What have I gotten into

victory hug!

well I mean..just look at this lmao

‘MythBusters’ puts the classic insult ‘You throw like a girl!‘ to the test.

The hit show “MythBusters” wanted to see if there’s a distinct difference in the way a guy throws a ball versus the way a girl throws a ball.

They put eight people in four different age groups up against each other to analyze their throws. They had the subjects throw with their dominant arm first. Then they had them use their non-dominant arm because, without practice or training of any sort, it’s sort of like you’re throwing for the first time. This is when the real results showed.

you

clearly

aren’t

paying

enough

attention

dear

Or course Steve already knew how to fight, but he knew how to fight like a big muscular person, which he wasn’t. Most of his knowledge of fighting came from being hit by other people, by bigger people, by men. You can bet Bucky tried to teach him, but Bucky was big and strong and not qualified to know what would work best for STEVE.

Peggy Carter taught Steve to fight within his abilities, within his limitations, USING his size to his advantage. Be fast, be resourceful, bend your knees and get low and use their momentum against them, and when it gets serious fight dirty.

Elves everywhere!  My lovely Maedhros, rattle-and-burn, and I did a long photoshoot with the equally lovely ambrorussa at Katsucon~  Got some really nice individual shots of Fingon, since there have been a few tweaks since the first time I wore it (I believe Nelyo’s are on her blog), and plenty of Russingon because we are complete shipper trash XD

Ahhhh, thank you for asking so super nicely. It’s no trouble at all, Nonnie! *hugs*

All right, well, this is sort of the idea… Fris is from a very wealthy family - her parents were a Guildmaster and a musician respectively. As such, she moved and grew up in the more affluent circles of Erebor. She has plenty of confidence, and MASSES of compassion. 

She is a wire-worker and instrument-maker by craft. That doesn’t sound like all that much, but it is an INCREDIBLY difficult job. You need the patience and meticulousness of the very stones. Fiddly? My word yes. You need skills in metalwork, woodworking and all sorts of things, really. So Fris is very, very clever.

She loves to play - her great passion is her harp. (she eventually taught her eldest boy and her daughter the harp - Frerin was far more taken by the fiddle and the whistle). 

When Fris was a young Dwarrowdam of around 75-80, Thror was at the height of his glory. Erebor was strong and content. As such, there was a flowering of the arts, and Fris’ skills were called for again and again, both as crafter and musician. She often became the harpist called for during state events - not only for her talent but for her youth and her wheat-blonde fairness. (Thror was not above a not-so-subtle dig at the Elves now and then! Look, look at how young this Dwarf is, and how skilled. How beautifully she plays! That’ll wipe the arrogant looks off your faces, eh?)

It was at one such state dinner that she noticed the young Prince ducking away from all and sundry. He had been wounded in a skirmish recently* with Northern Orcs, and a bandage was wrapped over his face and eye. He did not seem very pleased to be at the function at all. 

As she was clearing away her things, she noticed him slipping away into an side-corridor, and she frowned. He wasn’t self-conscious over his wound, surely? Such a mark was much-respected. Why did he shy away?

Fris sighed, and bowed to the King and his nobles and guests, and made to leave. 

At the last minute, she slipped into the corridor after him. She was quite short compared to all these towering Durin Dwarves, and they barely noticed her scurrying away at all. 

She heard the sound first, a tuneless piping noise, and eventually found the Prince sitting on a bench with an ancient whistle in his hands, blowing absently. “That’s a pretty thing,” she said, sitting by him. “And very old, by the look of it.”

He looked startled, beneath his bandages. “It was my father’s. He taught me when I was young,” he said eventually. His voice was smooth, and spoke of long years of training. This Dwarf had been born to leadership, after all. “I’ve not practised in decades. I’m no great musician. Not like yourself, Mistress.”

“Fris,” she told him, and then shook her head. “You’re holding it wrong. Left hand goes above the right.”

He shifted his hands on the whistle as she directed, and then dropped them into his lap. “Thank you, but I have no heart for it anyway.”

“You aren’t one for grand dinners, then?” she said. He snorted.

“They serve their purpose. But my wound smarts, and my patience is thin today. I would prefer my rooms, my forge, my family when they are not forced to perform. I tire of the perpetual facade I must maintain.”

She was taken-aback. He obviously noticed, and hurried to add, “I do not mean to complain, Mistress Fris. I am a fortunate Dwarf. Izul kuthu barafzu tashmari ra dûmzu fuluz muneb samragi. Our halls are safe, our people prosper, our riches multiply. My life is full. It’s only a small flaw in the gem.”

“It seems that it annoys you,” she said, and settled in to listen. “Don’t let the hammer-blows warp this steel. Come on, tell me about it. I’m told I’m a good listener.”

He fairly towered over her as they sat there, and yet she wasn’t intimidated. He seemed no different to the Dwarves she remembered from her Apprentice-days, complaining over the hundreds of annoying tasks they had to perform to satisfy the master-musicians. “That’s very kind of you,” he said, and he seemed a little wondering. She thought that perhaps he did not have many friends outside his family? His station would certainly prevent others from seeing him as he was. “There are few who seem interested in myself. Most are only interested in the things I can give and do as their Prince.”

“Nonsense, I’m sure they’re not all that way,” she said, a little smartly. Her compassion was always so ready to rise: her biggest weakness really. She tried to stuff it back into its place - and failed. “Come now. You can talk to me. Gloomy sort, aren’t you?”

He actually smiled beneath his bandage. “My mother says so, aye.”

They sat out the rest of that dinner in that little side-room, hidden from sight. Fris learned that the Crown Prince was a fair metalsmith, had a dreadful sweet tooth and was fond of cats. Thrain learned that Fris was secretly very fond of Elvish music, had an unexpected passion for ‘uzghu ma ziraku (’Blunt Battle’ - a game of strategy not dissimilar to chess), and knew ALL the words to the most bawdy tavern songs (apprenticeship again) and giggled like a forty-year old at his shocked expression.  

Thrain managed to offend every single one of the guests by never reappearing. He didn’t much care (even though Hrera gave him one of her more unimpressed looks). He went to sleep that night a little less bothered and frustrated, thinking of the brightest blue eyes he had ever seen.

Fris went home with her harp-case over her shoulder, and an ancient battered whistle in her pocket. She carefully cleaned and restored it, and then absently picked it up and began to play.

…

*yes, I know that in the books Thrain loses his eye at Azanulbizar, but in the films he is obviously already missing it in Erebor. So I picked the one I like the best again.