Which commonly-used vegetable would you prefer never to have in a soup?
Peas / carrots / celery / corn / green beans / potatoes / tomatoes / Other / I don't eat soup
(For example, I like corn on its own, but I can't stand it in a soup. And yes I know tomatoes are technically a fruit, but I wanted more options and I have limited soup experience.)
Which commonly-used vegetable would you prefer never to have in a soup?
Peas
Carrots
Celery
Corn
Green beans
Potatoes
Tomatoes
Other
I don't eat soup
Voting ended onApr 1, 2025
(For example, I like corn on its own, but I can't stand it in a soup. And yes I know tomatoes are technically a fruit, but I wanted more options and I have limited soup experience.)
I was a book fan first, but I honestly never form much of a visual image of characters when I read a book, so it didn't matter to me.
Cool, but that doesn't mean it can't matter to other people.
There's a very weird assumption in a lot of Tolkien fandom discourse that caring about actors actually looking like their characters is trivial and shallow, they cast for talent not appearance etc etc, so casting Anglo actors in non-Anglo roles is totally okay—unless, of course, casting for talent and not appearance results in heroic roles going to people other than pale, mostly light-haired, mostly Anglo white actors, at which point the fandom has screaming meltdowns.
And frankly, film fans always show up to make this about their personal preferences whenever anyone tries to discuss the problems with the films' casting. Yeah, it's a personal gripe in this particular case, but for those of us who do care about both this instance and the more problematic wider trend in the casting of the films, it's deeply frustrating that we still can't criticize it without fans of the movies rushing in after 20 years.
I thought it was great casting because they LOOK like they could be brothers,
They do, as do many other actors.
and I can't picture the characters any other way anymore.
Yeah, that's actually a major reason that some of us care a lot about this. For one, it can simply be irritating that we rarely see depictions of our favorite characters that look remotely like them, but more importantly, these sorts of choices shape the popular conception of what Middle-earth's heroes are allowed to look like.
And as a neighbouring realm to Rohan, I wouldn't expect them to look much different as far as ethnicity?
Uh ... if you're talking about what's visually effective on film, I think sharing a border on the opposite end of the country from where Boromir and Faramir live and where their families are from matters much less than differentiating the peoples in a clear way. The movies honestly seem largely disinterested in the ways in which Gondorians and Rohirrim are contrasting foils for each other even as they draw nearer in culture, and particularly clear foils in the ruling families—but that would require caring about Gondor to anything like the extent that they care about Rohan, which they evidently don't.
If you're talking about Tolkien's version, meanwhile, Gondor is a vastly more ancient nation than Rohan, and includes multiple ethnic groups that long predate the arrival of the Rohirrim from the North, and mostly look nothing like them. According to Tolkien, the Dúnedain of southern Gondor are very different from any of the Northern-inspired peoples of Middle-earth. He indignantly wrote that, while the Shire was indeed meant to represent England, Minas Tirith is 600 miles south (at around the latitude of Florence, Italy) while the great Gondorian port of Pelargir is at about the latitude of Troy (now in Turkey), and he insisted that his vision for Gondor was therefore not remotely Nordic.
Elsewhere, he repeatedly compared the Gondor of LOTR to the Byzantine Empire, and also said that the Dúnedain of Gondor were best envisioned as ancient Egyptians. Tolkien's depiction of the Gondorian peoples had lots of influences to be sure—but blond English people are not among them, and they are clearly meant to contrast visually with the Rohirrim in particular.
The movies' indifference to all this in terms of casting is one debate, but the matter of whether the casting for Gondor is accurate to Tolkien's descriptions in or out of LOTR is very straightforward. It's not.
I just have to tell you that I found a menu at the bottom of a drawer that my mom must have saved, from a seafood place that I never even heard of as far as I can recall, although it was fairly local? I assumed it was one of the more expensive places my parents would go to with some friends of theirs to celebrate a special occasion like an anniversary, but my dad doesn't remember it either. ANYWAY, this place had an amazing variety of seafood on their menu (I WANT TO GO BACK IN TIME AND EAT THERE), including *drumroll* shark. Never seen that before; I thought I'd share.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
The Sifki renaissance continues for me over here. :p @woodelf68 gave me the prompt “kissing to escape bad guys,” which is one of my favorite tropes, but something that I hadn’t thought about for Sifki before! It’s safe for work - short and sweet.
If you’d like to prompt me (for any of my usual pairings/fandoms), check out my “prompt me!” tag. Happy to work on prompt fills in between my various WIPs. :p
A late prompt for Fluffify This! -- "Do I know you?"
((A good old-fashioned Dark Castle era caper, hope you enjoy!))
Belle lets her gaze rove to every corner of the grand ballroom, taking in every inch of its color and splendor. The Dark Castle has its own kind of splendor, to be sure, and Belle fancies her cleaning efforts have brought it out somewhat, but there is still an air of gloom she just can’t shake. In any case, she’s not going to worry about that now. Or think too hard about the reason for this day trip to King Stefan’s spring gala. She’s going to sway along to the merry music, catch bits of gossip from the courtiers that surround her, and work on snagging a glass delightfully fizzy wine from the tray of a passing servant.
She only manages to accomplish the first two before a hand is thrust in her direction. She follows it up, and up, to find a gangly young man leering at her, eyebrows waggling in an unmistakable offer to dance.
“Uh, do I know you?” she asks.
The leer drops into a scowl. “Yes, you do,” the man answers, just before his eyes flash reptilian.
“Oh, right, yes!” Belle exclaims, gaze darting around as she babbles, “You are… Lord Gusteau’s son. Of course you are. Sir, ah- Sir… Linguini!”
Staring at her like she’s something he scraped off his shoe, Rumpelstiltskin grinds out, “Yes. I am. Sir… Linguini.”
Silently vowing to apologize later, Belle dips a curtsey. “And I am Lady- uh, Verna.”
“Greetings, Lady Verna. Would you care to dance?”
She beams and simpers, “Certainly, Sir Linguini. Do lead the way.”
He takes her hand and they venture to where pairs of dancers swirl by, coming quite close to a dais where the royal party sits. Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes stay fixed in their direction as sets his free hand on Belle’s waist, and they join the dance.
Belle went into this charade, after extracting a promise that it wouldn’t lead to anyone’s horrible torture or death, telling herself it wasn’t more than she could handle. A decade and then some of dancing lessons must have imparted some level of expertise, right? Unfortunately, it would appear not, as she struggles to keep from crushing Rumpelstiltskin’s toes while also staying in rhythm with the other dancers so as not to end up careening into one or more and sending them all crashing down in a heap of limbs and silk.
Rumpelstiltskin’s irritation is palpable, growing every time they swing past the royal party. “If I didn’t know better, dearie,” he growls, “I’d say you were trying to thwart my mission.”
“I’m not!” Belle cries in a whisper, “Now stop distracting me. One, two three… one, two, three…”
They make another pass and Rumpelstiltskin lets out a gusty sigh. “It’s no good, I’ll have to find some-”
“Belle?” comes a voice from the dais, startling her so much only Rumpelstiltskin’s tightened grip keeps her on her feet.
She peers in the direction of the call, and her mouth drops open in shock. “Princess Abigail? It can’t possibly be!” Her gaze darts in Rumpelstiltskin’s direction and a single thought seems to pass through both of their minds in an instant, leading them to walk in perfect unison to the dais, where Princess Abigail’s seat is wedged into the end of the row.
“My dear Belle, I can’t believe it’s you. The last I heard you’d made a deal with the Dark One to rid your land of those horrible ogres.”
Before leaving the Dark Castle, Belle asked Rumpelstiltskin for a disguise like the one he conjured for himself. She thought she heard him mutter something about not wanting to mar perfection, but he simply waved her off when she pressed him. And now look where her unaltered state has gotten them. Right where Rumpelstiltskin wants to be, and Belle stranded in perhaps the most awkward conversation of her life.
“Well, ah, yes, I did. Do that. The deal. But it’s not as bad as everyone has made it out to be, I’m sure. You know how gossip is- wait long enough and it could turn a garden snake into a hundred-foot dragon, don’t you agree? Anyway, how are you, dearest Abigail? I haven’t seen you since our finishing school days- that’s where we met, Sir Linguini. Abigail, have you met Sir Linguini? He’s Lord Gusteau’s son, and he’s just perfectly charming!”
Throughout Belle’s slightly desperate prattle, Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes have been locked on a particular jewel in King Stefan’s crown. Belle must give his arm a hard yank to snap his attention back to her and Abigail. “Charm- what? Yes. Finishing school. How nice. A pleasure, Your Majesty. Please excuse me.” And with that, he extracts his arm from Belle’s grasp, turns on a heel, and strides off into the crowd.
“Indeed. I see what you mean, Belle,” Abigail says, smooth voice ringing with irony. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “No matter. Have you eaten yet? Let’s get some plates, and definitely some wine, and go find a place to sit and catch up.”
From their first meeting years ago, Belle appreciated that while Abigail fully embodied the grace of her lofty station, she was ultimately ruled by sensibility and good humor. They find a small alcove and pass the next several hours in each other’s happy company, chatting about anything and everything as the gala floats by. Day dims to night and massive chandeliers are hoisted overhead to fill the ballroom with golden candlelight.
As Belle watches them rise, she feels Abigail take her hand. She looks to see concern has replaced the joy in her old friend’s face. “Honestly, Belle, are you all right? Dealing with the Dark One seems to invariably be as bad or worse than gossip would have it. You seem well, but… If there’s something I can do to help, you need only ask. Please know that.”
Belle sets her hand over Abigail’s, and as her gaze wanders over the ballroom, it happens to land on a certain Sir Linguini. His smile is soft and warm, and she can’t quite convince herself it’s only a feature of his disguise. He lifts a glass to her, then slips back into the crowd.
“I am well, Abigail,” she murmurs, “I know that seems strange, but it’s the truth. My friends and family are safe, and I…” She lets out a soft laugh. “I’m having an adventure.”
Later, Rumpelstiltskin will grumble about how King Stefan’s vaunted Jewel of Lilybaeum is nothing more than colored glass, and Belle will wonder if he knew that all along.
