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@gezelligheiid
RULES / MUSES / OPENS / MEMES / ASK / STARTER CALLS / INTEREST TRACKER / PERSONAL BLOG
CURRENT MOST ACTIVE MUSES ;; Maedhros
NOTE ;; due to irl circumstances, reply frequency will be very low. Discord is available for chatting and small threads.
Dabs as I continue backsliding into oblivion.
Heads up that some of my stuff has now moved to discord so idk how often I’ll be around here until I start having more time for more rp. I shouldn’t be leaving or anything like that, just probably on a semi-hiatus for a little while :)
Again, if you want to write on discord hit me up and we can make a server or whatever
Still working on this! I’ll be making discord stuff for people today or tomorrow so if you’d like that just let me know.
Heads up that some of my stuff has now moved to discord so idk how often I’ll be around here until I start having more time for more rp. I shouldn’t be leaving or anything like that, just probably on a semi-hiatus for a little while :)
Again, if you want to write on discord hit me up and we can make a server or whatever
💟 give the people finwë!
@menelvagor ;; Send 💟 for my muse to talk about their favorite interest
“I suppose I am a man of… varied taste. My father always said as such.”
His fingers steepled at his chest, pointed outward, framed so perfectly against his smile. It was something kind, warm in that sort of playful way,
“They said I had the hands for a thousand things, but not one master. In that time it was a great boon— I could make a weapon as well as I could wield it, and I could strike down an animal as well as I could cook it. That makes a leader, in a sense; someone who can step in when something must be done, and someone flexible to see as many outcomes as could be mustered. I was a man of action in those days, and I fear those skills are rather unnecessary now. I’ve tried to find some joy in calmer things—”
He gestured then to the yard, a sprawling pond dotted with glittering scales beneath the water.
“— but I’ve found a void still remains. The fish have helped somewhat, they need me in what small way creatures do, but I fear my interests have most oft been born of necessity and a need to… solve things, perhaps. That day may come again, but I try to busy myself until it does.”
💟Elen
Send 💟 for my muse to talk about their favorite interest ;;
“There are a great many things that fascinate me, and I believe that to be a part to happiness in itself. My work endlessly so, but perhaps that is to be expected. Beyond that— the stars remain.”
Slender fingers gestured to the sky dotted by bright lights, their own gaze held on it with a reverence beyond simple words,
“Their importance is endless; symbols of hope and beauty and comfort, eyes that have seen all things both great and small. They lived before the first breath was drawn, and the first kings of all races bore witness to the same sky we do now. It is a connection— one beyond both time and death. When you read of the stars that guided travelers in the oldest stories you can still find them here and in that we become a part of history even after its making. I feel great sorrow for those who fear the night, for it is an ancient beast, yet a gentle one that must burden the evils others commit within it. It is the ear for all those without, and a silent connection to all that is loved and yet lost. When the song ends, the sky will remain, and it will remember.”
Send 💟 for my muse to talk about their favorite interest
Specify for multi muse blogs
I’m hoping to have some time today to do some more writing since it should be a light work day. Feel free to poke at my dms, or if there’s threads and stuff you want me to try and respond to just send me a link— with how my mental health has been I’ve lost track of a lot of stuff.
Oh also we can rp on discord too. Tbh you might get responses faster since that’s often a more comfortable place for me to write.
I’m hoping to have some time today to do some more writing since it should be a light work day. Feel free to poke at my dms, or if there’s threads and stuff you want me to try and respond to just send me a link— with how my mental health has been I’ve lost track of a lot of stuff.
I had a really cool concept for Sotha Sil and I’m putting it here.
A day comes where the main clock on the brass fortress stops at 12:00. It seems strange but nothing really comes of it. On reflection, people begin to realize the day the clock stopped was the day Seht began to isolate himself.
Time passes. Every so often the clock moves, never too much and never rhythmically as far as people can tell. It’s brought up that it needs to be fixed, though when looked at all mechanisms in the clock appear to be functioning and in theory the clock should be working as intended. No matter what’s tried, the clock doesn’t change. Finally, a day comes where the clock strikes 1. It’s not on the hour, and for a moment it feels like the city is silent.
It progresses like that until it hits 12:00 again. Unknown to the people in the city, the clock is now driven by events and not time. The final hour brought about by the arrival of Almalexia and 12:00 strikes when Seht is killed.
For the people who can still talk to Seht before his death, he often speaks in terms of the clock and not in terms of the calendar. He’ll make reference to the time as a normal person would, but in some greater sense. He remarks on it being six o’clock, that he must finish his work before the days end. When asked about the clock, he tells others not to be concerned with it. That when his work is done, he’ll attend to the clock.
But then also the v fun concept of a Nerevarine showing up at the wrong time, before 11, and them meeting. Seht remarking they were never due until 12. But it’s time. If fate has been changed that now the clock reads wrong, it means his time may be extended. And while he knows he can’t live forever anymore, he bargains with the Nerevarine to help him. To extend his time enough to see his creation finished.
It was good to return home and things quickly returned to some semblance of normalcy. The people were wary of a new face, but respectful as his lot often were, and with every passing day the tension unwound until Mirëa too was just another part of life. This too was true for Maedhros, though the tension was never fully gone. Smoothed over, perhaps.
The solar was lit by both the window and lamps, fine glasswork perched on tables and hanging from the ceiling. The craft was smaller than the great lamps that would glow in the great hall, simpler too. They gave off no heat, that came from the fire— though the fire was low, the air in the solar simply seemed warmer than the air of the floors below. Maedhros had settled there with a small stack of letters earlier in the day and he’d remained there. Pacing. Staring. Spinning what small baubles he could find to listen to the sound as he read. Even then, the time began to drag and the letters began to flip positions and it felt as if both his mind and eyes wandered before the words were ever read. He’d let the letter fall to the desk before rubbing at his better eye, grimacing and mumbling curses before pulling the letter in close again. He’d try again from the beginning. His eyes felt heavy staring at it, the weight of everything suddenly pressing down on his shoulders. It was some unknown grace that he’d yawned before Mirëa saw fit to come in.
The apology was met with a grunt, a quiet one, and he was faster now to lean in and poke around at both the basket and its contents than he’d been before. Maedhros paused, giving one of the containers a gentle shake before grimacing. More medicine.
At first nothing really passed his face as she spoke, as if the words hardly stuck with him all, and it was only after she was quiet again that his expression twisted further into a scowl.
“There’s no reason for you to need to read my letters.”
He prickled still at the thought after the words had dissipated, only in that silence did he look away. Flickering eyes. Rumbling sigh. His hand came down to prop against the edge of the desk, voice softer now that it had been. His gaze still wandered though, and his expression melted away.
“… fine. To… save time.”
Maedhros set aside the letter, he set aside all the materials he’d brought to try and finish the letters before they say too long. With two fingers he pointed her to a chair,
“So, tell me what you brought— and what exactly it’s meant to do for me.”
Mirëa's first instinct, upon Maedhros telling her there was no need to read his letters, was that there was information too sensitive for someone else's eyes. She thought to tell him to forget it, of course she wouldn't intrude, but something stayed her tongue. Perhaps it was the way he scowled, or the reflexive way he had lashed the words at her, that told her it was a concern more personal than military.
And then, seconds later, the ire seemed to fade, and he agreed.
"Six possible pain remedies," she explained, as she reached out to take the missive on the top of his stack. She turned it right side up and studied the handwriting, which seemed particularly scrawled. "I know not which, if any, will be effective for an elf; even less do I understand what your body, which is different, now, from other elves, will do with them. We must choose remedies with caution, so I thought it best to bring them to you and get your opinion on which looks most promising, or more realistically, least foul."
A pause.
"Who is this person, to butcher your father's script in this way?" She held the letter up to the nearest lamp. "I always think my handwriting is abominable until I see other peoples'. What is this name? Fin-something...well, I suppose that does not narrow it down very much" she muttered dryly. "Fingen. Ah, Fingon? I know who that is, that's the High King's son. No, wait, this isn't Fingon...Fingeg? Finweg? Eru strike down the author of this thing!" Now she was scowling at the letter. "I will just begin reading it, and we'll determine out the sender by the context."
She cleared her throat.
"'To Prince Maedhros,' oh! that's controversial. How fun. 'Son of Fëanor, Protector of Himring...' Whatever. You know your titles. 'I write from the holdings about Lake Helevorn to report the completion of the repairs ordered upon the northern watchtower. The old stone...' Funcles? Fundleshun...he must mean foundation. He can't spell. '...had shifted during last winter's frosts, and two courses of masonry were replaced.' A whole year for five days of work. Ambitious folk at Lake Helevorn, I see. 'The tower now stands secure, and a fresh bacon basket has been filled upon the roof.' Bacon basket filled? You would like that, wouldn't you? But they must mean the beacon basket was fitted and is ready to be lit when the need arises. 'I must, however, bring a concern before you. Twice within the last month, shepherds tending the eastern grazing lands have reported signs of wolves larger than any known in these parts. Three sheep have been taken. The beasts appear bold and show little fear of fire.' Then there are two paragraphs of kissing ass, and I do not use that term lightly. I do not curse, as a rule. But there is no other way to describe it! It's egregious. And it's signed with that garbled Figgis signature."
Mirëa tossed the letter onto an empty patch of the table, making it the fundleshun (as Fingis, or whatever his name was, would say) of what would become a pile of read correspondence. "Do you actually like being a lord? This is incredibly tedious. No wonder you're in pain. Shall we discuss your medication instead?"
One leg folded over the other, his expression twisting until the movement had settled, and again he eyed what she had brought with a thinly veiled disgust. He made no move to disrupt them in that moment, only staring as he flickered through unpleasant expressions before finally reaching out to take one to bring closer. It was small in his hand, the vial, and his movements careful as he tilted it just a small bit to see the contents shift. Another hum began in his chest.
“… Least foul I can manage, though how promising they are is most likely beyond me.”
Her own anger, or perhaps it was best to call it irritation, caught on his ears. His gaze settled back on her, the lines of her face as she began to scowl, and the beginnings of a smirk took him as the vial was returned to the basket. He leaned back, shoulders rounding, some strange low laughter creeping through his teeth,
“Fin-something… half this fucking place is Fin-something. I can assure you that the letter isn’t Findecáno’s— as if the man writes his own letters anymore.”
The last bit came beneath his breath, an ire leaking in to the humor. Letters in a stranger’s hand from a man he considered better family than his brothers. And there again came the lesson: there were no good men, and certainly no good family. All the world is a game board and yourself just another piece; Findecáno just had the mind to hide it behind a kind word. But there was no point in dwelling, Mirëa had begun to read on.
Earned from him were eye rolls mostly, indignant snorts that came along with the varied expressions he managed of annoyance and silent nods at her commentary. Near the end, his arms had crossed before his chest and his ears back hidden in his hair, a scowl written so plainly on his face one’d think it his only mind. And yet… there came a laugher. Not the sort that rolled beneath his skin but one that barked. Even as it slowed, as he rested his cheek against the knuckles of his hand, that sly smile returned. Brighter, perhaps.
“To think a day would come where I heard you speak like that— for shame.”
What laughter came again was lighter, far more contained and easily quieted. Still, as it ended there was something else in its stead; Maedhros looking away, some strange unease in the tension of his face. How this teeth sat together, eyes wandering, and he took the letter back from where it had been thrown. A sigh bubbled up, half hearted or perhaps unsure, and the paper was shuffled into another pile of what seemed to be opened letters. The words tasted bitter on his tongue, no matter the conviction.
“… It is expected of me. And besides, if something must be done right, one must do it himself.”
Sitting back again, Maedhros rolled his hand to gesture to her to speak, a brow raised,
“But, fine, fair is fair; the letter is of no great import anyway. Tell me of the medicines you brought.”
@gezelligheiid || plotted starter
It was dark very early in the winter in Himring. At first, she thought she would get a great deal of work accomplished while the snow was piled high. There would be fewer skirmishes resulting in injuries, and less time looking for herbs and working on gardening, so she looked forward to focusing on new formulations and improving the physic chamber. Somehow, she had forgotten that the sun would set oppressively early and she would need to have lanterns or candles in use while she worked, which, beside being in limited supply and expensive, were also a strain on the eyes.
So she spent a great deal of time spinning wool, which could be done in lower light, and prioritized only the most important work mixing medicines. That included the next round of treatments for Lord Maedhros.
She had not forced him into anything too difficult for some weeks, lulling him into a sense of safety before...well, no, that sounded like she was planning to attack him. She was not, of course. But they had developed a rapport, if not a fledgeling friendship, and if she tried to push him to do too many new things, too close together, she knew he would begin to resist and likely stop trusting her. Perhaps by now she had enough credit with him to attempt some pain remedies and find out how, exactly, an elf would react to them. It was a risk, but not much of one, when he was already in immense pain regularly.
Mirëa had to ask a few people before she was able to track Maedhros to one of the fortress' solars. She saw right away that he was struggling through correspondence. So much violence had been visited upon him that it was impossible to trace what, exactly, made reading a struggle; so far, it had seemed less important to determine that than to treat all of the other things that were wrong with him.
"Sorry to interrupt," Mirëa said by way of greeting, putting the basket she'd carried in on the nearest open surface. Inside were six different formulations, all in different containers, all with different properties. "I won't take too much of your time; I've brought some treatments we might try. If you will look through what I've brought, I'll read you the rest of that letter aloud, if that's agreeable to you. Then you won't lose any time."
It was good to return home and things quickly returned to some semblance of normalcy. The people were wary of a new face, but respectful as his lot often were, and with every passing day the tension unwound until Mirëa too was just another part of life. This too was true for Maedhros, though the tension was never fully gone. Smoothed over, perhaps.
The solar was lit by both the window and lamps, fine glasswork perched on tables and hanging from the ceiling. The craft was smaller than the great lamps that would glow in the great hall, simpler too. They gave off no heat, that came from the fire— though the fire was low, the air in the solar simply seemed warmer than the air of the floors below. Maedhros had settled there with a small stack of letters earlier in the day and he’d remained there. Pacing. Staring. Spinning what small baubles he could find to listen to the sound as he read. Even then, the time began to drag and the letters began to flip positions and it felt as if both his mind and eyes wandered before the words were ever read. He’d let the letter fall to the desk before rubbing at his better eye, grimacing and mumbling curses before pulling the letter in close again. He’d try again from the beginning. His eyes felt heavy staring at it, the weight of everything suddenly pressing down on his shoulders. It was some unknown grace that he’d yawned before Mirëa saw fit to come in.
The apology was met with a grunt, a quiet one, and he was faster now to lean in and poke around at both the basket and its contents than he’d been before. Maedhros paused, giving one of the containers a gentle shake before grimacing. More medicine.
At first nothing really passed his face as she spoke, as if the words hardly stuck with him all, and it was only after she was quiet again that his expression twisted further into a scowl.
“There’s no reason for you to need to read my letters.”
He prickled still at the thought after the words had dissipated, only in that silence did he look away. Flickering eyes. Rumbling sigh. His hand came down to prop against the edge of the desk, voice softer now that it had been. His gaze still wandered though, and his expression melted away.
“… fine. To… save time.”
Maedhros set aside the letter, he set aside all the materials he’d brought to try and finish the letters before they say too long. With two fingers he pointed her to a chair,
“So, tell me what you brought— and what exactly it’s meant to do for me.”
I’ll try and do some writing tonight but. We’ll see. It’s… still feeling difficult.
send ⚔ to walk in on my muse training
Hm. Should I do open starters maybe? I’m not entirely sure what I want to do it about tho.
I’ll continue trying to chip away at stuff, I’m just busy. If you want to poke at my discord I’ll be around for a little while.
“I had that impression.”
Her lodgings, her dress— none of it communicated wealth, though perhaps that settled something in him. There was something so… present about Men. Like the dwarves too they felt grounded, so unlike the whims of the Eldar. They survived as he did.
“But, I have no interest in one joining under any falsehood. It saves a great of trouble, and I believe my ranks are stronger for it.”
Maedhros was quiet then, eyes flickering over her as a hum built in his throat. It was small, likely more unconscious than anything as it was silenced far faster than it had come.
“That… could be arranged. If you wish to share barracks I won’t be the one to stop you, though if you plan to serve me directly there would be a place in the fortress proper for both you and your practice. There is no shortage of wool, some of the tools required we have as well but they’re shared— if you have your own it would likely serve your purpose best.”
His boot shifted on the floor, lips pursing,
“We traveled light; this was meant to be a skirmish, nothing more. But there are a number of us, and our horses are built for the haul— what mine can’t carry others can split between them. What you need to bring will be carried, I assure you. Bring what herbs you have, you’ll need time to find where it might grow by us and linger still to establish anything stable with the Men who come to trade. And,”
His eyes searched her again before turning away, ears shifting back just enough to be seen through his hair,
“It was a joke, you walking. You’ll ride with me— or if you want another, you’ll ride with them.”
From the corner of his eye he watched her still as she spoke of intentions, of care, and as it continued he found his expression tightening. It sounded so simple from her lips, just a misunderstanding that held a grave consequence. It was more than that. It was something fundamental.
“Can one smooth a child when they’ve never known fear? Then how does one heal when they’ve never known suffering? They know nothing of illness, and neither do they know of living without your whole self. They speak with an authority they’ll never have, and listen about as well as a stone.”
Their eyes met then, and his own settled there. Searching, maybe.
“… you are different. These things… they aren’t foreign to you.”
"Those arrangements are more than satisfactory." She hadn't had her own room since her childhood home. Even a small and cold chamber was more comfort and privacy than she was accustomed to. "I'll be ready to leave when you are."
But then...then she had to address the rest of what they had been discussing, the difficult questions of medical ethics which could never be answered to satisfaction by either of them, in spite of wide and disparate experience (or perhaps because of it).
"You aren't wrong," she allowed. "Experience helps; if not with an ailment directly, then with something similar. It seems the entire field of disease is unknown to most of the Eldar. But," she went on, shifting her weight from one leg to the other and her stance with it, "I have helped deliver babies, when no midwife was available, without knowing anything about what it is like to bear a child. The degree of ignorance matters; and maybe total ignorance doesn't have to be forever. In your case, perhaps it was too early, and the healers too unfamiliar with disease, for them to be of any use to you, but if you believe more of the Eldar will become ill with time and loss in Beleriand, then the healers of the Eldar need to know what the healers of the Edain know.
"I don't know if this means anything to you, but your case being understood might lead to many other Eldar suffering less in the future, you know. It's unfortunate that you had to be the first to experience illness, but the more we learn together, the more we help you and those of the future. You will even be present to see it come to fruition, even if I will not."
Her agreement was met with a rumbling in his chest, the faintest movement of a nod as he watched her. Passive, quiet, though if one looked close enough they could see the tiny movements of his pupils. Searching. If anything was found, however, none could say. He gave no indication aside from the long breath in and the straightening of his posture.
It was a truth that felt too convenient to be true: to think they meant well. What did all of this amount to then? Idiocy? Ignorance? A failure so catastrophic being born of something so minute felt… hollow. Righteous anger made to crumble between his fingers into dust, too dry to speak into existence and yet too prevalent not to feel it on his tongue with each word. Was he meant to rise above then? To be better? They tied his body down, they looked at him the way a man might had he found a deer already shot. Drenched in liquor, memories shattered into jagged edges. No. That rage was his. He’d earned it in the sleepless nights and the fear now buried too deep to brush away.
“Whatever their reason, I don’t need to accept it. There’s no righting the wrongs done— if they learn, they learn for the people who come after, but not for me.”
It felt strange, the heat didn’t rise at the thought. It felt neutral, as neutral as something could be. His tone, his movements, all tempered. Somehow, in speaking it, it felt freeing. His ears shifted again, shaking his head,
“Anyway, we’ll ride at weeks end. Gather your things, I will alert my fellows to assist you as you need with storage. Should anything arise, speak with me.”
