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rakashavia http://ift.tt/2vwZJeS:
“How much farther?” Fingon called into the wind. “How much farther can you bear us?”
The eagle’s cruel, hooked beak did not move, but his great voice echoed in the minds of those that huddled upon his back.
“I am Thorondor, Lord of Eagles. My wing beats are the crack of mountain thunder and when I stoop to kill it is the strike of lightning. My wings span thirty fathoms and my strength is the strength of the rising storm. I can carry you as far as is needful.”
“Thirty fathoms exactly?” said Fingon. “And how much do you weigh?”
Thorondor blinked his golden eyes. “What?”
“We’ve been doing some calculations back here,” Fingon said, oblivious to his confusion. “The average harpy eagle has a wingspan of about a fathom and can carry its own body weight - say twenty pounds - for short distances. If we were to extrapolate your weight and scale linearly, you’d be able to carry our combined weight with ease.”
“But the matter is vastly more complicated than linear scaling,” croaked his cousin. “Based on wingspan and weight, an unladen eagle would induce a velocity change on air of almost eight miles an hour - forgive the approximation, I don’t have parchment or sufficient blood - and would require a tremendous amount of energy.”
“Factoring in the additional weight of two adult Eldar-“
“-plus armour but sans several litres of blood-”
“-the energy requirements would be ludicrous. And that’s without getting into the tensile strength of muscle, bone, etcetera.”
“You understand,” said Thorondor slowly, “That I am a maia of Manwë, cloaked only in the seeming of an eagle?” He was remembering again why, Oaths and murders aside, he found the Noldor such a thoroughly disagreeable people.
“Well yes,” said Fingon the Valiant. “But that’s no excuse for the crafting of a shoddy fana.”
“O Heirs of Finwë,” said Thorondor. “Behold! For we have found precisely how far I can carry you and it has nothing at all to do with the power of my wings and everything to do with the limits of my patience.” He folded his wings and dived towards the mushroom patch of tents that marked the Noldor’s camps upon Lake Mithrim’s shore, his passengers clutching tightly at his feathers and at each other.
They landed in a hurricane rush of wind that tore several tents from their moorings, and the raking of great claws that tore great furrows in the brown earth of the lake’s shore.
”Right,” said the Lord of Eagles, turning his head to peer at the elves upon his back. “Fuck off.”
“How much farther?” Fingon called into the wind. “How much farther can you bear us?”
The eagle’s cruel, hooked beak did not move, but his great voice echoed in the minds of those that huddled upon his back.
“I am Thorondor, Lord of Eagles. My wing beats are the crack of mountain thunder and when I stoop to kill it is the strike of lightning. My wings span thirty fathoms and my strength is the strength of the rising storm. I can carry you as far as is needful.”
“Thirty fathoms exactly?” said Fingon. “And how much do you weigh?”
Thorondor blinked his golden eyes. “What?”
“We’ve been doing some calculations back here,” Fingon said, oblivious to his confusion. “The average harpy eagle has a wingspan of about a fathom and can carry its own body weight - say twenty pounds - for short distances. If we were to extrapolate your weight and scale linearly, you’d be able to carry our combined weight with ease.”
“But the matter is vastly more complicated than linear scaling,” croaked his cousin. “Based on wingspan and weight, an unladen eagle would induce a velocity change on air of almost eight miles an hour - forgive the approximation, I don’t have parchment or sufficient blood - and would require a tremendous amount of energy.”
“Factoring in the additional weight of two adult Eldar-“
“-plus armour but sans several litres of blood-”
“-the energy requirements would be ludicrous. And that’s without getting into the tensile strength of muscle, bone, etcetera.”
“You understand,” said Thorondor slowly, “That I am a maia of Manwë, cloaked only in the seeming of an eagle?” He was remembering again why, Oaths and murders aside, he found the Noldor such a thoroughly disagreeable people.
“Well yes,” said Fingon the Valiant. “But that’s no excuse for the crafting of a shoddy fana.”
“O Heirs of Finwë,” said Thorondor. “Behold! For we have found precisely how far I can carry you and it has nothing at all to do with the power of my wings and everything to do with the limits of my patience.” He folded his wings and dived towards the mushroom patch of tents that marked the Noldor’s camps upon Lake Mithrim’s shore, his passengers clutching tightly at his feathers and at each other.
They landed in a hurricane rush of wind that tore several tents from their moorings, and the raking of great claws that tore great furrows in the brown earth of the lake’s shore.
”Right,” said the Lord of Eagles, turning his head to peer at the elves upon his back. “Fuck off.”
