aurieth-mynonys

I. There had never been a door so intimidating as the door to Gríma's chambers. True, the door was much the same as any other door in Meduseld. It was the same sturdy wood and iron hinges as its twins within the hall; but quite unlike those other doors, Gríma's had guards posted on either side, with locks and bars to keep out any intruders who might manage to slip past the guards. And somehow, his door seemed larger, darker, thrown deeper into shadow. He certainly kept no torches near it, as if fearing that the light would expose some weakness in the door that the darkness could obscure. Standing before it, Éowyn felt very s

Ibycus groaned, coughed, and rolled out of his bed, hitting the floor with a loud whump. And then he groaned again. He felt as though he'd attempted to swallow a watermelon whole. And now that he'd accidentally rolled out of bed he was cold and bruised as well. The day had barely begun, and it was already bad. He sat up and rubbed his head, wincing. He'd have to find some sort of potion or something to help his throat. He couldn't go through classes feeling like this. He wasn't sure how much time he had before he needed to go, but he'd never had trouble getting out of bed in a timely manner. Surely he could go to the library and find someth

From the shelf it beckons me, a softly curved gel bottle blaring metallic purple and shiny neon green, making promises, whispering lies. I touch my curls, a worn veil with loose threads, prickly as straw. The gel smiles. "I, curl-scruncher, miracle worker, will spin your straw to gold – one unsullied beauty to disguise the sullied flesh."