a good deal when he heard it. He filled the requested flagon and handed it up.
The bard drained it in one long gulp, wiped his mouth upon his sleeve and struck another cord. “There was a man - a prince! The greatest of all princes! - and he had seven sons-”
It was a long story, but a good one. Barliman liked the clever maiden in the vampire fell even if he couldn’t quite keep up with all the Fins - what kind of names were those, he asked you? - and much of it was sadder than he liked. But it kept the patrons in and kept them drinking, which was more than enough to recommend it to him.
The young bard told the story well, slipping into the characters like they were well-worn boots and a favourite jacket. He was a handsome fellow, bright-eyed with hair as raven-dark as the plumes in his fine hat, and the flames licking in the hearth threw shadows across his features that made him seem now fair and merry, now old and fell as a grizzled wolf in keeping with the characters in his tale.
When he was done with his tale, had accepted another flagon of ale and refused, despite much pleading, to do an encore, the room started to empty out, the patrons wending their way home or upstairs to their beds.
“Here now, though,” said Barliman, pausing with his hands full of empty jugs and greasy plates. “What about that last fellow? You never said what happened to the second son.” He was an innkeep after all and every innkeep has a sense for when he’s been cheated.
“Faded from grief,” said the bard, wearily for it had been a long performance. “Or drowned with Beleriand. Returned to the West when the weight of his sins grew too great for even his proud shoulders to bear up under. Or perhaps,” - he leant in closer and Barliman was not sure why he’d thought this old man young. “Perhaps he lingers still upon these shores. Haunting the woods, and singing sad songs beside forgotten pools. Perhaps he steals away Mannish children to raise as his own, scions of his dead house.”
“Not around here, I shouldn’t think,” Barliman huffed indignantly. “That may have gone over in that drowned country but we have a proper king now and he wouldn’t hold with stolen children.”
The bard laughed merrily. “Of course, of course. The poor fellow’s surely dead, but I’ve long found a neat ending, all tied up in a bow, makes for a poorer story. A more forgettable one, certainly, and I would not have poor Maglor fade from history altogether. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am for my bed.” His hard heeled boots rang on the stairs as he picked his way up them.
His words rang on in Barliman’s mind a good while longer. After the tables were wiped down and Barliman was in his nightshirt blowing out the candle, he thought about that wanderer, weeping upon the cold sand of a distant shore.
All innkeeps have a sense for when they’ve been cheated and a new thought tickled at the back of Barliman’s mind.
But the bed was soft, the hour was late and Barliman never had had much luck in recognising kings.
This is perhaps the greatest fanfiction I have ever read. And I read a lot.
The reason court insiders were so willing to believe Gil-Galad was really Fingon’s son despite Fingon being a Notorious Bachelor was because Rodnor, Gil-Galad, and Ereinion were all on Fingon’s carefully curated list of favorite baby names. A much treasured collection he’d maintained since he was 25 and only shared with friends (and sometimes new battlefield acquaintances but Hador became a friend in time). Surely it proved… well, something.
The true platonic essence of Fingon, in a world without evil overlords or family feuds holding his life back, is an Adventure Dad with about 6 Adventure Kids who he takes hiking and teaches how to play guitar. It’s all objectively good parenting, but somehow done in a very obnoxious way. Please stop telling us about your trip to the Rockies and the large snake you fought. We know you send your children to a private Catholic school, you don’t have to wear merch all the time. Stop making friends on the train and telling them about your kids’ SAT scores.
Also he desires to be the benevolent tyrant of an HOA, but that’s a minor character flaw.
Fingon’s Perfect Baby Name List, Translated from Sindarin to American Prep
The Backups (Cut For Alliteration, Lack of WASPy Punch)
The least realistic thing in the Silmarillion is that Dumpster Fire Disaster Dad Fëanor got custody of the children
(Based on a conversation with @martaaa1506)
I thought that Fëanor bribed the judge to give him the custody, but @actuallyfeanor assumed that he most likely gave a passionate speech in the court room about father’s rights over his sons’ lives and I think THIS sounds as something Fëanor would definitely do.
Come to think of it, he might have held the judge at swordpoint and/or threatened with arson
I wonder what kind of customer Fëanor was and how did his lawyer deal with him? Something is telling me that I should pity that poor guy…
Judge: given the evidence, the court agrees that Fëanor Finwion doesn’t meet the criteria of an appropiate father, therefore the court gives the custody of his seven sons to Nerd-
Fëanor: “Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean,
brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,
Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,
Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth,
neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,
dread nor danger, not Doom itself,
shall defend him from Fëanor, and Fëanor’s ire
whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh,
finding keepeth or afar casteth
a son of Fëanor. This I swear in front of the court:
death we will deal him ere Day’s ending,
woe unto world’s end! My word hear thou,
Eru Allfather! To the everlasting
Darkness doom me if my deed faileth.
On the holy mountain hear in witness
and my vow remember, Manwë and Varda!”
Judge: lmao what did I say? Fëanor is the best parent seven sons could have ever asked for!!!
Three gems for elvenkings under the sky
And seven sons, as written by Jort
Though Fëanáro was doomed to die
At least he won in Family Court
The trial goes ever on and on,
Down from my clash with Nerdanel where it began.
Now far ahead the trial has gone,
And I must follow, because I can.
Pursuing them with a passionate speech,
Until I’ll get the custody,
And then we’ll take some swan-shaped ships,
And whither then? You too can say
(I am not as good as you, sadly)
handcanon n. 13: maedhros’ prosthetics as listed:
- normal everyday hand
- jewellery hand for formal events
- stabbity mcstabberson
- hand with only the middle finger (for orc and doriath interactions only)
- hand with like 8 fingers to freak people out
- this thing curufin made me and i have no idea how to use
- HUGE SWORD
Tumblr blogs are being mass hacked
I don’t see anyone talking about this yet so I’ll start!
I already have 3 blogs on my dash who’s account is being used to spam my feed with “adult game advertisements”
DON’T CLICK THE LINK UNDERNEATH IT, OBVIOUSLY
This is what it looks like:
I spoke with the artist and she said she can’t get on her account again
Stay safe out there bros!
Maedhros’ 99 Problems
1. The Oath
3-8. His brothers (I’m looking at you - Tyelko and Curvo)
9. Protection of Himring
10-13. His brothers’ strongholds i.e. Pass of Aglon, Maglor’s Gap, Thargelion, Amon Ereb.
14. All of East Beleriand
15. The whole of Beleriand for that matter
16. His people
17-20. His brothers’ people
21. His dwarven allies
22. His mannish allies
23. His brothers’ allies (do they even have those?)
24. Celebrimbor (though the kid is somewhat sensible)
25. Fingon the
26. Turgon and wherever he’s hiding
27. Fingolfin (his son must’ve inherited that recklessness from somewhere)
28. Finrod (that lad is too nice for his own good)
29. Nerwen (what has she been up to in Doriath?)
30. Aredhel (Celegorm has been a bad influence)
31-33. All the rest of his cousins (Orodreth, when will you learn to hold the fort?)
34. Aunt Lalwen (she’s been suspiciously laying low so far)
35. The Silmarils
36. Morgoth (Ha! 36! Serves him right)
36-38. Orcs, Balrogs, Dragons
39-40. Whatever other monstrosity Morgoth cooks up.
41-49. All the traitors and deserters (You! Uldor and Ulfang!)
50. His PTSD.
51. His missing hand (not really, but sure it’d be better to have two hands to strangle his
52. The weather
53. Diplomacy, ruling, and politics
54-68. His character flaws (they’re not that many but he believes otherwise)
69. Mandos’ Doom
70-83. The Valar
84. Túrin Turambar (he’s everyone’s problem)
85. Doriath and Melian’s girdle
86. Thingol (the smug bastard)
87-89. And his descendants (Lúthien, Dior, Elwing - the idiot brats)
90. Beren the
91-92. The Lost Twins of Doriath
93-94. The Found Twins of Sirion
95. Eärendil & his bloody ship
96. The Host of the Valar (those vain Vanyar coming in to take credit for the Noldor’s hard-work)
97. The War of Wrath (f*cking finally!)
98. Eönwë (and his offer)
99. The burning Silmaril in his hand
100. Death/Eternal Darkness - “I got 99 problems but you ain’t one”