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).
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.
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
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.
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
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
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
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.
- 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.