#fundinson

[dealtgod]

@fundinson​ wrote:  “It’s a drinking game then?”

    There was a lilt to his stance-- a rise of his shoulders that seemed to tug his lip into a smirk. A deep exhale through the nose, and the smile widened, dimpling his cheeks underneath a growing beard. True, their days were long and filled with making ends meet until the call came to go eastward. Life was that of work-- of survival (or death in an attempt, like his father)-- and of perseverance, despite all odds. But precious little could rival that of the rare bits of mirth amongst kin. This moment was one such allowance, for they did not just come together to lift as one; they also came together to raise a pint in verse known only to them. 

     “Reckon we can make it one,”  Fíli offered, twisting the sword in his grip after some undisclosed time had passed in sparring with Dwalin. They had been in the surrounding forest so long that even the sun could not remain with them--- its last light slipping away to nothing. The call to warmer halls and warmer company was now in their minds, it seemed. “With enough ale, a drinking game’s bound to follow.” He sheathed his sword,  initiating the start of Dwalin’s proposed game. “It can start with last one to the halls must drink two pints of ale.”

[warriorswithin]

fundinson respondeu seu post: SURPRISE BITCH, BET YOU THOUGHT YOU’D SEEN THE...

LMAO HOW FUNNY IS IT THAT WE BOTH LOG IN AGAIN AFTER MONTHS WITHIN FIFTEEN MINUTES OF EACH OTHER

I’M WEEPING !!! WELCOME BACK AS WELL MY FRIEND, LET’S JUMP RIGHT INTO THIS WAGON

[nihthelm]

@fundinson from x

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He rounded on the elf, eyes narrowed. Dwalin’s patience with the fair folk had ever been of a short nature, much like his temper at large, and something in that voice, which rang out clear and melodious, just seemed to rub him the wrong way.

“Spies aren’t welcome here,” he added, a rumble in his chest. “nor those that advocate them.”

Caranthir raised a quelling hand, tilting his chin in a raptorlike movement to look down at the young dwarven warrior.

“Ikhli, bahith!” he answered, a few words of the bare Khuzdul he had learned long ago, from those trading partners of long standing in Nogrod and Belegost, those great cities which had lain beneath the Ered Luin in his day. Perhaps still did, though as yet he knew not, nor whether he’d be welcome within them even so. The friendship between Casari and Eldar had been, it seemed, forgotten – broken not by the Noldor, by Caranthir’s own folk; but by the Þindar and their damned grasping and thievery.

“I am no spy,” he continued in the clumsily bastardized Adûnaic apparently used as a common tongue in this day, “but merely a traveler who has seen much.”

[mercysought]

@fundinson​ . ❝ i haven’t only done good in my life either. ❞  for the priestess! . the witcher . accepting

   “The question for me was never whether if I have done good or bad things.” 

And perhaps that is a simple reflex of a guilty mind, a thought that one would reach out for when in the absence of a good reason for one’s bad actions. The nameless elf didn’t see it that way, it was a show of age and how tired she felt when remembering the long life. Akin to counting specs of sand in the desert, it was a task that could take hours of meditation and leave her spent for her work. It was also reductive, especially for one whose bad actions had lead their people to a brighter future. And whose good actions often had more severe consequences she wished she didn’t need to deal with.

   “It is an easy thing to have your actions distorted by those that would prefer you to fit neatly into their tales.” as she was sure that, if not himself, his own ancestors would likely mirror the sentiment. Dark eyes fall on the small figure beside her. The elven woman moves in silent grace, with the sharpness that would paint her as for what she was: a warrior in rest “It is whether you have regretted any of them.“

She sits atop one of the many carefully crafted chairs. She regretted none of them because what use did she have for regret when her people depended on her? What good would that bring? She would carry the blood and the decisions she did (and didn’t) on her back. 

   “Have you?”

[dealtgod]

@fundinson​ wrote:  “Where do you think you are going?”

    And this would be his story: to be born in the wake of grief and exile-- never to know the home others had known, never to know kin he ought to have known, and, as a result of exile and making ends meet, to become fatherless not long after his brother’s first cries. But his story is not unique amongst his kin. Aye, far worse sufferings of others had embedded deep within Fíli’s bones, the vibrations of stories in bass and baritone sounding off in the core of his heart. It was a reminder of what had passed, a call to honour those they had lost, and a map to go back. And with every strike of a hammer in the forges, or every bargain made in trade--- all to make ends meet--- there was an echo of the cries that spilled from the mountain that day. Cries he never heard, and yet... could still somehow feel in the deepest parts of his soul.

   They were there in all things since Fíli’s birth. It had been there behind the loving gaze of his mother, the guidance from his uncle, and the teachings of distant kin in the line of Durin. All his life, they did not turn their backs on raising him, even with that ache. And so, it should come as no surprise that he would not turn his back on kin--- not when he could do something for them.

    Eldest son. Heir. Fatherless lad. And so, between picking up a sword and throwing axes, Fíli had picked up a hammer. He went to the forges--- made what they could trade for things they lived without. He lit the fires and swung--- the metallic clank soon giving way to the shape of some weapon or piece of armour. If it would help his mother, take a load off Kíli’s back so that he might spend more hours in training, and stop his uncle from carrying it all, Fíli would do it. 

   And it’s why Fíli had loaded the goods he had made upon his back, ready to embark beyond the Blue Mountains. Other races would pay a decent price for Dwarvish blade and ingenuity. Why should he not try to get something more for them?

    But Dwalin stood nearby: ‘Where do you think you are going?’

    Fíli turned ‘round, catching Dwalin’s gaze. 

    “Wherever I can get a better bargain,” he answered. It it what my father did. Now, it is my turn. “Give me five days, and I’ll return.” 

[dealtgod]

@fundinson​​ wrote:  “I’m going alone.”

     With a set jaw, he held Dwalin’s words in his mouth, teeth ground hard against the resolution that came in his voice. Was it stubbornness or loyalty that swept the look of protest across his features? And was it his own wish, at times, to go on his own and be respected for his choice--- to do something for his kin by his own terms--- that made him not yet speak? 

    Not yet speaking. Fíli had oft been the one who showed his heart, his beliefs, his duty, and his growing leadership through deeds, not words. It came in many ways--- like standing between Kíli and the company when they got into a brawl, or staying back to fight in order to give his kin a chance to escape. And so, in silence he continued arming himself, slipping three hunting knives each along the outside of one boot... and then the other. Never be outwitted, or unprepared. The wild, after all, is never interested in a fair fight. Be ready. Hold your own. Only once he had finished tucking these last few weapons away did he turn back to Dwalin, knitted brows framing a determined gaze.

    “It’s not our way to leave our own behind,” he finally answered. “Even the strongest warrior among us is not forsaken.” Fíli offered a slight nod as if to emphasise the point. “Are you fixed in your plan? You know I would take up arms with you. It is not who I am to turn away.” 

[dealtgod]

@fundinson​ wrote:  “ dammit, fili! i TOLD you not to play the hero! “

     It was instinct-- part of his blood. When danger came, Durin’s sons held their ground. And so, Fíli planted his feet to hold the line. To look after kin. The vicious snarls and snaps of the wargs reached his ears before they came into sight from over the ridge. He turned toward their taunts, one hand reaching behind his shoulder to draw a sword from his scabbard whilst the other reached under the front strap to draw its partner into the fight. There would be over a dozen coming over the ridge by the sounds of it, and in the seconds he had, Fíli became acutely aware of the weight of various knives stored in his vambrances, boots, and pelt. Just in case.

    Another instinct-- that of brotherhood-- made him turn his gaze for half a moment, for he had heard, or rather perceived, Kíli draw his bow from over his right shoulder. On his left, he heard his uncle’s rally, followed soon thereafter by Dwalin’s answer. The others made their stance in response, a collective strength of lifting together. 

   The scouts did not wait, nor were they interested in fair play. For what was fair in all this?  Fíli bent at the knees as one of the wargs came straight to him, allowing him to apply force behind a lunge that sent his sword directly at its neck, toppling its rider as a result. He advanced, eyes wild, yet focused in their search at every direction by which the wargs came. It was clear. They were surrounded--- trapped without the high ground--- but he fought for time for the others to find a path of escape. 

    One by one, the others slipped through to safety until there were only four: Thorin, Dwalin, Kíli, and himself. He heard the call to fall back, and with swords braced for another go, Fíli caught sight of his brother loosing an arrow at one warg whilst another started coming from behind him. It was not up for debate. Fíli did not fall back. He ran to his brother, and thus toward the scout, colliding at the foul beast's side as his blade made contact with its neck. The warg tumbled forward, but not before the scout riding astride caught Fíli's shoulder with a wide sweep. Fíli fell, the exposure yielding enough adrenaline for his hand to pull a knife from his vambrance. He threw the knife, embedding the blade in the orc’s skull. 

    Kíli had turned round since then, and he came to pull him up before making haste to the others whilst time was on their side and the path was clear.  Fíli made certain to be the last, keeping his brother in front to keep him safe. But it also meant he was last to reach Dwalin, who stood in wait for him.

‘Dammit, Fíli, I TOLD you not to play the hero!’

    He looked up at Dwalin, and it felt like he was back in time when he barely reached the knees of his elders. Dwalin was there in those days, oft by the side of Fíli’s uncle. Some days, it had felt that in the absence of his father, there was no absence at all. Not with them close by. 

    But he had grown since then, and though young, he knew in his heart what must be done.

    “I could not leave him,” came his answer. Did it roar out like a lion? “I would not run when Kíli was surrounded.” Strength, resilience, or pride--- perhaps a combination of all, told him not to show any favouring of his shoulder, lest he receive any additional choice words. “You would do the same, Dwalin-- for all of us-- as will I!”

[dealtgod]

@fundinson​ wrote:  “ how bad is it this time? ” for bilbo

    Why, a little bit of faith, if you please! Hadn’t he gotten them through some of the worst bits of their quest thus far? Still, Bilbo half-squeaked, half-hummed through his nose. It rather seemed to him that his being a burglar was not truly the appropriate title--- what, with all the conundrums he had to scurry the company through. And it was not nearly the easiest of tasks, mind you! The stubbornness of dwarves had been something Bilbo knew well. And the same could be said for his knowledge of their loyalty.

   Bilbo sniffed. He needed a moment to think. Just a moment, mind! In this case, any brash decision would send them in the wrong direction. “Wwwell...” he began, dragging out the word to think on it more. “It’s not as bad as the fish, if that’s what you’re asking.”