#greycloakking

[daeron-the-flautist]

Worthy? // closed starter for greycloakking

He felt nauseous as he paced the hall in front of the king's office. His fingers were rapidly miming scales, and the guards eyed him bemusedly. But he did not care. This was such a gamble, he could lose everything, his position, his title, his home... his love... But saying nothing, doing nothing was worse. That's where Daeron had been stuck, at nothing. How he craved so much more. It had been years since he had known this conversation would happen, decades. He loved Luthien, so much his heart ached inside him when he thought of her. He needed her. But before he could speak with her, he needed to speak with Thingol, and the king would not be pleased. His one priceless treasure given to a minstrel? Even his position as advisor meant little, he was no lord or prince, he was unworthy. But he needed her. Summoning the remains of his courage, he took a deep breath, stood in front of the door, and knocked.

[daeron-the-flautist]

Monarchs eating popcorn? Yeah, that pretty much explains...everything.

[curufinwefeanaro]

DAT TYELPINGS FEFE

|| The world now knows that Thingol calls Fëanor “Fefe” and that he’s quite enthusiastic about him.

(In reference to this.)

[bitterfoam]

Am I /not/ your king, Saeros?

Denethor is my king, Your Majesty, but you are my leige-lord, as you were before I moved to Menegroth. I have nothing but respect for you and your rule, but am still a guest in your halls so forgive me for still calling myself one of the Denethorim. 

[valiantfindekano-archived-blog]

❄ //Thingol is just like it'snotlikeilikeyouoranything

                         [ Send me a ❄ for a mistletoe kiss ]

It was only when Fingon awoke that he realised he'd fallen asleep at all, and he hastily tried to hide that fact. Too much wine, evidently, though he could not remember where it had all come from. Had Elwë been refilling his cup? 

And speaking of the Sindarin king... yes, that was him sitting there. 

It took all of Fingon's willpower not to laugh when he pointed out the mistletoe hanging above their heads. It seemed some traditions were known among both their cultures after all. 

The kiss did not last long; only a second, and Fingon made sure not to linger, but he wouldn't leave it without a comment either. “Alassenya, Elwë Singollo." He winked—and stood, hastening away before he could hear any words of protest. 

[curufinwefeanaro]

X for Thingol? :3

✖ and I will give you a fear that my character has in dealing with yours

There is nothing that Thingollo could hold against him that would make him feel fear — nothing, truly, that Thingollo has and that Fëanáro has not already lost: the Silmaril has been already stolen, and being stolen twice, being in the hands of someone who has not any right over it, does not awake fear, only wrath and seething and maybe a distant, flickering worry that lingers still in the back of his mind from the time of the Darkening. The cancellation of Quenya achieves no different endings and reactions.      He would not fear to ruin politics, not him who walked in full armor into the main hall of Tirion’s palace, wielding a sword and threatening his half brother, and he would not fear a confrontation, not him who rode straight against Angband, driven by the flame of his hatred, and faced there his death; he would not fear even menaces, not once he stood still before a Doom that cursed him, his family and his people to failure and betrayal.     While the love of those he cares about, that Thingollo cannot have. He does not possess a weapon that Fëanáro would truly dread.

[bitterfoam]

greycloakking replied to your post: anonymous asked:SPLAT! You just g...

//but have you had chocolate oranges?

//I have! <3 <3 But they're more expensive than the chocolate and oranges combined. (I don't get 'proper' chocolate...) and when it's real oranges you can pretend you're offsetting the chocolate >.>

[valiantfindekano-archived-blog]

King of Beleriand

The skies were not so threatening here, south of the mountains, and Fingon might have almost been glad of the sunlight if he weren’t so keenly aware of how it lessened with each minute that passed. Thingol was late, in so much as one could be late when the only distinguished time was "before dusk." It wasn't so much that he mistrusted the Sindarin king, but for a first meeting, he'd rather he could see the other's face--not to mention the locations of his men, and where their sword-hands sat.  

Fingon himself was unarmed. It made him uncomfortable to stand here as such, but it had been rightly pointed out to him that appearing with his sword at his hip on what was ostensibly a friendly visit might not be so well received. So he’d left it a few miles away with his guardsmen, and what weapons came along with their lessened host for this official meeting were few, small, and well-hidden.

He'd even had to agonise over the rest of his clothes, much to his annoyance. The armour he preferred had been left behind and replaced by something garishly bright and half as effective, all for show rather than genuine protection. But much of the bright silver was covered with blue, which ceased some of Fingon's protests. He would have preferred to stand before Elwë in the plainest clothes he owned, but no one could quite decide whether that might seem offensive, and so that suggestion had been rejected; he only hoped he wouldn't come to regret it. 

But finally, movement from the trees. Fingon straightened on the back of his horse, preparing to dismount as soon as Thingol approached.