#maladum

@maladum​ | Gorovod asked: When you look up. Do you see the blue sky of what might be? Or the darkness of what will never be? 

Pale skin ruddied with Gorgoroth’s ash, fingernails lined with dried dirt and blood, a constant vigilance that will not cease — a long day’s work is behind her but the slave overseer wears her labor as a second skin. The filth inseparable. However, in the presence of one of Sauron’s top advisors, posture is a little straighter, the coolness of her gaze less harsh, and words resound more polished despite the ruffness of her voice. The reason for his visit is unknown, the philosophizing of his question strange and disconcerting. As she stares, the whites of her eyes stand more stark against black kohl that line the lids.

Arya’s pupils flicker gold and green as she buries her fingers in Nymeria’s fur, the reverberations of her barrel chested growls echoing in her own. She sees the tall figure through two pairs of eyes, one grey and one golden, and feels her mouth slavering. Not with hunger. What Nymeria smells is not a thing to be eaten.

So she tightens the grip on her sword, made by her father Morifinwë, tempered and sharpened to perfection by Curufinwë. And though the blood of Men flows in her veins so too does the pride of the Noldor. The point of her blade lifts, her strong sword arm holding it steady. Do not come closer, she thinks loudly and with intention to be heard.

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

Her voice is beautiful in the way that some animals are beautiful: dangerously, a warning sign of impending death. Arya cannot look away from the soft glare of her gold eyes. They remind her of Nymeria’s almost.

“You’ve scared off the game I was hunting,” she finally says, unafraid, an accusation. Her pupils flicker again, and the woman doubles briefly. She cannot place the scent. The low rumble of Nymeria’s growl continues on. “Who are you?”

        @maladum​​​​  sent  :    “    you  have  drawn  a  dark  conclusion  about  me,    haven’t  you?    (  that  is  all  well  and  good.    i’ve  drawn  some  about  you  as  well.  )    ”

        celebrimbor’s  visitor  sets  her  ill  at  ease.    from  their  first  meeting  annatar  has  left  her  disquieted,    an  oily  tinge  lingering  near  the  fringes  of  her  mind  when  the  woman  is  near.    this  night  has  been  no  different,    even  as  the  smiths  of  the  gwaith-i-mírdain  sing  her  praises.

        annatar’s  approach  sets  tension  coiling  in  her  frame,    lips  fixed  in  a  polite,    if  distant,    smile.    her  popularity  among  the  jewel-smiths  is  often  precarious,    and  she  knows  well  how  to  play  at  politics    —    celebrimbor  has  not  heeded  her  warnings,    and  so  for  now,    she  will  keep  her  misgivings  to  herself.

        the  words  that  the  fair-haired  woman  speaks  are  ominous,    a  warning  sounding  at  the  thinly  veiled  threat  that  they  hold.        she  could  deny  her  suspicion,    but  to  what  end?

        “    i  admit  that  i  find  your  claims  questionable    —    the  valar  have  left  us  to  our  devices  this  long.    what  purpose  could  they  have,    to  send  a  smith  to  tutor  those  who  have  refused  their  pardon?    ”        bright  eyes  are  sharp,    searching.        “    as  we  are  not  intended  to  find  harbor  outside  of  aman  the  blessed.    ”

                                        stare stare them down. remember the staring contest. well, Sauron is definitely giving Thranduil the kubrick stare because she is damn                                                                               good with it.

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐧𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦.    Swords trapped in his iron grip, heels firmly planted to the barren ground, Thranduil praised as greatest king has come to feel vanishingly small.    And still his ire surpasses even Sauron’s immense greatness.    Or so it feels, as if it makes his very ribs move to wind tighter around his lungs and heart and fire would threaten to stream forth with his next exhaled breath.    He is too afraid to stay, too stubborn to run away.    Solely for he holds awareness of sharp, painful clarity that this here ...  this is an encounter he can impossibly survive.    For his people he shall but stand his ground, die fighting rather than be a rat flitting off the sinking ship.

Those blazing eyne stare him down with a force able to shake earth ;  it is as though the Valar drop onto him the ax of final judgement.    He can only linger there while gnashing his teeth so violently it seems impossible for his jaw to move ever again, wonder whether that is the fate Eru mapped out for him.    Had Thranduil ever ensured to avoid clashing with Sauron in ‘person’, but here they are —  and he endures, stares back.    Fire and ice, a lone star and eternal night.    He can feel his light fade, if not by much yet, stares and stares and refuses to give in and waits like a predator in the bushes for that one twitch necessary to unleash his wrath.

                                         𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐑 @maladum​

@maladum asked: ♠ - What is your muse’s weapon of choice? Is it magical or mundane in nature? [ War and Combat Centric Asks | Accepting ]

A mundane scimitar was the first blade placed in her hands and what she is most adept with, even if she knows it is not the most efficient weapon against heavy armor. It is efficient at gouging people with though.

♤ - Given a chance to learn and use a combat ability or magic they don’t possess, what would your muse choose?

          Thuvon was their god, he had seen his people come to her for her boundless knowledge, as vast & endless as the sea. Her words echoed through his people aplenty, her visage a mirage, & they carried every word she blessed them with as if it was made of precious gold. Eldain had awaited until all had left the temples before approaching her, this time, in search of a different knowledge & different enlightenment. ❛ Your reverence, dare I disturb your rest ? ❜