New Challenge: Potluck Bingo
Sit down to a delicious selection of prompts served on bingo boards, created by the SWG community.
Man muß immerfort verändern, erneuern, verjüngern, um nicht zu verstocken. (Johann Wolfgang von Goethe)
Denethor hat aufgehört sich zu verändern. Wie die Statuen in seiner Halle wird er langsam zu Stein.
Welche Konsequenzen wird das für die Zukunft von Minas Tirith haben?
A collection of non-Silm-based drabbles and ficlets.
Osgiliath has fallen, and Denethor sits in his hall, face as stony as the statues around him.
Faramir fears for the future.
An elf of the Laiquendi considers the future, after the death of Denethor in the First Battle of Beleriand. Drabble, written in first-person POV.
"It reminded me of you," Findekáno says, grinning up at Maitimo as though that was not the most absurd statement spoken in the last century. Russingon Romantic Fluff, Set during Years of the Trees. Quenya Names Used.
Though Elwing did not speak, Nienna seemed to know her thoughts. "Few of the Eldar come to stay long in my halls," she said, "but they are open to all. Will you come there?"
Mairon is leaving Celebrimbor to forge the One Ring. Or is he?
A reborn Celebrimbor has come to Middle-earth to search for Maglor.
He finds someone else.
Having escaped the Downfall of Numenor, Inzilmith experiences the beginning of the War of the Last Alliance in Arnor.
The Noldor who left may have spent years dreaming of returning to Tirion, but that doesn't mean finally getting there after the War of Wrath is as simple as they imagined.
Just getting to the campsite is its own adventure.
Ecthelion returns from the Halls of Mandos.
He is perhaps not quite as fixed as you might expect but, having sat through a recital of "The Fall of Gondolin", he decides something urgently needs fixing for somebody else.
And so, one fine spring day...
After the events at the Morannon, Sauron may be weak, but he has a pressing question only Morgoth can answer... (Daughters of Celebrian ficlet.)
Gil-galad comes face to face with Sauron.
Before the Fall of Eregion, a minstrel who once was taught by Maglor is asked to revive a performance of his songs in the Hall of the Jewel-smiths in the presence of Celebrimbor.
A recipe from Finrod's cookbook "From the Pans of Beleriand".
Sacrifices must be made, but there seems to be some lingering disagreement on exactly who it is that is going to be making them.
Five times Daeron meets Maglor by accident, plus one time it happens on purpose.
Thou shalt lead and I will follow. Saying those words, Nolofinwë had not guessed that his brother would lead him all the way to Antarctica.
A collection of short responses, both drabbles and ficlets, to the prompts for the Vintage challenge.
Glimpses of life in Aman, after the events of arriviste's void junk and Idrils_Scribe's Wings of White and Silver-grey.
“I would honor the customs of thy people, Andreth, and marry thee in the manner of thy people,” he said at last.
“And if I did not want to?” she asked, so soft she barely heard her own voice. “If I wished to marry thee in the manner of thy people?” Her voice trembled, but she held his gaze.
Aegnor drew in an uneven breath, swift and sharp. His gaze roved her face, tracing her features. When he spoke, his voice was rough but tender. “I would take thee away, to the south or east, and marry thee under the light of the stars. And there none would speak against our union. And I would be thine and thou would be mine in every way that there is.”
A summer evening spent in a glade near the shores of the Aeluin.
Erferil writes letters to someone who once was very dear to her.
And even if Amrûn cannot reply, the letters still comfort her.
Uinen moves, fluid as water, sinuous as a snake, her limbs – green-webbed fingers longer than fingers ought to be, skin decorated with the lumps of pale barnacles clinging to her, a body that is thick and feels strangely nurturing in a sense he does not quite understand, ending in a mass of squid-like tentacles each thicker than his legs – flowing like she is following her own current.
Ossë laughs, high and bright, and an elf-shaped hand darts into view, gripping his shoulder. The bruise beneath flares to life, hot and painful, and the best reminder than this is no drowning-dream.
He is fathoms below, dropped into the depths of the sea.