Celegormof the tolkien's legendarium. semi-active + selective. multiverse + multiship. please read laws before interacting.
independent rp blog for Celegorm
of jrr tolkien’s silmarillion/first age.
both canon timeline + released!au.
oc/crossover/au friendly. script to
novella threads all welcome. 7 +
years experience. mun + muse of
age / actually old as balls. tracking
#thewildhuntsman. offers u beer.
[ wilds ]
Quiet as it was, he hardly heard her. It was not until the echo of her
soft voice was caught against the great stone walls that Tyelkormo lifted
his head. She was a sweet child. No — not a child any longer. But still
he could taste the naivete in the air around her. It would be a sorrow to her.
Born in a place like this, she could be nothing but. He imagined she had hardly
ever seen the damned sun. The caverns were beautiful, burnished purple
stone that shone, but a cave was still a cave no matter how you dressed it.
He misliked to be caged —— and nothing felt so much like a cage to him
as Nargothrond did. How dull it was. And how endless the hours seemed.
He had forgotten even to be hungry. There was only the wine to amuse him.
Tyelko offered a crooked smile and sat a
little upright to grasp the stem of his goblet.
“Of course, sweet girl. I am always hungry.
I fear idleness only worsens it. Somehow the
food is not so good when it cannot be eaten
in the open air. Nothing is so good in a cave.”
Somewhere down the vast track of the feasting
table, he heard Curvo clear his throat. Ah yes,
that was right. Their cousin took grave offence
to his holdings being referred to as a ‘cave’ —
despite, quite literally, being a series of caves.
Tyelkormo rolled his eyes and heard the princess laugh. That earned
her another smile and the Fëanorian leaned a little in her direction,
pressing a finger to his lips teasingly. She laughed again and he pretended
to scold her in an exaggerated hush : “Please, aranelinya. You must not
giggle so at the table. We shall offend the gentry. Caves are quiet places.”
interview with the vampire starter sentences.
She stood rimmed in light from the cut of the window, her long hair
soft and golden and beautiful down her back. In her bedrobes,
her strong, pale arms were naked to the air and he could see along
their sinewy shape the thin silver lines of scars. They would fade
with some handful of years. Elda were not born to be maimed. He
thought that she was more lovely with them — beauty with a visceral
dimension. Shadows and shape. She was a warrior. She should
have scars. It showed her nature written on her skin. He thought
to tell her how fine her hair looked in the cold white light, but he
smirked to think of how she hated to be told that. Sometimes he
thought she might cut it off yet she never did. A little vanity is a
good secret. When she turned to look at him over the rim of her
cup, he knew she was impatient for an answer. She was being so
dreadfully serious. She wanted him to tell her what he thought,
but Tyelkormo hated to do what she wished willingly. He canted
his head to the side in a distinctly canine fashion and propped
his boots up on his desk —— wrinkling the map of the pass that
was underneath it. Beautiful and powerful and without regret.
“If I did not know better, I would
say that you were born for this.
Be my wife. I will have Curvo
make you such a crown for that
pretty hair —————— “
Nórima only rolled her eyes at his teasing and when she left
the window it was to knock his feet from the table. She smoothed
the map beneath her long hands, refitting the troop markers
to their due places. She filled her cup again, and his, and pressed
it into his palm impatiently as though it were an incentive. A fairly
good incentive, in fact. They had work to do . . . in a moment.
“Does your silence mean you refuse me?
I have only proposed to you seventeen
times before, Nórima, I think your luck
is getting thin. Curvo cannot be queen
of Himlad forever, you know. It’s cruel.”
interview with the vampire starter sentences.
The surface of the lake was all stillness. No wind rippled it and
the thin air had cruel teeth. It had never been so cold in Tirion.
In Tirion, everything had been soft and warm and pregnant
with life ——— until the end. Here there was only the chill grey
light of the stars and craggy shadows. When the winds and the
storms did come they were bitter and sharp. There was no
green for many leagues around Mithrim. Only raw stone and
even with the sun and moon to illuminate it now, it was still an
ugly place. Only the lake was beautiful. Perhaps that was why
Findekáno was here now. A slice of light came through the flap
of the captain’s tent behind them, pulsing candlelight, but for
once it did not catch in the ropes of gold braided into Findekáno’s
hair. His braids were torn and ruined with filth and blood. In that
tent, Nelyo was breathing. That was enough. Tyelkormo had
come to say ‘thank you’ but the words stuck at the bottom of his
throat like stubborn stones and, whether it was for pride or the
struggle to express no shame, he could not speak them.
But Findekáno spoke first, his voice tired.
Across the long rim of the lake, upon the
southern shore, there were watch fires
burning in the night. His question was not
an offering. It was bitter and tired, too.
Tyelkormo glanced down at his cousin and drew his cloak a
little tighter across his wide shoulders. He fixed his eyes, grey
as the lake was grey, cold as the lake was cold, on the unmoving
water. Forgive. He did not want to be forgiven. He did not want
placidness and peace. He wanted war. He wanted his father
back —— and for every day that he could not have him, Tyelko
wanted someone to suffer. Forgiveness was a dream of a word
already. If the sun kept rising and setting the way that it did, it
would not be long until he had forgotten it entirely. He didn’t
answer the question. He only raised his chin, looking at the
lake all the time, and said stiffly :
“Thank you. For my
brother. Thank you.”
Tyelkormo turned noislessly and went back to the tent — Findekáno
did not lift his numb gaze from the water. There was no more to say.
Send a ✺ for my muse’s reaction to yours hitting mine out of anger.
“I wonder that you bring it up, aranya
if you do not really wish to speak of it.”
Tyelkormo touched his stinging cheek and his
fingers came away wet. One of his rings ——
and there were so many —— had cut him open.
The Noldo pressed those fingers together and
felt the warmth and silken slickness of his own
blood. Red. As it had always been. And he had
so often seen it that the look did not alarm him.
When he lifted sharp silver eyes he saw that
Thranduil’s face was frozen. Caught in a snare
somewhere between wrath and regret, or fear
or stubborn bravery. All that confusion hardened
back to its usual smooth stone when Tyelkormo
only smiled at him. A rivulet of red trailed under
the hollow of one rigid cheekbone but he did
not wipe it away. The trail caught in the ridge of
the ugly scar that marked the blow that had killed
him once —— so very long ago.
“I like your wrath a little. It reminds me that you are still
a living thing. My blood reminds me that so too am I.
You look as though you might apologize. Do not waste
a solid blow with that. You meant to hit me and you did.”
“But I think you wore that ring by design.”
Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front
[ hey there ho there woah there, friend. i have never once called tyelkormo a womanizer nor would i agree with him being called that. if by ‘womanizer’ you mean someone who is known to indulge in casual affairs or someone who takes advantage of the affections of women in order to have sex with them, then that is W A Y off base.
is he hugely flirtatious and a bit over-the-line aggressive about it? yes. but this is really a reflection of his own vanity. it’s also a manifestation of the inherent love of any kind of ‘pursuit’ and an expression of his love for semantics.
flirtation and courtship, however flippant, combines both the the challenge of the hunt and an exercise in semantics. that is the reason that tyelkormo loves it. he views it as a harmless (this is in HIS opinion) way in which to stretch his metaphorical legs in both regards. he enjoys brandying words and someone who is able to do that well will intrigue him. he also enjoys making people uncomfortable, attempting to interrupt their self-possession, ruffling their feathers. affectionate attention is as much a way to do this as basic intimidation. he will use both though the latter is obviously a more playful way to do so.
i ascribe to the canon implication that sex between eldar is a very, very rare thing. simply because he is a scoundrel and a flirt does not mean that he is a womanizer or that he sleeps with loads of women.
and he would certainly never enjoy ‘tricking’ a woman into sleeping with him. he likes to be challenged and he likes for the partners in his games to be present, fully aware, confident and unperturbed. but really, the point of his flirtation is not sex. it, like so many other things in his consideration, is a game. much, much, much more mental than physical. ]
He had worn them only two days ago, during a celebration, and he had bathed himself in costant light, basked in it, he had met the gazes of the Ñoldor being drawn to him and his creations, his jewels, his masterpiece. Fëanáro had felt content, satisfied, under such gazes, and yet now he was in his house, in the room he had designed for the Silmarilli only; and he sat there, in silence, in darkness but for the three, beautiful lights inside the casket.
He drank that light, he drank it and then felt it crawl up in his chest, in his guts, as if it had a grip on his own very flesh. The awareness of having displayed them in front of the whole court merely two days ago was now crippling, and only part of that pride remained — he knew they were unrivaled and unseen before by eyes of Elda or Ainu, he needed not to be reminded. He needed them to be where hands unworthy could not touch them and take them away.
He needed — a step almost startled him, and he turned, quickly, with tension in his legs and his arms to tire his muscles, his eyes slightly widened, the light in them enhanced by the one of the Silmarilli next to him.
It was Turcafinwë, still on the treshold, leaning forward as if his abrupt movement had halted him in the middle of a step; his son’s eyes were widened too and he stood as still as a lifelike statue of his mother, seeming hesitant as he never was.
You can trust me.
The sentence reached Fëanáro’s mind and he knew not whether it was meant to be heard or it was something his son was whispering to himself; yet it blew away some of the unrest that had befallen him at the interruption. Fëanáro felt his jaw relax, and he knew he had clenched it, and his forehead unwind, so he knew he had also frowned. Exhaling, he raised a hand from his knee and made a gesture so that his son would step in the room.
Had he not trusted him, he would not have allowed him to see the Silmarilli. Had he not trusted him, no amount of statements of the contrary would have convinced him otherwise. He could trust his son — but that he already knew.