WIPs of some stuff I worked on tonight
– Manwë & Varda
– Varda
– Idril, Tuor, and Eärendil (and an invasion of swans pfff i drew the random swan being held as joke BUT THEN I ACCIDENTALLY DREW IT ON THE BACKGROUND so i just gave up cause it’s 4 in the morning -cries-)
I AM CRYING, THAT VARDA *A* ❤
ok but what about fëanor wearing something that is not red for once
Did I tell you of the crack headcanon in which he can’t wear blue in court or people seeing him from his back will mistake him for Ñolofinwë? Because that’s a thing that happened. I don’t really think they would be mistaken for one another. But imagine. Imagine.
person: “Prince Ñolofinwë!”
*Fëanor turns*
person: “I fucked up I fucked up”(On a more serious note, I endorse the statement and to speak of less cracky headcanons, I do think he wears quite a wide range of colours. He only likes red, I suppose. Since he chose it for that… that thing, the plum on the helmet, that thing we do not talk about.) (What if I draw him in violet, ivory and gold, because that’s a thing I would like to see and if no one does it then I suppose I should do it myself. Maybe I’ll manage to finish it within the next year.)
I see your ivory and gold and I raise you all black in six different luxurious materials.
I return from yet MORE spelunking into the ancient depths of this blog to fix tags! *collapses*
*clutches at you from floor* YOUNG BLOGGERS *wheeeze* HEAR ME! It is never too soon to have a coherent tagging system! Save yourselves! It may seem irrelevant now, but I swear to you when your blog is three years old and you can’t find that thing you know you did with that reply that is suddenly important again, or you find that you’ve been tagging something three different ways with slightly different spellings, YOU WILL REPENT YOUR CARELESS WAYS!
Young blogger: I fear thee, ancient tumblrer! I fear thy pudgy hand! And thou art short and dank and round, and stained with Starbucks’ brand!
Me: Fear not, fear not, thou blogger fan! You need to understand;
I blogged the post, whose notes gained most,
but never a tag I planned!
#This dwarf is the most badass dwarf in the entire film #Look at that shit he doesn’t even blink #The only reason Sauron didn’t try to pull his shit sooner is because this guy was still alive #Because this guy would’ve picked up that glowing eyeball shit #And SMASHED IT BETWEEN BIG FUCK OFF HAMMERSWITH HIS BARE HANDS
-(via thedrunkenrat)
Gracious, little Khuzd! There are less hazardous ways to compress an ingot!
I’m much more impressed with the technology it took to even make a forging press with dies that large! But it does seem like a colossal waste of energy to have them swing down like that, for then you must surely have to raise them up again, and I see no mechanism with which to do this quickly… Your metal will cool and scale before you have time to apply the press again. There must be a more efficient way…
*strokes beard and begins sketching designs*
#i would have watched ‘bitter smithing: the film’ to be quite honest with you
me too… Dem forearms!
Oh Mahal, have mercy… You poor man! That is an anvil of men, and is much too tall for you! No wonder that blade is bouncing every which way. Why did you not get a box? </Condescending Forgemaster Sauron>
A Glimpse of Hell – Stunning Shots of an Active Volcano
Two Kyrgyzstan-based photographers, Andrew and Luda, trekked to the Kamchatka Peninsula in Russia where the volcano complex known as Tolbachik was in active eruption. Among the numerous hellish vistas photographed by the team was this deep volcanic cave that offered a glimpse of what it might look like below the Earth’s crust.
beautiful.
The Giver of Freedom insists that you leave the earth like this; he likes it better this way. (And who can blame him? I also prefer cookie-dough to cookies!)
Smaug by Chad Gowey
I think this kind of half-beast, half-reptile Smaug is my favorite. I LOVED the Rankin-bass version with its pelt, and the sinuous grace of this is awesome!
If you want to see the artist’s process from sketch to final pic, check out his progress entry here (clicky-clicky!)
John Howe has sketched a portrait of Melkor. Probably at that moment when the Balrogs heard his screaming and drove off Ungoliant.
“…Ungoliant had grown great, and he less by the power that had gone out of him; and she rose against him, and her cloud closed about him, and she enmeshed him in a web of clinging thongs to strangle him. Then Morgoth sent forth a terrible cry that echoed in the mountains. Therefore that region was called Lammoth; for the echoes of his voice dwelt there ever after, so that any who cried aloud in that land awoke them, and all the waste between the hills and the sea was filled with a clamour as of voices in anguish. The cry of Morgoth in that hour was the greatest and most dreadful that was ever heard in the northern world; the mountains shook, and the earth trembled, and rocks were riven asunder. Deep in forgotten places that cry was heard. Far beneath the ruined halls of Angband, in vaults to which the Valar in the haste of their assault had not descended, Balrogs lurked still, awaiting ever the return of their Lord; and now swiftly they arose, and passing over Hithlum they came to Lammoth as a tempest of fire. With their whips of flame they smote asunder the webs of Ungoliant, and she quailed, and turned to flight, belching black vapours to cover her…” (Silmarillion Chapter 9, Of the Flight of the Noldor and the Screaming Fits of Dark Lords.)
*________* I DID NOT KNOW THAT JOHN HOWE HAD DRAWN A MELKOR. ❤ ❤ ❤ Oh, my heart! The writhing seas, the smoking, razor backed mountains, the shadowy dragons! And his hand! That expression! And all in that misty silver graphite… *sigh*
Some deep-seated part of me still recognizes Howe’s illustrations as somehow authoritatively “WHAT MIDDLE EARTH LOOKS LIKE”, and the rest of me just acknowledges that he is A Damn Fine Illustrator and his pencil work makes me want to turn in my sketchbooks and lie down for a long time.
As a big potato, i feel compelled to protect and raise tiny potato childrens to glorious spudhood *sits on u for incubation*
“Happy am I to let you wait, ignorant and cold, with your ass in the sod, Master of Fate."
The note, scrawled on dried skin, is delivered from the hand of a scrawny young waif with freckled skin and short-cropped hair the color of fox fur."I was bidden give this to you upon a red hill, Lord Turambar. I could not refuse,” they said, with something crooked in the tilt of their mouth.
=
The men who held Raza by the arms suddenly flinched and cried out in distress: something had twisted beneath the flesh their captive, undulating like a snake working to free itself from an old skin. To the bandits’ credit, they maintained their grip.
Raza’s head drooped for an instant, gritting their crooked teeth with some internal effort.
“I am…” they rasped, a small, bitten-back noise escaping their throat before they could catch their breath. “Ahaha… I am running out of time, is what I am…” They laughed, gnawing their bottom lip, then added just under their breath, “This used to be… so much easier.”
When they raised their eyes again to meet Turin’s, the color and shape of them had changed— but only for the space of a blink. “Call me… a friend of the family, so to speak.”
Now it was Androg’s turn to snatch at his captain’s arm, though the force with which Túrin drew the sword shook his lieutenant off with such ease that he did not seem to have registered the intent.
Túrin dug the blade’s tip into Raza’s throat. “No friend of mine, I think, nor of any save yourself. I will have the truth, wretch, or the next thing to leave your mouth will be your own life’s blood.”
The strange creature flinched from the blade, throat convulsing with a swallow. But still they laughed–
“You would not recognize the truth if you looked it straight in the face! You would not see it, nor hear it, nor know its name, if you rolled on top of it in the night… Son of Húrin.” Raza curled their tongue against their teeth obscenely.
“Go on… ask me how I know of your straw-headed father… ask me how I came to carry a message from the Mighty Arising! Truth or no truth, you’ll not remember this come morning– that is a promise."
Red-gold eyes widened to round luminescent pools, and those who looked in their amber depths found themselves as caught in their reflection as an ant in sap, unable to blink or look away. The men who who held the being who’d named itself "stranger” grew still as stone; all sound on the hilltop died, all color faded but the red of flowers and the red of Raza’s eyes.
“Why don’t you guess my name?"
MisbehavingMaiar: Tumblr Archive 