I need to remember to try to make the people in pictures big. Drawing tiny tiny faces is so hard.
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These are official anti-flooding beavers, not like the unofficial beavers that went on the lam in the Tamar Valley a few years back, or the very unofficial beaver that they caught when they were looking for the unofficial escaped beavers, which wasn't supposed to be there at all (it was younger than the beaver they were looking for, and the wrong sex).
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Regrets : 2544 words, Gen. Curufin, in the Halls of Mandos, does his homework.
Five pages of regrets, written in a language no-one knows. I’ll parcel them up and give them to the Maiar of Mandos. Who knows? Perhaps I will have bought a little of my father’s time, which like his Silmarils is stolen from him and held by others who have no right to claim it.
She poked, prodded, acupuncted, used some sort of sound wave device that I'm fairly sure came directly from an episode of Star Trek, and by the end I had stopped hurting at least for a while, which was a huge relief, and got a proper night's sleep, ditto. It remains to be seen how long-term effective this will be : I did hurt quite a bit today, but not so continuously. And I have an exercise to do, and was given instructions about which over the counter pain thing to buy, which was also very helpful.
Also knackered: my car poor Helga Saab, whose suspension has completely given up the ghost. I joined a local artists group, went off to the first meeting, which was fun, and was halfway back and feeling cheerful when suddenly there was a sudden loud thumping noise...
Apparently they aren't making suspensions for 2002 Saabs any more and even used parts for the suspension are 'like gold dust' so Helga has gone to Car Graveyard. We went today to see a couple of cheap old bangers, since we do need to replace her. Pp's car is not really much use for carrying dogs, canoes, or boxes of role-playing stuff. After some debate, we put down a deposit on an ancient and cheap Volvo V70, which after only 142,000 miles and 14 years looks considerably younger than Helga did. Not 100% that we will buy it since it juddered a little at speed, but the place that's selling it is going to sort the wheel alignment which I hope will fix that.
If we do buy her, I think I'm going to call her Gambara. I was thinking it looked more like a male car, for some reason, but on the other hand, it's a Volvo, so should have a vǫlva kind of name, and this story about the Lombards is way too wonderful not to use.
And afterwards it looked like this:
I'd walk the dog but she refuses to admit that times before 8am exist and is still fast asleep refusing to awake.
In which Fingolfin, Maedhros and Maglor consider the significance of names, words and songs of power, healing and kingship.
I was pleased with my idea about how Elvish kingship came about in this, though all the stuff about name choice and Noldor politics is hopelessly self-indulgent, I still enjoyed writing it a lot! Maglor is discernably the same Maglor as in my Fourth Age writing but it was interesting to think about how he was different in the first days of Beleriand.
Witness to a Kinslaying
Arien who guides the chariot of the Sun had seven sisters. The last of them fell in Moria. Just a short thing, but I thought the prompt idea was so interesting.
Both of these were made for Genex, an exchange whose premise I find a little odd 'about everything except for romantic relationships' - which I feel in many ways is like at least 90% of plot ideas, but fanfic is odd about that! I had fun with it anyway.
"Hey look Rosie! It's Pp!" I said.
Rosie gave the car a look of extreme suspicion.
"Hello Rosie!" said Pp, through the open window. "Come on Rosie! Rosie come!"
Rosie moved away, looking even more suspicious.
"Come on Rosie! Say hello to Pp! You like Pp!" I said.
Rosie's body language stated firmly : this is not Pp. Pp has legs. This is some sort of weird centaur-hybrid-machine thing, and she will not be fooled!
I give up and allow her to tow me away.
I particularly like the last sentence : 'Sorry for misprints, I am foreign.' Also the courteous way it explains how to make the blackmail payments.
"For Ulmo bore up Elwing out of the waves, and he gave her the likeness of a great white bird, and upon her breast there shone as a star the Silmaril, as she flew over the water to seek Eärendil her beloved."
I went to a local art event - Drawn to the Valley, which is a thing where lots of local artists open up their studios and there's a trail to go and visit them - yesterday. The art was of course of varying quality and style, but some of it was excellent (I'm kind of glad that some of it was also terrible.) It made me think I should finish this painting I started a while ago.
Which I suppose in some ways is a rather appropriate title since I have not been posting much on LJ since Brythen died. It is a big thing to adapt to, that. It needs some time.
But mostly the title is this thing I wrote. It's easier to write fiction.
It is another Return to Aman post-LOTR thing. I wrote it mostly because Return to Aman had 12 stories, and obviously it would be Very Wrong to finish a Tolkien series on the 13th story, so I decided to send Finrod on holiday with the hobbits. I don't know where the other bits came from, the characters seem to be mostly making their own decisions by this time. I feel faintly guilty that I wrote this as a series and it's ended up almost like chapters of one story. I didn't know it was going to do that! Also people commented to say it was philosophical, which was not my intent and confirms my suspicion that the whole thing has got out of hand.
I Will Not Say the Day Is Done
In which Maglor stays up all night, has breakfast with Elrohir and tests the truth of the Doom of the Noldor, Elrohir gives his opinion of the Shibboleth of Fëanor, Finrod Felagund goes on a walking holiday with hobbits in Eldamar and discusses Moria and his dissatisfaction with the Valar, Sam sees Elf-magic, and Elrond visits Nerdanel to discuss Silmarils.
That's a lot of coins a very long way West. I wonder what they were doing there. Seems very Cornish that they were in a tin, not in a ceramic pot. We don't historically do a lot with ceramics down here.
Someone out searching for Brythen found his body this morning. He was in a field we had searched but in the middle where the long grass hid him. I think he must have jumped into the field after a deer and had a heart attack almost immediately.
At least I know. I've been out searching basically since Sunday and so have huge numbers of other people who all turned out to help. People came from all around and drove up from Plymouth to help search and his poster was shared all over the country in case someone had stolen him. I just wish, I wish they had found him alive.
I'm trying to tell myself that it is better to know, and better to go quickly. I should have done better keeping him safe.
Shadows Cast by Memory (8,481 words)
In which Maglor, returned to Tol Eressëa with Elrond and Frodo, meets two heroes of Gondolin, recalls Elrond's thoughts on the Downfall of Númenor, injures Fingon and loses a horse-race (barely).
Among the Ainur and Other Animals (14,586 words, wtf, self??)
Maglor meets Nimloth of Doriath, and is surprised. Elrond and Bilbo go to Valimar, and meet Ingwion, leader of the Vanyar Host from the War of Wrath, Indis and Melian. Elrond gets rather cross and channels his inner Maiar. Bilbo is sensible. And Eönwë, Herald of the Valar, brings news.
I can't resist the temptation to look at the 11 stories in this series and try to draw conclusions from the numbers. For a while, it looked like stories with female characters / focus tended to get less interest, but the last one seems to have disproved that theory so the only one I am left with is that people like Maglor and are more likely to view or kudos stories with him in them. Also that people who read a story right away are more likely to comment or kudos it than people who drift by a week or so later. I wonder why.
It had cactuses and American flags, adverts for Coca Cola and Dr Pepper, posters showing guitars and rockstars*, and chairs covered in fake cow-skin, neon signs in the windows, and signs on the wall advertising Harley-Davidson and Chevrolet and Southern Comfort and random signs on the walls saying ‘Michigan’ ‘Tennessee’ or ‘Wyoming’.
We went in and they told us sadly they had run out of fizzy drinks. They had plenty of Cornish beer and cider and J20 though, so that was all right. Also there was HP Sauce on each table, and the bacon was delightfully crispy. Pp had gammon, egg and chips, waving away the maple syrup that they offered to add to make it somehow more American. I was braver and had a burger with pulled pork and bacon.
Somehow, it felt like the most British place I have ever been. If it had been a village pub with morris dancers, it would not have been so British. :-D
*at least 50% of the rockstars were British, however, presumably on the grounds that we can only know that they are rockstars if we recognise them. I am not complaining, as I could have done with seeing slightly less of Cher's pubic regions while eating. Presumably this is part of the Experience.
I just heard this song by Jim Moray randomly on the radio and absolutely loved it. So I'm putting it here so I can find it, and on the offchance anyone else should like it too. Its the story of the Voyager Golden Records, (and a love story between two of the people who worked on it) as a song.