theironcrown

We Both Go Down Together || Beruthiel/Murazor AU

The women’s quarters were a hive of activity.

The visiting nobility of Angmar were due to arrive in An Karagmir today, according to their latest intelligence, and Ar-Imrazôr had demanded everything be perfect for their arrival…including his five wives and numerous children.

And so much of the day had been spent bathing and preparing themselves. They had rinsed in cool running water and scraped their skin with scented oils. They had chosen and discarded and re-chosen clothing in the finest silks and brightest shades, and they had dressed their hair in careful braids draped with small ornaments of silver and gold and gems. They had laughed, as much as they ever laughed, and they had fought like cats, and they had made up tearfully and painted their faces to hide the tear tracks.

The young princess known officially as Third Wife’s First Daughter had participated, but sullenly, seeing little point to this pomp; it was her father Ar-Imrazôr that these Angmar nobles were here to see, not the women. Why should she put on a show simply to make him look good? And so she wore simple black silk chased with silver, as was her wont, but she did let her mother Zamîn braid silver rings into her hair and she wore glossy blue-black crow feathers dangling from her ear-hoops.

A eunuch messenger came to the women’s quarters in the mid-afternoon to inform them that the Angmar party had been sighted on the approach to the city and the women ceased their giggling and filed silently from their wing and into the throne room to await these strangers from another part of the world.

Merry stiffened slightly, his sturdy jaw set with a sudden anxiety. The chill in the air was unmistakable, the same chill he had once felt dull first his arm and then his body. 

This couldn’t be possible, nay, he recalled thrusting Dunedain dagger into the leg just before Lady Eowyn….

Merry swallowed, trying to compose himself. He took a mental survey of his smial, knowing exactly where he stowed his own sword and having half a mind to take it out and wear it once more.

In the Mind's Eye || Berúthiel and Murazor

Berúthiel had dragged the chaise lounge out from the more residential side of the greenhouse and now lay half-reclined, watching as Murazor moved among his plants, clipping here and watering there, brushing his cool fingers over a leaf or a petal, bending or stretching to examine some detail more closely.

She was watching this with two sets of eyes; Tiriel lay beside her and Berúthiel had connected with the white cat’s mind. She wondered if Murazor was even aware of the way his inborn magic affected the plants; through Tiriel, she could see the glowing green tendrils of his power–looking much like plants themselves–twining out through his fingers to heal or strengthen the plants as he tended them by his more mundane means as well.

He turned suddenly and caught her watching. She smiled a bit ruefully; though Murazor would not have the same reaction as most would to being stared at so intently, he would certainly be curious as to what she found so fascinating.

Everyone needs a little love and support sometimes, and everyone needs to remember that they’re loved and respected and appreciated. So I’m hoping everyone will take the time to make sure MuraMun, the-iron-crown, knows just have much we care about her, respect her talents, and enjoy RPing with her.

So today, all day, Saturday the 5th, is offically The-Iron-Crown Appreciation Day! Please, make some posts, IC or OOC or both, about how much you like her and what she does. Flood her inbox with anon love. Make graphics, if you’re into that and inspired. Write a drabble. Tell all your friends about her, do promos. Anything you want, just to show your appreciation and affection!

Basically…all those wonderful things we should do for each other all the time, but this time, do it all at once! Make a celebration out of it! A party in MuraMun’s honor!

——

(And really, I’m also hoping to start a trend with this. There are so many wonderful people here, and I think we need to take the time to recognize that once in a while. Give them the attention they deserve. No one’s left out, everyone’s loved. We are all here for the writing, but also for the connections we forge and the friendships we make. You love your friends, so let’s show them so!)

An Unexpected Encounter. @the-iron-crown

Elrond was enjoying the peace that followed the War of the Ring. It had only been a few months since the One Ring had been destroyed, but already a sense of relief was spreading throughout Middle Earth like wildfire. It was nice not having to worry about Sauron returning anymore.

Though Elrond didn’t know how long this time of peace would last. Evil was a part of life, no one could deny that, and he knew it was only a matter of time before a new evil made itself known in Middle Earth.

He was riding along one of the trails in the nearby woods, one which he took on a daily basis. He loved having this time, being surrounded by wildlife, and away from the stresses of his duty as Lord of Rivendell. However, he noticed something different about today. Off in the distance a familiar sight stood before him. His horse reared up on his hind legs at the sight, and Elrond’s heart began to race as he tried to calm his horse down.

“What is the Witch-King doing in these parts?” he called out, letting the venom flow freely though his voice, gripping his sword.

Cold Hands... || Ossë and Murazor (and family!)

Though cold was initially and essentially and truly one of Melkor’s creations, Ossë found that ice was quite to his liking. It was unforgiving and harsh, and if you did not know its secrets and how to manipulate them to a level playing ground – for there was no advantage with it – you would die. The Noldor learned that well and horrifically, and they were not the last to be educated so coldly. It suited him well, those frozen tundras where ice overpowered the sea and the land and sunk ships or swallowed Men. People there were clever and wicked and fearless and, most importantly, respectful. They were aware that their lives were left to the will of the ice, to how harsh the winter was and how sturdy the ground was come summer, that arrogance and superiority would leave them stiff and dead.

Of the Men in those areas, most preferred the land. They tied flat-footed wagons with no wheels to dogs and woolly beasts of great height and elks with shaggy hides and were swept along the smooth ground with great speed, and they bundled themselves in numerous furs and strange garments. They fished through holes in the ice and they stayed out of the water that swallowed their heat and halted their hearts.

But there were a few who were brave – or foolish – enough to build and man a fleet. Despite the ice that hid beneath the dark waters or the storms that could blind them utterly, some took the risk because they believed it was worth it. Few of those few succeeded. Balkumagân was one of them, and his successes caught the attention of the equally cold and harsh master of the waters. There was only one other who could build and guide ships in such harsh conditions, and that was his dearest friend and pupil; this Man of so few years was intriguing and entertaining.

Ossë was silent and formless as he swam beneath the ship that carefully steered around the ice and hidden dangers. It was not the first time he had followed a voyage, but it was the first time he felt intrigued enough to play a game. His Teleri knew it well, and many corsairs had experienced the joy at least once of the master of the seas testing their skill and, more importantly, their minds. The captains arrogant enough to think that they could master the waters themselves, that it was their own skill and power that kept them afloat – they never stayed afloat. It was the ones wise enough to not attempt it and acknowledge that they were but passengers that he allowed to continue to sail with his blessing.

The waves grew larger against the hull of the ship, the dip and rise greater and the roar louder as Ossë subtly pushed to attempt to steer them off their set course. Though the winds did not change, a dark mist slowly seemed to creep upon the boat, sparse and gentle at first but gathering in thickness, and most noticeably where the course had been set to lead them through.

Headcanons: Swearing in Adûnaic

Because every language needs some good solid cursewords…

The following are a combination of actual repurposed Adûnaic and verrrry loosely borrowed Arabic swearwords given Adûnaic endings. This is a very Umbarim Adûnaic, therefore, not pure Númenorean, ha. 

Have fun!

———————–

Naîk – fuck (Generally correlates well to the English usage of the word, and can be used both in the sense of sexual intercourse, and as a more general expletive, exclamation, or intensifier

            Naîkhê, fuck me (either a request, or a complaint about life)

            Naîk-ki, fuck you

            Naîka, fuck it

Rabê – female dog, bitch

            (Both the literal meaning and an insulting one can apply)

Nûlo – the Void (used like “Hell” might be), related to nâlo, shadow and nûlu, night (evil)

            Kiyada-Nûlo! (Go to the Void!)

zôrtârik – rude slang for male genitals

ammarî – rude slang for female genitals

garû – shit

garunbel – shit-lover

sarmû/sarmî – whore (m/f)

            sarmuthôr/ sarmithôr – son of a whore

            sarmuphel/sarmiphel – whore-daughter

tizum – ass

mîtkat – “tits”

Dancing with the dead | Ar-Murazor & Sadron

It had been a long and tiring ride to Minas Morgul, but after having ridden with such obsessive determination, Sadron’s destination was finally in sight. Once a mighty Tower of the Moon, it’s white marble walls no longer gleamed with moonlight, but instead glowed green and there was no sight of soothing light anywhere. As a matter of fact, there was nothing soothing in the whole forsaken valley. The smell of decay was in the air and no matter how Sadron tried to shake it away, an uncomfortable feeling of being constantly followed had made a nest inside the ellon’s mind, making him feel restless.

Frustration gnawed his mind as well. Why on Earth would he feel restless? He had set out on this journey knowing that it could very well claim his life, for only a madman would seek an audience with the Wich-King himself, but to Sadron, it was the only choice, the last bit of hope he had left. If Ar-Murazor couldn’t bring his wife back, no one could. So even with desperation and grief clouding his mind, Sadron was capable of logical thinking: he knew that what he was doing could potentially put an end to his suffering - one way or another.

“Ar-Murazor!”, he shouted as he rode closer to the fortress, hearing his voice echo in the valley for quite some time. “I have ridden many days and nights for the sole purpose of meeting you. Do the doors of the Witch-King himself open for a traveler in search of your wisdom?”

A Difficult Matter || Inzilverse, Part 3

Berúthiel woke slowly, a shaft of sunlight slipping between the drawn curtains to spill across her face. She stretched gently; at just over five months along, her body was becoming large and awkward and she slept curled about her nest of pillows with belly supported as best she was able. But still, she woke each morning stiff and sore from the strange positions her increased girth forced her into. And she knew it would only get worse before it got better.

Rolling to lay flat on her back, the sorceress extended her limbs one by one, hearing her joints crackle and pop. Murazor was no longer with her in the bed, which was fine. He did not sleep, after all, and it was a comfort just knowing he was in the cottage with her. She wondered what he found to busy himself with while she slept, though.

As had become her habit upon waking each morning, Berúthiel closed her eyes for a long, meditative moment, turning her mental gaze inward and searching the tiny spark of life inside her. It seemed to shift and turn under her attention, and as her “eye” focused in on it more clearly, she saw….

Berúthiel’s eyes snapped open and she began to struggle to her feet. Not bothering to dress, she padded out into the hallway, voice upraised. “Murazor! Murazor!!”

Nine kings drift through a ruined land
‘Cross ash and bare rock where shadows lie.
The dark lord extended a covetous hand.

Great as they were, none could withstand
The One’s foul call, too strong to deny.
Nine kings drift through a ruined land.

Kings of old whose realms once spanned
From shore to shore ‘neath Manwe’s sky.
The dark lord extended a covetous hand.

Good men or ill, they now are unmanned,
Undead and as wraiths they ride and they fly.
Nine kings drift through a ruined land.

Enslaved for an Age to that small golden band
Unclad they’re unseen to all but the Eye.
The dark lord extended a covetous hand.

Now red-eyed, cold, curséd and damned;
No man can endure the Nazguls’ fell cry.
Nine kings drift through a ruined land.
The dark lord extended a covetous hand.

—  ((I may have just written a villanelle about the Nazgul. Why? Who can say?))