It Will Forever Be My Roman Empire That The Sons Of Feanor Went From Widely Beloved Princes Of Valinor

Sam by Maia O. Tolkien's "chief hero", a gardener. The one who grows, tends, nurtures. It's too perfect 😭😭😭

accidentally just showed my drawing instructor a folder full of bagginshield porn i have to drop off the face of the earth change my name and move to switzerland goodbye yall it was nice knowing you

The Grimm writers were so real for making a wesen whose name directly translates to “bloodbath” and then giving us the softest cardigan wearing, cello playing, vegetarian clockmaker.

LIKE TO CHARGE REBLOG TO CAST LET'S GET THIS FUCKER EXPLODEDED

in your dreams, your older brother wears a crown of crimson red and speaks of death like a lover, letting it spill past stained teeth and over his tongue with reverence. there is a smile on his face, too wide, too full of glee. your hands are wet and the hem of your dress is soaked and your brother’s hair is turning dark. his sword looks larger than your memory serves, and you never recall the shape his armour ought to be beneath the blood. he holds out a rust-coloured hand and laughs as though the audience he means to present you to is not the dead piled up beneath his feet.

you wake with screams trapped behind cracking lips and silver tears staining your cheeks. you wake early enough to watch the same red you fear spill across his blue skies as you clasp desperate hands until your knuckles turn white and your nails leave marks.

your sister, bright and hopeful, braids your hair with fast fingers. the flowers she pins among your curls won’t wilt until she asks them to and her hands are warm and steady in yours. your younger brother, restless and as pale as you, dips bread into soup like it has offended him but brushes a hand over your tense shoulders with gentleness he always says was taught by you. his voice is calm where his legs are not.

they wait the same as you, with your shoulders straight despite the taste of blood at the back of your throat. the fourth seat remains empty another day, and your voice is called for more often than it ought to if things were right.

you wait for him to come home, victorious, whole, with blood-free teeth and tongue. your siblings wait the same, your sister singing louder and your brother standing taller to fill the empty space.

in your dreams, your older brother wears a crown of crimson red and speaks of death like a lover and of war like home.

when you wake, you pray.

Tolkien is having his first ever egg. It’s. Not going well.

1st of October: Mountain / A' chiad latha dhen Dàmhair: A' bheinn

English Translation:

Since the day the dragon came, it seemed to Thorin he saw the mountain clearer with every step he took away from it, with each mile he and his family led the people of Erebor west, their backs to the mountain, its form in his mind grew firmer.

They toiled in strange lands, selling their skills like simple trades-folk instead of the masters they were. How low we are fallen, the young prince would seethe, still proud despite their loss.

Thorin's people had not been long in connecting Thror's hoard to the dragon's attack; the first to do so turned their backs on him, choosing to join their kin in the Iron Hills than suffer the Wilds under a leader they did not trust. Those who kept faith and remained, standing shoulder to shoulder with him, Thorin vowed to protect.

Even before the disappearance of Thrain, a shift came in Durin's Folk. They began to seek guidance from their prince, following his lead and rallying behind the dream he described for them: a new home in the west, far from hardship and strife where they may rebuild all that was lost.

But always in his mind lay the same thought, the mountain, the mountain, the mountain. In his dreams he looked on it from afar. Watching. Waiting. He would bring his people home, redeem his family for their grandfather's sickness that brought them all to ruin.

The birth of his sister's sons came in a time of peace. The older they grew, an ever-increasing choir that sung with the drums from the deep followed him....the mountain, the mountain, the mountain, they cried.

Oh the lonely mountain...

Scottish Gaelic translation:

Bhon dearbh là a thàinig an nathair-sgiathach, chunnaic Thorin a’ bheinn nas soilleire le gach ceum a thog e air falbh, leis a h-uile mìle a stiùiridh e is a theaghlach an t-sluagh Erebor gu Iar, an dromannan ris a’ bheinn, dh’fhàs a cumadh cruaidh anns na inntinn.

Dh’obraich iad ann an dùthchannan neònaiche, a’ reic na sgilean aca mar gun robhar luchd-malairt farasta seach na maighstirean a bhathar. Cho ìosal a tha sinn air tuiteam, smaoinich am prionnsa òg le fuath geur, fhathast moiteil a dh’aindeoin an calltachd.

Cha tug e fada gus an cur an t-sluaigh a h-uile rud ri chèile: sabaid an nathair-sgiathach agus tasgaidh Thror. Tionndaidh na ciad feadhainn an aghaidh an Rìgh agus thagh iad a bhith a’ dol gu na luchd-dàimh aca anns na Cnuic Iarainn, an àite a bhith a’ fulang san dùthaich fhiadhaich fo cheannard nach robh earb annta ann. Ghealladh Thòrin gun dìon e na feadhainn nach deach, a bha a dh’fhantainn agus a chumail creideas leotha.

Eadhon ron thuras Thràin nach tàinig e air ais bho fhathast, thàinig atharrachadh air na muinntir Durin. Thoiseach iad a’ sireadh stiùireadh bhon phrionnsa, a bhith ga leantainn agus a’ tighinn ri chèile air cùlaibh an aislinge a bha e ag iarraidh dhaibh: dachaigh ùr san Iar, fada air falbh bho dhorradas agus strì far am faodar a h-uile rud a bha air caill a thogail a-rithist.

Ach an-còmhnaidh anns na inntinn bha an aon smaoin, a’ bheinn, a’ bheinn, a’ bheinn. Anns na aislingean, choimhead e air fad às. A’ coimhead. A’ feitheamh. Thoireadh e an t-sluaigh aige dachaigh agus cuir ceart gach rud a rinn a sheanair a thoirt iad uile gu lom-sgrios.

Thàinig breith mhic a phiuthar ann an àm ciùin ach mar a dh’fhàs iad suas, dh’fhàs guth còisir anns na inntinn a bha a’ seinn leis na drumaichean às na h-uamhan. A’ bheinn, a’ bheinn, a’ bheinn, dh’èigh iad.

Ò a’ bheinn ònaranach...

Amon Rawya

(Tha mi fhathast ag ionnsachadh na Gàidhlig - bithibh snog XD)

Maybe we’ll get to see the first American pope in history be the first pope to excommunicate the US vice president

WIP of Bilbo enjoying a pipe. Now it’s time to do the color. I keep wanting to add more flowers and mushrooms. He deserves a chaotic cozy garden.

Should I keep posting WIPs or not?