: ̗̀➛ *ೃ༄ IT IS NOT THE SCENT THAT DISTURBS HER ; not the deep and unrelenting stench of death and decay that stirs her from a feeble attempt at some kind of rest. galadriel's body will not allow her to find any inch of comfort within the cage she is kept inside, no matter the exhaustion that sweeps across her body her in broad and deeply painful stokes. it is is not the atmosphere of dread and the burning pyres beyond that make her blink into the darkness - it is the sound. somewhere in the gloom of the camp beyond a baby cries out. without warning her heart strums quickly inside of her chest, unabashedly drawn to the hungry murmurs that transform into a high pitched shriek against the cool night air. inside of her chest an anger grows and builds without restraint - a frustration that batters at the already frayed edges of her mind.
the orc child cries out again, a painful wail against the armies that surround them before it is suddenly silenced - only the sound of the breeze from the river beating against the edges of the encampment.
she cannot rest. she will not - the palms of her hands reddened by the tight grip of her nails against them, the crescent moon imprints stinging at her flesh as her eyes open wider still, searching through the pitch until they fall upon the shape that works through the shadows toward her. he has always been there , perhaps @uruuk does not trust his children with such a task. perhaps he believes there is something to be gained from the silence that stills between them.
❛ you will not find me more pliant because of the hour. ❜ dry lips part as she speaks, her voice hoarse - the filthy water she has been left to quench herself untouched and kicked to the edge of the cage. ❛ the night and i are old friends - she knows more of me than any other. i do not fear the darkness ... ❜
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general appearance: long, wavy golden hair, bright blue eyes, skin is unnaturally pale. she looks much like her mother, only taller.
personality: círamdir has trust issues that stem from being bullied by her peers as a child and being called an abomination by her elders, despite her parents trying to shield her from it. she does not feel as though she fits anywhere; too elvish for the uruk and too uruk for the elves, she longs to be accepted by more than just her parents.
special talents: círamdir is a wolf shifter like their mother, along with being half-uruk which allows her to go into the light without burning.
who they like better: círamdir loves their mother very much and the two have a strong bond, but she is a daddy's girl. from the moment she could crawl, she was at adar's heels wherever he went, and even as an adult they still prefer to be wherever her father is is.
who they take after more: though she takes after fianna in looks, she is much more like adar in personality; much more quiet and reserved, always watching, reading people before they even speak.
personal headcanon: círamdir came as a surprise to everyone, as it was widely assumed that adar would never be able to have biological children. those who had never accepted fianna's relationship with him tried to convince her to get rid of the child; she refused as she loved their daughter from the moment she found out. there is hope that one day círamdir might be the one to unite elf and uruk as one.
DREADED WEIGHT PRESSED AGAINST HER CHEST. [ ... ] difficult conversation summoned by the oncoming storm. the trials ahead demanded some sort of explanation; for everything from before. before her time, back when the shadow gripped with talons into the flesh of the lord - father. only pieces here and there caught in the silence, a brief fractured understanding based on solely on assumptions. [ what happened? / why was i never told? ] all she understood truthfully was what happened was horrific, from troubling times that still pained her beloved father even if he never uttered a word. it crossed his face every so often.
younger watched with furrowed brows. listening to every word, studying every flicker of reflective eyes. yes, she knew her temper was both a blessing and a curse. but would you have her any other way, father? would you change a daughter of your own flesh and blood? emotional and fire - tempered, more akin to a war machine than a girl. more beast than elf.
pale gaze flickering, unable to meet his gaze fully. under the rule of morgoth he was nothing more than a body. someone near dead yet forced to live through endless torture. the origin of their species began in the dark, chained and enslaved. heart grew heavy at such knowledge even if he looked past it fondly because of what he was rewarded afterwards. so like him; looking through cracked rose - tinted glasses.
❝ how am i not to weep? learning you, of all people dear to me, nearly died. ❞ moonlit eyes glitter with silvery tears that threatened to spill. an emotional beast girl more than she cared to admit. eyes follow his movements and instinctively she follows, trialling close like long ago. once a little girl followed her father proudly, but this differs from then. it is fear that fueled her movements. a shaky inhale taken, stopping herself to give him space. a man of little words, letting his actions speak louder. [ if you died where do you go / can i follow you there? ] head hung low, dark locks shifting and creating a curtain shielding her hanging face. like a devil's sick of sin. tormented, confused heart wanted nothing more than to yell and weep.
❝ i am sorry, lord - father. for all that you endured, even if the greatest of gifts followed. ❞ apologizing for it all. even if it were not done by her hand ( she was yet to exist ) but there is a guilt racking throughout her warring mind. everything clicked together. making sense more than ever before ❝ everything you have done for your children is to protect them. from him and his cruelty. ❞ / cont'd . @uruuk
ADAR'S ARRIVAL HAD BEEN A THING OF WONDER, to all of them. to the ghâsh-hai, the icy horrors of utumno && the terror of angband are but the most distant legends— a cautionary tale in the dark. their people have been forgotten amidst the sands of the kargagis ahar whence they fled && remained free of the dark lord's dominating will for generations. living as they pleased and devising many a thing of industrious ingenuity. perhaps the spark of a once noble bloodline endures in their tainted blood— for they love the starlight and navigate by old charts burnt into animal skin. thus their routes are mostly safe, and steer them clear of tarkish routs so long as they desire not to do battle.
little do they know of kinsfolk from the west, from the ephel duath, the ered mithrim or other depths where uruk dwell. nor do they know or care much about the great wars of elves and men and orcs, safe for what they can glean from caravans and traders. adar had not been welcomed immediately by the makatok of their clan. though his conduct and the scent of his blood had been familiar, his outward appearance caused much apprehension. no weapons had been drawn however, for he came in the company of uruk willing to follow him. calling him father, even, which must mean that he is sharabûz && worthy of respect.
though shóga is not makatok yet, she is respected and well liked among her people— for her quick wits, the strength and wildness within and caring heart. she had been quick to placate the matron, speaking on adar's behalf. it had not taken much to see the haunt that clings to every uruk he brought. there is a wildness to their eyes that makes them both prey and fierce hunter, an exhaustion that goes beyond that of the body. and even at rest, when they had been invited to share in food and fire, they had not been still. a shadow clings to them that shóga has no name for, for it had fled from her people long ago. however, it resonates with a place deep within that she only ever feels in the heat of battle— her inner beast.
none of that of that matters now, though. dance and music heal easily, and shóga finds herself relieved to witness distant kin laugh and hop around and make conversation not marked by burdens or foul viciousness. seated on a carved stool by the fire, shóga balances her youngest child upon her legs. a rowdy girl longing to walk before she can even stand. she has the girl grasped around her arms with gentle firmness, watching her stomp and tread upon her own thighs with a grin on sovereign features. ‘ if you keep this up, you will end up faster than any of the horses the tarks think to harry us with. ’ for some reason that draws a giggle from the little thing, not old enough to speak herself. but she is showing her fangs, and twisting to bite her mother's arm. ‘ ha! good, good. but now it is to bed with you. ’ picking the child up with ease, she cradles her daughter upon one arm, laid upon the muscled length of it on her stomach. that alone seems enough for her to give in to sleepiness that she had so fiercely fought off, reflective, yellow eyes blinking ere slipping shut.
emerging from beneath the flap of her tent, shóga allows her eyes to wander over the encampment they have erected to make rest. almost immediately her gaze is caught by a still figure, sitting quietly amidst the merriment. adar smells of a sadness she had never known before— so deep that it seems to have become him. shóga is not cowed by it though and approaches the uruk with sure steps. ‘ the place of a sharabûz is among his people. you will make them sad also, and will become a stranger to them in parts. light and fire and dance is just yonder. come, i will not accept a no. ’ the subtle glow of her eyes issues a challenge as she looks down upon him, fists stemmed against her hips.
‘ we’ll dance anyway, you and i. even in the dark. especially in the dark. ’
she huffs, albeit in amusement, and grasps his hand in her own, pulling him aloft to stand with her. && they do dance, sheltered from the firelight and shóga finds that she does not mind it much. @uruuk seems cautious, as though he could be afraid of his own merriment, or the sound of his own laughter, but the she-uruk is not deterred. she shows him the steps of simple dances and demands that he follows suit, her own laughter soon ringing between them unabashed.
@uruuk asked for “But we’ll dance anyway, you and I. Even in the dark. Especially in the dark.”
his jest falls on deaf ears, even though they perk up momentarily. so peculiar, this war lord. it is the first time sigurd sees him up close. and he seems like a compound of influences from the different kin native to the mainland.
he himself is not an admirer of alliances sealed merely by a shared origin. he is a traveller, a child of no one, as he likes to think. he'd abandoned the proud race he'd once belonged to. the power which he wields now only a product of his own reaching beyond the limitations of such tribes and customs. though that very power given to him by his precious weapon now has led him into this predicament. balmung is not here with him, but it might only be a matter of time before the army of the forsaken one before him finds it.
he is restless, swaying in the unkind grip of the children that hold him in place, head twitching with subtle shakes of wordless refusal, as eyes roam the earthy ground. he feels bare without his blade. and cornered like this, the prejudices about the other's kind surface even in his usually so open mind. ❝ it's not meant for the hands of a dirty orc. ❞ he lifts his head to glare at his captor's desaturated visage, lips pressed together in a pout of mockery. though shortly after he lowers his head again, strands of sweat - dampened hair shielding features as shoulders tense up, as if he expects a retaliatory blow.
❝ it wouldn't serve you even if you held it. ❞ he pushes air through nostrils with a noise of frustration. it is a makeshift bluff, to a degree. true, at least while balmung's original master is alive. but to give such dooming information to the man would be like cutting his own flesh. lips move to part momentarily, to say more, foolishly. but he reconsiders, closing them again.
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❝ sometimes you don't know it's wrong until it's too late. sometimes you don't know you're being hurt until you realize you're in pieces. ❞ (if you don't mind me sending !! )
It was a novelty, this incipient understanding of the uruk's mind.
And yet a part of him still wondered why he had deigned to listen in the first place, why those words resonated so strongly with him.
Was it the way war tended to shatter even the most resilient? The tactics used to get to this point?
The scrap of the High King's boots against the uneven ground halted altogether when his pacing stopped, gaze fixed on he who they called Adar — tales of his deeds had reached his ears in recent times, and Gil-galad was still trying to reconcile the mental image his mind had conjured of the uruk with the being before him.
Perhaps, he thought as his eyes tracked all the notches engraved across his black chestplate like a starry night of scars, once upon a time they hadn't been that different at all.
Crownless, braided hair out of his face and helm firmly held under his arm, the High King lowered to a crouch a few steps away from Adar.
“And those pieces,” he began with a soft voice, “will come to decide who the survivor is. That is what experience has taught you, is it not?”
against all odds, gwennaewen & adar were able to conceive and in perhaps a gift of the valar, they were blessed with fraternal twin girls. it was such a shock to gwenn, she nearly fainted upon finding out they were expecting twins, were it not for adar catching her.
Name: Ithilin ( moon-singer )
Gender: female
General Appearance: dark brown hair, dark grey eye colour. stands at an average elven height of 6'1, and her face resembles her mother greatly. unexpectedly looks nearly perfectly like elves, though little things such as skin far too pale & something unsettling in those eyes gives away she is not quite so.
Personality: Ithilin is of a quieter disposition and is very keen on her peace. despite that, she is notably the fiercer twin and will break her gentle, quiet demeanor in an instant when the situation demands it. loyal to a fault. a masterful strategist. is incredibly patient and a plotter, she will plot revenge if wronged and will strike when one least expects it.
Special Talents: inherited her father's talent for singing. an exceptional fighter, contrary to what her quiet nature may suggest, and will fight dirty. eloquent speaker, demands attention with authority when speaking.
Who they like better: Ithilin has been attached to her mother for as long as she can remember. there is no particular reason for it, nor can she explain it. it is not necessarily liking her better, for she loves her father just as much. it is simply her first instinct to approach her mother before her father.
Who they take after more: in appearance, she takes after her mother, but in personality, she is more like her father most of the time.
Personal Headcanon: ithilin once provoked a boy into hitting her, so, in turn, she could play the victim and go crying to her mother and father. she twisted the narrative, and got the boy in serious trouble with others as well. that particular boy had insulted elulin three days prior, to which she had not taken too kindly and had plotted revenge with the reluctant involvement of elulin, whom she'd pestered for the idea of how to manipulate the narrative.
Face Claim: Charlotte Riley
Name: Elulin ( star-singer )
Gender: female
General Appearance: dark brown hair, light grey eye colour. stands at an average elven height of 6'0, and her face resembles her father greatly. unexpectedly looks nearly perfectly like elves, though little things such as skin far too pale & something unsettling in those eyes gives away she is not quite so.
Personality: Elulin is more outgoing, and enjoys being in constant company, but requires moments at the end of the day to recharge. the soft one & a very sensitive child, would not hurt a fly. very vivacious and curious, always off exploring or trying new things. witty and can charm anyone under the table.
Special Talents: inherited her father's talent for singing. a delightful dancer like her mother. unexpectedly, shares her mother's frightening talent for subtle manipulation but very much like gwenn, she rarely ( if at all ) uses it & instead resorts to her charm.
Who they like better: Elulin has been attached to her father for as long as she can remember. there is no particular reason for it, nor can she explain it. it is not necessarily liking him better, for she loves her mother just as much. it is simply her first instinct to approach her father before her mother.
Who they take after more: in appearance, she takes after her father, but in personality, she takes after her mother more.
Personal Headcanon: elulin will only sing if her sister sings with her. despite her obvious talent, she is too nervous to sing before others ( her parents not included ) by herself and vehemently refuses to do so if ithilin does not join her.
Face Claim: Jessica Brown-Findlay
it had been as simple as dinner. statecraft, the careful display of power that came in turn with allowing an alliance to form at your table. but guests now departed, there is none left at said table other than sansa and the man she deigns worthy of her company – he who returns her kindness and sweetness in full, and does not ever hold a cruel turn of his tongue nor hand. servants dismissed, a shared plate of lemon cake between them, the gentle smile upon sansa's lips curls into something other as she watches adar's fingers swipe along tart frosting.
no question nor hesitation as sansa leans further into her hand, elbow against smoothened wood of the table and parts her lips, tongue trailing along the rough pad of his fingertip before she's suckling finger into her mouth fully and looking upon him with heavily lidded eyes.
“ would you like a taste? ” asked sweetly as his finger is gently pulled from her mouth, frosting melted across her tongue and swirling sour saccharine flavors along her teeth. her own finger trails out to the plate, a careful swipe to gather frosting upon smaller digit before she offers it to him just the same, innocent eyes that darken when they fall to his mouth.
