Amateur Explorer Actually Excited by Discovery of New Invasive Species

A new species has been discovered in the forests of Ossiriand encroaching on the territory of the Laiquendi.

“This was completely unexpected!” enthused discoverer Finrod Felagund, better known as the ruler of Nargothrond despite his reputation as an amateur explorer and musician. “I was wandering around the springs of Thalos and saw fires, and had to go check it out because usually no one around here is stupid enough to light fires. And bam, what do you know, there they were!”

According to Felagund, the new species appears bipedal in stature and patriarchal in structure. Its members exhibit most semblances of sentience, including the use of clothing to signify rank, the ingenuity to make anything into weapons, and enough avarice to clout one another over the head for a bit of well-polished rock.

“And an appreciation of music, which really cinches it,” Felagund said. “So even if they don’t look much like us, they act like us! I’m calling them the Atani.”

Atani, plural of the Quenya Atan, means “Second People,” and in the Eldarin scheme of creation, signifies that Felagund’s new species are being hailed as children of Eru beneath only the Elves themselves. Felagund’s Khazad neighbors are alleged to have sent several politely-worded inquiries inquiring as to their own rank in this schema, and how it might affect trade with Nargothrond.

“Not that we’re complaining about being the children of Mahal, you understand,” a Khazad spokesdwarf offered, on severe condition of anonymity. “But if these new buggers can claim better prices for whatever it is that they’re coming around selling, we want to know.”

Little progress has been made determining what Felagund’s Atani are doing in Ossiriand, but Felagund himself remains optimistic.

“Music is supposed to be the one true language, right?” he said. “So there’s hope yet. I mean, they liked mine!”

Felagund played the Atani his renditions of the Noldor’s Greatest Hits, minus the Noldolantë, while seated around their campfire.

The Shell and the Narrative

In Hue and Value
The specter of
My voice camps
At pitch to resolve
The surrounds of us
A Sun-Dial day
Of Vineyards
The hindsight of
Morass in thalo blue
As Fire begets regret
A castle of religion
Could not contain me
Once enamored am
I always revealed in
Gold Lake of Mirrors
Asleep in the lap of
June - my birth in a
Zephyr of warmth
Now(here) we sighed
Of this occurrence
This charity entrusted
To our budding mend like
Salix by our lake I
Weep in Familiar wind
Beckoning to me to you
Kept shorn of Luxury
All those memories,
Childhood moments
To all of us, once
As passages across
All time each journey
Like children, like
Natives on the road
Of our Return to a
Senescent scent of
Sweet susurrus past
On, past all of us:
No one shall be taken
No one shall be lost.

© K. James Ribble

“My Babies”
Been a while since I have drawn something this past month 😅 lol
Took a while but I manged to finish this drawing of the ever so lovely Mona Lisa and her beef cake Raph with their two kiddo’s and chompy, 
Lifting raph and the kids by surprise, she letting us know they her babies xDD
Irrilia belongs to the lovely @Myrling
Thalos to me 

Sal Commander Headcanon

Okay so from this bit,

And this bit,

I headcanon that Sal Commander was the one who trained Mona Lisa since she was younger, and is used to caring for smaller/younger fighters. Hence it’s almost an instinct to help Mikey.

I say younger because she is called Lieutenant, so I’m guessing she’s a little older than the turtles (which would be another nice throwback since the 80′s Mona was a college student before she became a mutant). 

hotmilkytea  asked:

Apritello, "Quit touching me, your feet are cold" :D

(a/n) im feeling space themed lately (always). so have space arc with a little twist

If going below absolute zero was a thing, the Moon of Thalos probably was what it felt like, and after being dropped on said moon, nearly being froze to death by an ice breathing alien beast in the process, to retrieve the missing piece of a machine that could wipe out planets in a second, Donnie actually wants to sleep - for weeks at best.

But he can’t really do that here, up in space and galaxies away from the warmth of sewers that the summer brought (would it be august on earth?) because they had things to do and planets to liberate and pieces of a weapon of mass destruction to find.

It’s fine. Nearly freezing to death was fine and not talking about almost dying was also fine because every shitty thing that happened to them had no choice but to be swept in the darkest places that no one touched until the air got a little too thin to breathe in. And it’s not even a big deal- Donnie’s had broken bones and concussions and he’s pretty sure he stopped breathing once; he’d just add this to the list.

But no one asked if he was alright, if maybe he was a bit shook up about it (why should he be? it happens all the time, right? that’s a part of war, right?).

So he pulls the extra blankets Fugitoid had and found his designated room, curled up and watched the planets they passed in their journey to a new deadly one, and the cluster of stars and rocks, and tries to not think about dying.

Almost dying.

He’d think after almost four years of this, it would get easier.

Donnie thinks about Splinter, face screwing up tight. And he’s afraid more than anything.

But in the reflection of the window is April, with mugs and poptarts and soup. Donnie almost asks her to go, but then again the soup smells good and he’s actually starving and the smile April wears is pretty inviting, too.

For the most part it’s quiet, and they eat on Donnie’s bed. The minutes go by, and so do the astroids that fly by their ship; they switch positions, gradually easing into something comfortable, under the blankets, only small talk between them till he falls asleep to the sound of little broken parts of meteors hitting the side of the ship- and April’s soft breathing.



April listens to Donnie sleep, and in the silence she sighs, letting her head rest against the wall, eyes closing softly. She thinks about home of all things, and if they’ll ever win. It sounds so stupid: the idea of winning and losing, like a game and not the lives of billions of people.

On their shoulders.

When she tries to feel what Donnie’s thinking, her chest contracts, tightening so much it brings tears to her eyes, and April gasps for a breath as something icy shoots up her legs.

Under the blanket are Donnie’s feet, tangled with hers. Snorting, she looks over at his face, twisted and scrunched up in sleep. He looks scared- April feels that more than anything.

She reaches over, her hand hovering just above his face, and with something set in her heart, April traces the lines in Donnie’s forehead, (from sleepless nights and bottled up anxiety and grief and anger ) her lips parting in the quietest kind of wonder.

She wonders if she could force them away.

And Donnie relaxes with her touch that skims his face so lightly, mouth falling open. So April thumbs his temples and wills those creases away- until his brows rut and he swallows hard, opening bleary eyes that stare into hers.

“You’re hands…” he almost smiles, nose wrinkling, “…they’re really, really cold .”

April scoffs, pushing up from him, “Nuh-uh. And besides, you totally burrowed your freaking feet into my legs so consider this your payback.”

And then Donnie gives her a stupid (irresistible) lopsided grin and kicks her (more like nudges but still) with his massive, deathly cold feet.

“Oh my god, Donnie,” April tries not to scream, “Quit touching me! Your feet are cold- stop!

At that point war is officially declared and Donnie kinda forgets about almost dying on a frozen wasteland which isn’t fine but it sorta is- with the way April’s laughing, pink and white poptart crumbs falling from her lips and onto his.