Welcome to my blog! I’m M, but you can call me Whimsy or Lemon, whichever you prefer. I created this blog for the sole purpose of posting my attempts at stick figures and chibis and everything else related to art. Full disclosure: I purchased base chibi poses off Design Bundle (credit here and here). These are just the basic outlines, so the hair, skin tones, clothes, jewellery, and facial expressions will all be of my design.
In addition, you can find my writing on @ms-trash-panda (for multifandom works) and @lemoncakesandwine (for GRRM related works).
This blog is a strictly 18+ zone, so please be mindful of what is posted and reblogged. You alone are responsible for your online experience.
It's a lovely Thursday night, I was bored, and so, I present this unto you: a heraldic device for House Whitehead of Weeping Town, a noble house from the Stormlands. There is no sigil or motto given in canon, so I drew this.
Coat of arms: A white anchor on a black field (Sable, an anchor Argent)
This is something I drew in honour of my Anderson Road story. I thought of Gothmog having a tattoo across his upper back and its a mix of a fanged skull with a wee bit of a Gini Yaka mask thrown in. I'm quite happy with how this turned out in the end.
For this, I drew a white swan (to symbolise Eärwen being called the Swan Maiden) against a field of blue, the colour I associate with the Teleri. The swan is gliding through waves with its wings unfurled, while a crowned star floats overhead (the crowned stars floating over waves is the sigil I associate with the royal house of Olwë and King Olwë himself). Five little stars complete the device, but these are merely for adornment's sake and hold no special meaning.
For Nerdanel's sigil I drew a crossed black chisel and hammer (the chief tools of her craft) against a shield of crimson. It is surrounded by a ring of orange and a ring of yellow, the colours flame, and it all rests against a field of gold, one of the shades I headcanon as being associated with the Noldor. After Nerdanel married Fëanor, she incorporated the rays from the eight-pointed star of his House with her sigil.
Thence she had crept towards the light of the Blessed Realm; for she hungered for light and hated it.
In a ravine she lived, and took shape as a spider of monstrous form, weavingher black webs in a cleft of the mountains. There she sucked up all light that she could find, and spun it forth again in dark nets of strangling gloom, until no light more could come to her abode; and she was famished.
- The Silmarillion, Chapter 8, The Darkening of Valinor
I deviated from canon and depicted Ungoliant with a near translucent belly that glows brightly after she has fed. Here, she is still in the cosmos, feeding on the light of nearby stars as she descends into Arda. Her existence seems to be a most wretched one: hating light but needing it to live, always hungry and never satisfied no matter how much she eats, powerful yet having to live in fear of other beings.
Heraldic device of Amarië of the Vanyar. Little is written about her in canon, so I thought of creating this: a golden, double-petaled poppy Amarië grows in her glasshouse. Amarië is fond of rare flowers, and this particular poppy is her own creation. She loves it so much, she uses it for a personal sigil. The poppy rests on a field of white and gold and is surrounded on four sides by white stars. Amarië designed the device herself. (This is purely my headcanon, by the way.)
Stained glass themed depiction of the Weirwood tree of Raventree Hall. It is said to be of imposing size and dead, its leaves having fallen off its branches a long time ago. Members of Blackwood claim members of House Bracken poisoned the tree. Ravens now make the tree their home. They arrive everyday at dusk and roost through the night. My own headcanon is that the Old Gods sent the ravens as the tree could not longer be used as a conduit between the world of men and their realm.
The banner decorating the tent of the Lord Commander of the Stormbreakers, the company of sell-swords Oscar Tully formed after the Dance of the Dragons. This was inspired by what was written in this story.
Then Feanor laughed as one fey, and he cried: ‘None and none! What I have left behind I count now no loss; needless baggage on the road it has proved. Let those that cursed my name, curse me still, and whine their way back to the cages of the Valar! Let the ships burn!’ Then Maedhros alone stood aside, but Feanor caused fire to be set to the white ships of the Teleri. So in that place which was called Losgar at the outlet of the Firth of Drengist ended the fairest vessels that ever sailed the sea, in a great burning, bright and terrible. And Fingolfin and his people saw the light afar off, red beneath the clouds; and they knew that they were betrayed. This was the firstfruits of the Kinslaying and the Doom of the Noldor.
- The Silmarillion, chapter 9, "Of the flight of the Noldor"
This is my first attempt at drawing something with a stained glass look to it, and for this piece, I drew inspiration from the burning of Alqualondë's fabled swan-ships at Losgar. Getting the swan head and neck right for the bow of the ship was a pain, but I'm glad with how it all turned out.
Then Feanor laughed as one fey, and he cried: ‘None and none! What I have left behind I count now no loss; needless baggage on the road it has proved. Let those that cursed my name, curse me still, and whine their way back to the cages of the Valar! Let the ships burn!’ Then Maedhros alone stood aside, but Feanor caused fire to be set to the white ships of the Teleri. So in that place which was called Losgar at the outlet of the Firth of Drengist ended the fairest vessels that ever sailed the sea, in a great burning, bright and terrible. And Fingolfin and his people saw the light afar off, red beneath the clouds; and they knew that they were betrayed. This was the firstfruits of the Kinslaying and the Doom of the Noldor.
- The Silmarillion, chapter 9, "Of the flight of the Noldor"
This is my first attempt at drawing something with a stained glass look to it, and for this piece, I drew inspiration from the burning of Alqualondë's fabled swan-ships at Losgar. Getting the swan head and neck right for the bow of the ship was a pain, but I'm glad with how it all turned out.
Then Manwë bade Yavanna and Nienna to put forth all their powers of growth and healing; and they put forth all their powers upon the Trees. But the tears of Nienna availed not to heal their mortal wounds; and for a long while Yavanna sang alone in the shadows. Yet even as hope failed and her song faltered, Telperion bore at last upon a leafless bough one great flower of silver, and Laurelin a single trait of gold. These Yavanna took; and then the Trees died, and their lifeless stems stand yet in Valinor, a memorial of vanished joy. But the flower and the fruit Yavanna gave to Aulë, and Manwë hallowed
them, and Aulë and his people made vessels to hold them and preserve their radiance: as is said in the Narsilion, the Song of the Sun and Moon.
After having been inspired by a story I wrote for my GRRM-centred blog, I drew up this heraldic device for the Stormbreakers, the free company Ser Oscar Tully formed in the aftermath of the Dance of the Dragons and the fall of the Triarchy. It is divided down the centre and is red on one side and blue on the other. Matched silver bolts of lightning cross at the centre. The words of the company are "None Can Withstand Us."
It comes as no surprise to anyone that Turukáno garlands Elenwë of the Vanyar at the Imcilmë Vestalë. They have been courting for several years, a slow pace by the reckoning of the Eldar.
Russandol wanders the hall, his garland of needleflower and hibiscus almost invisible against his red attire. It does not invite speculation. Still, the speculation is inevitable for any noble of age, even some not yet of age are eyed as viable prospects for an alliance.
His brothers are similarly attempting to blend in, except for Kanafinwë who, of course, has fashioned a garland entirely of jasmine and gold beads, as though he intends to make a match of a Vanya himself. It is a bold statement, even for him.
Fëanáro destains the tradition, despite choosing Nerdanel at his very first Imcilmë Vestalë and causing a massive argument among the suitors by avoiding all the appropriate selections. Tales of him veering past the many assembled nobles to place his garland over the head of a simple smith’s daughter still inspire songs, as do tales of Nerdanel weaving a magic gown to enchant him, or answering Manwë’s riddles to attend the Imcilmë Vestalë.
Within her own household it is well known that Fëanáro invited her there himself and was perfectly clear with his intentions, but that does not make for entertaining songs.
Fëanáro's sons have grown all too used to hearing a familiar tune hummed by hopeful maidens as they pass by, as the Valimar guards have grown all too used to plucking the uninvited from the high walls of the great hall during a festival.
Findekáno finds him in the crowd, his arm slipping around Russo’s waist, his head falling against his shoulder. He brings with him a strong scent of flowers, almost enough to cloak his own honey-wax and leather scent.
How Maitimo wishes they could be in the stables instead, saddling the horses for a long ride over Túna’s low hills, to sleep on bedrolls under the light of Telperion away from courtly rules and taboos. Instead it will be feasting and singing and every cousin and sibling wandering in and out of each other’s rooms in the Vanyarin palace with no space for smuggled kisses and hidden caresses. Not to begin to speak of Ainur lingering around every corner.
‘No one catch your eye, cousin?’ Findekáno jests. He might have been taken for sincere by anyone else but his bedmate.
‘Alas, my heart remains with my family,’ Russandol dares to laugh and loops his own arm over Findekáno’s shoulder. ‘Are you so weary already?’
His garland is plush with hydrangeas and delphiniums, dotted with striking passionflowers and beaded with lapis lazuli at the back. Russo plucks at a bead and Finno swats his hand away before he can crush the delicate flowers further.
‘Turukáno has absorbed all the energy for his own celebration.’
‘My congratulations to your household.’
‘Oh yes, thank you, we receive them very gladly indeed.’ Findekáno fakes a yawn. ‘Is it over with yet? I need a drink.’
Intoxicants are not allowed at the Imcilmë Vestalë, as the choice is meant to be uninfluenced. As though that stops families from forcing together a desired match until they cave to the pressure.
‘Soon enough now.’ Russo presses a kiss to the side of his forehead and reaches out his free hand to spin Írissë as she passes in a smiling blur of white and blue.
‘You know, I heard talk of matching the pair of you.’ Finno looks up at him slyly.
‘Me? With Írissë? Ridiculous.’
‘I’m quite serious; I believe the reasoning was an alliance to soothe the warring Noldor families.’
‘Turcafinwë will be glad to hear the attention has lifted from him.’
‘Not all; they want him with young Artanis.’
Russo chokes on air, and has to let go Findekáno entirely for how hard he is laughing, doubled over with mirth, tears in his eyes.
Recognising his brother drawing near he straightens and gestures him over to join the nonsense.
‘Makalaurë, come here, you must know of the awful scheming Finno has overheard!’
———
After the Imcilmë Vestalë the attendees walk out to Ezellohar to sing by the Trees and get, very necessarily, drunk.
Findaráto and Kanafinwë have already managed to procure several bottles and try to entourage him to join taunting the newly engaged couple with the bawdiest songs they can invent.
But Russandol demurs, though he steals a bottle from them, and goes to seek out Findekáno, who was parted from him in the merriment.
The bright lights of Valimar fade away into the peace of Lorien, the long tresses of the willow trees blowing in a gentle breeze, the tranquil lake beyond.
Findekáno stands looking out over the water, braids hanging black and gold down his back. Under the silver light he glows with warmth.
His garland lies discarded on a nearby bench.
‘You knew to find me here,’ Findekáno says, the smile obvious in his voice before he turns and casts its full radiance upon Russo.
‘You know I dislike the crowds.’
He uncorks the purloined bottle and refills the empty goblet Finno holds out to him.
They sit and share the miruvórë as they have a hundred times before.
Findekáno’s fingers are warm, the wine cool and Russandol feels himself suddenly overwhelmed with affection.
His garland is off his neck and in his hands, held out to garland Finno, before he has fully thought it through.
‘I may not yet declare it before the gods and our families, but know that my heart’s choice is and always will be you.’ He confesses, more earnest than he means to be.
‘Oh, Russo, I’m devastated,’ But Findekáno’s eyes shine with affection and with mirth. ‘You beat me to it!’
He lifts his own garland from beside him and offers it out haplessly.
Russo scoffs at his antics.
He garlands Finno and ducks his head in return and to his surprise feels a tear trace his cheek.
On close examination he realises that nestled in the all the blue flowers, in the joints of the garland are uncut rubies. Ah, so Findekáno had planned it as he made it, and Russo simply stumbled upon the idea in the moment. How unlike each of them.
‘I’m not so upset as that!’ Finno laughs, his hands cupping Russo’s face.
‘It’s happiness, fool.’ Russo growls, unable to sound as harsh as he wishes when his chest is so full of love.
And there is a very angsty and sexually explicit fic below the cut or on Ao3
They do not speak the evil things that lie between them. Of the blood that stains both their hands red. Do not talk about the times Maedhros looks at Fingon without recognition and seizes him, to strangle, to attack with a dinner knife. Worse still, the times he flinches in fear and stumbles away as if every horror is contained within the person he once loved.
They do not speak of the way Fingon shivers in his sleep still, no blankets, no bodies, no fires left all night quite enough to banish the cold of the ice from his memory.
They do not speak of the way neither of them can bear the smell of meat cooking and refuse to eat even the most obvious game. Of what trauma has made leaf-eaters of them.
How many times has Fingon reached out in his sleep, desperately holding Maedhros back from an abyss in ice only he can see. And how many times has Maedhros needed that touch to bring him back to himself, to free him from the cruel slope of the Thangorodrim.
It does not matter. They will not talk of it.
They did not used to need to talk to understand each other.
They did not speak of the feud between their fathers. Only found ways to argue around it or avoid one another until there was only silence between them. And then the entire ocean.
Fingon kisses down Maedhros’s chest, careful of the thin, fresh skin, gentle with the fractured and healed bones.
Maedhros is far away, within his own thoughts, his fingers softly resting on Fingon’s back, his mind held close and closed as it has been since he was lucid enough to do so.
Fingon, forgetful, fists his hand in Maedhros’s hair, the soft new growth silken against his calloused, frost-touched fingers.
‘Ai, Melkor!’
The name conjures silence and stillness between them. Fingon does not know how to respond, to begin to give words to the emotion that rages within him. The horror wants him to cast Maedhros, watching him wide-eyed and silent, away from him. The compassion wants to draw him close, hold him tight in arms that will never let him go.
There is an emptiness where a conversation does not pass between them. Fingon does not ask if he desires their enemy still. Maedhros does not deny the scars of his imprisonment that linger on his spirit. The anger fills the silence. The blame, unspoken, builds.
‘Enough of this.’ He decides for them both, seizing Maedhros in a harsh grip.
Fingon turns him onto his front, forces his head down into the mattress unkindly, ungentle, his fingers tearing again into the short crop of russet hair, scraping at the scalp beneath.
Even with the months of overeating to make up for the years he was imprisoned, Maedhros has not regained his full strength and seems unlikely to ever regain the softness he once had. Fingon lost all his plumpness to the Helcaraxë but it was replaced with muscle. He easily overpowers the once mighty Maedhros.
He does not think about the fragile bones beneath Maedhros’s shivering skin, he does not care if he cannot breathe with his face pressed to the bed. For once, he is not careful as he pours his anger and regret, the betrayal into Maedhros.
‘Speak my name.’ He demands into the rounded shell of Maedhros’s ear, his hand a firm fist around the base of his cock.
‘Finno,’ Maedhros breathes and begins to apologise, ‘I didn’t m-’
Forcing his knee sharply between Maedhros’s legs cuts him off with a harsh gasp. The hand that was in his hair tears through the white Tengwar scarred into his brown back, Fingon digging nails in where their enemy wrote his name into flesh and spirit at once. It is half burnt away where Maedhros held a knife to the hearth fire and then to his own skin when Fingon refused to do it for him.
“Feanaro” still marks the top of his shoulder blade, “the Noldor” the bottom, each heavy burdens that Maedhros refuses to put down as he did the crown.
‘I’ll not hear any other name from those lips!’ Fingon feels skin give under his nails, the tacky blood binding his fingers together. He presses harder.
‘Findekáno, please!’ Maedhros whimpers, and then again, needy and desperate as his bucking hips, ‘Ai, Fingon!’
His name is muffled by his own fingers, forcing their way into Maedhros’ mouth, turning his face to him.
‘Look at me. Know me.’ Fingon wants to tear through his flesh, to gather up the snarling roots that Morgoth has set within him and rip them out uncaring of the parts of Maedhros that may be lost with them. ‘Know who is hurting you!’
He strokes Maedhros with thoughtless fury, chasing his climax with relentless force.
Maedhros whines incoherently. His eyes are more white than pupil, rolling back in his skull.
In the grip of his anger, Fingon brings his mouth to the exposed nape of his neck, tasting the raised skin, the fearful sweat, and bites down hard.
Maedhros cries out, choking on the fingers hooking his mouth, his seed spilling over Fingon’s pumping hand.
At once Fingon comes back to himself and lurches away, letting Maedhros fall limp into the bed. His own teeth marks stand red and purpling amid the other scars that circle Maedhros’ neck
They are both crying, Maedhros drooling, his cock leaking still, blood browning in the sheets, an ocean of regrets staining his sickbed.
Fingon stands, wipes a hand across his weeping face, turns away from the appalling scene.
He stands for a long time, cold setting into his bones, a light chill compared to the Helcaraxë.
At last, Maedhros stirs, the rustle of sheets giving him away, and then his warm hand cups the curve of Fingon’s hip.
‘Thank you.’ He says. Small words, empty of meaning. Another thing falling into the unspoken void between them.
He pulls Fingon back to the bed, into his arms, and Fingon goes, pliant and unresisting. He curls into Maedhros, as though he is the one who requires comfort.
Melkor is very sad. Why? Because every time he tries to get close to a pretty elf, something scares them off. That something is Tulkas. Why again? Because he's Tulkas. And he may or may not be low-key obsessed with Melkor.
