#runawaymun

Finally able to post my art for this year's @tolkienrsb !

Read Kiss Afresh, as When We First Begun by @runawaymun on Ao3!

Fic Summary: At the dawn of the Third Age of Middle Earth, Elrond withdraws to his valley - quite certain that he has been altered too much by the war for him and Celebrían to be anything but friends. Celebrían just wants him to ask her to marry him already, so she takes matters into her own hands.

For the ask game, I would like to ask Merry if he thinks he could beat Elrond in battle ;)

Thank you so much! :D Let's find out...

"Could I beat Lord Elrond in battle?" Merry muses, smiling at you. "Sure. He's kind as summer and all that, so he wouldn't lift a finger against me! Oh, I know he fought against Sauron, but that was thousands of years ago. I bet his sword skills are a little rusty by now."

"You couldn't beat Elrond!" Pippin protests, walking over. "He's a parabola. Half-elven!"

"Peredhel, not parabola–"

"Whatever. The point is, he's got magical powers, and you don't."

Merry rolls his eyes at Pippin before returning his attention to you.

"Don't listen to him. The real question is, should I beat Elrond? He's important to Middle Earth, after all. Essential to the ecosystem. Also, if I did beat Elrond in battle, Aragorn and Arwen would be very upset, and I'm not sure I could handle that."

"You think you could beat Elrond, but not Aragorn and Arwen?" Pippin snorts.

"That's not what I said. Besides, I beat the Witch-King–"

"We know."

"Back to the point. I could beat Elrond in battle. I would defeat him thoroughly. Winner: me. Crown me Lord of Rivendell–"

"Let's stop right there."

Merry freezes, and Pippin bursts out laughing. You turn around, only to find Elrond smiling gently at the scene before him.

"Uh... How much of that did you hear?" Merry asks, his face turning beet-red.

"Quite enough." He grins, before turning to you with a wink. "For the record, I wouldn't dare challenge Mr. Brandybuck in a fight. He defeated the Witch-King of Angmar."

Merry beams proudly, and it is Pippin's turn to roll his eyes. You, meanwhile, are all ears. After all, it was you who asked the question in the first place!

@runawaymun was gracious enough to help out with some photoshoots last week. I feel so incredibly lucky to have such a stunning and talented model as a best friend!

Bonus outtakes under the cut:

Hi! Such an unexpected ask, thank you.

I'm a huge, HUGE fan of terrifying Maedhros. Especially closer to the end - third kinslaying and later. It's not even about the scars or something, just his presence - doom personified.

I'm a long-haired Maedhros truther, not only before but also after Thangorodrim. Especially after Thangorodrim. The more impractical and complicated the hairdo, the better.

Never speaks about it but he's kind of in love with Himring because he considers it the work of his hands, something he's good at besides killing orcs and elves. He put all his defiance, pain and grief in its stones.

Huge, scary armor and a big-ass sword. I'm a simple gal.

Also, I have the biggest soft spot for ace/aroace Maedhros.

And also, he was happy! For a while. Even after Angband. Despite the shadow of pain in his heart. He smiled, he laughed, he indulged in things - soft fabrics, sweets, the companionship of his loved ones. It's very important to me.

Hi there!

🟥How long do you spend in edits?

As little time as possible. I don't enjoy edits at all; I don't understand how some people do? I try to write stuff that I'm like 95% happy with on the first pass so that I don't have to edit. (Of course, this leads to other problems like rabid perfectionism.) I finish writing a chapter one day and then reread it out loud the next day to catch grammar mistakes (hopefully). I honestly feel like writing would be a lot easier (faster, etc), if I were better at rough drafts. But I've never been that way, not even writing for school or my career. I struggle to write at all if you tell me if has to be "rough."

From the outline document of Maker’s Marks, the au where Celebrimbor swears an Oath and gets sent back to fulfill it. Unfortunately, I’m unlikely to write more of this any time soon…but I do open the scene-sprinkled outline sometimes and gently, wistfully pet it.

Faramir had expected there to be singing, in the casting of a great Elvish spell. Instead, Celebrimbor just took a steady stance facing east and threw off his grey cloak, and with it, some much greater shield - and suddenly, he shone, not just in his eyes but in his hair, in his very skin. Faramir had thought he knew great power before - his father was mighty in spirit and will; and he had glimpsed a deep well in Mithrandir once, when the wizard let him; and once, he’d been caught in a riptide in Dol Amroth, and nearly drowned.

This was most comparable to the riptide. Except surely Celebrimbor was a forest fire, rather than anything of water. It was suddenly extremely easy to believe that this was an elf who had known the time before sun and moon.

[“Celebrity Status” by Marianas Trench is playing]

Faramir, experiencing his first fuck-you–tier Calaquendi: what the fuck what the fuck

“Hey, Annatar!” the shining legend shouted in a dialect of Quenya so ancient that Faramir had only ever seen it written, with a tone like [“You’re on the wrong side of the river” (The Mummy)]. “I’ll show you Fëanorian pride.”

He dropped gracefully to his knees and slammed his hands down on the metal strip - and the starlight blazed out from his hands and streaked down the line in both directions, and in every direction from each intersection until only a second later, the whole pattern was blazing like a constellation fallen to earth.

The Nazgul screamed as one, and streaked toward them through the dusky sky.

Celebrimbor collapsed like a dead man.

There was a sudden blaze of light from the distant fortifications, followed an instant later by the most bone-chilling screech yet. But the monstrous wraiths were far away again, so it only took Pippin a moment to rally his spirit and squint at the light, which showed no sign of diminishing. It wasn’t really bright, he thought, but compared to the darkness it was almost blinding.

“Is that the shape of a star, do you think?” he asked Beregrond.

Oh! That is an very good costume!

Here have a treat from the pages of ye olde sketchbook

Tis Celebrian and tiny fae!Elrond.

I wrote this ficlet for my dnd party a while ago and never published it! This was in a spooky longhouse (our second spooky longhouse) and I'm very normal about it

Murdoc peers out the door into the blinding snow, the whirling white that even the Bearer's sharp eyes cannot pierce. The rope is tied yet, and pulled taut, and hardly moves.

He cannot tear his eyes from the rope. Surely -- surely if it is still taut, it is not cut; Ríros and Déorwyn are still as well as they can be in the cold, neither lost nor dead. The Bearer watches it, too, but the rope does not move.

And then it slackens -- Murdoc feels struck breathless -- and goes taut again. Two tugs.

They yank the door open and run.