@askrossiel || cont.

And it’s with a shuffle and a few more taps of his claws on the rough terrain that he better deciphers the shape nearby, tracks the faintest flutter of her breath when his voice surprises her. Rocky hears her out. And suddenly, disregarding a few specific words in that explanation that mean a staggering nothing to him, it clicks. “Understand. No escape plan. Useless when scared. Calm down first.” His last statement is as much his comprehending her state as it is a suggestion. Or perhaps an order.

—if she can pick up on the sharper way those notes leave him.

He crawls around her. Somewhat over her, careful not to tread on her feet. “I can lead way,” Rocky trills, and he wriggles the claws of one hand in a beckoning gesture. “Be calm. Will be easy. We no need to cry out.” Which is also his polite way of saying, Please don’t cry out.

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"Hail, Eärendil, brightest of stars!" and damn the consequences if she's in earshot of anyone who would argue otherwise.

there's  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky  .      it's  early  evening  .      the  sun  is  about  finished  making  its  way  down  past  the  horizon  ,      and  the  streetlights  are  few  and  far  away  the  mark  .      he's  settled  on  a  bench  in  one  of  the  open  fields  ,      leaned  back  with  his  weight  propped  on  the  heel  of  his  shoe  ,      opposite  leg  crossed  over  that  leg  ,      observing  the  sky  .      he's  definitely  not  expecting  anyone  to  say  something  too  alarming  .

and  she's  within  darned  earshot  of  him  ,      that's  for  sure  .      in  a  split  second  ,      his  head  is  up  and  swivelling  to  find  whoever  had  proclaimed  to  hail  anything  .

❝        are  you  talking  about  venus  ?        ❞        he  can  understand  if  someone  called  it  aphrodite  instead  .      roman  ,      greek    ,      tomato  ,      to-mah-to  ,      salad  dressing  ,      whatever  .      they're  all  the  same  .      he's  never  heard  of  anyone  calling  it  'eärendil'  in  his  life  .      nor  has  he  ever  considered  himself  one  to  yuck  someone's  yum  if  they  didn't  cause  any  harm  .      but  there's  an  itch  in  the  back  of  his  head  .      there's  something  not  right  about  the  name  .      nothing  dangerous  .      just  not  right  .        ❝        it's  ,      uh      …      it's  called  'venus'  actually  .      the  planet  up  there  next  to  the  moon  ,      that  bright  dot  ,      right  ?        ❞

 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪ ㅤ*ㅤ UNPROMPTED .  /   𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜  𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 .

Sauron's Participation Trophies

Rani has clearly been sitting for a while with the inks she has on hand. “People are much harder than the ornamental ceramics.”

This is her defense.

Yet, by some great stroke of luck— and the simple plan of putting one foot in front of the other, and staying low and hidden along any tree line— Bruce had journeyed further than the reaches of the map he originally had memorized, now grainy and clouded with time.

No scent of the coast graced his nostrils, which meant that he was still quite far from the furthest point west. Not that Bruce had much of a plan once he had escaped Mordor. Or then the Brown Lands. Or then Mirkwood. His only goal— beyond surviving the journey: putting as much distance between himself and Mordor as possible.

And so, the wild Olog silently lumbered along, naturally on all fours to muffle his footfalls, his back to the mountains he had just traversed.