#and those twain fell into the abyss' | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

alexandriawilliams · 3 years

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☌ - Is your muse famous or infamous in their world for a battle or fight? Do they embrace or shy away from it?

Truthkeeper

KC 628

The winding terrain of the Broken Shore was never easily-traversed, let alone in heavy armor, but Alexandria managed as she made her way deeper into the foothold that the Legion had made for itself on the island. It was difficult to say where, exactly, she was -- the jagged landscape's crags or sulfuric, fel-green ash heaps were too similar to make much of a mental picture of the island outside of the occasional vague landmark, but now, the paladin was... utterly lost.

Sort of.

She was certain that she had gone where she had been directed, but the labyrinthine terrain seemed to twist and fade like a mirage; the path that had existed before seemed to not quite be there anymore. Alexandria was sure she must've made a wrong turn until she noticed the sky changing. Like the fade of an illusion, the paladin watched as the dark gray of the Broken Isles' skyline shifted into an otherworldly violet hue, and chaotic streaks of the Twisting Nether's latent magic ran across the void above.

Her grip on her broadsword and the kite shield strapped to her arm tightened. They were well-made and heavily blessed, having served the knight well since the Third War when she was inducted into the Order of the Silver Hand, and they both gleamed in a sort of protest as the stench of fel became unbearable.

As her eyes returned from the endless abyss above, the environment around her had changed yet again. Alien rock sat at her feet, floating freely in the Nether's expanse... a fact which might have caused the knight panic, if she had time to feel it for anything except for the enormous creature before her.

She had seen and fought typical doomguards before. Formidable creatures to be sure, but nothing that an experienced Templar of the Silver Hand would struggle to put down.

This, however, was not a typical doomguard.

As the creature lifted itself up to its full height from its rested position, it towered over Alexandria two... three... four times over. It must have been ten meters tall, with jagged horns the length of the knight's arms and twin blades nearly the length of its own body. The edges hummed a quiet tone as they were drawn up -- Light, the beast was so large that Alexandria could barely see it all at once. Her heart felt as though it had stopped entirely.

Alexandria was certain that this was how she was going to die.

With a flap of its towering wings and not a moment’s hesitation, the doomguard lifted itself into a hover and immediately screamed forth towards the knight that had been drawn out into the Nether. They were both especially vulnerable here; of course, the demon had run a risk by inviting her into its home plane where it would die a final death, but it was also at its peak strength in the Twisting Nether. This was its own domain, and its quarry was trapped and isolated, ready to be easily picked off.

The knight had only a split-second to bring her shield up at the demon’s advance. With a great flash of the holy energy within her and her blessed bulwark and a deafening clang of the dueling metals, Alexandria felt her arm splinter and fracture simply from the blunt force of the strike. With a pain-wracked grunt of effort, she barely kept her stance composed despite the shooting pain that screamed through her shoulder and elbow. As the demon passed by and lifted itself back up into the air, Alexandria turned herself on her heels to face it once more. In a single strike, she could feel the dent that had been made in her shield, not to mention the toll on her endurance.

The greater doomguard lingered only a moment, appraising its opponent with an indifferent sneer before lunging forth again. In another swoop, it passed by as the knight brought herself low, barely avoiding the razor’s edge of the twisted felsteel that made up her assailant’s blades. Her spine shivered as she felt her grip weaken with fear, but resolve only took a moment longer to come over her as she thought of home, of those she cared for, her fellow knights -- the woman she had just come to know and love dearly.

She had survived Lordaeron. She had survived Northrend. She had survived the Shattering, and Pandaria, and the Iron Horde. She could survive this, too.

As she came up onto a knee from her evasive roll to the side, she extended her blade forth and focused the latent holy energy within her with the blessed broadsword as a focus. It rang out as the golden beam struck true, matched with a dissonant harmony in the doomguard’s scream of rage as the web of its left wing burned through. It crashed to the rock below, grounded as it howled in pain.

Alexandria could feel the ground below her tremble as the beast rose up to its feet, filled with an unquenchable lust for blood as it barreled towards her. This bout was to be longer, a truer duel as metal met. Again and again it sang as the demon’s enormous, heavy weaponry met Alexandria’s shield or a well-timed parry, but the knight simply could not manage to advance... and she could feel herself waning. Even with the Light bolstering her, she was no match for the physical prowess of the monster before her, and the gleam in its eyes told her that it knew.

As another swing came for her, she brought her shield up... and broke. Alexandria could hear the earsplitting cry of her shield being shattered and her own scream of agony. She felt her shoulder torn from its socket as her arm shattered in absorption of the blow, and her feet left the ground as she was thrown several feet back. The alien dirt below was kicked up into a cloud as she scraped along the ground. Not even the strap of her shield was left when she looked for it, and her arm was all but destroyed. What little movement she could manage only intensified her suffering, but she had no time to think -- let alone recover.

It was upon her again in moments, lumbering over to her and lifting one of its blades to end her. The knight made another close call as she managed to leap out of the way only to hear the crash of earth behind her. A single precious moment bought by the evasion saw Alexandria’s blade come down and strike with perfection, slicing all the way through the demon’s wrist and severing its hand -- and one of those enormous blades -- from its body. It earned her another scream in rage and a wild swing from its remaining blade as that lime-green felblood poured freely from the open wound.

Alex brought her sword up to parry and made some effort to brace herself, but with her right arm broken there was nothing she could do to truly stop the strike. It tore through her blade with another screech of shattering steel, scattering fragments across the battlefield as that felsteel blade sank deep into her breastplate. It tore through her with little resistance, cracking ribs and sending the paladin to the ground, disarmed and bleeding out. Even with the Light constantly working to restore her body, Alexandria could feel her consciousness waning as every pump of her heart emptied blood onto her ruined tabard.

In that dire moment, her training left her; she was operating purely on the most primal survival instinct that existed within her. She wobbled to her feet as the injured greater demon struggled in similar fashion, losing both blood and focus from its severed, gushing stump of a wrist. That stumbling delirium granted Alexandria a moment to claim its relinquished sword. Despite its weight, the knight managed to heft it up like an oversized zweihander, resting it upon her shoulder; the shattered arm hanging uselessly at her side made it impossible to wield properly.

Alexandria murmured a prayer beneath her breath as the creature advanced to finish her. The fuzzy edges of her vision began to wane to darkness and her view of her opponent became blurred, but to relent meant certain death. As the creature brought its blade back to prepare a strike that no block from a mere human would stop from rending her in twain, Alexandria lurched forth and brought the commandeered felsteel around towards its exposed shin. Another crack of bone split the air as the beast howled, dropping its weapon and slumping to the ground as its second limb was severed from its body. That vile green blood pooled quickly as the beast flailed in tormented death throes, searching for any spiteful strike that it might land to inflict whatever damage it could.

Still, the paladin would take no risks. Even sure she would bleed to death before help arrived, she advanced again once the enormous blade was hefted over her shoulder once more. Bringing it up and over her head with her one working hand, she brought it down towards the prone beast’s neck... but not before those claws sank deep into her abdomen.

Alexandria spat blood in her helm as those spikes shredded organs, but she followed through. The blade fell like a guillotine, and the doomguard’s howling stopped in an instant. The paladin stumbled back and hit the ground, and her eyes went skyward as she felt herself succumb. The magic holding her to the Twisting Nether faded as the demon’s soul faced its final rest. The ground beneath her began to crumble, and she was sure that her very last moments would be spent eternally falling towards nowhere in the void below.

If this was how it ends, she figured, I think that’s okay. The knight’s eyes finally fluttered shut, and she fell to slumber that she was sure would be eternal.

* * * * *

The unfamiliar ceiling of one of Dalaran’s inns greeted Alexandria as her eyes opened, though she immediately regretted having woken up. The pain in her body was immeasurable; she would surely be in bed for weeks.

Consciousness drifted in and out for several days, though by the third time she awoke there was something new in the room. Leaned against the wall was a shield, a crest of holy fire with a note tied to it with a glittering band of string.

To Dame Alexandria Williams Champion of the Silver Hand

The greatest truth of the Light’s doctrine is that with its blessings, anything is possible. Word of your victory has reached us, and we see fit to name you a Champion of the Silver Hand. We have also heard that you are in need of a new shield.

Truthkeeper is rumored to be unbreakable, passed to those knights of a similar reputation. We trust it will serve you well. Congratulations are in order for your promotion - when you are well, return to the Sanctum of Light.

#writing

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tolkienianos · 4 years

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(…)that Balrog that was with the rearward foe leapt with great might on certain lofty rocks that stood into the path on the left side upon the lip of the chasm, and thence with a leap of fury he was past Glorfindel’s men and among the women and the sick in front, lashing with his whip of flame. Then Glorfindel leapt forward upon him and his golden armour gleamed strangely in the moon, and he hewed at that demon that it leapt again upon a great boulder and Glorfindel after. Now there was a deadly combat upon that high rock above the folk; and these, pressed behind and hindered ahead, were grown so close that well nigh all could see, yet it was over ere Glorfindel’s men could leap to his side. The ardour of Glorfindel drave that Balrog from point to point, and his mail fended him from its whip and claw. Now had he beaten a heavy swinge upon its iron helm, now hewn off the creature’s whip-arm at the elbow. Then sprang the Balrog in the torment of his pain and fear full at Glorfindel, who stabbed like a dart of a snake; but he found only a shoulder, and was grappled, and they swayed to a fall upon the crag-top. Then Glorfindel's left hand sought a dirk, and this he thrust up that it pierced the Balrog's belly nigh his own face (for that demon was double his stature); and it shrieked, and fell backwards from the rock, and falling clutched Glorfindel's yellow locks beneath his cap, and those twain fell into the abyss.

(...) Still do the Eldar say when they see good fighting at great odds of power against a fury of evil: “Alas! ‘Tis Glorfindel and the Balrog.“

“The Fall of Gondolin” - The Book of Lost Tales (part. 2) - HoME - J.R.R. Tolkien

Glorfindel and the Balrog by Justin Gerard

#glorfindel #balrog #Echoriad #Cirith Thoronath #the history of middle earth #J.R.R. Tolkien

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beruthielthequeen · 7 years

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Hi There! 😊 Can you tell me wether Tolkien ever described elves as having long-ass hair (braided back???) or not?? I'm halfway through FoTR but I don't seem to remember......... THANKS SO MUCH!!😊😘

Hi there!

So, for references to anything detailed to do with elven culture, you’ll likely want to be looking in the extended legendarium, not so much Lord of the Rings, which is set in the latter, twilight era of the elves in Middle earth. The Silmarillion and the Histories of Middle Earth series, which (to simplify) comprises some of the earlier draft versions of Tolkien’s legendarium, are much more elfy. (Not solely elfy, but still.)

So, going to your question, elves with long-ass hair, braided or not! Here are some quick references, which may or may not be a comprehensive list of every time Tolkien mentioned elf hair. (Spoiler alert, it’s not, he mentioned elf hair a lot.)

From War of the Jewels, we have:

"Elwe himself had long and beautiful hair of silver hue, but this does not seem to have been a common feature of the Sindar, though it was found among them occasionally especially in the nearer or remoter kin of Elwe (as in the case of Cirdan)."

(Note: In the above, I’d guess it’s likely that the silver hue of the hair is what’s referenced as not being common, rather than the length specifically.)

From The Peoples of Middle Earth, referencing Aegnor:

"But in early youth the fiery light could be observed; while his hair was notable: golden like his brothers and sister, but strong and stiff, rising upon his head like flames."

From The Lost Road:

"Then Celegorm arose amid the throng (p. 169). In QS this is followed by 'golden was his long hair'. In the Lay at this point (line 1844) Celegorm has 'gleaming hair'; his Old English name was Cynegrim Faegerfeax ('Fair-hair'), IV. 213. The phrase was removed in The Silmarillion text on account of the dark hair of the Noldorin princes other than in 'the golden house of Finarfin' (see I. 44); but he remains 'Celegorm the fair' in The Silmarillion p. 60."

From the Book of Lost Tales:

Then Glorfindel's left handsought a dirk, and this he thrust up that it pierced the Balrog'sbelly nigh his own face (for that demon was double his stature);and it shrieked, and fell backwards from the rock, and fallingclutched Glorfindel's yellow locks beneath his cap, and thosetwain fell into the abyss.

From Morgoth’s Ring:

"The hair of Olwë was long and white, and his eyes were blue."

From The Shibboleth of Feanor, in Peoples of Middle Earth, about Fingon:

"He wore his long dark hair in great plaits braided with gold."

Also from the Shibboleth:

"All the Eldar had beautiful hair (and were especially attracted by hair of exceptional loveliness), but the Noldor were not specially remarkable in this respect, and there is no reference to Finwë as having had hair of exceptional length, abundance, or beauty beyond the measure of his people."

So there you go! There’s a fair amount of evidence that elves certainly loved and valued long, beautiful hair, and that they wore it in braids at times.

#out of cats (ooc)#elfy shite #thanks to gaia for helping me track down some of these references #hope this helped!#elvenqueen-poc

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heisenbergerking-blog · 7 years

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Broken Reflection

“Broken Reflection”

By Christian Salazar

“The past forty years have been the best decades of my life.”

Before that, The Man had lived through a famine and survived a global scale war that he experienced firsthand. The Prime Minister said back then that, should they win, the world would never again see such conflict. And it hadn’t, in The Man’s life anyway. There were some close calls, but otherwise the leaders of the world had behaved themselves. Either way, he wouldn’t really complain. He did his time and he was happy, content. The Man met The Woman at the community college he attended a year after he finished his duty. When her home country was torn apart by the war, she too earned the moniker of war survivor. Instantly they felt a powerful connection to each other and, not two years, later they were married. They had each faced their shares of adversity, and in each other they found their due reward. Over the years he never cherished her less, and she never stopped admiring him. Rather, she admired him more and he cherished her more.

Every tenth anniversary, The Man would recreate their first date; italian ice at a small ice cream shoppe by the college stadium at eight P.M. sharp. There he had first seen her intensely bright eyes. Beforehand they would visit a town landmark that they had not yet visited in all their years living there. Today they would get up bright and early, for he wanted to visit the new national art museum. Being the practical lady she was, The Woman was thrilled that their anniversary landed on the museum’s free admission day.

He rose early to meet the rising sun, energetic and strong, as if he hadn’t aged past twenty. The Man had always kept himself in good shape, relatively at least, considering his age. The only thing he couldn’t control was the stomach pain that came due to his severe wound from the war. It had healed mostly, though it still bothered him sometimes. It never stopped him though. That’s just the type of guy he was.

“Hurry sweetheart, or there might not be tickets left!” He calls, carrying a bouquet of white roses and wearing his ring. “Ohhh hush my love. There will be more than enough tickets, the way you are rushing!” His wife responded with a chuckle. He stands to grab his coat, passing the hall mirror for the thousandth time. It was a habit to glance at his reflection and continue to the door. Today he stops however; something has struck him. He turns back to the glass, slowly and hesitantly. His wife, rocking in her chair, stops her knitting and furrows her brow. She knows her husband well enough to sense his emotions. “Is something wrong? Hon?”

The man looks up finally to face the mirror. In it, he is there as always. However, it is as if he has been transported. Nostalgia comes just as intensely as horror does, as the man he sees is not only forty one years younger, but dressed in army fatigues and holding a rifle. The Soldier and The Man display the same distraught demeanor, as if the two have looked into the face of God and are amazed at their own incomprehension. The similarity refuses to stop there, as it is physically the same face. Ironically, The Man suddenly feels forty one years older.

A blinding sensation hits him like a deer before racing headlights, and then he feels the same wall of impact. He opens his eyes wildly; the light is different, dim. Even the air is heavy, thick and humid. But he is still standing before a mirror, although this mirror is cracked and dirty. He looks down at himself and tries to grasp the situation. He is dressed in a filthy camouflage uniform, and the straps from his helmet dangle before his eyes, tauntingly. His rough, shaking hands hold an empty rifle, and the chains of a pair of metal tags are wrapped around his torn knuckles.

“This is my rifle. There are many like it but this one is mine.”

He shakes his head in disbelief, slowly at first, then erratically. He screams for his wife and turns. Mid-turn the flash recurs, and the room is white again. His wife is yelling at him anxiously, grabbing his shoulders, asking what is wrong and should she call someone. He cannot respond and looks down at her bouquet and his ring.

“Until death do us part.”

Again he becomes that frozen animal, and again he is struck. There is indeed a chair there, but rather than his love, a lifeless figure is slouched as water drips on him from the ceiling.

Then he remembers, though he cannot accept it. He remembers what had happened. During the war there was a rumor of a new chemical weapon employed by the enemy. No one knew what it truly did, since very little people had experience with it. Some of his friends said it killed instantly, while others said it had severe psychological effects. Back then he could not know for sure. Now, however, he had his own terrifying suspicion. He glanced at his military issue watch, which also, like the mirror, featured a prominent crack, though he couldn’t remember how it came to be.

Three Twenty-Five A.M.. He looked up and was lucky to see that the war torn building he stood in had a grandfather clock, defiantly moving forward among the wreckage. Three Forty A.M.

In an instant the pieces came together. The memories flooded in. At three twenty he and his band of brothers were moving through a bombarded town to their rally point. Five minutes later gas canisters were dropped from planes above to his group. If the impacts (which froze his wristwatch at three twenty-five) didn’t kill the men, the gas took them. The men. His friends. His family.

And now he knew which of the rumors were right; both. Some died quickly and painlessly. Others, like himself, were taken away to a different place. He had experienced triumph over the horrors of war, he experienced redemption, he experienced love. Forty years of it, in fifteen minutes. He was still here.

He left the house, heart and head pounding, at the end of his rope. In an instant his entire world fell apart. It simply didn’t exist. As he looked around, he realized that he was standing at the center of the rally point. He could see soldiers of his nation moving toward him. He looked behind him, and nothing was standing. The town was barren, and only he had made it. The soldiers came closer, calling to him.

zzZZIP!

The same soldiers began shouting and threw him down behind them as bullets began to fly. The sudden violence and noise wasn’t impressive, he thought. They were firing at the city he had just left. He assumed a few enemy soldiers who were still alive had gathered for a final stand. The next thing he realized was that two medics were dragging him away. He mumbled to them about the gas, but the first medic, confused, shouted over the noise in French, “What gas? We’re concerned about the bullet in your stomach!” The Man glanced down, then back up to the medic, and replied in accented French, “What else is new?” right before he lost consciousness.

He came and went from coherency while in the medical truck. The last thing he saw before they put him on medication was something he couldn’t understand: through the truck window, he spotted other soldiers helping a family out of a townhouse with a gaping hole in it. First came an older man, then a older woman and a small boy. The last person to emerge was a beautiful young woman who looked perplexed, afraid, angry. Her expression he could understand; many people felt this way in war, and he knew it personally. What interested him was her soot covered but unforgettable face. It was her eyes; they seemed to shine through all the dirt, tears, and grime of war. Although it was impossible since he had never been to this country prior to the war, he felt that he knew this woman, intimately and uniquely. As he tried to place her, he faded into a deep sleep to experience the dream he thought would be his last.

The soldier was cold and alone in utter darkness. There was nothing, no town, no mirror, no land. It was as if the world had ended and he was all that was left. The only memories were those of the war. The terror set in and all he could do was run with nowhere to run to. He felt as if his soul were drowning in a storm, constantly being pulled under the powerful dark waves. He felt hopeless.

Then, a vision appeared before him. He could see a white room of a different time and place. An old couple who had seen both the good and the bad of the world. They had been in the darkness he was in, but he could tell that they chose to leave it. The light of this vision manifested into a bright hand, extending it's reach to him, offering a way out. As the Soldier began to move towards it, he felt himself slowing, a force pulling him back. The dark did not want him to leave. It became warm and inviting, offering a guaranteed end to his suffering. The bullet wouldn't hurt any longer, just as the painful memories of his lost friends would leave him. He would not have to take a risk in the unfamiliar bright hand. All the dark asked him to do was to give in. He turned again, and the hand reached closer, urging him to take another, new path, one that gave him the chance to start over. Just a chance. The choice was his.

He was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of just surviving. He had a choice. One decision would mean the end of his journey, where the other would be the beginning of an entirely new path. One that might mean experiencing something worth the suffering.

He closed his eyes, and he saw his friends again. Then he saw the town, and finally he saw her, and her bright eyes. He had made his decision.

The soldier reached out….

“He who fights with monsters might take care, lest he thereby become a monster... And if you gaze for long into an Abyss, The Abyss gazes also into you.”

- Mark Twain

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englishcompositionsp17 · 7 years