AnasAbdin
Xuebing Du
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Kaledo Art
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
occasionally subtle
Claire Keane
⁂
RMH
Sade Olutola
pixel skylines
JBB: An Artblog!
titsay
ojovivo
shark vs the universe
No title available
we're not kids anymore.
NASA
noise dept.
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@blushlouise
I'm hosting Geeks and Nerds for Harris tomorrow night from 8 to 11 pm ET.
Mark Hamill, LeVar Burton, Sean Astin, Gail Simone, cast from Supernatural, Star Trek, and many other friends will be there. Will you?
RSVP for free at our website!
We'll have live ASL interpretation and Accessibility Services provided by Angela Johnson.
IT'S HAPPENING!
The annual Transformers Rare Pairing Fest is coming! October 13-26, 2024 Bring your favorite rarepair(s) and we'll bring the prompts!
SOON!
(Prompts available Sept 1!)
Coming Soon
TF Rare Pairing Fest! October 15-28, 2023
Are you frustrated you can't leave second kudos on AO3? or third kudos? or whatever-who's-counting kudos?
Well, have I got the html for you!
Plop any of these in a comment (by copy&pasting the code) to make an author's day and show your appreciation!
Second kudos: <img src="https://i.ibb.co/tHMjbb6/second-kudos.png" alt="second kudos">
Third kudos: <img src="https://i.ibb.co/52bggQH/third-kudos.png" alt="third kudos">
nth kudos: <img src="https://i.ibb.co/6y7qGtC/nth-kudos.png" alt="nth kudos">
yet another kudos: <img src="https://i.ibb.co/wKtcj0s/yet-another-kudos.png" alt="yet another kudos">
It will look something like this (and will be transparent with white outline on dark backgrounds):
Feel free to spread and use these as much as you like! (and if you have ideas for other variations, let me know ✌️)
So happy to see people enjoying these and spreading the love 💖
UPDATE with some suggestions from the replies! And bonus: cookie kudos.
HTML codes under the cut.
Ao3 Subscriber Statistic
If you have an Ao3 Account please vote for the Number of User Subscriptions you have and then reblog (no need to add anything in the tags, this can remain anonymous)
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User Subscriptions in this context describe the number of people subscribed to your profile on Ao3. You can see the number under Statistics (its the very first) - if you Ao3 profile doesn't have a Statistics button that means you have 0 (ZERO) user subscriptions - no shame in that.
finally drew my boy
Between the Arkenstone, the One Ring, and that cache of magic swords Bilbo uncovered during Thorin and company’s confrontation with the trolls that just happened to be the former property of the High King of the Noldor, Bilbo and Gandalf’s relationship is just a constant process of Bilbo showing up with some random artifact of world-changing significance and Gandalf sagely stroking his beard and making a pithy remark while internally screaming “WHERE DO YOU KEEP FINDING THESE THINGS”.
Stuff kids on tumblr better relearn
1. You are responsible for your own media experience.
2. There is such a thing as a healthy level of avoidance towards topics that make you feel unwell or even (in a real-life clinical definition of the term) trigger you - but you are the one to actively take care of what you view.
3. Avoiding does not mean policing others.
4. You have no right to tell artists to censor themselves - you may criticize what others do, you may dislike it, that’s fine - but actively asking for censorship when you could easily unfollow or block a person just makes you look incompetent in your use of the internet.
5. Do not give people on tumblr or /any/ website the responsibility for your emotional well-being. Because these people do not even know you so no, you have no right to ask them to take care of you.
6. Content creators are not your parents and owe you nothing, not even a breakdown on why their content isn’t problematic. You don’t get to demand a dissertation denouncing any and everything unhealthy in a piece you don’t like. Move on.
7. Tagging is a nicety but not an obligation. You can message people, politely, and ask them to tag things, and many people will, but understand that it’s their blog and they aren’t obliged to say yes. Unfollow and block when you need to. Circling back to number 1, you are responsible for curating your own experience.
8. Don’t be a jerk. Remember at the end of the day, there are actual living, breathing people behind each screen name. Don’t say anything you wouldn’t say to someone’s face in real life.
I cannot stress enough how important it is to remember this.
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I’m crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of.
This is amazing!
Hi there! Just wanted to say, I LOVE your stories, and I was wondering - could you please do some fanart for Live Weapon? Because I for one would like to see what choom looks like.
Hi Anon! Thank you 😁 I'm happy you're enjoying my fics! And honestly, I've been wanting to have fanart commissioned for Choom for months 😅 Since way before I started posting. I can't draw to save my life, so I've been looking at fan artists I follow, and unfortunately I haven't had the money to get a full-body commission done (because we want to see all of Choom if we're going to see him, don't we!) and so it hasn't happened yet. I still kind of want to do it though, so it might still happen 😊
Weekend Top Ten #496
Top Ten Violent Moments in Transformers
Transformers is a franchise populated, it seems, by a lot of forty-year-olds. I should know, because in far too short a time, I’ll be one of them. But who you chat to on Twitter or meet in the bar at TF Nation is not entirely representative of everybody – this is important to remember at the best of times – and really, when you get down to it, Transformers is for kids.
It all started out as toys, remember; I know now there’s this whole adult collector market of arrested development kidults attempting to stave off the hopeless sense of ennui brought on by a world sliding backwards into darkness whilst simultaneously being on actual fire by buying plastic replicas of things they loved when they’d never heard of suicide bombers or carbon thresholds or gender critical ideologies, but really these things were meant to be played with by literal children. There was a cartoon on the telly introduced by a bespectacled man in shorts who talked to a rubber hammer. There was a comic with free gifts on the cover. Even now, when Michael Bay gets away with dropping F-bombs into the movies, they still have preschool shows and colouring books and early reader books and, look, just take my word for it, Transformers is a children’s property, just like Star Wars, Doctor Who, and Harry Potter. Deal with it.
This is quite an entertaining thing to ponder when you consider just how fricking violent the franchise is – and, frankly, always has been. I remember being an Actual Child and discussing with my cousin – also an Actual Child – how there was no way you’d get away with the level of violence and mass death in The Transformers: The Movie if the film wasn’t animated and starred great big chonky robots. This is a film, remember, in which we see entire races snuffed out of existence, to say nothing of crumbling bodies, physical dismemberment, flayed skeletons, and the lights literally going out in someone’s eyes. But ‘twas ever thus: practically the first image in the first Transformers comic is one of all-out war, and features a huge ‘bot literally crushing another ‘bot in his bare hands. right from the very start, writers, artists, and other creatives have used the Transformers nature as, well, not being human as an excuse to do the kind of really meaty, limb-lopping, face-wrecking, body-destroying violence you’d never get away with in other properties. I mean, it makes sense; these aren’t flesh and blood creatures, so we don’t get messy, mucky organs and blood. It’s all cogs and wires and leakin’ lubricant. Plus you can fudge stuff in a lot of ways: for a start, they can always be repaired, so the loss of an eye or a limb or even half a face isn’t some debilitating injury that’s life-changing for the person concerned. But even if someone is blown to bits or ripped in half, quite often their “death” is rendered moot and at some point they can be fixed or even – seemingly – brought back to life. However, that’s no excuse for quite how horrible some of scenes have been in Transformers history.
So that’s what today’s list is all about, then: a cavalcade of gruesome grand guignol inflicted upon unsuspecting ‘bots; a smorgasbord of circuitry, an explosion of energon, a whole lot of just really, really nasty slag going down. Take a stiff drink, shuffle the children off to bed, and prepare to witness some good old-fashioned ultra-violence. Don’t say you weren’t warned.
Glavatron versus time and space (Transformers UK, #203-205, 1989): Galvatron really goes through the ringer in Time Wars, the classic, beloved UK saga of the late eighties. To be fair, however, he did start it, and ended up creating a reality-destroying rift in the fabric of space and time. But he goes through the ringer. First of all, half his face is blown off, his eye swinging in the breeze. Then, finally, he’s consumed by the rift, his metal skin literally being torn off his body over several gruesome panels, until his flimsy-looking skeleton is at last pulled into the rift itself. It’s nasty. And when you read this at the age of, like, seven, it’s incredibly nasty.
Shockwave’s brain (Transformers UK #146, 1988): talking about nasty… many Transformers are killed or maimed in the comic. Usually it’s just an explosion or a missing limb or maybe some exposed wiring. But when a mind-controlled Death’s Head kills Shockwave, it’s brutal. Outsmarting and outmanoeuvring the Decepticon leader, Mr. Head blows chunks off old Shockers, until finally digging his fingers into Shockwave’s head and crushing his brain between his fingers. I mean, come on.
Scorponok versus Unicron (Transformers US #75, 1990): many Transformers die in the seminal On the Edge of Extinction story, as Unicron finally invades Cybertron and starts eating it. Some are crushed, some are stabbed, some are blown to pieces. Scorponok, trying to tear Uni’s foot apart with his bare hands – er, claws – is melted by the Chaos Bringer’s fire breath. Optimus Prime finds him later, and he’s a sight: his limbs are literally dripping off, extremities turning into puddles of paint. His face is slipping off his head, exposing the wiring beneath. His pathetic, plaintive last words are a desperate plea for approval and validation. It’s sick, and it’s sad.
Ambulon bisected (More Than Meets the Eye #19, 2013): ah, moving from the classic gory excesses of the eighties and nineties to more recent instances of violence. Here, Ambulon – the poor medical ‘bot who was built to be, well, a foot – is played as a pawn in a gruesome game between uber-medics Pharma and Ratchet. Pharma – nuts and not very nice – challenges Ratchet to repair Ambulon if he’s cut in two. But then Pharma makes it even more difficult by chainsawing him in half from crotch to crown in a blood-soaked scene of horror and carnage. Ambulon, alas, does not survive. But then Ratchet is able to turn his corpse into a weapon in order to escape, so it’s all good.
Pipes underfoot (More Than Meets the Eye #15, 2013): talking of just unpleasant, poor old Pipes, who only wanted to make friends. But then bloody Overlord comes out of his cell, and literally stomps on the wee Autobot. And – as with Ambulon – we really need to call out artist Alex Milne for his rendition of this nastiness. Ambulon is falling apart, desperately trying to stop his spark leaving his body, his shocked mind reeling, but – top man – he still manages to sound the alarm before finally expiring. Talk about traumatic.
Scrounge versus the smelting pool (Transformers US #17, 1986): back to the old days, and here we see the sad death of poor little Scrounge, the Autobot spy with a special arm. After being caught by mean old nasty Decepticon boss-man Straxus, he has his special arm ripped off. His mate Blaster tries to rescue him, but he’s already been dumped into the smelting pool, and so when Blaster picks him up, there’s only half of him left; the rest is dripping clumps of liquid metal, falling back into the pit.
Sharkticon facial (The Movie, 1986): we move at last into, well, movies. And the ’86 animated classic is known for being pretty damn violent. Optimus and Megatron beat each other up, Unicron eats a planet, Brawn gets shot in the shoulder… it’s a whole thing. When the Sharkticons are trying to eat Hot Rod and Kup, one of the little fish-bots goes to slice our heroes, but he misses and claws the face off one of his little fish-bot friends. Said face then slips off his skull in thick metallic slices, in a way that I found incredibly grisly even as a nipper.
Starscream’s ghost (Transformers UK #216): this is a classic moment for me, not just because of the level of horrific robo-violence on display, but also because it was one of (maybe the?) first instances of artist Andrew Wildman’s glorious way of depicting injured Cybertronians. We see Starscream, presumed dead, wandering round like a zombie; basically a walking skeleton, exposed struts and rivets, internal fans and components on display, wires trailing everywhere, and lots and lots of leaking energon. It’s a delightfully detailed, nasty piece of art, and one of many Wildman would contribute to Transformers over the years.
The Insecticons were in the way (The Movie, 1986): back to the movie and another bit of superior viciousness. Basically, the creepy-voiced Insecticons are trying to eat their way into Autobot City, when Hot Rod and Kup (them again!) run over them on their way into the city. And they literally run over them: in glorious close-up, we see Kickback’s head crushed under Hot Rod’s wheels, his skull flattening, the glass of his eyes shattering. This film was given a U by the BBFC.
The Jumpstarters’ twin fates (Last Stand of the Wreckers #3-4, 2010): a slight change of pace here, as this one is less of a gore explosion and more of a sustained piece of nastiness. Twin Twist is being tortured by Decepticon Stalker; we don’t get to see much of it at first, but we know it has something to do with his mouth, because his twin brother Topspin is feeling every painful twinge. When we do get to see it, it’s horrible; half his face is torn away, his eye gone, his jaw gone, as Stalker sticks things into his face. In the end, Topspin sacrifices himself to save the mission and put his brother out of his misery, as their branched spark means they’ll both die at the same time. A very nasty piece of writing by Nick Roche, and a really gory bit of art by, er, Nick Roche.
I feel I should throw a bit of praise – if that’s the word – to writers Simon Furman and James Roberts for their part in crafting many of these scenes of horror and misery. And there’s plenty more – Optimus in pieces after Unicron, or Roadbuster’s head exploding, or Ravage being torn in half, or – I guess – the whole “give me your face” thing in Revenge of the Fallen. Basically, what I’m saying, is that Transformers is nasty and no one should ever read or watch it.
And do not get me started on how the toys would break.
Legolas pretty quickly gets in the habit of venting about his travelling companions in Elvish, so long as Gandalf & Aragorn aren’t in earshot they’ll never know right?
Then about a week into their journey like
Legolas: *in Elvish, for approximately the 20th time* ugh fucking hobbits, so annoying
Frodo: *also in Elvish, deadpan* yeah we’re the worst
Legolas:
~*~earlier~*~
Legolas: ugh fucking hobbits
Merry: Frodo what’d he say
Frodo: I’m not sure he speaks a weird dialect but I think he’s insulting us. I should tell him I can understand Elvish
Merry: I mean you could do that but consider
Merry: you can only tell him ONCE
Frodo: Merry. You’re absolutely right. I’ll wait.
#legolas’ hick accent vs #frodo’s ‘i learned it out of a book’ accent #FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT
Legolas: umm well your accent is horrible
Aragorn: *hollering from a distance* HIS ACCENT IS BETTER THAN YOURS LEGOLAS YOU SILVAN HICK
Frodo: :)
Frodo: Hello. My name is Frodo. I am a Hobbit. How are you?
Legolas: y’alld’ve’ff’ve
Frodo, crying: please I can’t understand what you’r saying
Ok, but Frodo didn’t just learn out of a book. He learned like… Chaucerian Elvish. So actually:
Frodo: Good morrow to thee, frend. I hope we twain shalle bee moste excellente companions.
Legolas: Wots that mate? ‘Ere, you avin’ a giggle? Fookin’ ‘obbits, I sware.
Aragorn: *laughing too hard to walk*
@ghostriderofthearagon
dYinGggGggg…
i mean, honestly it’s amazing the Elves had as many languages and dialects as they did, considering Galadriel (for example) is over seven thousand years old.
english would probably have changed less since Chaucer’s time, if a lot of our cultural leaders from the thirteenth century were still alive and running things.
they’ve had like. seven generations since the sun happened, max. frodo’s books are old to him, but outside any very old poetry copied down exactly, the dialect represented in them isn’t likely to be older than the Second Age, wherein Aragorn’s foster-father Elrond started out as a very young adult and grew into himself, and Legolas’ father was born.
so like, three to six thousand years old, maybe, which is probably a drop in the bucket of Elvish history judging by all the ethnic differentiation that had time to develop before Ungoliant came along, even if we can’t really tell because there weren’t years to count, before the Trees were destroyed.
plus a lot of Bilbo’s materials were probably directly from Elrond, whose library dates largely from the Third Age, probably, because he didn’t establish Imladris until after the Last Alliance. and Elrond isn’t the type to intentionally help Bilbo learn the wrong dialect and sound sillier than can be helped, even if everyone was humoring him more than a little.
so Frodo might sound hilariously formal for conversational use (though considering how most Elves use Westron he’s probably safe there) and kind of old-fashioned, but he’s not in any danger of being incomprehensible, because elves live on such a ridiculous timescale.
to over-analyse this awesome and hilarious post even more, legolas’ grandfather was from linguistically stubborn Doriath and their family is actually from a somewhat different, higher-status ethnic background than their subjects.
so depending on how much of a role Thranduil took in his upbringing (and Oropher in his), Legolas may have some weird stilted old-fashioned speaking tics in his Sindarin that reflect a more purely Doriathrin dialect rather than the Doriathrin-influenced Western Sindarin that became the most widely spoken Sindarin long before he was born, or he might have a School Voice from having been taught how to Speak Proper and then lapse into really obscure colloquial Avari dialect when he’s being casual. or both!
considering legolas’ moderately complicated political position, i expect he can code-switch.
…it’s also fairly likely considering the linguistic politics involved that Legolas is reasonably articulate in Sindarin, though with some level of accent, but knows approximately zero Quenya outside of loanwords into Sindarin, and even those he mostly didn’t learn as a kid.
which would be extra hilarious when he and gimli fetch up in Valinor in his little homemade skiff, if the first elves he meets have never been to Middle Earth and they’re just standing there on the beach reduced to miming about what is the short beard person, and who are you, and why.
this is elvish dialects and tolkien, okay. there’s a lot of canon material! he actually initially developed the history of middle-earth specifically to ground the linguistic development of the various Elvish languages!
Legolas: Alas, verily would I have dispatched thine enemy posthaste, but y’all’d’ve pitched a feckin’ fit.
Aragorn: *eyelid twitching*
Frodo: *frantically scribbling* Hang on which language are you even speaking right now
Pippin, confused: Is he not speaking Elvish?
Frodo, sarcastically: I dunno, are you speaking Hobbit?
Boromir, who has been lowkey pissed-off at the Hobbits’ weird dialect this whole time: That’s what it sounds like to me.
Merry, who actually knows some shit about Hobbit background: We are actually speaking multiple variants of the Shire dialect of Westron, you ignorant fuck.
Sam, a mere working-class country boy: Honestly y'all could be talkin Dwarvish half the time for all I know.
My @secretsolenoid fic for @surveille! Hope you like!
https://archiveofourown.org/works/28484859
💫 Only 18 days left to buy HOMEMADE!💫
We are so excited to be sharing this zine with you and we hope you enjoy it! We have included Transformers media that appeals to every type of fan!
Sample Writing by @/RhieraLouise on Twitter
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Hey hey! Orginal admin’s had to step down so I’m patching in last minute to try and get everything reblogged in one place! Better late than never-let’s get this show on the road >:D
Prompts for TF Rarepair Week 2020!
Day 1 (Oct 17): Intimacy / Time
Day 2 (Oct 18): Pre-War / First Meeting
Day 3 (Oct 19): Disclosure / Memory
Day 4 (Oct 20): Misunderstanding / Confession
Day 5 (Oct 21): Profference / Gifts
Day 6 (Oct 22): Sparkling / Mayhem
Day 7 (Oct 23): Devotion / Adventure
Day 8 (Oct 24): Ceremony / Free Space
Feel free to use either, both, or none of the prompts for each day.
FAQ
There is no AO3 collection for this challenge, but if you'd like, you can use the freeform tag 'TF Rarepair Week 2020 (Transformers)'.
Tumblr posts tagged #TFRarepairWeek2020 (please keep the capitals for fans who use screenreaders) will be reblogged here, and you can also submit posts. Anything goes, but make sure to tag any citrus/nsfw or common triggers. Citrus/nsfw will be tagged #citrus warning and common triggers will be tagged with the #tw [trigger] format.
Works can be art, fic, meta, cosplay, etc, the only hard and fast requirement is that they not be one of the top ten ships in the Transformers - All Media Types tag. I trust everyone to know the difference between a rarepair and an uncommon ship as well as what counts for either in their specific corner of fandom - no one should be policing anyone else.
As of the time this is written, the top ten ships are:
Jazz/Prowl
Megatron/Optimus Prime | Orion Pax
Megatron/Starscream
Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet
Breakdown/Knock Out
Cyclonus/Tailgate
Optimus Prime | Orion Pax/Ratchet
Skyfire/Starscream
Sideswipe/Sunstreaker
Chromedome | Tumbler/Rewind
These ships can be in the background, but any work focusing on them will not count for Rarepair Week.
