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~ Magnificat of the Damned. Book IV: Anvil ~ by Spiced Wine Mature
From Angmar to the Dagor Dagorath. The final story in the Magnificat of the Damned series. The Doom and destiny of the...
The Magnificent Faerie Advent Calendar 2018 by cheekybeak Teen
It’s that time again. What is in store for us when Aragorn drags half of Minas Tirith to Imladris for Yule? 
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Better, Nellas said to herself and the trees who listened, to remain apart from Men. Better so than to become entangled in...
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Wisdom is hard bought — more often by bitter experience than any sort of grace. While hunting in the wilderlands of Beleriand...
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On the verge of perishing in the desert after a fruitless search, a determined Elrohir locates a caravan of Easterlings...
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Shoutbox

Naledi
12/12/18 01:58 pm
Chapter 12 is up. I think. I'm not sure of anything anymore :D
Narya
12/12/18 09:50 am
Chaos reigns ;) this is even worse than last year XD
Naledi
12/11/18 09:13 pm
Lol! I love how our confusion has carried over to the Shout Box!
ziggy
12/10/18 09:48 pm
whoah- have we missed out Gabriel??? Chapter 10?
NelyafinweFeanorion
12/10/18 12:34 am
Thanks!'
ziggy
12/09/18 10:01 pm
Ok- thanks Nelya- happy birthday to your Dad!
Narya
12/09/18 08:58 am
Chapter 9 is up :) yep, Nelya, pretty sure that's right!
NelyafinweFeanorion
12/09/18 06:52 am
Ziggy I think narya posts ch 9 next then Gabriel with 10 and then you with 11 and Naledi with 12. Then cheeky 13, Narya 14, me 15 (not written yet!)
ziggy
12/08/18 09:40 pm
I'm sooooo confused- whose turn is it??
NelyafinweFeanorion
12/08/18 04:06 pm
chapter 8. is up! Happy weekend to everyone!
Shout Archive


A Dawn Of Many Colors by Pink Siamese

Story notes:

A note on languages: All of the languages you see in this story are either based on Tolkien's constructed languages or are based upon languages of my own creation. Any resemblance to real languages is completely and totally coincidental.

This story has long outgrown the Tolkienverse and now contains references to Tolkien himself, C.S. Lewis and the Chronicles of Narnia, Stephen King's Dark Tower series, H. P. Lovecraft and his Cthulhu Mythos, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge's poem Kubla Khan, among others. While it's not strictly a crossover, the story depends on these elements to function, so it only seems right that I acknowledge them here.

UPDATE - As of 26 June 2018, I am retiring from fandom. I'd like to thank everyone for your unflagging support over the years.




I could start at the beginning: I got up that morning, ate a homely breakfast of oatmeal and fruit, went to school, daydreamed about my Archaeology professor, ate lunch while giggling with some women from my Archaeology class, went out onto the grounds to do my homework and take advantage of the gorgeousness of the day—it was autumn and crisp, the sky a perfect blue backdrop to the riotous red change of leaves, and the air smelled fresh and dark, like well-turned earth—but the beginning is boring, as beginnings often are. You yourself have lived a hundred such beginnings.

I will give a brief description and history of the grounds. Given what has happened to me, the history has made the leap from quaint to sinister: the grounds are rolling and green, thick with trees and populated with secret trails. There’s a stream that sprouts up somewhere in the middle of all that verdure and flows out through a cleft in the low hills until it reaches a giant culvert. The culvert directs the busy waters to a muddy eddy in the local river. In the early 1980s the administration put a huge screen over the culvert to prevent drunk Uni students from using it as a waterslide. The groundskeepers are always cleaning clots of string bikinis and rejected boxer shorts out of that same grate; the stream cascades in a waterfall and fills up a deep clear pool before continuing its roar to the culvert. The land came as part of a bequest, the legacy of an old man in an oil painting that hangs in the building named after him. I think often now of that portrait and wonder at the tilt in the old man’s smile. He knew something about all of this, the crafty bastard.

I’d heard the stories. Everyone heard the stories. They were as part of the initiation into college life as keg parties and cram sessions. The student folklorists picked them apart with an avidity reserved for teenage fangirls. Those who followed the course of the stream up to the pool and had their drunken bonfire parties told their silly stories, but with a tinge of uncertainty: the one girl who was sure there were long-robed ghosts watching her in the woods, the guy who heard a bunch of men muttering in a guttural language, the unexplained lights flickering through distant trees. Archaeology students and Criminal Justice majors made forays into the woods by day, attempting to investigate the sources of nighttime disturbances. Linguistics students did their best to unravel approximations of the overheard languages. All of them looked for traces of fires, disturbed earth, fibers and fallen buttons that might’ve been left behind. Parapsychology majors left tape recorders and video cameras rigged up in the branches overnight. Most of the stories got laughed off and blamed on the interference of alcohol and psychedelic drugs. I laughed them off.

I’m not laughing now.

I’ll begin with the action. That’s the part you want to read. How I, a nice girl, ended up in a place like this—Middle-fuckin-earth.

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