Silm - Tumblr Posts
Celegorm and Huan see the Northern Lights. Aurora borealis photos kept appearing on the landscape blogs I follow, and I wanted to paint it. Would also like to paint the Helcaraxë (and get better at negative painting with the ice.) Close up pic because I'm happy with Huan's toe beans.
12 x 8", watercolor, gouache, Komorebi metallic watercolors, masking fluid, ink, white gel pen
i took elvish in school and i fucking hated it. the teacher was like 700 years old and he'd like take us on field trips to sit on the banks of babbling brooks and watch the fall of sunlight through the leaves. my friends in spanish class were like conjugating verbs and shit and meanwhile i was in an old-growth forest being overcome with awe at the sight of a majestic stag. like uhh yeah mr autumnheart when are we gonna learn like any grammar "listen to the murmur of the wind in the treetops, and you shall find the grammar you seek" like fuck dude your pedagogy leaves much to be desired
Elrond Peredhel; in Imladris
Elrond Peredhel, in the Second age, in the newly established Imladris which stood finished in S.A. 1700 Of the Sun (1697-1700)
I know Maglor is usually assigned the wet cat pathetic meow meow aesthetic among the Fëanorians, but consider cringe-fail Curufin, who loses the comparison with his dad on all counts, who when the only time he acts as a relatively decent elf it ends with his cousin killed, who orchestrates a coup but he’s thrown out with barely the clothes on his back, who is choked by Beren and then doesn’t even manage to shoot his arrows to the target, who is stripped of his weapons and his pride is trampled, whose son renounces him and his house, and who dies without even touching a silmaril. Loser behaviour. The only good thing he does is father Celebrimbor.
“How do you even know he's alive?” asks Fingon.
Maglor watches him for a long moment, his face grave and closed in a way Fingon doesn't remember ever seeing before.
“Come with me,” he finally says.
With a swish of his long cloak, his armour perfectly oiled and silent, he turns around and leads Fingon to a side door. They ascend the winding, undecorated steps in silence. Fingon has a million things to say, to ask, to shout now that they're in private, but in the face of Maglor's stone countenance, the magnitude of the loss of his uncle and Maedhros, he can no longer find the words.
Before the narrow, windowless staircase can grow fully dark, the light of the sun filters in from another opening at the top. They come out on a crenelled tower, far above the rest of the fortress. Fingon looks around, discovering the lands of Beleriand from a bird's point of view.
Maglor stands there and waits him out without a word. When Fingon finally turns to him, he gestures at the North. There, beyond the snow-covered plains and pine forests, looms a sheer black cliff.
“Angband,” Maglor says. “The mountain is called Thangorodrim.”
“What am I looking for?”
Maglor sighs and shields his eyes from the sun with his hands, staring at the cliff face. “Close to the top, where it's the sheerest.”
Fingon squints. He doesn't know what to expect, so he has no time to shield his mind between the moment he spots a figure up there, dangling from the cliff, and the moment he understands.
Maglor reels back, as if struck. Fingon finds that he can't breathe.
He falls to his knees against the battlement. Nothing can make him tear his eyes from the figure of Maedhros hanging by his arm from the cliff. His stomach is trying to rebel, and tears blur his vision, keeping him from desperately looking for any sign of life.
“How long?” he manages to choke out.
“Almost two years, as close as I could tell,” Maglor says. He doesn't sound much less choked up, though this is clearly a habitual sight to him.
Two years. Almost two thirds of the time it took them to cross the Ice.
How has Maedhros survived this long?
“There's a winged creature who comes to feed him once a week.” Maglor must have caught his thought. “Well, force-feed him, really. I suppose Morgoth must think him a valuable hostage.” He pauses for a moment, still staring forward. “He's not wrong.”
Fingon has had too much. The strangled sob in his throat comes out as a cry of rage.
“And you've just left him there?”
For some reason when I was first reading the Silmarillion I got it into my head that they could see Maedhros from Mithrim... It's not geographically correct, but it's heartbreaking enough to share. The years mentioned here are of course Tree years, ten Sun years apiece.
I put together a prompt list for an October drawing challenge!
It's primarily run on twitter and bluesky, but I'll try to check in here too and rb over at @goodboyhuan. (I'm less active here, so feel free to @ or message me if you draw something!)
Attention Tolkien Fans!
I am excited to announce that lotrart is nearing 2,000 posts! This has gotten so much bigger than I ever could have anticipated and I'm so happy that people love this collection of fanart as much as I do.
With that in mind, this is one for the tags! If you're interested in rediscovering some of the most breathtaking, <100-note art posts from Tumblr's byegone era, please come and join me! I may be busy, but my queue is busier. this is a bold-faced lie I will reblog art from any Tolkien-adjacent anything if you send it to me - the original LotR trilogy, the Peter Jackson films, The Silmarillion my beloved, Rings of Power, and anything else you can think of - so please reach out to drop me links to your favourite art and artists! My mission is to get as much old stuff recirculating as I possibly can.
So… I had a weird idea recently: What if we combined the Silmarillion with my little pony. As a result, I created this (in case you were wondering: this is Ecthelion).
Does it look okay?
Hello everyone!
Here are two new ponies for @outofangband ! This time these are the pony versions of Húrin and Morwen.
Recently I had some free time so ...
How do you like Fingon as a pony?
New ponies!
Credits to iconElementBases
Hello everyone!
This time Fëanor had the honor of becoming a pony!
It is also the first pony to have a background, which may not be perfect as this is my first MLP style location.
idly thinking about an AU where the sons of Fëanor go east to hold against Morgoth and disappear; letters arrive infrequently and then taper off, scouts who go east of Doriath rarely if ever return, and those that do whisper of fire-spirits: not Balrogs, not evil, but definitely dangerous and definitely not elves
so it's concluded that whatever other power holds those lands killed (or imprisoned or…) the Fëanorians, and at least they're fighting Morgoth
meanwhile the sons of Fëanor have. uh. well. they might have reverse-engineered Melian's Girdle and used the power of the Oath to bind themselves to their lands. so there's a strong protection laid over the whole east, though instead of being a "no one comes or goes" it's just "no one goes" (though the Lords can give permission for people to pass through)
and in the process they changed, somehow. they're not Maiar, probably, but they're definitely not normal elves anymore…
which means that when Fingon goes a little farther east in Ard-Galen than he expected, he and his company find themselves being brought to Himring and their General, who is very glad to see him