Sunday Six (ish)

And it's still Sunday in Arizona and parts west, so still Sunday enough.

A snippet from the current bit of Warrior Son, in which Elrond and Boromir are having a conversation.

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Boromir lets out a small huff. "I do not fear the dragon's fire, and I do not fear death. There are worse things in the world." He pushes away from the railing, walking away from the courtyard and Aragorn. A child who would become someone he had not the courage to follow sooner. "To betray a friend, to lose myself, to know my death has served nothing but my enemy's purposes, those I would fear."

Those he has known, and he will not allow himself to commit the former again, and the latter... If he can do nothing more than see Thorin or his nephews live beyond the battle they'd once died in, then that death would serve a purpose better than his last.

Elrond walks with him, a thoughtful frown on his face. "And yet, if one has faced such things and strives to do better, than they have a strength few know, and fewer appreciate."

"I can only hope to have that kind of strength." To keep his honor, as Aragorn had told him he had, at the end. An end.

Daily Journal

Late, but that's ok. It was a good day today. Got a couple more face masks made (one for me with a third layer made from an old t-shirt, and one for mama), have a batch in queue to make, which will, as a project, be a help in keeping me sane. Also means I've gotten out my sewing machine and stuff, so may well find the spoons to make some clothes. Sundresses and tunics, particularly. And if I find where I put the first draft of a pair of shorts that works for me, I can modify that a bit to make it better.

Got the litterboxes sifted. Hopefully will manage that a second time this week.

Watched the second half of Two Towers, which comes with That Fucking Scene, Part II: Leave Haldir Alone You Fucking Fucks. (That Fucking Scene, Part I, of course, is Fuck Your Canon, I'm Writing All the Boromir Lives Fic.) I do not recall if That Fucking Scene, Part III: Damnit Theoden is in the first or second half of Return of the King.

I'll post a snippet from yesterday's writing shortly. (I. Realized that there is a small continuity error in one of my AUs in stuff written, but not yet posted to AO3. Readily fixable, but still.)

Yet More Icons!

More Icon Meme!

raine picked:



"Cheap. Fast. Good. Pick two."

An axiom that works pretty well for goods and services, because you really can't get all three. (Granted, you can APPEAR to get all three, but that only works if you've got enough money for when Good becomes Broken. Or food poisoning. Or an allergic reaction. Or you get my point.)

The background is classic James Bond Q, with stuff laid out around him. Because gadgets, and of course I'm going to use this Q for this icon.



Romana. Not one or two, but Romana as she's regenerated into for a couple of my AUs. Particularly In the Doctor's Place and Fairytales and Nightmares. This is the Romana that Koschei is in love with in F&N. The woman who is all alone in the universe, the last of the Time Lords in ItDP. Also the Romana I'd use for RPGs if I were still doing that, which. Not so much, not as an organized thing.



"Fandom means never having to say 'But where would I wear that?'"

Fandom, ideally, accepts you no matter what you chose to wear, no matter who you are, no matter where you go. So, wear that loud and garish shirt! Wear the highly formal gear in a casual setting! Dress for the 15th century in the 21st! Show off your regional dress that isn't local casual 'normal'! And fuck off if you have a problem with anyone who does just that.

Daily (ish) Snippet

No Shield For My Soul, Éowyn and company about to make it a very bad night for some orcs and trolls so as to make it possible for the army on the outside of the Black Gate to effectively storm the gate. Because Reasons.

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If anyone had ever told her she would one day be climbing the mountains around the Black Gate of Mordor in company with an orc, an elf, and a dwarf, Éowyn would have thought that person mad. And yet, here she stands on a knife's edge ridge, drawing her bow in tandem with her companions and those they'd led.

Arrows fly and fall on the ranks of the orcs below. Opening the path and guarding it for the handful of men and dwarves who carry great axes and war hammers to take on the trolls atop the gate. It will not matter that they cannot open it without the trolls chained to the gates, not with ladders waiting to be run up the wall.

"And now all Luputar must do is take and hold the wall." Dazbol's voice is quiet as not to carry far, the tone wry in a way Éowyn had never thought an orc could be.

No. Uruktar, Dazbol had called herself and most of her small band. Orcs, perhaps, but it would be as calling the Rohirrim simply Men, for it is only a small part of who they are.

"Aragorn will manage, with the help of our eastern friends." Glorfindel sounds inordinately cheerful for someone who is perched on a mountain with an army of orcs below them, in the inky dark of night.