ps is there a trailer yet@1 day ago with 2 notes
I haven’t forgotten about Lain Low or fandom or anything, I promise. I’m just not in communication because my life is currently requiring all the focus and stress management I have, and the amoeba that is my social existence has withdrawn into a small protective bundle to more effectively use its resources.
Incidentally, my tendency to do this when things get really bad— and they can get really, really bad— is why I don’t like being any person’s one and only friend. I will always try to be there if anyone needs me, but I am a terrible support network foundation because one of my primary coping mechanisms when things get really rough is to go on hiatus and save all my resources for either solving the problem or maintaining my own sanity.
So I apologize if I seem to have disappeared. I am just dealing with some hard things and I have to withdraw a bit to manage them.
When I get three days off in a row, I will update Lain Low.@5 days ago with 7 notes
irmomasterofvisions said: //For more familiar terrotory for the couples question: I wan to see your take on Irmo Este pretty please with cherry on top ö.ö
(( you know I can’t resist the umlaut eyelashes! ))
This is dedicated to all the perpetually under-slept nurses I know.
The old icons had her raising a shield aloft over the wounded, but she hadn’t worn a shield in many ages. “That work I leave to my sisters;” she would say, a stream of smoke blown through a weary smile, “there is to much to be done here.” These days Estë wore gloves of dun leather and a tight fitted mantel that buttoned from under her chin and fell like a dawn-grey column to the floor. Her red hair she kept bound in a practical coif; her wings neatly folded and out of the way at her back (they were crimson, blue and gold.) Sometimes she smoked a long pipe. She had many mortal affectations— they helped her cope, she said.
"Why do they never think.” Estë’s hands flew over a soldier in the marshlands, as quick with thread as Vairë, her needle pulling together ruined flesh and bone. “Why are they so willing to spring forward and charge to a noble death when so many of them simply end up with me, needing their guts untangled and their ribs mended? I’m sorry—” She added quickly, “I need’t tell you, do I?”
Nienna shook her dark head. “Your lament is mine, sister. Please, continue. Give air to your grief.”
Estë snorted, blowing a white plume from her elegant nose. “Grief is a strong word for it. Frustration, more like. Frustration and anger and… and…” Her gloves raised in the air, helpless. “I just wish the living had more will to stay alive. And to stay whole. That’s all. There are too many bolts in the sky, too many swords, too much hunger, too much need, too many great causes that must be fought for until victory or Mandos comes…” Her fingers closed the eyes of a farmer in the hill country, unflinching at the barbed arrow through his temple.
"I could speak with it. It listens, sometimes, to me." Nienna said.
"Thank you, sister. No." A stitch in the taut skin of an Teler’s shoulder pulled tight, its thread cut deftly. Blood flowed along its natural tributaries again. Skin grew over hurts and buried them. "It is not Namó’s job to keep a body and its soul together."
"You work very hard, sister. Harder than any of us." The sisters knit their hands together, pale and strong. "You and your spouse."
That made Estë laugh in fondness and set down her pipe next to a basket of apples , abandoned by a girl who was doubled over her troubled belly.
”My spouse is at play every moment of their work! Irmo lives and breathes dreams— they’re not exactly like Aulë at his forge… Still, if it weren’t for them I’d have run myself into the ground a year after the Firstborn opened their eyes. You know how I am— once I start, it just goes on and on, there’s no end! Always someone falling from a horse or eating poisonous berries or taking an axe to the knee…”
Nienna smiled too— a rare sight, and brief. “Irmo is lucky to have you. It is well they bring you comfort, and bliss. I confess…” the lady of sorrows turned her face away, “I never understood what brought you two together.”
"I do not understand how a dull little peahen attracts the peacock," Estë clucked, "but their kind continues all the same. —Easy now. There you go." A woman roared through clenched teeth as a stubborn child was brought, bloody and vigorous, into the world. "…Irmo and I share an understanding that can only be achieved in dreams. We both work at night and during the day, we are free to—"
The healer yawned, flexing her colorful wings and stretching. “Oh… no. You see? I have a whole camp of burnt Firstborn to visit still! Just one more and I’ll rest. Just one more—” Her delicate square jaw cracked in another yawn, more insistent than the first. “Oh alright, love! Fine, I’ll lie down! Just for a moment, do you hear? I’m very busy.”
Nienna watched as her sister’s lay down in a bed of folded reeds, and the whispering grey-green willows of Lorien shivered and sang in a canopy overhead.
A shimmer like oil on water followed her movements, dusting her with motes of glittering dust, soft as moth wings. Slim, bone-white fingers undid Estë’s coif as her head turned into the comforting leaves, hair like a river of copper spilling over pale robes.
"Lord Irmo." Nienna nodded in greeting. The rainbow-hued air shimmered in return. "Please. Give her the love, the rest, the cheer she deserves."
Irmo wrapped their ivory arms around their spouse and nodded, bright eyes gleaming with the lunatic mischief of birds.
”Sleep sound, dear sister.” She sighed and slipped away to her bleached cliffs to watch the earth that so needed mending.
Can I sign up to cry over this please WOWWWWW@1 day ago with 16 notes
Out of madness I spiral into the oblivion of tumblr, sneaking out in the middle if a shift to confess that my sister just goaded me into writing Amicara Fault smutfic
/sails away shrieking into the night@1 day ago with 4 notes