I like to imagine that all of these helmets have the wings and that only when the person wearing it is surprised do they pop out to their full glorious span.
I’m afraid you are wrong. The wings pop out when a guard is courting another guard! It’s their courting ritual.
Are you impressed, Citadel Captain? I have strutted back and forth before thee thrice, flapping each wing alternately and also puffing up my impressive throat poach, to better indicate my virility. I have also brought thee these pebbles, which are most shiny. Perhaps you would like to hear a song about my boner? *suggestive warbling*
Guard Guidelines:
It is absolutely forbidden to nest on the white tree. All transgressor will be severely punished.
No songs about your amorous proclivities while on duty.
No singing on duty in general. You may find it odd, but it kind of ruins our reputation of fierce warriors.
Bragging about your pebbles while on duty is not only rude but also strictly forbidden.
If you want to seduce another guard, please be discreet about it and do it in your off-duty time.
Having wings attached to your helm doesn’t mean you can fly and we are not looking forward to cleaning your remains from the roofs of lower levels.
Suddenly popping your wings out in public is tasteless, embarrassing and frowned upon.
Lord Faramir is a married man and Lady Eowyn is famous for two things: her prowess in battle and her disgusting pigeon stew. We warned you.
Moreover Beregond didn’t hesitate to kill two guards in order to protect his Lord once, and the fact he should be exiled from Minas Tirith doesn’t mean he won’t get you.
Queen Arwen is a married womanelf Lady, moreover the fact King Elessar doesn’t go around showing his wings doesn’t mean he doesn’t have them, it is just testament to his his politeness.
Yes, Rohirrim tend to freak out when you pop your wings, therefore it will neither help you seducing one of them nor it will be funny to do so in their presence.
Having been appointed Fountain Guard in no excuse for constantly showing your wingspan to the whole city.
Oh! I thought you would know by now that you won’t make me choose between such.. options, so to speak. Besides, since civilised questions seem not to be your forte, why to.. reenact what has already happened when there are so many better option yet to explore?
I would rather meet you on the field where I would see your blood gush and your pupils grow wide with every blow of my sword; I would have your hammer chipped and you beaten down in the mud blended by your own blood. Still I would not kill you, no. I would rather have your neck collared in a garrote and my knife trace the labyrinth of your nerves, your wolf teeth on a string and your power trapped in a cage of field-lines, i would have your hands broken and their tendons cut before putting my braid between your fingers and my teeth over the pad of your thumb. I would have your spine snapped and my foot slowly pressing more and more on your ribcage as I look you in the eyes..
Both were incredibly dear to me, stranger, and that someone wearing a mask would feel they have the right to ask me such a question is baffling to say the least.
Still my father was always a spirit that loved freedom, to roam and explore was one of his greatest pleasures, to him a new land was like a new language or a phenomena still not understood, he would never be content with seeing only one piece of it. So, in a way, it was almost sadly fitting that he would not leave behind a mangled body to rot, but disappear in a blaze. Where and how his sons and those who loved him might honour his memory is not dependant on a single grave. His legacy was in fortresses of stone that rose far more beautiful than any grave, in all the Noldor who left Aman, in the knowledge that made us glorious and allowed us to endure, in our people that kept fighting under his banners, in our Oath and forever in his sons’ hearts. He was a spirit of fire, not of earth, and to bury fire, not to give it space, is to kill it.
While the fate of my cousin’s body is something that still weights on me heavily. Findekàno didn’t deserve for his remains to be mangled and left to rot in a wasteland after having been beaten in the dust. Thus, given the choice it is his body that I would have returned to me, no matter what is left of it,so that he might be buried or burnt and not suffer the indignity of orcs and the elements destroying it.
You have had your answer, stranger, despite how I know many would try to use it against my family and me. Now I would ask you to leave.
// I do not know if I’ve already pestered you with this poem (if I have: I’m sorry!), but in the doubt I will again. it is an unfinished, and edited, work from Giacomo Leopardi (one of Italy’s most gifted poets). This translation is by me so… well.. Still: here is to the august attention of the Dark Lord(s)
King of all objects! Author of the world! Arcane viciousness. Highest power and highest intelligence. Eternal, author of evils and governor of motion.
I do not know whether this gladdens you, but watch and relish, contemplating eternal.
..Nature is like a child that so quickly unmakes what it made. Oldness Either dullness, or passions filled with pain and despair.. Love! With different names the plebs name you: Fate, Nature and God
But you are: Arimane!
I won’t speak of the storms and plagues, gifts of yours that other gifts you are unable to bestow.
You give the ardour and ices and the world raves searching for new orders and laws and, it hopes, perfection.
But this work of yours remains immutable. Because the nature of man always will rule ambition and deceit, as honesty and temperance are left behind and fortune will be enemy to valour and merits won’t be enough to thread your own path and the just and the weak will be oppressed.
Live, Arimane, and triumph, and always will you triumph! An envy the ancients thought came from the Gods against the mortals Why, god of evil, have you put in life some semblance of pleasure? Love? To torment us with desire, with the comparison to others and to our times past?
I do not know whether you rejoice from lauds or curses Your praise will be our weeping witness to our suffering.
Weeping, for sure, from me you shall not have: but a thousand time by my lip your name will be cursed.
Never will I give in..
..If ever a favour was asked of Arimane:
grant me that I won’t live through my seventh lustrous
I have been, in life, your most fervent preacher, the apostle of your religion.
Reward me! I don’t ask of thee any of what the word calls goods,
I ask for what is deemed the greatest of misfortunes:
But, please: Imagine Curufin and the Fëanorian healers crafting a two pieces prosthetic for Maedhros. One piece, the hand itself, being external and detachable while the other is internal: a rod, or series of metal rods, made of an inert alloy that are surgically affixed to the bones inside Maedhros’ right arm, with the additional aim of strengthening them, and end in a mechanism that protrudes from the flesh of the stump and allows the hand-piece to be easily and instantaneously “slotted” and secured in place without having to use any harness.
Probably this would solve the issue of keeping the prosthetic firmly in place without in some way interfering with Maedhros’ balance or impeding his movements too much. There would be two major issue though: the surgical operation needed to put it the rods and gear in place, which would be a pretty major one, and the need for some “insulation” between the external gear and the internal rods to prevent the metal inside from cooking the Noldo’s arm were the external part to come into contact with fire (pesky Balrogs!), maybe some silicon based material (since silicon is not toxic to humans) would help this though. Another possible issue would be the maintenance of the mechanism, for very strong direct blows could deform it beyond salvage. Maybe something of the sort happened after Curvo was dead and Maedhros, despite knowing it was a stupid thing to do, never asked one of the surviving smiths to fix it and kept it broken and without a hand “in mourning” until the eve of the last kinslaying.
Still I love the idea of Maedhros having various different prosthetics, each with its own specific purpose at the ready and easily interchangeable. Curvo brings a new one almost every time they meet and Maedhros has never the heart to refuse it or tell him that he has more than enough, because Curvo seems so satisfied as he tries them on and almost relieved of a burden. Besides Maedhros likes taking the prosthetic off and changing it before the people he wants to unbalance because he has a dark and evil sense of humour. What is more the fact each ‘hand’ has one specific purpose makes those closest to him able to easily predict what his plans and mood are (and have time to run for the hills.. or vales, since Himring is a hill). The most complex prosthetic, a true masterpiece of Curvo’s craft, is a perfect replica of a hand with mobile wrist and joints that can be “blocked” in specific shapes and positions which Maedhros uses during formal dinners because he hates appearing in need of any help.
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