We know from Westron, which derived from Adûnâyê, that “ban(a)-” means “half.” This is seen both in the word banakil, meaning halfling, and the name Banazîr, meaning half-wise.*
In Adûnâyê, the word for wife is banâth, and the word for husband is banâk. These formations seem to include the stem “ban-” and apply feminine and masculine endings respectively.
In Adûnâyê, then, the words for husband and wife might literally translate to “male half” and “female half.”
Given the example of Adûnâyê’s word for “parents” being nuphrât, the dual form (and not the plural) of nuphâr**, it seems likely that the collective word for a married couple would also be in the dual form, making it banât.
*This is Samwise Gamgee’s actual name; “Samwise” is an English translation from the Westron for the sake of Tolkien’s story.
**Interestingly, nuphâr seems to combine nûph, "fool," with âr, “king.” Would the word for parent therefore translate literally to “fool-king?”
((Husband just e-mailed me to say he’s decided to make miso soup and grill me a cheese for dinner tonight.
For those just tuning in, that particular combination is my all time favorite comfort food.
I have the best husband.
Oooh, and I think there’s just one glass-bottle Coke left in the fridge, too…
Invented allies of Mordor: The Chieftains of the Haradrim
«Harad’s tribes were divided —at least in the minds of the men of northwestern Middle-earth— into those of Near and Far Harad, although there were many tribes of the Haradrim, often mutually hostile.
Those of Near Harad were brown-skinned, with black hair and dark eyes, whereas the people of Far Harad had black skin.
Many say they only banded together due to the fact Sauron was slowly regaining power, and were fearful of Sauron if they continued to war against one another.»
// you are a personal blog
you like my ic posts
you like them enough to get the urge to reblog them and add your own comments on them.
and i appreciate that I really do
but before you do so stop and think. just lift your hand away from the “reblog” button and move it to the “like” button.
reblogging a rp thread does more damage than you think. It messes up the notes such that the muns can no longer see the latest reply.
so please stop or I’m going to have to start blocking more people. and I really dont want to do that.
((Yes this. Don’t reblog roleplays.
Don’t reblog roleplays!
Head up and eyes turned away, Ossë did not even glance at the poor merchant. Whether it was acting or natural would have been hard to say, but he had the role of ‘arrogant, wealthy Elf’ perfected. Instead he looked over the wares the same way someone might look at a child’s literal mud pie, or a trash heap attempting to masquerade as a treasure pile. His lip curled at one corner and he hooked a finger into one draping display so he could lift it and furrow his brow. He huffed at her comment to him and dropped the item to wipe his finger on his cloak.
Looking around inside, his eyes lingered on the few pieces that highlighted blues, greens and purples. They were lovely, but far too telling; a strange, Telerin Elf in colors of the sea would make his fana easily identifiable to his brother. He glanced around the shop again and took a breath to speak before he thought better of it. How could he trust the advice of this stranger-guide? Her loyalties were still unknown. If he asked for assistance in choosing clothing, she could easily trap him in his garments. Perhaps a certain color indicated a target, or symbolized an intruder; there was no way to know what tricks might be waiting for him to relax.
Instead, he trusted what the merchant showed — every flashy display and flourish of his hand. This man would want to please a wealthy visitor and acquire his future business, so his recommendations were safely motivated. "I will accept his suggestions for his finest garments, and pay whatever he desires. However, I do not want whatever he chooses for the simpler attire. Choose something half-forgotten and unremarkable," Ossë directed. The fine garments would be bragged about to others, and gather the most attention; but he needed the plain garments to be forgotten by the merchant so, if asked, he would find it harder to describe the ‘valet’s’ attire. If his plan was to succeed, he needed to have all the attention on him alone.
Berúthiel watched the elf-thing from the corner of her eye as he paraded himself about the store, treating the man’s relatively fine wares as though they were trash and beneath his notice. She fought back a wry smirk as she wondered to herself whether this was his natural state or if he was simply a very good actor. She was inclined to think the former, really. But she maintained her own façade of arrogant pride as his interpreter and did not allow herself to smile or break the character she’d made for herself.
She nodded at his words to her; perhaps he did not trust her to choose the garb he’d wear, then! Well, she did not trust him, either, so they found themselves equal in that at least.
Turning back toward the merchant, she said, as though translating her employer’s orders, “He wishes to hear your advice for appropriate garb. Apparently, he thinks your opinion can be trusted.” Her tone made it clear that she did not entirely agree, but that the foibles of the man who held the purse were not hers to question.
“Of course my lord, of course!” the man answered, bowing repeatedly over pressed-together hands. The gesture would make his obsequiousness clear, even though the “foreign lord” would not understand the words.
He led them deeper into the store and halted before one last display of crimson and golden silk and soft Khandare linen the color of skimmed cream, embroidered thickly with beads and golden thread in traditional Umbarim designs—the crescent, the sun, the wave. “Only this can suit my lord’s magnificence,” said the merchant, gesturing to make his meaning clear.
She stepped forward and rubbed a fold of the cloth between her fingers to test its quality, then gave the elf-thing a curt nod. It was acceptable. Just.
“And for my lord’s valet,” she added, as though only remembering. “Whatever scraps you have about will be fine. Last season’s designs, unsold in your bins. He will not know the difference, and it is only for a servant, after all.”
"Please?" Poppy pleaded quietly, squeezing the hand she now held a bit more tightly, as if this might somehow help to sway the decision more into her favor. "I do not wish to be alone."
The Hobbit needed no convincing to stay close to Berúthiel; she was practically attached to the woman’s hip, and truth be told, if she could have gotten away with it, she would have likely clung to the woman’s clothing, much like a frightened child would to it’s respective mother’s skirt tail. Poppy followed her blindly, entirely lost in the darkness that enveloped them. Berúthiel knew where she was going, it seemed, and that was good enough for Poppy.
She walked in silence for what felt like years, before an interesting thought popped into her mind. The curly head turned upward towards the general direction of the taller woman, and she then spoke it aloud.
"At least…now we do not have to worry about the bandits…?"
“No, you do not have to worry about this group of bandits any longer,” Berúthiel agreed, somewhat curtly. “Though the next time you encounter any of the northern Rangers in Bree or elsewhere, I’d recommend giving them your thanks. It is they who keep these lands as safe as they are, and many threats are ended before they even pass your borders.”
She sighed, and fell silent then, leading the way back through the woods until they hit the road. The going was easier then; though it was still dark, the moon was full and bright and the road far easier to navigate than the tangled forest. Before too long, the lights of Bree-town were visible ahead, and even Berú’s rather jaded heart gave a little thump at the thought of re-entering something like civilization, small and mean though it might be.
The porter at the city’s gates gave them no trouble; the cats had all but the smallest two melted away into the night and the sight of even a clearly foreign woman in company with a hobbit and two moggies was not one to inspire much suspicion.
At last, then, they stood before the inn of the Prancing Pony. “I’ve stayed here before. Clean, reputable. Barliman Butterbur is a bit ridiculous but a good enough man,” she told Poppy. “Tomorrow in the light you can return home. I’ll stay until morning, but no longer.”
And then they were inside, and being ushered to a room designed for such mixed company as theirs, with one large bed and one small.
She lay at last upon a real bed, feeling all the aches and pains of the last days catching her up quickly. She would travel on in the morning, but for now, it would be good to sleep.
Women of Tolkien: Lúthiel Tinúviel
"Then Lúthien catching up her winged robe sprang into the air, and her voice came dropping down like rain into pools, profound and dark. She cast her cloak before [Morgoth’s] eyes, and set upon him a dream, dark as the Outer Void where once he walked alone. Suddenly he fell, as a hill sliding in an avalanche, and hurled like thunder from his throne lay prone upon the floors of hell. The iron crown rolled echoing from his head. All things were still."
For the last forty-five seconds, someone had been tapping on her window. She knew it was a someone, because the closest tree stood a quarter of a mile away, and the birds this close to the university had far too much sense; besides, she could see the reflection in the polished base of the candlestick. Really, people looked quite absurd when elongated, like spaghetti with eyes.
Vetinari finished the page she was reading and retrieved the pen on her night-stand to make a few notes before addressing herself, almost absently, to the window.
"Give it a nudge, just left of centre. It’s unlatched." Anyone who wanted in enough to six storeys would want in enough to break a latched window. Whether or not they bothered to find out whether or not it was latched presented a far more interesting question. This was, however, the first time anyone had tapped.
The eyebrow inched ever higher until the woman finished speaking, at which point it descended to its companion’s level. Vetinari gave a quiet puff of laughter, turning on her heel to pace across the room with hands folded musingly behind her back. At the opposite wall she turned back and, head tilted slightly to the side, regarded the newcomer with mild curiosity.
"Was this a dwarf-cave, by any chance?"
Berúthiel watched the other woman carefully. There was an understated confidence to bearing which the once-queen thought she recognized, and an almost feline sense of amusement which radiated from the arched brow and the cocked head. A suspicion grew in her, and her eyes narrowed by the narrowest fraction.
“Of course,” she answered. “Aren’t they always?”