Benedict in the weird anglerfish microphone headset for Smaug. #inktober 3! bic stick ballpoint in my spiral sketchbook. open either in new tab for better quality. reference this lovely gifset by cumberbum. (this drawing was fun, i think it’s getting a sequel…) (completed!)
All afternoon the following lines have been running through my head and I suppose at some point I’ll have to put them in the Bram Stoker au. (Not one, but two literary references haha!)
Mr. and Mrs. Lars, of Topsham, Devon, were proud to say they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the owners and caretakers of one perfectly ordinary boat, which was used primarily for fishing. And they were the occupants of a very mundane, if a little run down, house not far from the harbor. They kept a routine, seldom varying, and one could easily guess what Owen Lars might say on any given subject without the bother of asking him!
In fact, the only thing about the Lars family that might be remarked upon was their young nephew, Luke. It was common enough knowledge that the lad was orphaned, brought from foreign parts as a toddling babe with a most unusual accent to the few words he knew. And although he learned to blend with his companions quickly enough, it remained plain to most of Topsham that there was something just the slightest bit unusual about the child.
“Never mind them,” Beru Lars used to say as she would drop a motherly kiss on the boy’s brow, “An angel must have kissed your eyes when you were born, and that is why they shine so bright.”
And then she would replace the mountain rose and hawthorn around the house, for Luke often seemed more at ease with the plants present.
Owen Lars was not nearly so sentimental in nature as his wife. More often, when his nephew asked whether they found him odd like his playmates and their families did, he would knock out his pipe against the grate and declare, “Utter nonsense. There’s not a thing wrong with you! Don’t you work as hard as any lad in the yards? Nonsense, I say!”
And then he would brood a while in silence before declaring something to the effect of, “Nothing wrong with the lad at all! And if anyone says different, I’ll…why, I’ll bash them on the head with an oak staff, see if I don’t!”
This, as one may imagine, did not make Owen Lars an especially popular man at public houses. But Mr. Owen Lars of Topsham, Devon, had never been of a temperament easily influenced by the opinions of others.
Thranduil, King of the Woodland realm, The Elvenking, ect ect–
I wanted to start a portrait serie where I paint my favorite characters from the LOTR/Hobbit/Silmarillion. Hopefully when I finish with them (its going to be a long, long time, because I have so many favorites *-*) I will become better at this ^^”
Thranduil was my first pick, because I recently watched the Hobbit with my family. So here you go
You’re a safe.
And the treasure I’m after is locked up inside: uproarious, symphonic laughter.
The biting of your lips is the lock.
But ANY lock can be cracked with the right combination. Every safe requires a different combination. And I’m going to find yours.
Will it be soft, gentle fingers swirling along your soles?
Will it be the fast squeezing of ribs?
Will it be trailing my fingers, ever so slowly, from your wrists to your armpits and all the way up again- spidering my fingers along the treasure trail of tiny tickle spots as I go?
I’ll find your combination. The lock will crack. Out will pour my treasure, your laughter, every second of it a gold coin: and I won’t stop until I’m richer than Smaug.