Master Of Doom, By Doom Mastered

Independent Tolkien RP blog for Turin Turambar. All ships, prompts and 'verses welcome. Tracked tag: turambarmasterofdoom Current M!A: none *-*-* Pic credit: liga-marta

[artaresto]

bydoommastered‌:

Turin eyed the pamphlet - more out of necessity than genuine desire, as his vision (along with the rest of him) was still far from workable without effort. He picked it up awkwardly with the less stiffly splinted of his hands, and peered at the text.

True to the king’s prediction, he did give a sharp, raspy, bark of laughter.

“I am … almost impressed. At the efficacy. Not at … I think this is mis-spelled … who wrote this?”

      “It is truly remarkable, isn’t it”, Orodreth could not help the smirk rising to his lips at Turin’s laughter. When it came to the king, he was sure to believe every word in the pamphlet, no matter how ridiculous it seemed at parts. His dearest captain was a hero and Orodreth wished him to be celebrated accordingly.

      “I wish I knew the author. I would like to thank them personally for putting it down into words what truly transpired”, he grinned.

      “When you are fully healed, I hope you are prepared to be paraded around. We must have a feast in your honour at the very least, you know.”

[bydoommastered]

“I had thought of that ... though I had thought of it less, given the timeline proposed by the healers. Though you are welcome to throw as many feasts as you please without me.”

Turin picked the pamphlet over one more time, shaking his head. He was both baffled, a little concerned, and too full of healing tonics and painkilling salves to really keep the border between the two straight.

“... I never want to see the word ‘rippling’ again.”

[eldamaranquendi]

Glaurung BY Amisgaudi   

[oropherrrrr]

@bydoommastered

[artaresto]

bydoommastered‌:

Turin looked up, through bruised and bloody eye. Orodreth’s visits were a welcome constant, as well as a helpful measure of timekeeping. The hours, days, even weeks, had begun to blur together.

Wounds born of dragon-fire and wrym’s teeth, it transpired, bit deeper than the mere damage to flesh and blood. And that was notwithstanding the physical exhaustion of taking on the Father of Dragons. Even the famed Helm had been pushed, seemingly, to its limit in keeping him alive… and perhaps, he wondered, sometimes, if its enchantment might have been the only thing that had ensured his survival.

Turin bowed his head to the eleven king, and managed a small, wry smile.

“I am ever improved, Your Majesty. I trust you, too, are well?”

      “I am glad to hear it. Yes. Very well”, the elf replied, his hands extending to his sides to gesture whatever injuries he himself had suffered were quite healed. 

      “I am missing you by my side, however. You know how my lords and ladies can be”, he gave a wry hum at that. It was true, the members of the council were in the habit of trying to push him around but at that point the king was used to it. Lately his will had become more adamant, if anything and he heeded their demands less, unless they offered meaningful advice.

      The king paused, smiling as he watched the dark haired man but flinched then as if remembering something.

      “I brought you something.” Orodreth stated then, slowly, looking oddly amused as his fingers dove into his jacket pocket to fetch a folded piece of paper. It was handed towards the man without another word. Upon closer inspection one would discover it to be a pamphlet of sorts recounting Mormegil’s heroic deeds.

      The silver eyes were filled with mirth as they regarded the man, eager to draw in every bit of reaction to the ridiculously romanticised text. He was sure it would cheer the man up.

[bydoommastered]

Turin eyed the pamphlet - more out of necessity than genuine desire, as his vision (along with the rest of him) was still far from workable without effort. He picked it up awkwardly with the less stiffly splinted of his hands, and peered at the text.

True to the king’s prediction, he did give a sharp, raspy, bark of laughter.

“I am ... almost impressed. At the efficacy. Not at ... I think this is mis-spelled ... who wrote this?”

[artaresto]

starter for @bydoommastered

      Was a time of peace upon them now? Turin was the one who had led Nargothrond to battle and the result of an open war had been uncertain. But the dragon was slain and the battle was won. It was no secret that the success would have been impossible with Orodreth’s leadership alone. His dear captain was even more of a hero in the city than he had previously been, which made the king look upon him even more fondly.

      Orodreth had already visited Turin in the halls of healing several times the past week, even though arranging things after the battle surely kept him busy enough. It was a necessity for him, he could hardly relax on the nights after not having checked up on the captain. Once again, as could be predicted, he arrived through the intricately decorated doors, immaculately dressed as always and made his way straight to the quarters reserved for the mortal.

      “How are you today?” the king asked after a pause of eyeing the man, a hopeful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The sight of the man always left him breathless - even now when he looked a little battered. On each visit Orodreth was just as surprised to see very little improvement and each time the hopeful gleam in his eyes grew, anxious to see Turin recovered. Mortal men were slower to mend than his own kind, he observed, even with the help of elven ways of healing. 

[bydoommastered]

Turin looked up, through bruised and bloody eye. Orodreth’s visits were a welcome constant, as well as a helpful measure of timekeeping. The hours, days, even weeks, had begun to blur together.

Wounds born of dragon-fire and wrym’s teeth, it transpired, bit deeper than the mere damage to flesh and blood. And that was notwithstanding the physical exhaustion of taking on the Father of Dragons. Even the famed Helm had been pushed, seemingly, to its limit in keeping him alive... and perhaps, he wondered, sometimes, if its enchantment might have been the only thing that had ensured his survival.

Turin bowed his head to the eleven king, and managed a small, wry smile.

“I am ever improved, Your Majesty. I trust you, too, are well?”

[hemaris]

god i’m losing my mind over these dialogue options

[oropherrrrr]

@bydoommastered these are all Turin

[thatsbelievable]

[tolkien-shitposting]

“I show the haters how it’s done by hating myself most.”

— Turin Turambar (certainly)

[0rome-archived]

Send ‘Trick or Treat!  🎃’ to my inbox and I’ll give you a treat!

@turambar-masterofdoom

Have a Túrin fed up with his sword

[lotrscenery]

Lost Lake, Oregon

[askrossiel]

👻 (always time for rossghosts)

Someone needed to know.  Túrin was a gamble, but the longer she spent looking for a more likely candidate, the more danger she put herself in.

“Can you hear me?”  In her distress, it was difficult for Rossiel’s shade to hold itself together in any cohesive or recognizable form, but her voice, she hoped – or at least the feeling, the impression of her voice, even without the filter of a body – would be familiar.

[bydoommastered]

Túrin followed the spirit - it felt wrong to think of so pale and sad a thing as Rossiel - in silence, more a ghost himself than a man. The pained light in his eyes did not abate, and at the sight of the fallen body it flashed brighter with something fell and terrible.

He stepped, silently, up to the still form of the wolf and knelt by her head, gently stroking the muzzle with one hand - a cold comfort, and far too late - while with the other he found the culprit. The snare was new; a deadly slender thing, twisted with what felt like a thin wire under the leather. Sharp enough to cut, but shielded from making it quick. Breaking skin ruined the pelt.

Túrin did not even look when he snapped the horrible thing between his hands, not even hissing as the wire drew blood from his fingers in a final, spiteful, bite. There was a moment where he thought of flinging it off into the trees, but after a brief glance, he thought better of it. 

He looked around to mark the place. The hunter would be back to check it, some time after the sun rose. And he would be here to meet them.

[askrossiel]

She settled beside him quietly to watch. Though she could not feel that gentle touch, it still eased something within her to see the care taken with her body, and to see it now rid of the instrument of her demise.

Ai, there would be some measure of that unfathomable debt repaid, she’d no doubt of that. But there was more yet to be done before she could heed the Summons. She could not ask much of one Man, but small mercies were better than what she’d get otherwise. “Will you sit my wake? Until we know what shape my body shall rest in?”

[bydoommastered]

“I will.” 

Túrin’s gaze turned skyward, and the first tears tracked their way down his face. The hollow feeling in his chest, the corresponding ache beneath, was familiar - but, like every time, it never hurt less for its familiarity.

Quietly, soft as the pre-dawn breeze, he began to sing.

[askrossiel]

👻 (always time for rossghosts)

Someone needed to know.  Túrin was a gamble, but the longer she spent looking for a more likely candidate, the more danger she put herself in.

“Can you hear me?”  In her distress, it was difficult for Rossiel’s shade to hold itself together in any cohesive or recognizable form, but her voice, she hoped – or at least the feeling, the impression of her voice, even without the filter of a body – would be familiar.

[bydoommastered]

Túrin followed the spirit - it felt wrong to think of so pale and sad a thing as Rossiel - in silence, more a ghost himself than a man. The pained light in his eyes did not abate, and at the sight of the fallen body it flashed brighter with something fell and terrible.

He stepped, silently, up to the still form of the wolf and knelt by her head, gently stroking the muzzle with one hand - a cold comfort, and far too late - while with the other he found the culprit. The snare was new; a deadly slender thing, twisted with what felt like a thin wire under the leather. Sharp enough to cut, but shielded from making it quick. Breaking skin ruined the pelt.

Túrin did not even look when he snapped the horrible thing between his hands, not even hissing as the wire drew blood from his fingers in a final, spiteful, bite. There was a moment where he thought of flinging it off into the trees, but after a brief glance, he thought better of it. 

He looked around to mark the place. The hunter would be back to check it, some time after the sun rose. And he would be here to meet them.

[askrossiel]

👻 (always time for rossghosts)

Someone needed to know.  Túrin was a gamble, but the longer she spent looking for a more likely candidate, the more danger she put herself in.

“Can you hear me?”  In her distress, it was difficult for Rossiel’s shade to hold itself together in any cohesive or recognizable form, but her voice, she hoped – or at least the feeling, the impression of her voice, even without the filter of a body – would be familiar.

[bydoommastered]

Túrin started at the voice - he’d not heard anyone approach, and he’d thought the road quiet enough that his warning would have been fair. Especially given the speaker …?

He turned, looking for its source, bemused. “Rossiel?” 

[askrossiel]

“Thank goodness.”  A sigh rattled through her, as wind through leaves.  “I… need you to do something for me.”

The story came out of her in fragments, all tumbling over each other for attention.  “I knew one of these hairy-days was going to be the end of me, but I never thought – I should have been suspicious of food just… left out in the open, but I’d not been eating well even in my own shape, and… well… I paid dearly for my last meal.  I know not which shape my body will be in when whoever laid that trap comes to check it in the morning.”  A shudder, the flicker of a candle-flame.  “It’s indignity enough if he finds it the way I left it, a pelt to be sewn into a cloak and the rest thrown to the hounds.  It will be worse if he finds me in my own.  Naked and nameless, to be buried hastily with no-one to know what became of me.  Please– before that can happen–”

[bydoommastered]

Túrin listened in silence throughout Rossiel’s retelling, not so much as a gasp or a hiss escaping him at the sight of the spectral elf-not-elf standing before him.

However, as her tale progressed, the look of confusion rapidly gave way to a bright-eyed anguish that only intensified as she outlined her potential fates.

He swallowed, hard, and bit back something wet behind his eyes.

“Show me where.”

[pxnxply]

"Frankly, I'm not sure there's a story to tell. Which is ... partly why I was hesitant to drink. It mostly depends on how you define a kiss."

“A kiss could be only be so many things.” As far as she knew, at least. Perhaps it was different where he came from, perhaps Elves were different. Panic seized her heart - what if their kiss had meant something different to him? “I don’t know what you mean.”

[pxnxply]

bydoommastered‌:

“You raise a fair point.” Túrin’s teasing facade broke away, revealing a more sincere, warmer look beneath - though the smile, too, had faded. “Rest assured, I’ve been kissing no villagers.”

“Well. That’s nice to hear.” She smiled, sweetly, and after a moment of hesitation, she kissed him. “Except myself, of course.”

[bydoommastered]

“Of course.” Túrin leaned against her, resting his head against the top of hers. “Just as it should be.”

[pxnxply]

“Yes.” She pressed herself against him, warm and content. “You know, no one would miss us if we snuck off properly for a bit.”

[bydoommastered]

“True.” Túrin smiled. “But I’m rather comfortable right here...”

[askrossiel]

👻 (always time for rossghosts)

Someone needed to know.  Túrin was a gamble, but the longer she spent looking for a more likely candidate, the more danger she put herself in.

“Can you hear me?”  In her distress, it was difficult for Rossiel’s shade to hold itself together in any cohesive or recognizable form, but her voice, she hoped – or at least the feeling, the impression of her voice, even without the filter of a body – would be familiar.

[bydoommastered]

Túrin started at the voice - he’d not heard anyone approach, and he’d thought the road quiet enough that his warning would have been fair. Especially given the speaker ...?

He turned, looking for its source, bemused. “Rossiel?” 

[pxnxply]

"Frankly, I'm not sure there's a story to tell. Which is ... partly why I was hesitant to drink. It mostly depends on how you define a kiss."

“A kiss could be only be so many things.” As far as she knew, at least. Perhaps it was different where he came from, perhaps Elves were different. Panic seized her heart - what if their kiss had meant something different to him? “I don’t know what you mean.”

[pxnxply]

bydoommastered‌:

“You raise a fair point.” Túrin’s teasing facade broke away, revealing a more sincere, warmer look beneath - though the smile, too, had faded. “Rest assured, I’ve been kissing no villagers.”

“Well. That’s nice to hear.” She smiled, sweetly, and after a moment of hesitation, she kissed him. “Except myself, of course.”

[bydoommastered]

“Of course.” Túrin leaned against her, resting his head against the top of hers. “Just as it should be.”

[lbetz]

The country of Dor-lomin, based on Tolkien’s “The Silmarillon”.

[eldamaranquendi]

Turin Turambar by https://www.instagram.com/f_y_asia/