Might stay up all night and finish my gtn notes 👀👀👀
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ppl don’t discuss enough how iconic of a debut chewing gum was and that’s a crime.
I know who you’re really worried about.
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Mister Miracle #19
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Check this out at Amazon
Funny Age T-Shirt https://www.amazon.com/dp/B094DWSMFT/ref=cm_sw_r_u_apa_glt_fabc_X8W0DQ2A66WEAS87QMJW
God I love Varric. About to become a full blown Varric stan account. Forcing myself to not bring him on every single mission is borderline impossible but this is not DA2 and my Inquisitor is not Hawke.
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Happy May the fourth be with you day!!! (Yes I celebrate this day.) I plan on sketching SkekTek in Luke skywalker’s clothes.
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The Death of Arwen
'But Arwen went forth from the House, and the light of her eyes was quenched, and it seemed to her people that she had become cold and grey as nightfall in winter that comes without a star. Then she said farewell to Eldarion, and to her daughters, and to all whom she had loved; and she went out from the city of Minas Tirith and passed away to the land of Lórien, and dwelt there alone under the fading trees until winter came. Galadriel had passed away and Celeborn also was gone, and the land was silent.
'There at last when the mallorn-leaves were falling, but spring had not yet come, she laid herself to rest upon Cerin Amroth; and there is her green grave, until the world is changed, and all the days of her life are utterly forgotten by men that come after, and elanor and niphredil bloom no more east of the Sea.
'Here ends this tale, as it has come to us from the South; and with the passing of Evenstar no more is said in this book of the days of old.'
(from “The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen”, LotR Appendices)
If like me you always found Arwen dying alone too unbearably sad, you may have imagined her bros Elladan and Elrohir with her at the end, or her grandfather, canon be damned.
Or... maybe this:
fanfic under cut:
Lothlorien, FA 121.
The Wanderer moves like a shadow beneath golden-leaved boughs of mellyrn. His feet have walked the length and breadth of Ennor, but never in the days of Nenya's power did he enter these woods. Only in the last few decades, long after it has lain abandoned by the galadhrim, has he wintered here. The trees of gold awaken memories of Tirion. Each winter he comes, he sees evidence of the fading… the leaves more sparse, the gold less bright… He approaches a great mound at the heart of the woods, with its two circles of trees, white and gold. Even from afar he senses that he is not alone… senses the faint light of a life slowly ebbing away.
She is as a shadow herself, as she lies at the foot of the greatest mallorn at the center of the mound. She is pale as death, and lines of mortality and grief have in the past few months etched themselves upon the face that once was fairest. But still, he knows her. He approaches silently. Kneels near her. He has sung naught but grief and lamentation for millennia. But now, ever so softly, from his lips lilts a tune he heard a maiden sing in the springtime of her life. And her grey eyes slowly open. They are dim, unfocused, and search awhile before they find him.
"You," she whispers in Sindarin, her voice barely audible. "I know you."
He is intimate with such despair and loneliness. Such sorrow. "Daughter, how may I help you?" he asks gently.
"…Will you… sing…?"
He takes her hand as it lies on the still-green grass. It is cold, so cold, thin and frail, the bones like a bird's beneath flesh grown loose. Her fingers tighten ever so slightly on his.
He stays by her side throughout the winter, through sun and rain, and for her he lays aside his songs of woe. From his lips come all the songs of childhood he once sang to a young pair of twins. He hears the clash of swords in the Havens, remembers the nightmares that woke them—and him—in the nights. He remembers the feel of small bodies pressed against his as he awakens to find they have crawled yet again into his bed, fearful of monsters in their own room. How innocent they had been of the true monster that he was, fair of face but black of soul. How touchingly they had gripped his hand for comfort, that had shed the blood of their kindred. As he sings the old, familiar songs he remembers yet other children. His younger brothers as he sang to them. Himself, as his mother sang to him. He would have wept for the loss and doom of all those children, but he has no tears left to shed.
The nights are cold. He takes a cloak from the oiled-leather pack, the parting gift the elves of Imladris had left for him ere they departed, that one of the peredhel twins had contributed to it. The wanderer now lays the new dark-grey cloak over Arwen.
She speaks only once more, as the first buds appear on the mellyrn, and leaves of gold begin to fall. He barely makes out the words.
Her face in death is young and radiant, all lines of grief smoothed away.
He buries her where she lies, her brother's cloak her shroud. He raises a shallow mound of earth over her, and scatters early-blooming niphredil over the grave. He then finds a grey stone, and with his blade he takes his time to chisel letters upon it. As he does so, he remembers his mother's hands on his as she had taught him, his hands almost too small then to hold the tools.
Golden leaves fall in the empty woods as spring comes. They flutter onto the mound and upon the stone he has left to mark the grave.
She was neither Queen nor Evenstar of her people to him, so on the grey stone the wanderer has chiseled, in the ancient classical mode of Tengwar:
(*tolen: “I come”)
(from Ch 35 “Tapestry of Three Worlds” in The Golden and the Black https://archiveofourown.org/works/5289005/chapters/12208913)
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“Ow!” A pained groan could be heard from behind a rock formation. There an Imp laid on the ground, with an arm obviously dislocated. Nexas and his friends had a skirmish with another pack of Imps on their hunt, and boy, was he not in a good shape. This Imp in particular lacked natural, chitinous plating unlike the rest of what formed the Imp Quartet, but at least he had tough, brown skin covering his being, and a few white bony spikes jutting from his body. His eyes were both burning red, with pupils not being clear thanks to their infernal glow.
“Nexas, will you quit being a baby? We’re not humans nor any other bags of meat out there! Show some endurance, won’tcha?” Another Imp reprimanded him. This was Andhas, leader of the admittedly small pack, if one could even call it. He had a mix of orange and purple on his being, and also had spikes jutting out from some parts of his body.
“Hello, Andhas? My arm feels like it’s about to pop off!” Nexas retorted against his friend’s remark. “And you’re our leader; Would it kill you if you’d show some support?”
“He’s not wrong.” Another voice responded. Vakal, the Imp leaning his back onto the rocky structure was quite the odd one out among the four-- He belonged to a variant where he lacked spikes protruding from his body, and he had ten eyes in place of just two with most other Imps-- Two larger ones which are used for normal vision, and the other, smaller eight eyes for heat vision. Due to the nature of his being, he, like Nexas and another member of the quartet, could wear some apparel more easily, as displayed by a simple steel, shoulder plate with a small banner to his right, the emblem of his House etched onto it. “We have an Imp down after all. I wouldn’t say what you said to Nexas if I were you.”
Tending to Nexas was the only female Imp of the group, Xyrsara. She had a shorter stature than her partners in crime, and her obsidian body and navy accenting, followed by two spikes protruding behind her shoulders betrayed the features of a Nightmare Imp. Imp variants like hers are rare these days because of an incident that took place a long time ago, when the Doom Slayer was but a simple mortal. She could turn translucent if needed be to the point anyone without keen, focused eyes would think a Specter was messing around with them, and even without her Prowler cousins’ teleportation ability, purple fires she hurls would be more volatile and dishes out greater punishments than that of her own kin.
“It would be a pain if you would have to respawn in the Mother Demon chamber back in the fortress. Consider yourself blessed that you have us.” She spoke as she repositioned Nexas’ dislocated arm in one swift move.
“AGH!” Nexas yelled in pain as his arm felt pressure from Xyrsara’s action. “That hurt like--” Nexas noticed that he could move his left arm now without experiencing much discomfort. “...Oh. Thanks, ‘Sara.”
“I’m just doing my job, Nexas. Don’t sweat it.” Xyrsara had a toothy grin, satisfied with being able to help the other Imp. “That said though...”
“Hell isn’t doing so well with invasion at the moment.” The Nightmare Imp spoke with concern in her voice. “Heard that a certain mean and green armored man came back, and he’s decimating a LOT of demons on campaigns for other realms.”
“Wanna bet that the tin can will eventually come to this desert and cause more damage than it’s been already done to?” Asked Vakal.
“No thanks.” A riposte from Andhas. “You guys know how he takes the likes of us out pretty easily.”
“Fair.” Nexas chimed in. He looked around for a moment. “Let’s jet. I’m sure there are some Rogues who want us be sent packing just because we pissed off a few Imps among them.”
“Back to the fortress then?” Xyrsara titled her head.
“Yep.” Andhas nodded.
It was time to head back. It had been a hectic day for the four imps, only because they wanted to hunt for food around these parts for themselves to eat later. They definitely got some Trites for a treat later when they return to the fortress though-- It was better than nothing.
Reviews 372: Morita Vargas
For me, one of the most exciting discoveries of 2020 was RR GEMS, an imprint based in Estonia releasing high quality vinyl pressings of free jazz, psychedelia, and much else besides (who happened to put out one of my favorite LPs of recent memory in Soft Power’s Brink of Extinction). But the discovery was even richer than I imagined, for RR GEMS is also closely related to another label—the esoterically inclined Hidden Harmony Recordings. Debuting last year with C.R. Gillespie’s Concentration Patterns, Hidden Harmony then went on to release Conservatory of Flowers by Maria Teriaeva, and 8 by Morita Vargas—each one of these records a completely singular sonic experience exploring captivating textures closer to the fourth world, with meditative ambient, deviant pop, leftfield dance, new age minimalism, and electro-acoustic experimentation all intermingling. As well, the label has established a unique and visually striking aesthetic, presenting their deluxe pressings in framed outer sleeves, which then encase combinations of hallucinogenic nature photography, portraiture, and graphic design. Of the Hidden Harmony’s releases so far, I was particularly taken aback by the respective works of Teriaeva and Vargas, and I plan to write about each of their albums in the coming weeks, starting with Vargas’ 8.
Morita Vargas is an experimental artist from Buenos Aires, and she has been sowing and growing the seeds of 8 since 2014, when she used a phone to document various vocal snippets while wandering the cityscape. Over the years, these early sketches were enhanced by woodwinds, world percussions, mallet instruments, and a polychromatic palette of keys and synths, with the vocals themselves being treated to myriad manipulations both organic and electronic…mutating, modulating, and pitch-shifting into a psychedelic display of fairy spells, pixie incantations, diva flights, secretive whispers, breathy chants, and hypnotizing turns of phrase. It’s all rendered through mysterious languages of the artists’ own creation, and the performances serve to illuminate themes relating to death, transformation, and rebirth—which further tie into the numerological significance of the title, as the number 8 symbolizes “the transition between heaven and earth, and the illumination of our capacity for various metamorphoses.” The end result is an album of melancholic resonance and joyous warmth; of new age naturalism and tropical fever dreaming; of childlike flights through fantasy forests and forbidden visions of ancient rituals; and of sensual body motions and dances lost to hedonistic ecstasy.
Morita Vargas - 8 (Hidden Harmony Recordings, 2020)
At the start of “Bernisa,” synthesized arpeggios sparkle like gemstones while birds sing in the distance, resulting in a new age lullaby imbued with a certain esoteric spirt. Melodies flow through key changes that portend hope and sorrow at once, with further keyboard layers chiming in counterpoint. As everything reduces, whispering chords pan softly, understated leads constructed from glowing glass drop onto the mix, and after an expanse of mid-bass meditation, the birdcalls return, bringing with them kosmische arps and a cascade of jazzy keyboard solos…with the minimalist structures and mysterious melodies evoking both Steve Reich and Beverly Glenn-Copeland. Massive sub bass motions rattle the soul in “Paitice,” while shakers and woodblocks dance through clouds of reverb. Vargas’ vocals are shrouded in dark layers of smoke as they move through druidic incantations, and the vibe is akin to some shamanic ceremonial. Gothic choirs are lost in the jungle…their minds entranced by strange perfumes from tropical flowers, causing their deep and soulful arias to move towards psycho-activation. The mysterious incantations are tempered by ecstatic whispers and hyperventilating chants that raise the hair on the back of the neck, with the vocals becoming their own sort of percussion that both works for and against the subsonic tribal basslines, and the snapping shakers and tones of tapped wood. The chorale cascades seem to vaporize as the track progresses, becoming ever more distant—as if heard through a thick pearlescent fog—and towards the end, pitch-shifting pixie voices generate a hypnotizing strain of a cappella psychedelia, with looping phrases overtaken by hiss and sibilance, until the whole thing resembles some abstract minimalist sound sculpture.
“XOXOXOXO” begins with mechanized tribal rhythms like robots scoring a shadowy rainforest ritual. Telephonic synths and blasted space electronics pan as ethereal vocals diffuse into the stereo field…these epic waves of oceanic wonderment overlaid by sensual coos and breaths. Further layers of rhythm enter the scene, creative captivating polyrhythms that only enhance the vibe of low slung dancefloor swagger. During a momentary respite, the beats fade, leaving space for desperate vocalizations and spare piano notes to float in the abyss, with long howling decay trails smothered in reverberation. The technoid tribal drums eventually return, as do the ethereal wavefronts of vocal warmth, and everything grows progressively wilder…almost like some feral scream towards the sky. Next comes “Deysa” and its synthesized bubble forms pulsating against counterpoint percolations. Its another expanse of Reich-ian minimalist sorcery that soon gives way to a playfully bouncing sequential ascent…as if the mind is racing up and down some corridor constructed of rainbow light. Amorphous angel voices sing with abandon and at times erupt towards the animalistic, while whispered refrains and sparse idiophone melodies dazzle the mind. The track snaps back toward magical minimalism briefly, before breaking again towards childlike kosmische, with voices growing increasingly adventurous and almost completely abandoning the racing synthesizer sequences, floating instead into a parallel dimension. Suddenly, a fairy chants fantastical spells of mysterious origin, and is soon supported by a stuttering hypno-beat, one where hand drums pound maniacally and only just hold to a tempo. All the while, the vocals smear into a spectral shriek as the heart races towards ecstasy, and eventually, a burst of bass washes the mix clean. The A-side closes with “Aguila” and its foamy pads stretching out like layers of cotton candy. Space age brass synths sing triumphant songs while mallet instruments sparkle overheard, their melodies and tones eventually reversing in time, creating mirage shimmers and showers of golden glitter. Vargas then abruptly transitions the track into a sequential dream sequence, with softened synth melodies cycling at hyperspeed...almost like a lullaby induction into a world of sleep-induced fantasy.
Opening the B-side is “Gargantsa,” which features angular basslines evoking a pitched down clavinet. Further funky keyboard layers dance aside the mutant bass movements and a four-four kick drum drops, transforming the track into a slab of minimal club euphoria. Vargas chants over it all like some diva of destiny, with sensual coos and whispered secrets threading together, and occasionally shifting down into syrupy sexuality. During certain stretches, the mix reduces to just voice and kick drum, and each and every looped phrased serves to entice the body and spirit deeper into dancefloor delirium. The groove continually shifts and evolves as insectoid fx and feedback tracers track the hypnotizing house beats, and as we move deeper into Vargas’ spell, the vibe is like being transported to some hidden nightclub in the middle of a sweltering rain forest, with roof open to the moon and shadow-shrouded bodies gyrating in ecstasy. “Devonte” comes next, wherein new age piano inactions evoke the movements of celestial oceans. Whispered poetry enters alongside a pounding rhythm, bell trees sparkle like stars on the surface of the sea, and Vargas’ voice grows increasingly strange and desperate as the song spaces further and further out. Droning soul chords underly pitch-shifting babbles while post-punk basslines chug alongside kick drums beneath a blanket of dub reverb. And then suddenly, we return to the mysterious piano ambiance, and to visages of waves washing beneath a canopy of starshine.
Woven webs of acoustic guitar splay out through echo machines in “Oly,” and demonic voices bubble up through mist, with tones rattling all around the periphery. Kalimbas glow and tambourines shake freely before locking into a mesmeric rhythm, which works against pulsating delay patterns. Voices both mysterious and sinister wash across the mix like granular clouds of noise, yet any harshness is tempered by the acoustic guitars, which are as soothing as they are abstract. Whistles emerge to wash away the mix, sparse folk melodies intermingle with field recordings in the distance, and by the end, Vargas’ voice devolves into infantile chatter. In “I feel lost,” dreamscape ivory arpeggios swim up and down the scale as ethereal melodies sing in support…the whole thing not unlike some early Mogwai interlude (think “Radar Maker” from Young Team). A synthesized string sections transforms the vibe towards post-classical fantasia, with harmonious chord strokes working together with fluttering minimalist melodies. At some point the layers of immersive ambiance recede, leaving again the mutating piano conversations, and when Vargas brings in the sighing strings, there are shades of Godspeed You! Black Emeperor—even as subtle jazz leads cluster together. “Ginseng” ends the experience, and sees an electric piano singing alien songs while idiophones play sparsely in support. Electronics like blinding whistle tones filter into the spectrum as the keys mutate towards smoldering drone clouds and through it all, chime trees shine and sparkle. The pianos mostly fade into obscurity, supplying only understated textures of ecclesiastical enchantment as we walk further and further into some tropical jungle, with radiant currents of light bathing the body and reverb kissing every singly sound. Some strange forest drum ceremonial proceeds far away as the trip grows increasingly psychedelic, with Vargas’ musings evoking mystical nature spirits as they enchant the soul deeper and deeper into a lost paradise.
(images from my personal copy)
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What a modern Dekn noble would wear for formal. (Arkn: Legacy)
Fíriel, fair as an elvish maiden, daughter of Elboron, and Princess of Ithilien. She was offered a spot on the last ship sailing into the West by Elladan, Elrohir, and Celeborn but she felt the mud between her toes and refused, for her place was on the earth where she was born. She takes after her grandmother Éowyn in likeness and mood.
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Princesses of the Reunited Kingdom, girls of the House of Telcontar, the four daughters of Aragorn and Arwen. Here is my take on Aragorn and Arwen's daughters, named Eldalótë, Tindómiel, Atanríel, and Vanimeldë. They inherit their father's courage and stalwartness, and their mother's elvish beauty. All of them, save fairest Tindómiel, marry into the four greatest noble houses of Gondor.
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i literally cant stop crying every time i look at or even think about marco polo
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All three of my dnd games... canceled this week...
My Sunday has consistently been canceled for past two months recently....
I mean I get it. Not feeling well or life or holiday things but RIP FEELS BAD MAN
Kind of a comedic concept (I know, so unusual!) but I’ve been thinking about Sauron in the Fourth Age and more and more in becomes clear that the best punishment is…
To make him guard the Shire, of course! What better punishment than to be forced to protect what you hate the most?
Naturally, I came up with several concepts for this, including the following:
- He can’t get past Bree. He can go TO Bree, but no further
- Hobbit children have officially declared him their uncle. If someone becomes an orphan and vanishes, chances are they went to learn from or live with ‘that fae who’s everyone’s uncle for some reason we cannot seem to decipher’
- Frodo vaguely recognizes the voice, but Sauron’s accent (yes this goes with my ‘Irish Umaiar’ headcanon what of it) is much thicker in person. also, he seems harmless.
- “I may hate you all, but you better bloody believe I will protect you until my last feckin’ breath!” - Sauron at some point
- Gets attached to one extremely odd Hobbit girl and adopts her
- Occasionally, a three eyed wolf appears and wanders around with Pippin for a week
- Gets adopted by Lobelia Sackville-Baggins
- Helps fight Saruman maybe
- when he takes the form of a white wolf (the only other form he’s allowed to take, and it pisses him off) the Hobbit kids literally will not let go of him. This despite the fact he is absolutely massive, has three eyes, has enormous fangs and claws, and his fur sometimes seems to glow like fire from within.
- Bickers with the people in Bree, but they also owe him lots of money because he keeps beating them at cards at the Prancing Pony
- Teaches people how to make Orcish grog
- To everyone’s shock, Orcish grog is delicious. The only downside is you can become extremely reckless and also you get a miserable hangover
- SOMEONE ADOPTS A BABY ORC
- said baby Orc is from Gundabad and within a few years is already taller than Hobbit children twice their age
- Sauron has literally never been more confused. People want to learn Angbandian and Orcish because he keeps cussing in them and they want to know what he’s saying
- It’s hilarious until the baby Hobbits pick up on his cussing and start USING THE WORDS
- He has to explain what they me to the smol Hobbits, who then immediately go home cussing in Westron instead
- Sauron isn’t sure what else he expected
- Has to explain to a horrified Merry that the Witch-King was not actually his son, he just adopted him. Then he realizes ‘wait never mind he was—wait no Hobbit DO NOT APOLOGIZE OH SWEET VOID I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO RESPOND TO THIS’
- Sauron teaches the Hobbits how to say thank you in Orcish.
- It roughly means ‘I will not hurt you’
- When this is discovered, everyone IMMEDIATELY panics and becomes very protective of the baby Orc, who’s just vibing and Does Not Get It
In short, it’s just organized chaos. Yes, Sauron is a card shark. Yes, I make the rules. No, I will not elaborate.
(well not until I write the fic). If you wish to learn more, the tag for this silliness is ‘hobbits adopt sauron au’
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The Missoulian, Montana, February 9, 1929
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Anyway if you’re a silvergifting fan and you have not been reading this fic yet, what are you even doing?
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@dunadaneth / 𝓒𝓻𝓮́𝓪
𝐀 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐯𝐲, 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐀𝐫𝐝𝐚. Few things and much fewer individuals were able truly to lure the elvenking out of his realm with eagerness to travel. An eagerness he had not felt in an age, quite literally. So far into the west, so far that kin blessed with keen senses could smell the sea’s salt from across Eriador’s planes ; so far that the Evendim-Lake in the Anduin’s stead glittered with dancing reflections of the daylight. Quaint, how all waters appeared similar and yet vastly different.
It was the air, nigh forgotten winds whipping along vast meadows from which one could spot olden ruins that soon shall prosper again — but regardless of all this beauty here, Thranduil looked forward only to one thing. Reuniting with Créa, who the birds had sung of as having earned herself a quite respectable position.
Naturally, he had not parted from home sans company and behind him rode a handful elves, none of who were clad in robes as shimmering as his. The silver crown atop his fair head may count as unnecessary addition. By the gates the group arrived at last. Mounts halted, pushing snorts through flaring nostrils. Now, would Créa herself welcome them or servants of the city open and proceed to guide the elves to their old friend ? However, Thranduil could feel his heart sing ! Albeit little about his marble mien conveyed as much — nonchalance reigned his facade until Créa’s smile would no doubt summon one of his own in response.
𝓥𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓮: main, 4th age
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