Before the King ye stand

// I loved Cambron sob

//Aw D: *snuggles*

I think one huge problem is also that ... he might be better as an idea than an actual muse? Because if you look at how high-up most muses in the Tolkien fandom are (and most other fandoms too, honestly) - he realistically wouldn't even interact more with most of them than maybe bring them their food and empty their chamber pots... And I imagine it's also hard for other people to interact with him in a way that would not undermine the essence of his character - basically, I can't really ask people to have their muses treat him realistically, because a) there would likely be no actual play happening then, and b) he would realistically be treated as inferior/hardly important (without any actual ill-meaning on the side of people who are higher than him) and ... yeah... that's hugely difficult to pull off in rps

*laughs* That’s a rather vast topic, isn’t it? Well, let’s see… Ah, let me tell you about my mother! It’s truly a shame that you never got to know her; I don’t know if you’d have at all gotten along with her, but I generally think it a shame that people on this side of the ocean cannot get to know her. She seems to me all that Eldamar was, and all that Middle Earth lacks… She was very much unlike most other Noldor, and not very much like the Vanyar or Teleri either, to say the truth; she had the mind of a Noldo, but not the creative energy; she appreciated beauty, but never quite found herself drawn to the creation of beauty, I think.

Back in Valinor, my family spent a lot of time in Alqualonde, to escape the tensions and the politics of the palace upon the Túna. My mother loved the sea and the ports; but since she got violently seasick, she never joined my father or his brothers on their sailing cruises. As a child, I was… intensely wary of moving water myself, and so I would stay around my mother for the largest parts of our stays. And my mother would get up every morning before sunrise, and she would wake me up too, to go to the ports and watch the fishermen come in with their catches. And every morning she would tell me how much each of them had caught, before they had even landed. And she was hardly ever wrong…

/petpets now go to sleep u sleep is gud

EXCUSE U I USED TO BE AN ACTIVE PART OF LOTRRP SO I DO I DO

//GOOD thank god at least somebody

I mean, who the hell knows Orodreth outside of the Silm crowd? The Children of Hurin crowd, obv, but there are even less of those than Silm people...

Hell, I'm absolutely sure about 90% of Tolkien people don't know Orodreth

 F.A. 495: In the Battle of Tumhalad, Orodreth is hit by Glaurung's flame and killed instantly - or so everybody thinks. 

Third Age: The burned and broken body of a strange Elf is found near Imladris. Surprisingly, despite the state of his flesh, the Elf is still breathing. Only after weeks of care is the stranger strong enough to wake up, and several weeks later he is able to tell his name: Artaresto, Orodreth, King of Nargothrond - the once-kingdom of famed Finrod Felagund, which has perished two ages ago.

Unable to tell how he got to this point of time - with fatal wounds that seem to be hardly days old, at that - Orodreth has to come to terms with the events after his supposed demise, with the knowledge of his own failure and the fact that instead of finding peace in the Halls of Mandos and eventually being reunited with his family, he was practically gone for most of history, longer than he was alive.

In a world in which the glory of Elves is a fading memory and in which the Firstborn themselves are slowly leaving the lands which Orodreth and his kin have fought so hard to reach, the once-king of Nargothrond finds himself broken, powerless, forgotten.

I mean, he'd likely laugh about some of the things that have been added by poetic licence, and he'd let them say anything they want about him personally (honestly, he thinks he deserves any slander they can come up with after he learns what happened with Nargothrond after his 'death')

But don't you dare to get even ONE detail about Finrod's or Finduilas's lives wrong

Orodreth should have trusted his instincts.

He had felt the cold in his bones when he had woken up this morning. He had smelled  the snow in the air. And yet he had not wanted to disappoint Thranduil - his cousin had come all the way up to Minas Tirith for their hunting tour, and if they did not leave soon, Orodreth was absolutely sure that the coming snow would keep them on the island for the next weeks. So their little entourage had left on horseback with the first light of day and had found their way into those parts of the Ered Wethrin that had yielded hardly any reports of orc patrols over the last year or so. They planned to stay in the mountains for two nights, and then return the evening of the third day.

They had just shot their third mountain goat when the first snow came. It wasn't strong snow fall, and the flakes were flimsy and wet, so despite the starting worry that was gnawing on Orodreth's insides, he still decided that they wouldn't break off their hunt. There was hardly any wind; the snow would stop and they would have another day or two of dry hunting, he was sure of that.

Yet when they had collected the goat's dead body and bound it to Orodreth's horse, the flakes were already fluffy enough to sit on his horse's mane like shimmering crystals, and the wind had started up anew, cold and smelling of winter. The gnawing feeling inside of Orodreth had grown stronger, but he still told himself that this would pass just as well. Nevertheless, he did recommend to head towards a pass, so that they could reach the leeward side of the mountains.

The dark clouds had appeared before they could reach the pass. Orodreth knew that mountain storms could hit unexpected; he had lived through enough to know; but never had he been hit by such a rapidly building snow storm. The world was white by the time they reached the pass, and gruesome images had appeared before Orodreth's inner eye, images that were drawn by the bite of cold on his face; he tried to keep close to Thranduil while concentrating entirely on the path before them otherwise, tried to fight off those images and the dread that started to bloom inside of him like ice flowers -

Young Oro writing vulgar limericks about his family members and other Tirionites in Valinor

Pre-headwound Oro writing dirty limericks for Cyldae because they have the same sort of humor

King Orodreth repeating the same first line again and again because he can't seem to find any rhymes anymore

Post-Mandos Orodreth slowly getting back into the craft, but now all of his limericks end fucking depressive and he's brought back to Irmo's garden because obviously his spirit isn't quite healed yet