Lay of Leithian: The Rock-Opera
Subtitled Livestream- 30th April, 2023
Two different fates are woven together when Lúthien, an elven princess, falls in love with Beren, a hero of mortal men. To win her hand, Beren is sent on an impossible quest- to cut a legendary gem from the crown of the Dark Lord. So begins this battle between light and darkness, love and duty, in the most enduring tale of Tolkien’s Middle Earth.
Здравствуйте, друзья! Hello, friends!
Want to experience a new Tolkien adaptation? Our little Leithian fandom would like to invite you to one of our livestreams! Come join myself and some other fun Silmarillion fans as we watch this Tolkien rock opera together.
Where: Cytube (video stream) / Discord (live chat)
• Links will be posted here, 1 hour before the stream
When: Sunday, 30th April, 1pm EST / 10am PDT / 19:00 CET
Run Time: 1hr, 35m, with a 15 minute intermission
Performance Details: 24th November 2022 live broadcast
Language: Russian / Subtitles: English, Finnish, Spanish
Additional Material:
• Lay of Leithian translation
• Links and resources
See you soon! 🤘
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tagged by: @socially-awkward-skeleton (tysm! 💕)
tagging: @adelaidedrubman, @detectivelokis, @baldurrs, @kittiofdoom, @funkypoacher, @aceghosts, @strangefable, @deputyash, @fourlittleseedlings, @confidentandgood, @sstewyhosseini, @purplehairsecretlair, @roofgeese, @poetikat and god I feel like I'm forgetting people but if you see this and you're not tagged but want to share a wip I am tagging you! (But also. As always. No pressure!)
Still wrestling with ch 1 of kneeling at the crossroads so here's some of that
“Last chance, Marshal…” Whitehorse warns.
She redirects her attention to Burke, watching the realization dawn on his face. His eyes go wide and his jaw goes slack, mouth hanging open as a shaky breath is forced from his lungs. Fear, so sudden and so potent she can practically smell it. He swallows thickly, taking in a deep breath to compose himself. “We’re going in,” he says.
To his credit, he, at the very least, sounds resolute.
Whitehorse gives Pratt the order to land the helicopter. Her stomach lurches as the landing skis touch the ground, causing the entire craft to jolt. The blades begin to slow overhead and Whitehorse makes one last call to Nancy. If she doesn’t hear from them within the next fifteen minutes, send in the cavalry.
She takes a moment to check her pistol. She shouldn’t need it -- Whitehorse’s instructions to keep it holstered tell her as much -- but it’s a ritual she’s adopted from her time in active duty. “There are times when your mind and body will fail you,” her old captain had once said. “But a well kept weapon never will.”
And then they’re moving. Burke, Hudson, and the Sheriff all take point in front of her while Pratt stays behind to keep the engine going.
Sybille is no stranger to walking into hostile territory, but nothing could have prepared her for just how familiar it feels as she enters the cult compound. Men and women dressed in various uniform mill about, armed and leering. Dogs bark, lunging against their cages as she and her fellow officers move past. But beneath the cacophony is something low and sweet and melodic. A choir of voices sing out into the night; an old song she knows by heart. One her mother used to sing every night when she was a child.
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound…
But something about it feels strange. Hollow. Haunting. The mud slows her movements, sucking at her boots like it’s trying to hold her back, stop her -- save her from whatever awaits her inside the church.
Cries of “We’ve done nothing wrong!” and “What are they doing here?” ring out. She holds herself a little taller. Back straight, chin held high, projecting as much authority as she can without being outright intimidating. The Sheriff does his best to soothe the agitated crowds, but even Hudson can’t help but voice her own growing apprehension.
“Jesus Christ, you’re wearing badges, aren’t you?” Burke cuts in snidely.
“Yeah, but they don’t respect badges much around here,” Hudson answers.
“They’ll respect a nine millimeter,” Burke mutters, passing a man wielding an automatic rifle.
The singing grows louder as they approach the chapel. It echoes into the moonlit night, reverberating deep in her bones and resonating in her chest. Her heart aches at the sound, memories and longings from an easier, simpler time threatening to breach the surface. She stomps them down, but she struggles to bring her focus back to the task at hand. A cloyingly pungent floral smell wafts through the air. Her head spins as it coats the back of her throat and lungs, suffocating her like she’s drowning in perfume. Her limbs are heavy and her head light as she trudges through the mud.
A dog throws itself against the chain link fencing. Its teeth are bared and gnashing, flecks of spittle and foam flying from its mouth. She startles, her heart sent jackrabbiting in her chest for the first time since stepping inside the compound. Looking to her coworkers to see if any of them are affected the same way she is, she locks eyes with Hudson. Her own wide-eyed expression is reflected back at her.
She opens her mouth to say something reassuring, but before she can, Burke is moving the push open the church door. The entire edifice is painted an eggshell white, chipped and worn from the elements and carved with scripture. Whitehorse holds out a hand, intercepting Burke and pushing the partially opened door back closed. “We do this my way,” he says. “Quietly. Calmly. You got that?”
“Fine,” Burke groans, but as his hands drop, he keeps one placed firmly on his holster.
“Hudson, on the door. Watch our backs and don’t let any of these people get in,” Whitehorse orders. “La Roux -- on me. And you,” he turns and looks tiredly at Burke. “Just try not to do anything stupid.”
Burke’s jaw clenches, but he feigns a friendly smile, patting the Whitehorse on the shoulder. “Relax Sheriff. You’re about to get your name in the papers.”
As if anyone other than him actually cares about what the press has to say.
and the intro to the muzzle fic. some sweet polycule au goodness will be had here
“Bunny’s been biting again,” Kit tells him after she returns from her patrol of the courtyard.
Jacob stands, leaning over his desk as he pores over recent reports from the Project’s remaining outposts. “Other prisoners or the Chosen?” he asks, not looking up. Sybille’s come-downs from the trials have always left her in a more rabid state, snapping at and lashing out at anyone who gets too close.
“You think I’d be bothering to tell you if it were prisoners?” she says flatly. “She took off a man’s trigger finger. Doctors weren’t able to sew it back on.”
With a heavy sigh, he turns around and folds his arms, leaning back against his desk. He stares at her and scratches at his beard. “Well, we can’t have that,” he says. Kit nods, and by the tightness in her mouth, he suspects she has something to say. “What do you think?” he asks.
“She’s throwing a tantrum and she’s demanding our attention. We do anything and we just give her what she wants.”
He hums and strokes the hair of his chin. “She’s not normally that violent and we don’t want her to be. Ignoring her would only encourage the behavior.”
Her brows lift skeptically. “We’re not rewarding this,” she states plainly.
“Oh, no, of course not,” he reassures her. “But she does respond better to positive reinforcement.” That skeptical look only deepens. “She’ll stop acting out if we remind her what her incentive is to behave.”
Kit lifts her eyebrows. “You mean…?”
“Next time she’s unconscious, we’ll have her brought up.” He turns back around to his desk full of reports.
“And if that doesn’t work?”
Jacob pauses before looking back at her. He supposes she has a point. Sybille is the kind of woman who demands some sort of contingency plan be in place. Their clever little rabbit has a way of circumventing even the finest laid traps. But he’s fairly confident that this particular snare is one she won’t be able to escape. She’ll learn her lesson. But on the off chance she resists more than normal…
“Then I guess we’ll have to pull some teeth,” he sighs, though he takes no pleasure in the thought.
Kit’s face is a carefully trained mask of neutrality, but, while reassured, he can tell she also doesn’t delight in the idea. The sadistic gleam he fell in love with is noticeably absent from her eyes. Hurting their little bunny -- sinking their teeth into her tender flesh, holding her so tight her pale skin bruises a vibrant purple, and pulling those sweet high-pitched sounds from her is fun. But anything that would cause her any actual lasting harm is something they’re both reluctant to do.
They want her docile, obedient, and well trained.
Not broken entirely.
“Just trust me, Kitten,” he sighs, and he pulls her in to press his lips to her forehead. “I know what I’m doing.”
“I know,” she says.
He holds her there for a long moment, combing the fingers of one hand through her thick auburn waves. But then he pauses, his brow furrowing. “What did she do with the finger?”
“What?”
“The finger,” he repeats. “You said the doctors couldn’t sew it back on. What did she do with it?”
“She spat it out,” Kit says. “But not before chewing it up first.”
An impressed smile tugs at his lips. “Jackrabbit’s got a taste for blood,” he hums. It’s almost too bad they have to remind her of her place in the food chain.
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