Beleriand

Writer of fanfiction, obsessed with The Silmarillion.

ayeleesh:

when you see your reflection on your laptop screen and you just look

image

(via hermanaduda)

How to have a zero drama fandom

  • Step 1: like a thing
  • Step 2: find a few close friends who also like the thing
  • Step 3: don't talk to anyone else in the fandom literally those 5-6 persons are your fandom
  • #my blood pressure has never been better
  • Then hope like hell that those five or six people don't get busy at work or school or have a family crisis!

cumslayer:

cumslayer:

So I went on a date today and we went to a nice restaurant before going to the movies and I ordered the “iced grape popsicles” for dessert because I love grape Popsicles so why not right?…..so the waiter brings out the “iced grape popsicles” aND THEY WERE LITERALLY 3 FROZEN GRAPES ON STICKS…..I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE OFFENDED IN MY LIFE…SINCE WHEN ARE 3 FUCKING FROZEN GRAPES IN A FUCKING VASE AN ACCEPTABLE SINGLE DESSERT ORDER..ITS NOT EVEN FROZEN GRAPE JUICE OR SOMETHING ITS LITERALLY JUST A 0.02$ GRAPE THAT WAS PUT ON A STICK THEN FROZEN…LIKE SOMEONE ACTUALLY WROTE THIS DOWN ON THE MENU THINKING “OH YEAH PEOPLE FUCKING LOVE COLD GRAPES” AND SOME OTHER ASSHAT SAID “BRAH. HEAR ME OUT, HOW ABOUT WE PUT THEM ON STICKS AND SERVE THEM IN A VASE WITH NOTHING ELSE” LIKE YOU COULDNT EVEN SERVE IT WITH A FUCKING SECOND FRUIT OR EVEN FUCKING LEAVES OR WHATEVER… IM SO MAD. FUCKING FROZEN GRAPES ON A STICK.

AND THEY WERENT EVEN SEEDLESS GRAPES…..

(via rabababe)

Ezellohar Trees by Daniel Jimbert
I somehow ended up re-reading Ivanneth’s The Follower earlier this evening. I was swept away by the language in this passage about the Mingling of the Light, which she attributes to Fingon:

As a rule I smile and tell them that some things cannot be described. I daresay the look on my face discourages them from asking again. But were I to oblige, I might say this: it is the gentle hour, when the birds fall silent and the air grows still as the wind ceases and any rain dies away, when vows are spoken and quarrels ended, and even the most fretful infants sleep in their cradles. Beasts lie quietly, suckling their young. Mallets rest and quills are tucked away, the forge fires burn low, and the hunt slows to a halt. It is a time for drawing together, to food, tales, song and laughter; yet some desire to be alone. And those who face west and give their minds in wonder, they hear the song of the Trees as one wanes and the other waxes. They breathe the keener scent of earth and grass and damp leaves, of flowers heavy with dew, and know the hour to be holy. The skies are as deep as the sea and the clouds like shining pearls, and a pale mist rises from the valleys as the realm recalls itself in awe and gratitude. The words are not my own. They owe most to Makalaurë’s Song of Ezellohar. Which I will not write out here; it speaks of all in the past, now lost and vanished.

It was The Follower that first made me in fall so much in love with Fingon. 

Ezellohar Trees by Daniel Jimbert

I somehow ended up re-reading Ivanneth’s The Follower earlier this evening. I was swept away by the language in this passage about the Mingling of the Light, which she attributes to Fingon:

As a rule I smile and tell them that some things cannot be described. I daresay the look on my face discourages them from asking again. But were I to oblige, I might say this: it is the gentle hour, when the birds fall silent and the air grows still as the wind ceases and any rain dies away, when vows are spoken and quarrels ended, and even the most fretful infants sleep in their cradles. Beasts lie quietly, suckling their young. Mallets rest and quills are tucked away, the forge fires burn low, and the hunt slows to a halt. It is a time for drawing together, to food, tales, song and laughter; yet some desire to be alone. And those who face west and give their minds in wonder, they hear the song of the Trees as one wanes and the other waxes. They breathe the keener scent of earth and grass and damp leaves, of flowers heavy with dew, and know the hour to be holy. The skies are as deep as the sea and the clouds like shining pearls, and a pale mist rises from the valleys as the realm recalls itself in awe and gratitude. The words are not my own. They owe most to Makalaurë’s Song of Ezellohar. Which I will not write out here; it speaks of all in the past, now lost and vanished.

It was The Follower that first made me in fall so much in love with Fingon. 

I took this on Laura’s cell phone and she posted it with this caption, “My mom is not a bad photographer.” Frankly, I prefer real cameras. She always looks pretty though. It is not rocket science to catch a flattering picture of her.

I took this on Laura’s cell phone and she posted it with this caption, “My mom is not a bad photographer.” Frankly, I prefer real cameras. She always looks pretty though. It is not rocket science to catch a flattering picture of her.

stolen-silmarils:

Happy Noldor Independence Day! I drew you guys some Feanorians! -throws confetti- :D
And now for my next trick, I will color them! Or try to.

stolen-silmarils:

Happy Noldor Independence Day! I drew you guys some Feanorians! -throws confetti- :D

And now for my next trick, I will color them! Or try to.