This is a very efficient, serious* and official way of predicting your luck for the new year! Yes, indeedI have transcribed the instructions from a very serious and old and traditional Númenorian science now lost to us, and this is how it works:
First of all, take the number of letters that form your first name, and add it to the age you will be at the 00:00 hour of the next year according to your time zone, then add that to the precise amount of slices of cake you intend to eat next year. For example:
J U L I A N A = 7 letters
25 years old
I hope I can eat 2003 slices of cake next year
7 + 25 + 2003 = 2035
Then keep adding the numbers among themselves until you get a single number from 1 to 9! for example:
2035
2 + 3 + 5 = 10
1 + 0 =
1
then click on the very same number listed after the “read more” at the end of the post.
Have a good new year, my friends, and I wish you all good luck!
His eyes were the deep brown-amber of a wolf’s, and he was sturdy-built and dark as many of Ulfang’s people were, yet they did not know him.
“I am Loga, my lord Caranthir! I am kin to Uldor, by his third wife, Hwitbléd, who died in the West crossing. Ask him, he will tell you it is true.”
And Uldor, at a glance, gave nod. “It is so. We were parted for many years, and I felt I did not know him. But in truth, we are kin. I am pleased he has rejoined us, for he has given me… good council.” The Easterling’s face set in a stoic mask as he spoke.
The man Loga made a slight bow to the one he’d named as sire, then another to the elfin prince his folk were sworn to. “I did not think that a mighty lord of the West would notice one such as I, a low-born vassal who only wishes to serve him and fight against the Dark Foe! Surely, my lord, most shrewd and sagacious son of Fëanor, you need not waste your time questioning me?”
*rereads smutfic from last night*
…..OH.
From the DM:
It should be obvious that the above calculations for the trajectory of an arrow do not take into account deceleration, drag, viscosity of the air, etc., but they’re a start.
;^) <= from my wretched mortal gaoler
(( Oooh, the most elaborate arrow yet! ))
It’s so -sweet- how you still look for me in the stars… Don’t think I haven’t noticed. They get “Aulendil’s Apprentices” in the Void; I never miss a show.
Cut from the same cloth, and yet so much more ambitious than I… How does a brother of mine sleep at night? Knowing he fled from Angband when his master was in peril. I sense that ambition will be your undoing, while lack of it may be mine…
“Hah! Stale news will buy you nothing. I know already where the hidden city lies; deep in the Echoriath.” Melkor ventured.
His spies had told him as much— strange tidings of men and dark elves riding to the Encircling Mountains, and never returning. He could say as much with certainty, but no more. He did not wish the elf to know that this intelligence was beyond pricing.
“But these other tidings you bring me… That Turgon is prepared for war, that men I knew not of escaped over the mountains, that hidden hosts prepare to rally and march again on Angband! This thing I did not know.” The dark lord hunched, resting chin on claw in pensive thought.
Had the Noldor not glutted themselves on defeat? The Union of Maedhros had been crushed beyond recovery; yet Gondolin stood, and the Vala’s foresight had warned him that doom would come from behind Turgon’s secret walls. Perhaps he should not have presumed that ALL the Noldor would run, licking their wounds and scattering southward.
Melkor looked to his lieutenant in silence, searching the maia’s expression; finding there wariness, but not outright distrust.
“If what you say is true, then the city cannot be gained by force, and we must gird ourselves yet again for a defensive war… We may yet have the element of surprise if we move quickly, but a direct attack is out of the question. Could we starve them out, do you think? Surround the city at a distance, burn fields, dam rivers— let the Noldor waste in hunger amidst unused war machines?”
“My lord, do not be so hasty to leap to battle on the untested words of a traitor.” Sauron cautioned. “If the boy is lying, we give the city time to rally in defense, and we stay our hand needlessly against a sleeping foe.”
“IF the boy is lying, he will regret he was not drowned at birth, won’t he, beloved?” Melkor turned his eyes to the captive Maeglin, harsh spotlights under which each shiver, each bead of sweat was illuminated.
…But Earendel said: “Nay, where is Salgant?” – for Salgant had told him quaint tales, or played drolleries with him at times, and Earendel had much laughter of the old Gnome in those days when he came many a day to the house of Tuor, loving the good wine and fair repast he there received. But none could say where Salgant was, nor can they now. Mayhap he was whelmed by fire upon his bed; yet some have it that he was taken captive to the halls of Melko and made his buffoon – and this is an ill fate for a noble of the good race of the Gnomes. Then was Earendel sad at that, and walked beside his mother in silence.
–The Book of Lost Tales, J.R.R.T
SALGANT: BABYSITTER OF EÄRENDIL
SALGANT: QUIRKY UNCLE TO THE INTERSPECIES NEWLYWEDS
SALGANT: HEAD OF THE GONDOLIN WINE-TASTING SOCIETY
SALGANT: JESTER OF MORGOTH
SALGANT: BEAUTIFUL CINNAMON BUN, TOO GOOD FOR THIS WORLD
Some day, that one will seek my throne. But until that day, he is mine.
Should I seek to outdo him, or rather try to become indispensable in another arena? Will Melkor ever have cause to choose between us? Why couldn’t you have stayed with Aulë, brother?
Thus all seemed well with the fortunes of Maeglin who had risen to be mighty among the Princes of the Ñoldor…
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