*elves

3

Character sketches: House of Finwe 

The house of Feanor, the House of Fingonfin, and the House of Finarfin. These are basic character sketches, i’ll probably change the designs more as i get used to drawing them. No Finwe, Miriel, Indis or any of Finwe’s daughters because i haven’t thought of designs for them (and i was getting bored drawing in this style). 

Fingon is my favourite. 

Please do not repost or edit in any way 

Facts  you might not know about Tolkien's Elves, the Eldar:
  • Ageing: Elves learn to speak, walk & dance when they are 1 year old. They age slower than humans after the 3rd year and when a man would have reached full hight, Elves still look like no older than 7. With 50 they reach their shape and stature and after a few hundred they are fully grown.
  • Marriage: Most marry shortly after the 50th year and usually have 1-2, max. 4 children. (Fëanor’s 7 children were unusual)
  • Rebirth: Elves can be reborn once, if they die in battle or similar. If they choose (and are allowed by Mandos) to be reborn, they will recover their memory of the past life during their youth, to continue their previous life. [This makes me wonder why Thranduil is so upset about his wife’s death, since they could be re-unitied, unless she didn’t want to, or did something horrible, or died for the second time?]
  • Marriage after death: If one party dies, they can choose to remain in the halls of Mandos until the end of Arda and allow their spouse to re-marry. This means they will not be able to be reborn ever again. If they chose to be reborn, they will eventually „re-marry“ their previous spouse, since their union last until the end of Arda unless broken by death & choice.
  • Gender: An Elf’s gender is part of their „fëa“ (spirit). If they are born as man, they can not be re-born as woman or the other way around, as this would also confuse the continuation of their previous life.

Source: “Morgoth’s Ring”  by J.R.R.Tolkien

Blinding light.

Content: A child is discovered in the dwelling of a deceased Dalish.
Content Warning: Death, body horror, present tense narration (I know)
Notes: Found this piece on my laptop. It’s old.

I’ve got something you have to see
so come, my heart, come follow me
close your eyes, awake in sleep
a world unfolds where once we were free


Mother sings as she gently wraps a red ribbon adorned with white cornflower shapes around his freshly bandaged hands. She brushes his unruly hair from his face and kisses the child good night.
This ribbon will give you strength, if you wish to believe. It will help with the hurt. Aule lets the oil lamp burn, flame low to soothe the boy’s fear of the dark. 




Eyes are grainy and watering from sleep.
I’ve got something, you have two sheep, Spiridon sings and kicks the blanket aside with his feet. His bandaged hands ache, blotchy pale yellow where blisters had burst. Mother often sang the small pink and brow elves’ songs, the ones they crooned to their own children. Dreams, they said, when you close your eyes and wake up in another world where anything could come true, but when he closes his eyes, he always wakes in his bed. Mother has fallen asleep in her chair again. Cold light casts a ghostly glow on her white hair from the vent.
Mamae? He says, prodding mother with a burning finger. It’s not the time to sleep now. But mother does not move. He tugs at her hair. Her eyes are open, nose squashed on the wood table, her mouth is dirty. Sounds of the stirring clan call from the outside as the daylight grows bolder, creeping along the walls from the ceiling, but Aule Lavellan is gone. They say one’s soul travel through where the dreams are, but mother said she never dreams, just like him.
He hides between his cot and the wicker baskets full of herbs, peering at the unmoving body, and wraps his arms around his knees. She never wants him to go out. She says the others will be cruel.



No more apples, and the cooked meat had begun to taste strange and mother smelled bad. The night had come and gone four times. His belly hurts and the hands are worse and they do smell and the damp cloth wrapped around them is filthy. It’s so hot in the yurt. Spiridon peels the sand-coloured shawl off his sweating back, but no relief comes, only the ache in his hands gets worse as he opens and closes his fists.
There are voices outside and someone pulls the thick woven cloth covering the door aside, cool air blowing in and rustling the bundles of drying herbs hanging from the ceiling, but whomever did it groans and balks, grimacing at the putrid stench wafting out. They spit something in Elvish, something Spiridon can’t understand. He retreats deeper into his makeshift burrow in the dark. More voices are at the entrance now, tense and alarmed, and someone’s head is poking in, though he can’t quite make it out who it is as the light stings his eyes painting the intruder’s shape amorphous black. No one enters, but no one leaves either. They call for the Keeper.


Keeper Istimaethoriel always wears her graying hair up in a severe braid. She’s the first to duck through the entrance, stopping for a moment to let her eyes adjust. Her nose crinkles at the smell, but she bends over the dead elf anyway, pulling aside her hair to see what might have taken her from them. Three more elves peer inside warily, shooing away curious children, but they keep coming back anyway, eyes large, whispering to each other, clinging to the adults’ legs.
Spiridon can’t quite make out her words, they seem slurred and distant and unimportant and his eyelids feel heavy. He wishes they went away, he never went into their huts, why are they here? The Keeper signals two men and they enter, bouncing their gaze off the walls where the strange elf that had come from the Anderfels and called herself Lavellan and taken their vallaslin had lived, hands over their mouths and noses. The Keeper turns to leave. Where’s the boy her voice muffled as if spoken through cotton. A curious child at the door points her finger at his hideout. The Keeper’s mouth falls ajar in a sigh, brows knitting. She gathers the cloth of her robe in one hand, kneeling at the ghost of a child shrouded by the dark and extends her thin, leathery hand, wavering, curling her fingers. She knows of him and remembers his face, but the boy had been a rare sight among playing children.
The tiny, wrapped hand that meets hers reeks, bloody and pustulent and shaking, the red ribbon enveloping it drenched, white flowers on it tainted. The Keeper smiles, though her eyes are as wide as those of the gaggle of children and adults murmuring at the door. The rest of the boy crawls out, unsteady and glassy-eyed, trying to stand steady, but staggering. The Keeper lets him fall in his arms, placing the inflamed hands carefully in his lap, skin on his back clammy, scrawny body burning up. The elves outside fall away as she exits the yurt with him. They turn their attention to the men carrying Aule Lavellan’s limp body between them. She had stood taller than either of them, getting her out through the small entrance went without grace.
—-

The boy, Spiridon, he says, stands behind her. She tells him to lie down, but the child just shakes his head, stronger now and slightly delirious from the swig of strong brandy infused with crystal grace. An adult’s medicine, but sorely needed. He’s five years old, she remembers, just as her grandson, same childish defiance. She’d given him one of his shirts, but the boy was too tall, so he stood in one of her own shawls, looking like some solemn shaman in trance. Healer Cala is crouching in the far corner of hey spacious yurt, ladling spindleweed water from a steaming cauldron into a robust bowl.
Sit, the Keeper says, but Spiridon shakes his head again, wordless. Responding in vein, she gingerly takes his hand and begins unwrapping. How long had the bandages remained unchanged?
What happened to you? She asks as she removes the stained red ribbon first.
I played with a… he pauses to think, a boarweed.
Oh, dear, she she sighs. How did that happen?
I just broke one. She feels him flinch away as she pulls away the first drenched bandage, revealing underneath skin burned off and yellow boils full of clear fluid, purulent lesions. She stifles the urge to retch at the smell. Spiridon remains silent, though shaking from fever and pain, and his eyes are puff and red and glistening with tears, teeth digging into his bottom lip. A bowl of crystal grace solution has cooled, and she guides the child to it, letting him soak his hands in the healing water, but the harsh herb stings, coaxing a whimper.

I HAVE A CONSPIRACY THEORY FOR Y’ALL

\o/ Ja’mon Sa’ord is an Ancient Brass Dragon

ok so follow me on this:

- We know Ja’mon has been in Marquet for around four hundred years, and we also know dragons can easily live that long. The only other races that live that long are elves (and possibly gnomes), but Ja’mon is specifically described as not resembling any particular race

-Which brings me to the transformation thing, obviously; metallic dragons are intelligent, good-aligned, and we already know that dragons can take human shapes in Matt’s universe (Raishan *cough*). They can probably choose what they look like - Raishan chose a little girl, Ja’mon chose something a little more intimidating, androgynous, and with bronzed skin and molten metal eyes.

-Also the powerful magic would explain why Ja’mon knows who they are already

-Not to mention the constant theme of brass we’ve been seeing throughout the city like woah.

-There was a bust of Ja’mon Sa’ord in General Krieg’s house, and we haven’t seen any images of him anywhere else in the campaign before or since. I don’t think that’s an accident, because, of course, General Krieg was one of the Chroma Conclave.

- Brass Dragons are known to make their lairs…in the desert. I mean, duh. Oh, and they can - according to someone on Twitter - help guide people to water, and they don’t need maps to navigate their hoards, so it would make sense for them to rule a labyrinthine desert city with a roaring water trade.

-The description of the tower not only makes it sound like a hoard (the throne, the silks) but also makes it sound like the archway/balcony would be big enough for a dragon to exit through

-And Matt was playing fucking Skyrim music when they climbed the tower

- Also, if Matt’s going by the monster manual, they are incredibly talkative and particularly enjoy the company of interesting people. What better way to do that than become an Emperor of a city with such colour and culture?

And metallic dragons find chromatic dragons despicable. They could be meeting an AMAZING ally here I’m so excited.

Story Shard 235

Liquor Dragon:

-A single touch of their claw can turn a pool of water into delicious liquor.

-Their hoards consist of liquors. The most exquisite wines and brandies from elves. Beers and mead from dwarves. Ciders from nymphs. They trade the liquor they make for what they add to their hoard.

-They only get drunk on special occasions, preferring to simply savor the taste.

  • me 3 years ago:ugh, elves are so annoying and high and mighty, they're just humans with pointy ears, I really don't get the appeal
  • me now:don't talk to me or my 5468563 elf OCs ever again