sallysavestheday @sallysavestheday - Tumblr Blog

tzitzki

corrupted Mairon (more or less finalised sketch)

funstealer

Fragmented Figure (2013) by Úna Burke

loumargi

Alcide-Théophile Robaudi (1850-1928)

helyannis

like mother like daughter

Indeed this strangeness [the Naugrim] have that no Man nor Elf has ever seen a beardless Dwarf […]. For the Naugrim have beards from the beginning of their lives, male and female alike; nor indeed can their womenkind be discerned by those of other race, be it in feature or in gait or in voice

WotJ:205

lightthereis

Howard Pyle - Why seek ye the Living among the dead, 1905

cy-lindric

elf stuff

bebs-art-gallery

Seascape Waves (1911) by D. Howard Hitchcock | Among the Waves (2010) by George Dmitriev | Between the Waves (1898) by Ivan Aivazovsky

huariqueje

In the Shade of the Warm Summer Sun - Roy Wright , 2026.

British , b. 1960 -

Charcoal on paper , 95 x 135 cm. 37 3/8 x 53 1/8 in.

huariqueje

The awnings III - Antonio Barahona , 2026.

Spanish , b. 1984 -

Oil on wood , 90 x 60 cm.

soluda

busymagpie

As requested, Maglor with a Calico cat I think I only drew him once with my “new” design for him, but you couldn’t even see his face.. I also added two face shots because I couldn’t decide on whether he would be crying in this one or not. He’s been through so much

polutrope

For @celedrielweek Day 2.

Celeborn is still learning the many shades of green unveiled by the Sun. In Menegroth, the loremasters are yet busy devising and debating new names. Though the Egladhrim may scorn the pride of the elves from across the Sea, they, too, are proud, and will not adopt any word of the tongue of usurpers.

In secret, therefore, Celeborn samples morsels of Galadriel’s language, sounding the shapes of her speech. Ezella, he murmurs, as she idly traces the line of his jaw working around the syllables – the colour, she explains, of the bright gem that rests between her breasts, facets shimmering in the sunlight with each rise and fall of her breath. The colour of the mound upon which those Trees she grieves once grew. A word borrowed, she says, from her grandmother’s kindred, to whom she owes the golden strands of her hair.

Celeborn threads his fingers through her hair now, disbelieving that such a marvel is his to touch. He does not grieve the loss of a light he never knew, for it is here with him, resplendent and alive.

Yet, he promises himself, he will never allow his sight to forget the subtle gradients of deep, starlit greens into which he was born. When next the Moon forgets to rise, it will be Celeborn’s turn to teach his beloved new words for colours she has yet to see.