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arrivisting · 19 days ago
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo Characters: Fingon | Findekáno, Maedhros | Maitimo Additional Tags: Fashion Statements Summary:
They had not been together in thirteen years. Not since Maedhros had turned the head of his horse East, and set off for what would become Himring, and refused to look back.
A brief moment snatched at the Mereth Aderthad.
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arrivisting · 24 days ago
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Beren Erchamion/Lúthien Tinúviel, Elu Thingol | Elwë Singollo/Melian, Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel Characters: Melian (Tolkien) Summary:
Glowing, radiant, part of the great Song that made the universe mingled with the merely perfected blood and bone of the Eldar, Lúthien was a singularity inside a lovely body, a soul with the mass of a star, curving space and time around it.
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arrivisting · 2 months ago
Maglor drew himself up. “You act like it isn’t awkward that Fingon is, simultaneously, the heir of the king to whom we owe allegiance; and the son of our usurping uncle, who we must therefore hate; and the rescuer of our favourite brother, who we must therefore love; yet at same time one of our more amiable cousins, who we rather like; and, from a certain perspective, our brother-in-law, and thus to be defended as family against all comers, while also to be darkly suspected of luring our brother away. It - is - difficult!”
“My sympathies,” said Fingon, rather entertained.
“Maedhros isn’t my favourite brother,” said Amras.
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arrivisting · 2 months ago
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Círdan | Nowë, Gandalf | Mithrandir Summary:
“I have come,” said the stranger in grey, “to help where I can. And to offer kindness where I might.”
“Help,” said Círdan. “A better word than aid, I think. And kindness a better word than salvation, or holy war, or the clean-up crew. Yet you seem to have mislaid your shining sword, your bright sails, and your sounding horns?”
The stranger looked at his own ragged grey robe and at the gnarled staff propped beside his chair, and drew himself up a little. “One tries one’s best, Lord of the Havens.”
Of comings from the West; false dawns, and true ones; charges; Dooms; disappointments; beginnings and ends.
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arrivisting · 3 months ago
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aegnor | Ambaráto/Andreth | Saelind Characters: Andreth | Saelind, Aegnor | Ambaráto Summary:
“I cannot linger here,” Andreth says. That is a truth she knows. This is only a doorway.
“Still we might snatch a little time,” says Aegnor.
Aegnor and Andreth meet in the Halls.
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arrivisting · 3 months ago
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Maedhros | Maitimo Series: Part 1 of stories about ice Summary:
The horses Fingolfin's people had tried to bring across the ice had died, every one.
For the prompt, "Maedhros giving horses to Fingolfin in atonement for Losgar."
(This is one I’ve already posted as tumblr fic, thrown up to AO3).
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arrivisting · 3 months ago
sort of fic? I don’t know
I should be working on my wips but instead I am trying to come up with the names for Arwen and Aragorn’s daughters that Tolkien omitted to provide, and instead also I wrote this little stub this afternoon. I don’t quite know what to do with it or where it goes or if it’s going to grow up into a real story one day. I think more stories about Celeborn in Fourth Age Middle-Earth might be neat? also I would quite like to write a story where he and Maglor run into each other and come up with a sort of holding pattern of mutual avoidance while paying their respective visits to Gondor and keeping tabs on Arwen and Aragorn’s descendants.
and then perhaps maybe end up sharing a boat to valinor or something.
fourth age something or rather
Arwen had come to Imladris to watch the twins ride out in glory one last time. Together, they had watched as the final members of Elrond’s household departed for the West with Elladan and Elrohir, leaving dreaming Imladris, a place of shade and silence since its lord’s departure, truly empty at last.
When there was no longer a flash of light or colour in the distance to be seen, when even the last echo of song had faded, Arwen had turned to him. Celeborn had embraced her, and for a moment it had seemed he was not alone in Middle Earth, even if wife, daughter, grandsons had all gone before him. Then she had raised her face from his breast, and under the tear-stains he had seen  lines of mortality already making themselves known about her eyes and mouth, and remembered that his only granddaughter was leaving too, her departure both slower and more final.
That had been years ago, and in the time since he had not come to Gondor, and she had not left it. That was his own faintheartedness: as though, if he did not mark them, the years would not pass, and King Elessar and Queen Arwen would not age, and fade, and die.
The white city of Arnor was lovelier than it had been when it was still Minas Tirith. It had still worn the wounds of recent war in those days of summer and triumph and farewell; there had been great gashes in the seven circles of the city where buildings had fallen, burned, or been crushed by bombardment. Some of the worst debris had been swept away or dispersed in the weeks before the wedding, and the gaps where it had been had stood out like missing teeth. Even cheerful fresh marble already starting to go up had seemed too new, its marked presence itself a sign of loss.
Now the sharpness of the line between old and new city had faded, although it could still be traced, if Celeborn looked hard. It was no longer a city of gates and walls, of fear and watching.
It was not Lindon, and it was not Ost-in-Edhil, but in the spring sunshine its many trees were cloaked in white blossom and the air was thick with petals.
They were still dark, the people of Gondor, but no longer stern and silent. The streets were full of laughter and of song, as though even this unimportant day was a wedding-day, and thronged with people. Many of them had that fine markedness of brow and eye that had not belonged to the Race of Men before Elros. It had been Dior’s, and Luthien’s before his, and Melian’s before hers: and even now, thousands upon thousands of years later, thousands upon thousands of generations past, all those whose forefathers and foremothers had mingled bodies with the children of Elros still bore Melian’s touch, however utterly faint, however infinitesimally dilute. They did not know it, but in Gondor Celeborn saw Luthien’s dancing feet everywhere, and heard the vanished bells of her laughter around every corner of the lower circles.
The daughter of Menegroth had gone forever out of the world; yet her children numbered in the hundreds of thousands, numerous and humming and alive as a hive. She was not gone while they lived. She was more present now than she had been in the days of nightingales and starlight, of hemlock-bells and white moths.
He was only stopped when he came to the gate of the second circle. The guards were wearing winged silver helmets, perfectly polished and undented. Celeborn did not need to give his name. It was enough to brush back the grey hood from his head and let them see his silver hair – his presence alone was enough to mark him, but, being Men, they focused first and last on his ears.
“An Elf!”
“Lord Legolas?”
“Not he – as you’d know, if you’d been at this longer! You’d not find him wearing anything but green!”
“I’ve never seen one before, so close–”
They seemed to be under the impression that their whispers were quiet enough to go uncaught, and he took advantage of their confusion to pass into the highest circles. Here there was less bustle, less life. The houses were grander, and the streets quieter, the blue and grey and purple cloth of Elessar’s people richer and heaver, damascened in silver and gold.
In the Court of the Fountain, he saw the white litheness of Nimloth’s great-great-grandchild. It had been a sapling when he saw it last, too frail to bear blossom. Now it was tall as a maiden, and its head was crowned with flowers.He put one palm to its trunk and closed his eyes, setting aside the noise and ripples of questions around him.
When he opened them again, Arwen was in the courtyard, standing in an arched white doorway with her train looped over her arm. He had been thinking about Luthien, so it was Luthien he saw for a moment: not the Luthien of Eglador dancing in the starlight, but Luthien after the first fall of Menegroth, when they came into Ossiriand to tell her that her father was gone, and her mother also. Luthien who had passed through death and come back mortal, Luthien with silver already in her hair and lines at her eyes, Luthien with  borrowed time sifting too quickly through her lovely fingers.
He blinked, and she was only Arwen. Arwen, Celebrian’s last child. Arwen, his little granddaughter with her long eyelashes and eyes like starlight. Arwen, Elrond’s daughter, the lady of Imladris, grown grave and silent, thinking at her loom.
Arwen, Elessar’s queen, with her glorious blue-black hair bound up in a net of gold, her gown a dream of smoke and her smile the smile of a happy woman.
“It is my grandfather, the Lord Celeborn,” she told the clustering nobles, and meanwhile her eyes said Grandfather, Grandfather, and she was leading him into the Tower of the King, which had been the Tower of the Steward not that long ago.
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arrivisting · 4 months ago
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Eärendil (Tolkien), Elwing (Tolkien), Maedhros | Maitimo Summary:
To the Lord of the West, Eärendil cried out, “It gets tiresome, you know!”
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arrivisting · 4 months ago
I've been trying & failing to write about the Helcaraxë, and here is a false start I'm not keeping.
Through utter and through middle darkness borne
We didn’t sail to Beleriand.
We came by land. All the way, by foot after the last of the horses died, step after step after step. They said afterwards that it took us thirty years, but it wasn’t so. If it had been, I would have lain down to die on the ice, and told the rest to leave me.
It wasn’t so hard a death, some said. Like going to sleep.
Certainly there were those who went to sleep when we stopped to rest, and were found cold and frozen in the morning. Others died of cold more ceremoniously. They seemed to go mad: first they began to slur their words, then they seemed to wander in thought and memory, and finally they tore at their clothes and claimed to be dying of heat.
It took us weeks, though. Weeks of cold, filth, frostbite, starvation. The slow died, and the clumsy; but also the swift, and the skilled. The ice made no promises, and kept no bargains. There was nothing fair about it, and the Valar were not listening to us any longer.
What else can I tell you about the Helcaraxe? Was it all bad?
Of course it was. It blighted the lives of those who crossed it forever.
Was there also intimacy, and comradeship, and resourcefulness, and stray touches of glory?
We told stories by lamplight. We made light in the dark. We used rags for wicks and set them swimming in seal-oil. How it smelled! I saw harpoons fashioned from narwhal tusks and walrus ivory. I saw seals killed and skinned so often the sight became meaningless, but I’ll tell you how it was: the way you rolled them onto their backs and slit them throat to belly to tail to flippers. The way the blood welled out of them, black in the starlight. I do not forget how their hearts looked, still beating, when we peeled the hide back from the flesh. Seals are so very much smaller flensed of their fat. I would watch steam rise from their warm bodies into the air, and turn to frost.
Oh, that upsets you! I’m sorry, my love. It’s quite true, but not all of the truth.
Here is what was also true: we cried. We cried, and the tears froze on our faces. We cried, and our eyelids froze, and stuck together. We sang, and our voices cracked and broke. Still we sang.
When we killed our horses, we sang to them.
When we slaughtered the seals, we sang to them, too.
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arrivisting · 4 months ago
fic meme
since @riding-with-the-wild-hunt tagged me (hello!):
First Fic: I am not sharing that, save to say that it was on livejournal, the year was 2004, and I was in high school!
Favorite Fic: sadly I cannot list languishing forever-wips, which are in fact my favourites.
better than the thing I am in Les Miserables (Enjolras/Grantaire; 10k). It’s not my most popular fic in Les Mis, but it’s closest to the kind of thing I wanted to read and write.
I haven’t written the thing closest to what I want to read and write in The Silmarillion yet. So far I like the dawn from on high (Gandalf, Maglor, the Valar, gen; 3k) the most.
Most Recent Fic: It has been so very long since I posted fic! The last thing I posted as arriviste was the odd Some brief yet hopefully instructive notes on sexual differentiation between the Eldar and the Atani, by Finrod Felagund (4k). It was a few weeks before the pandemic hit and I had just read a book about scientists repeatedly discovering then repressing homosexuality in penguins, that’s my excuse/was my inspiration.
Fic that got the most notes: I ao3-only. My most popular fic there is (predictably?) have & hold, a modern Enjolras/Grantaire fic feat. fake marriage (40k).
A line or two from a WIP:
There had never been many elf-children in Lindon, where the tide had always been slowly going out, not coming in, even in the first years of the brightly-dawning Second Age as the Havens rose from nothing into soaring towers and light-filled atriums spun out of honey- and rose-coloured sandstone. 
He had loved his city by the sea when it was new and pink-and-gold; and he had loved the softness of it as the hard edges, the carvings, the statues slowly lost their sharpness to the wind and to time, and as the sandstone colours gently faded into grey. 
He had loved looking out over the silver Gulf of Lune even when it meant watching ships sail out from the Havens into the dazzle-bright distant horizon, vanishing from sight. He had known that beauty, learning, and memory was leaving with them in a slow and unstoppable bleeding-out, and that what was being lost would not return.
Lindon had once been wild forests where the Dead that Lived had walked in peace and blessed the earth. If anything was to survive of the land of his birth, it had been good that it was that fraction of Ossiriand. It was all that was left, and it was his, and Gil-galad had never given up an inch of it, of anything, willingly.
Favorite character(s) to write for and why: I don’t think I have any. I’m interested in too many things; there’s so much to do and to write and to play with.
Character(s) you find hard to write: anyone from LotR: I’m trying to write more LotR fic as well as Silmarillion, but I am more worried about catching their tone (there being rather more speeches given in full to those characters). Elrond - I keep writing around him rather than for him/about him directly, though I love him very much!
Tagging: I’m going to do the thing where I cut my eyes and say ‘whoever wants to’; I’ve never been very good at chain-things.
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arrivisting · a year ago
Silmarillion ficlet: Maedhros, Fingolfin, and the giving of horses at Mithrim
For thelonelybrilliance
First ficlet for my inspire me post: the prompt was “Maedhros giving horses to Fingolfin in atonement for Losgar” and I will be real with you, I a) don’t know how to respond directly to the reply in a way that makes a new post, because I am tumblr-illiterate, and b) I said 300-900 words and I lied because this is a thicc 1500
Fingolfin, Maedhros, gen. 1495 words.
The Fëanorians had left the rough dwellings they built with their own hands as their first settlement in Beleriand to Fingolfin’s people and fallen back, moving further away along the lake. A kindness, from those newly come and new to the land, to those who had tramped blood-shod across the Ice? Perhaps. Flight? Certainly that; and flight born of guilt would be one thing. Flight for fear of contagion, from pride, from lofty desire to remain apart would be something quite other.
They were all exiles now, but the Fëanorians across the lake had been exiles first. They left Tirion for Formenos rather than stay where Fëanor was no longer welcome; they left Aman for Beleriand and did what they could to make certain that they would go alone, and that none could follow. They were accomplished at withdrawal.
And they had yet given no signal that they wished to be one people once more.
They had already been withdrawing, those that had marched in Fëanor’s train, by the time Fingolfin brought his weary, heart-sore host safe out of the darkness where they had sounded their bright trumpets and into the twilight of Mithrim. The Grey-elves they had met with had told them where the first Noldor were to be found, and they had sought them out. And seeing them coming in the distance, hearing their horns, their sundered and sundering kin had left their camp before them, although their task had not been quite completed by the time Fingolfin and his people had fallen upon them.
Maglor had been waiting for them, no weapons in his hands. “Uncle,” he had said, at the sight of one he had left on a distant shore in a distant land, and there had been no music in his voice.
In the last years in Tirion before the Exile – the first Exile – no son of Fëanor had given Fingolfin that title any longer.
“Maglor Fëanorion,” Fingolfin had answered. He was not softened. He could not be. He had buried his youngest son among the tender flowers that had bloomed in the Sun’s first rising, and the sons he did have left had begun to seem almost strangers to the people they had once been. “Where is your father?”
He had not been prepared for the unhealing grief in his nephew’s eyes, or the news of his eldest nephew’s loss. But he had had little to offer Maglor in that first arrival, neither pity nor kindness, only cold courtesy. Maglor had offered him courtesy in turn, and shelter, and withdrawn with the last of his people.
Fingon had been the one to give with open hands. The one to find brightness in the twilight, to snatch fire from the dark god.
“Uncle,” Maedhros had said, but the voice had scarcely been his, and neither had the drawn and shadowed face, the tormented body, the bloody stump dressed in haste and still seeping through the layers of cloth.
Pity had pierced Fingolfin’s breast like a lance, but pity was not forgiveness.
“Do not try to speak,” he had told this half-stranger; “Rest,” and had not spoken with him again before he, too, was removed into the far fastness of the fallen-back Fëanorians.
They came from the far side of the lake in twos, in threes, in one massed sortie, leading horses such as there had been in Valinor: horses gold and cream and black and brown and grey, their coats almost as rich and buttery in the thin sunlight as they had been in the light of Laurelin, their proud heads tossing, their muscles moving with both grace and power.
The horses they had tried to bring across the ice had died. They had lost them to frost’s bite, to starvation, to crevasses and to the water; to starvation more than anything else. They had fought to keep them alive, and then they had sought to end their lives. They had cradled the heads of horses they had loved in their hands or laps as another cut their throats and wept. They had tried to do the bodies honour, and then they had no longer had time or resources to do so, and then they had realised that those bodies were themselves a source of food. None of the horses they had led out of Tirion had survived to step onto the shores of Beleriand and be greeted by the light of the first moon.
The horses that had come whole from Valinor over the sea looked healthy as they came towards the Fingolfinian camp. They had white flowers twined in their manes, in their tails, woven in garlands draped over their withers.
This was to be a peace deputation, then. The Fëanorians were coming to them, and not drawing out their isolation, or demanding that the younger son’s camp sued first for peace with that of the elder: and they came with flowers, and not with starry banners, with flowers and not with swords.
That would have meant a great deal once. If Fëanor had been coming with them, perhaps even yet it still would have. But Fingolfin could not look at the flowers and not remember the vast expanses of ice where no flowers had grown; or without remembering Argon fallen among the flowers.
Maedhros was leading the first horse, a chestnut whose glossy hide was a close match for his own hair. He wasn’t wearing Finwë’s crown. That meant this was a deputation from kin, not their king coming to them in might.
He was so very weary of it all, but he could not stop calculating. His people had followed him over the ice and into the unknown, while the Fëanorians had come with the provisions and goods his people had not been able to carry themselves: they had been long years in this strange land. The Grey-elves were allied with them, and spoke of a great battle where the Fëanorians had come to their aid. They had established themselves and put down roots, and even if they were coming first to Fingolfin now, they were strong, and he and his were not.
“Uncle,” said Maedhros. There was more colour in his face than there had been after the rescue. His hair was short, but bright and clean. The empty end of his right sleeve almost escaped notice, but not quite: the strange and ardent flame in his eyes could not.
“Maedhros Fëanorion,” Fingolfin said, and waited.
“Fingolfin Finwion,” said his brother’s son, and went to his knees.
There was a gasp, a whisper, a rustling that went around the lakeside. Somewhere, Fingolfin knew, one of his remaining sons was watching this exchange with ice in his eyes, and the other with his heart in his throat.
“I cannot give you back what you have lost,” said Fëanor’s son. “I cannot make good what you have suffered. I cannot mend the wrongs dealt you.”
“I can only say, I am sorry,” said Fëanor’s son, still kneeling. “I can only say that I am ashamed; and what I may do, I will do. And in this I speak for us all.”
Maedhros was their king now. But did he do so? The Fëanorians who had stopped behind him with the horses they led said nothing, and their faces were still. Was there resentment there, behind the bright eyes? Was there shame?
“And,” continued Maedhros, “in token of that, these horses are yours, and what goods they bear. They are not a gift. They are yours by right, and no one here will say otherwise.”
Now there was noise. Fingolfin’s people, behind him; sighs, gasps, questions; and anger still. Anger that would keep them apart from Fëanor’s host in this strange land, that would keep them weak, and yet was righteous.
“Do not kneel to me,” Fingolfin said; and then, “nephew.”
Maedhros bowed his head before he rose, and the gesture was penitent; yet Fingolfin had seen the relief of a gambit made good, and knew that Maedhros had heard precisely what Fingolfin said, and what he did not.
It was something: nephew, uncle. What it was not was my lord, my king. It said, we are family, and it said, and I am your elder. It said, my hands are open, and I will deal. It said, sternly, we are family, and family do not do to family what your father did to me, what your followers did to mine.
Maedhros rose less fluidly than he had knelt. That was the missing hand. The balance was not there yet, the adaptation: but he had come far in the few weeks of his return. Fingolfin offered him aid to stand, and knew how many eyes were on them, watching. He had no doubt that Fëanor’s son did, too. And yet –
“I am sorry,” said his nephew, for his ear alone, in the moment of closeness, and it sounded as though he truly meant it.
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arrivisting · a year ago
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Bëor the Old/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Amarië/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Celeborn/Galadriel | Artanis, Beren Erchamion/Lúthien Tinúviel, Finwë/Indis (Tolkien), Aegnor | Ambaráto/Andreth | Saelind Characters: Finrod Felagund | Findaráto Additional Tags: pairings are suggested not explicit, poor anonymisation of research subjects which would never pass an ethics board Summary:
As one of the few in Aman who has engaged in long term study of the Atani (including a period in which I lived among them quite as one of their own), I feel that a few observations from me on this subject might prove helpful. Alas, my original notes were forever sundered from me as an unfortunate consequence of my death by werewolf. Eru Ilúvatar preserves the soul, but the hröa must be made anew: and like the flesh, research notes can only cross what was once the Sundering Sea by ship. I suppose they are now at the bottom of said Sea, if they were not previously destroyed in the ruin of Nargothrond. It is fortunate that I have a perfectly crystalline memory, and can therefore make good the loss.
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arrivisting · a year ago
tolkien ficlets?
I am at a slightly loose end this week until next semester begins Monday and my teaching load crushes me flat, and I’m horridly blocked on all my WIPs.
SO! if there’s something you’d like me to write you, between 300-900 words, drop a comment on this post: I like writing gen but also most pairings, close to the text but also a little cracky, etc etc. A line of Tolkien that would make a springboard for fic? An off-cut or follow-on from something I’ve written before? Ask & I will see if I can do it.
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arrivisting · a year ago
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Maedhros | Maitimo, Maglor | Makalaurë, Elurín (Tolkien), Eluréd (Tolkien), Idril Celebrindal Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Character Death, Canonical Character Death Summary:
Maedhros finds Eluréd and Elurín in the woods, but that doesn’t, necessarily, make anything better.
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inquisitor-moomoo · 6 years ago
"as each servant of mythal reached the end of their years, they would pass on their knowledge through this" and then go into uthenera? or did it take away the ability to go into uthenera? or is becoming a whisper in the well equivalent to uthenera? or did servants marked with vallaslin not have immortality? or maybe no one did? or just the pantheon?
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inquisitor-moomoo · 6 years ago
i was fucking around on the da wiki page for elven language and tried to see if i could make some sentences- i didn't really have anything in mind
and 5 minutes later i had a paragraph of elven calling for a bloody elven revolution
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inquisitor-moomoo · 6 years ago
lethallan and lethallin USED to be considered male/female gendered, but solas, more than once, refers to female lavellan as lethallin. Do we take this to mean we were incorrect in presuming -lan/-lin is gendered, or at least not so simple as a gender binary. OR did the dialogue get written mistakenly w/o multiple gender options, or maybe the gender flag wasn't checked before the conversations?
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