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The Horror of the DarkFinwë has known shadow in his life.
He has known the quiet peaceful shadows that bring only rest. He has known the waiting shadow of a world still waking itself to life.
And he has known the fearful shadow that creeps beyond the fire’s light, that steals away mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, sisters and brothers, sons and daughters and friends, from those who are left behind. Knowing that shadow, he has loved the light more dearly; he has treasured loved ones in Aman, knowing no shadow will deprive him as it deprived others.
Those born beneath the Light of the Trees have not known this shadow, but he is grateful for that. Even when they cannot understand him, he is grateful; their innocence, their happiness, their joy ever untainted by apprehension… these things are gifts.
They have always lived in light.
One day, the light goes out. The gold and silver radiance is extinguished, plunging all into shadow.
The people cry out in their fear, but Finwë is not
Beyond the Light - Vhaeraunite HymnI who wait beyond the light
I shall be the Hand of Night
(All masks be one
'til day be done)
See webs torn and webs unmade
Ended by the Shadow's Blade
(Their plots undone
The web unspun)
Blades in hand we stand and fight
Night Above is ours by right
(A Maskéd One
Shall fear no sun)
By our faith let shadows rise
Over all beneath the skies
(His will be done
For we are one.)
Did He Not Come HereFëanor asks it of all of them. Each new soul to walk within the Halls of Mandos is sought out and given his questions. He is brilliant and he is driven, and not knowing is a thing he cannot bear.
Even those who've had no cause to wish him well answer when they see the look in his eyes, the need to know the answer to his questions.
"Where is Macalaurë, also called Maglor? How fares my son?"
Always, they do not know. And always, always, they look to Maedhros as they ask, "Did he not come here with you?"
Watcher - a Mazarun and Rantel taleWatcher
Rantel has grown accustomed, more or less, to having his hearing back. He no longer needs to watch a speaker, to read their words from the movements of their mouth.
He watches Mazarun anyway. He watches Mazarun's lips shape each word. He watches Mazarun's hands, slender and graceful, as they add qualifying gestures to clarify whatever he's saying.
They got into the habit of signing their conversations and they've never entirely fallen out of it; even a spoken exchange is enhanced by signs that modify the meanings of what is said. Rantel prefers it that way; so many of the subtleties of signed speech are conveyed in the face and the body that it requires close attention. There is a connection there, an understanding that comes only with this kind of careful reading.
He doesn't have to face a speaker anymore, but he still appreciates the light touch on the arm with which Mazarun draws his attention before speaking. It's a gesture of such long standing that it
Mazarun Character Sheet for ContestName: Mazarun Zothyrr.
Age: In his eighties – looks the equivalent of a human of eighteen.
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral.
Class: Fighter 6/Wizard 2/Warblade 2.
Appearance: Mazarun has a slim build, wiry of muscle rather than bulky. His face is sharp-featured, and delicate to the point of seeming almost feminine, with high cheekbones, a high forehead, and a pointed chin. Thin brows rise upward somewhat at the outer ends, over long-lashed red eyes, tilted upward at the corners in the elven fashion. His face is framed by two locks of hair that reach his collar-bones in length, while the rest of his hair comes to his waist. His back is marked by thin scars, hard to see from any great distance – lines, all at different diagonal, vertical and horizontal angles, always in parallel pairs – the marks of a snake-headed whip.
Gear: Mazarun tends to dress
StormtrooperA sentinel stands ready
A man armoured in white
A silent solemn figure
On guard against the night.
(He's young, so young
And his world was poor
He'd never had
This much food before.)
The helmet is forbidding
A stern and mighty mask
It makes him one of many
All doing the same task.
(He's not paid much
Or so some would say
But those back home
Will not starve, today.)
For his Emperor's laws
Resolute and unflinching
Devoted to the cause.
(They told him things
A rallying cry
They taught him that
All Rebels must die.)
Together they are faceless
An endless stream of men
One falls? He's but a number
A place to fill again.
(He's young, so young
And he won't get old
For lies, he'll die
Doing what he's told.)
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More