Rafa Art

[ballard96]

[rafa-aart]

On this Mother’s Day, our Roman tried to make a poster for his mother. Sypha, like every good mother, she loved her son’s gesture, even though he had clearly made one small mistake…

Neste dia das mães, nosso Roman tentou fazer um cartaz para sua mãe. Sypha, como toda boa mãe, adorou o ato do seu filho, apesar de ele claramente ter errado um pequeno detalhe…

[thesecretwriter]

*sigh*

“i miss my man :(”

the man in question: a fictional man who wouldn’t look my way twice if he were real.

[thesecretwriter]

update!

*sigh*

“i miss my man :(“

the man is question: a real man who looks at me and makes me feel like the prettiest girl alive.

[delightfulsweettragedy]

Odeio fazer fritura mds, odeio odeio odeio

É bom de comer? É. Mas a cozinha fica um nojo dps pqp

Só fiz pq n tinha opção

[equipebrasil]

Fritura: fazer ou não fazer – eis a questão 😅

[rafa-aart]

I’m the first in my bloodline to witness my sister twerking to ‘The Fellowship Reunited,’ and I don’t know how to feel about it.

[earendil-was-a-mariner]

Bilbo: wait I get it now. The dragon is a metaphor for greed and power. We need to ‘defeat’ it by being humble when we get the treasure.

Thorin: Bilbo, for the last time, it’s a real dragon and it has my gold

[the-august-one]

[cupidrream]

In the fire of war.

Thorin Oakenshield x female!reader

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The battlefield roared like a living beast around you.

Steel rang against steel. Orc cries split the sky. Snow and ash swirled in the wind, mixing with blood on the torn earth as the Company pushed forward. Thorin fought at the head of the line, every strike of his blade fueled by fury and purpose — the King Under the Mountain reclaiming what was his.

You fought near him, as you always had, even when he insisted you stay behind.

Today, you couldn’t.
There was too much at stake.

And not only for Erebor.

“(Y/N)!” Thorin shouted, cutting down an orc before it reached you. “Stay close!”

“I am!” you called back, blocking a blow yourself and driving your axe into a snarling warg-rider.

He moved to your side instantly, his presence a solid wall of protection. His blue eyes were blazing, his breath heavy, his braid loose and wild from battle.

But you saw something he didn’t — an orc closing from behind.

“Thorin!”
You grabbed his cloak and pulled him aside just as a blade swung past where his spine had been. Thorin pivoted, cleaving the orc in two with a roar.

His chest heaved as he turned to you.

“By Durin’s beard—do not stand behind me like that! You could have been killed.”

“And so could you,” you snapped back, adrenaline burning in your veins.

Thorin seized your shoulders, fierce, protective, angry in the way only someone who loves too deeply can be.

“I swore I would keep you safe,” he said, voice rough. “If anything happened to you—”

“Thorin, stop.”

You tore yourself from his grasp. Your heart hammered, not with fear, but with urgency.
There was no later.
There was no safe moment.
Not in a battle like this.

Your hand pressed instinctively to your stomach beneath your armor.

“Thorin,” you said again, louder over the clash of blades. “I need to tell you something. Now.”

He blinked, taken aback. “Now? In the midst of—”

“Yes. Now.”
Your throat tightened. “I can’t go another second without telling you.”

His expression shifted — confusion, worry, dread.

“What is it, amrâlimê?”

Your breath hitched.
You stepped closer, your fingers trembling as they gripped the front of his tunic.

“I’m pregnant.”

The world fell quiet between you.

Thorin froze — utterly, absolutely.
His eyes widened, his grip on his sword slackened.

“You… you are with child?” His voice broke in a way you had never heard.

You nodded, tears stinging from more than smoke.

“I didn’t want to go into this battle without you knowing. If something happens—”

“NO.”
Thorin’s voice cracked like thunder.
His hands came up to cradle your face, reverent and desperate.

“Do not speak of such things.”
His forehead pressed to yours, armor cold but his touch burning. “A child… our child.”

Orcs shrieked in the distance — closer now. The moment could not last, but Thorin held onto it as long as he dared.

His thumb brushed your cheek, tender even through gauntlets.

“By Mahal…” he whispered, breath shaking. “You carry my heir.”

A roar echoed behind him — enemies advancing.

Thorin turned, eyes blazing with a new fire.

He lifted his sword and shield, the King awakening fully, fiercely.

Then he looked back at you — and in that look was more love than any words could hold.

“Stay behind me,” he commanded softly. “You carry our future.”

You raised your weapon. “I fight beside you.”

His lips curved — pride, love, awe.

“Then we fight for more than Erebor today.”

Side by side, you charged back into battle — Thorin Oakenshield fighting with a new fury, a new purpose:

To survive.

To protect you.

To live long enough to meet his child.

[rafa-aart]

Happy Women's Day

On International Women’s Day, and considering the current world we live in, I couldn’t bring any character other than Sypha Belnades, or Mya Galanis. Sypha/Mya is my RPG character, and her story has been shaped by both violence and art.

She was a bard and a dancer in her hometown, the daughter of merchants and truly a jewel to behold. She married the “White Knight,” and despite their disagreements, it was a good marriage.

The problem began when Maegor, the Mad King of Andor, became enchanted by her. Despite her refusal and rejection, Maegor did not respect her will, her body, or her marriage.

He took her by force, imprisoned her husband, and blackmailed her with the lives of her parents. Even as she fought against it, Mya was forced into an engagement she never wanted, to a king she hated more than anything in the world.

As she walked toward the altar where she would seal the end of her freedom, the White Knight—once imprisoned—came to her rescue. He gave her his sword, his shield, and his horse, and surrendered himself to certain death so that she could escape from Maegor’s grasp.

Mya fled—terrified, broken, and already pregnant with her true husband’s child. By sheer luck, she found Madame Rizzo, who sheltered her and helped her when the time of childbirth came.

Mya changed her name to Sypha, cut her hair, and began living as an adventurer in order to support her son. Along the journey she made allies, made many mistakes and many right choices. And she lived on the run.

She kept running until she arrived in Barovia, where the fear of never returning to her son consumed her every single day. To her complete misfortune, Maegor also ended up in Barovia—and to her despair, so did her son.

Once again, she was forced into an alliance with her worst nightmare in order to save her child, Roman.

In this artwork, Mya/Sypha is illuminated by the sun itself, dressed as the muse she always was, playing her golden lyre. Maegor lies in the amphora, decapitated, with his blood at her feet and on Mya/Sypha’s hands. She is finally at peace.

The pomegranates surrounding her are a reference both to her fertility and to her son, Roman.

Maegor fell.

And she remained.