Mewkor in colour. With his big dead eyes.
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let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Misplaced Lens Cap
Acquired Stardust
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One Nice Bug Per Day
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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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izzy's playlists!
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
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@niasfanspace
Mewkor in colour. With his big dead eyes.
some messy celebrimbor sketches (ft. flower crowns with baby celebrían)
Innumerable Stars returns!
The 2026 schedule: Nominations Open: Sunday, 02 August 2026, 8:00 PM UTC Nominations Close: Sunday, 16 August 2026, 8:00 PM UTC Sign-ups Open: Sunday, 16 August 2026, 11:59 PM UTC Sign-ups Close: Sunday, 30 August 2026, 8:00 PM UTC Assignments Out: Monday, 31 August 2026, 8:00 PM UTC Assignments Due: Sunday, 11 October 2026, 8:00 PM UTC Works Revealed: Sunday, 18 October 2026, 8:00 PM UTC Authors Revealed: Sunday, 25 October 2026, 8:00 PM UTC
Snippet Saturday
got tagged back by @amorbidcorvid!
the previously-untitled fic now has a title! Here's a bit from A Thousand Winds that Blow:
The next thing he knew the light was different. Brighter, paler. There was still a fire; he could hear it crackling gently very close by, could feel the heat of it on his face. There were other voices, too—children’s voices—in addition to the singer from before, though they were not singing now, only talking quietly. When he opened his eyes—his eye, for only one would work still—he found everything a little clearer. His head still hurt, but not as badly. He blinked slowly, looking toward the fire, and then to the figure sitting by it, slender and dark-haired. He was carving something, and though he had dark circles under his eyes he was smiling, small and soft, as he answered a question that one of the children had asked him. It sounded like there were two, but he couldn’t see them from where he lay. “Look, Daeron,” one said suddenly, “he’s awake!” The dark-haired figure—Daeron—looked up, smile vanishing. He set his carving aside and came to kneel by the makeshift bed. “Good morning,” he said, speaking quietly. “How are you feeling?” “Hurts,” he whispered, and winced at the hoarse wreck that was his voice. “I imagine so. You were very badly hurt.” “Where…am I?” “Ossiriand.” Daeron paused, as though waiting for a reaction, but he had none. The name was familiar, but he did not know where it was, or where he had come from. “Do you remember what happened?” “I…” He had an impression of—screams, blood, falling stones. Something hard striking him—or many things. Someone snarling something into his ear, though he couldn’t remember the words. Cold. None of it meant anything. “I don’t…who—who are…?” “My name is Daeron.” Daeron paused, again as though waiting for a response. A faint frown creased his brow, and he asked, “Does that name mean anything to you?” “Daeron,” he whispered, searching his face. “Should it?” “I thought you said you didn’t know him, Daeron,” said one of the children. “I don’t,” Daeron replied without looking away, “but my name was once widely known. Can you tell me your name?” he asked then. He opened his mouth to answer, but found no answer waiting on his tongue. He closed his mouth again, and tried to think. He had a name—he had to have a name, everyone had a name. But when he tried to think of it he found that he could remember nothing—not who he was, not where he had come from, nothing of a childhood or parents or family, nor friends nor—
gonna tag @thescrapwitch @balrogballs @bad-writer @justdrowthings if you'd like to share something!
would you still love me if I was half-fish?
“Would you still love me if I was half-fish?”
“If you were what?” Maitimo struggles to sit up, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
It is late; he can tell from the darkness pressing against their tent that Makalaurë has, again, woken him up well before the Mingling of the Two Trees. He can hear the sound of rain tapping gently against the canvas walls; wishes he could be in one of the other tents with family members who wouldn’t shake him awake with nonsense questions. My own fault, he thinks. Fëanáro had given him the choice of having his own, private tent, now that Maitimo was one hundred years old and could be trusted to carry it himself. But Makalaurë’s eyes had filled with tears at the mere suggestion, and so Maitimo had decided to share.
A choice I am very much regretting now.
“Half-fish,” says Makalaurë.
“Laurë, what are you talking about?”
“I dreamt,” he says, his voice far-away and oddly afraid, “that after years of ill-deeds, Ulmo sought vengeance upon me for the evil I had done, and so used his power to change me into a - a creature. Half of the sea, half of the Eldar, able to belong to neither.”
“A tail would make for useful swimming.” He does not give into his little brother’s melodramatics, keeping his own words as dry as possible as he closes his eyes and deliberately turns his body away from Makalaurë.
It doesn’t work. Makalaurë continues on, either oblivious or ignoring Maitimo’s wish to go back to sleep. “But that was the worst of it!” he says. “For the part which was Eldar were my legs, graceful and long -
“ - I know this is a dream you’ve had if you’re imagining yourself as tall - ”
“ - but my upper body, my torso and face, were that of an ugly fish. A singing toadfish, Nelyo! One of those spiky, strange coloured, grumpy looking things!”
Maitimo sighs, turning over so that he can see his brother. Makalaurë is frowning at him, making a grumpy expression that probably would suit a singing toadfish, but Maitimo keeps that bit of information to himself. “And was I also this strange half-fish creature?” asks Maitimo. “Did we cause mischief on the shores of Valinor together?’
“No,” said Makalaurë, his voice furious and small and threatening tears. “You were not there. You left me.”
Ah. This, then, is the heart of the dream, transforming it into a nightmare. An easy fix. Maitimo wraps an arm around Makalaurë and pulls him in close. “I would love you if you were half-fish or full or even a crab,” he promises, kissing the top of his head. “I will love you no matter what. Now go to sleep, little brother, and if my dreams are filled with the images of what you’ve been rambling on about, I am throwing you into the first pond I see.”
[I've been loving the 'reverse mermaid' trend that's been happening the past few days (thank you @peasant-player!) and so I couldn't resist writing a little something inspired by it!]
Tried to paint the maglor I designed. You can see his design here
oh man i fixed this thing almost ten times before i’m satisfied, i hope it looks ok-ish though x”D and if you still see something wrong with it DON’T TELL ME I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT
music inspiration: Baba Yetu by Christopher Tin. 10 years ago today, it became the first piece of video game music to win a grammy PLS LISTEN TO IT
“… . Voronwë?”
This elf does not get enough love.
Also, I am dead, this was so hard. Foreshortening, wet skin, wet clothes, splashing water, both dry and wet sand……very dead.
The image is transparent, so click for a better one!
furry claude. furry claude real………what a time to be alive
Duke Claude von Riegan
Based on the famous painting King George III by Allan Ramsay, 1866
The
Since it's the glorious 25th of may and people are posting about Night Watch, I wanted to point out a part in Thud! that really shows how much the events of Night Watch shaped Vimes.
'May I be there when you question him?' said the grag. 'Why?' 'Well, for one thing, it may prevent rumours that he was mistreated.' 'Or start them?' said Vimes. Who watches the watchmen? he asked himself. Me! Bashfullsson gave him a cool look. 'It could calm the situation, sir.' 'I don't habitually beat up prisoners, if that's what you're suggesting,' said Vimes. 'And I am sure you would not wish to do so tonight.' Vimes opened his mouth to shout the grag out of the building, and stopped. Because the cheeky little sod had got it right slap bang on the money. Vimes had been on the edge since leaving the house. He'd felt a tingling across his skin and a tightness in his gut and a sharp, nasty little headache. Someone was going to pay for all this [?] this [?] this thisness, and it didn't need to be a screwed-up bit-player like Helmclever. And he was not certain, not certain at all, what he'd do if the prisoner gave him any lip or tried to be smart. Beating people up in little rooms… he knew where that led. And if you did it for a good reason, you'd do it for a bad one. You couldn't say 'we're the good guys' and do bad-guy things. Sometimes the watching watchman inside every copper's head could use an extra pair of eyes. Justice has to be seen to be done, so he'd see it done up good and proper.
This is so well done because we the readers are fully primed to be on Vimes side here, he was just attacked in his home by Grags and they attempted to kill his wife and child and now one is accusing him of police brutality. He is on a razors edge right now and the oblong demonic entity from before time began in his head is certainly not helping him stay calm.
But he (twice technically) has seen what happens when coppers aren't held accountable, when they feel like they can do whatever they want in the name of justice. Findthee Swing followed that mentality, and he knows how tempting it is. Vimes cannot let the personal become the important, he cannot let his desire for justice become a desire for revenge and let every dwarf he sees become an acomplice to wrong he's trying to right.
And this is shown perfectly by the next line:
'Gentlemen,' he said, keeping his eye on the grag but talking to the room at large, 'I know all of you, you all know me. You're all respected dwarfs with a stake in this city. I want you to vouch for Mr Bashfullsson, because I've never met him before in my life. Come on, Setha, I've known you for years, what do you say?' 'They killed my son,' said Ironcrust. A knife dropped into Vimes's head. It slipped down his windpipe, sliced his heart, cut through his stomach and disappeared. Where the rage had been, there was a chill. 'I'm sorry, commander,' said Bashfullsson quietly. 'It's true. I don't think Gunder Ironcrust was interested in the politics, you understand. He just took a job at the mine because he wanted to feel like a real dwarf and work with a shovel for a few days.' 'They left him to the mud,' said Ironcrust, in a voice that was eerily without emotion. 'Any help you need, we will give. Any help. But when you find them, kill them all.' Vimes could think of nothing more to say than 'I will catch them.' He didn't say: Kill them? No. Not if they surrender, not if they don't come at me armed. I know where that leads.
And here all the "righteous fury" dies in 4 words, Vimes thought he might lose his son that night, it was the most angry and terrified he ever felt in his life, and to hear from one of the people he was internally blaming for that, that they had actually lost their son it just shatters all the delusions.
I think this moment was super important in letting Vimes overcome the summoning dark, it reminded him that giving into you anger and letting your assumptions become your view point was what being a copper is all about.
this is what posting on here feels like
Still feels like this btw
Tyelpe and Maeglin bonding over crafting ✨️⚒️
Although Tolkien never really discussed this at length, the plot of LOTR and especially Silmarillion imply some really interesting ideas about immortality. Sure, he says that mortal men need to accept their mortality, because it’s inevitable, and the pseudo-immortality offered to some of them is a trap that will take their selfhood and autonomy. But then he also writes a whole race of immortals and says that they need to learn to accept loss and grief and change: even if they themselves don’t die, time will pass and things will change, and an immortal who cannot let go of ephemeral things will die over and over, or break the world in trying to recover what he lost.
another great thing about Eowyn/Faramir is that Faramir is a) Gondorin aristocracy and b) kind of a nerd, AND c) he grew up in a high-walled city under constant threat of an adjacent Enemy, which means he has definitely read at least one, more likely multiple epic poems about the Fall of Gondolin; which means when he calls Eowyn “White Lady of Rohan”, he is 100% consciously referencing Aredhel Ar-Feiniel, White Lady of the Noldor, huntress, traveller, and rebel, whose life was (too often) defined by seeking freedom and whom history wishes had not died in defense of someone she loved.
Can you imagine being Gandalf? Getting shit from other wizards because you have a thing for hobbits and you're just like, okay. Okay, maybe I'll temper my fascination with hobbits.
This Ring quest will have two hobbits. Maximum.
Then they all get to Rivendell and have somehow multiplied into four hobbits. And it's like. Okay. Maybe the others are right.
Maybe this is too many hobbits.
We have as many hobbits as we have not-hobbits.
But damn it, you just don't want to get rid of any of these hobbits. Screw it! Everyone can deal. Four hobbits. This is a four hobbits problem.
So away you go.
And things go bad in the worst possible way.
Over and over.
You've lost your hobbits. You've lost yourself. The fellowship has been separated.
It takes everything in your power to help the humans defend themselves, bringing them together to save Rohan. Finally, as things begin to look upright, you're ready to face the war with everything the Rohirrim have left.
You're ready to face him. This may be the hardest battle you've ever fought. But you ride.
Then you get there and two of your fucking hobbits are sitting there like "Yeah, while you were gone, we raised a tree army and beat Saruman's ass. Wanna help us loot his tower?"
....
There were not, in fact, too many hobbits.
This was a four hobbits problem.
A wizard neither underestimates nor overestimates the number of hobbits needed for an equation. He, er, always has precisely as many as he needs to.
Smaug is a one-hobbit problem
Saruman a two-hobbit problem
Sauron a four-hobbit problem
I propose that, had hobbits existed at the time, this implies Morgoth would have been an eight-hobbit problem.
Anyway I think Elenwë convinced Turgon to cross the Ice. This solves two problems for me: (a) why Turgon was opposed to Fëanor in the big Oath-swearing, Finweans-have-an-argument episode but chooses to go anyway, and (b) why he builds Tirion 2.0 in Middle-earth. He never wanted to be there. He went for Elenwë’s sake, and now she’s dead, and he wants to go home. (Also it gives Elenwë some fun agency.)
Then they are re-embodied and are furious with each other. They don’t want to be, but they are.
oh log we’re really in it now