#findo art

[suckingstrawberries]

via @ findoland on twitter

[alcafrach]

I'm in doodling mood tonight, so here is a little sketch of post-rescue Maedhros.

His hair is still too short but already long enough to cause discomfort. But with one hand he can do nothing about it (he hasn't used to his condition yet). No worry - Findo is here to help!... Or it is exactly the thing to worry about. Finally, he can absolutely legally braid these awesome ginger curls without any misunderstanding) And Maitimo is secretly very happy but is still a bit uncomfortable about showing it

(Yep, Maitimo is looking in the mirror and checking his scar)

[inkdragonn]

Please. Ask me some questions about my versions of the let's find Larry characters 💗💕

REBLOG IF YOU ARE HELLA BORED AND WOULDN’T MIND SOME CURIOUS ANONS.

[goldenbituin]

Let's Find Larry: The New Year's Special (2004)

Another animated special from the now defunct Bituin Galaxy channel, this cartoon features a man named Larry as he tries to leave his troubles behind and enjoy the New Year's Eve festivities of Middlewood.

[theruffiansretrorampage]

art by FINDO

[newsintheshell]

BUON FERRAGOSTO A TUTTI!🍹🌞🍉🍻🏖️

Post un po' ritardatario perché mi ero spappolato sul letto per il caldo, sorry  🫠

Art by Findo ©

[welcomingdisaster]

splinter

for @russingon-week, t, blood & gore warning (specifically related to amputation), fingon/maedhros, 1k, ao3

Russandol has fallen, insensate, against chestnut-brown eagle feathers. In the darkness he seems as one of his mother’s statues, too pale, too bloodless to be elven, incomplete. Findekáno imagines taking handfuls of clay and scouring them, pressing them against Russandol’s cheeks to give them volume, of filling out his chest where his skin clings to his ribs. Bubbles of blood-brown spittle form on his lips, over cracked skin. He turns and tugs weakly at the tourniquet wrapped around the stump of his left hand; but when Findekáno bats his hand down he yields easily, though his hand comes away stained, bloody.

Bloodier.

Perhaps he shan’t survive this, Findekáno thinks, perhaps I killed him, only slower than he begged me to.

He glances up, back towards the cliff. There is the hand, pale, dead—the dark chain hooked beneath the flesh, fresh cuts atop old scars. Disembodied and dead it looks as meat hung up to be drained of blood, butchered crudely. Some part of Findekáno cannot help but be dissatisfied with the craft; he would have done better if he’d had a saw, a chisel, a clean space to work, if Russo had held still, damn him—

Russandol cries out then, below him, the sound of a wounded animal more than an elf, and though Findekáno knows he could not have heard the thought he’s instantly sorry for it.

“Art safe,” he murmurs, bending low to press his lips to the very top of his head, where the roots of his hair are bloodied least by pulling, “art safe, art safe. One more thing only.”

Then he turns back to the hand.

The ice has trained him to expect dead bodies to be cold, rigid to the touch; but as he reaches out to touch it he finds it no cooler than Russandol’s sweaty forehead, no cooler than the day around them, limp and yielding under his touch. On some old instinct he laces the fingers of his left hand with it, and thinks he feels some last spasm, some twitch. The leg of hare, kicking one last time after its neck has been wrung.

“Doest thou feel that, Russo,” Findekáno murmurs, and below him Russandol shakes and shakes and shakes, smearing blood onto brown feathers. Some new, practical part of Findo—born, he thinks, on the ice—wonders if the eagle shall want to be wiped down. What cloth he can sacrifice, suited to the task.

He prods his fingers under the dark link of the chain, but it holds tight. One thing left, one thing only. He needs to, to—

To take his blunted knife, and carve best he might around caught skin, to leave as little behind as possible. Pull, until the hand comes loose, and fold it gently against his chest, as the body of struck down messenger dove, to hold it tight and thank it for breaking, for letting free.

Needs to stab once more at the chain, ineffectually, blindly, as some rehearsal for stabbing at Morgoth himself, to feel the the knife slip against the dark metal, to jam his own knuckles painfully into the rock, to cry out, wordless, half-sobbing, damn you, damn you, damn you—

To watch blood fall into the pit below them, onto the dark rock. Skeletons lie there, Findekáno has seen, the shells of orcs and elves alike scattered cast-down below the pit, and now perhaps Russo’s red blood waters their thirsty porous bones.

To yank at the flesh, roughly, until the thin malnourished skin tears like paper, leaving behind white scraps on the dark metal, to pull desperately at each scrap of flesh too, slippery as fish-skin beneath his fingers, to leave nothing behind, to cry, knowing his tears fall to join Russo’s blood.

His robes are grayish in hue and not particularly well-made or warm; he did not want to take anything nice with him, so that his good things might be pulled apart and re-sewn to fit Turukáno in the case he did not return. He had left a note to that effect, pinned to the front of the best robes that hard survived the journey; he finds himself wondering, as he stares down the front of his clothes, stained red with blood, if it has yet been found. He wrote nothing else.

Now he wraps the gray cloth about his hands and wipes down the chain with it, the hooks, the specks of flesh and thin shards of bone, these last as wood splinters, catching on the edge of his sleeve. Lets it fall back, and hit the cliff. It makes an oddly pleasant sound, a metal clinking that would not be out of place in a melody, that would sound quite well with harp. Later in the nightmare of blood and skin and bone he’ll best remember the little clinking sound. Later he’ll hear bells and shudder.

Then it hangs, unmoving.

Like no one’s been here, he thinks. Like no one went.

Below him Russandol stirs. Makes a sound that might be his name, the fingers of his left hand bunching in fabric of Findekáno’s leggings, grayish, weak. Findekáno bends, and gathers him up, wrapping his arms about his waist. Rests his chin on the top of Russandol’s head and breathes in deeply, feeling the rock dust in his hair settle inside his lungs.

Curled as they are against Findekáno’s chest, the fingers of the right hand go not grow cold. Oddly they feel heavier than the elf they had once belonged to, more solid. Marble, broken off oddly from hollow clay, another strange detail of the horrible dream logic of the day.

“We go,” Findekáno says, and turns Russandol’s face up to kiss him, hands on the side of his face, staining his pale skin red. Redder. “We go. Just cleaning up, that is all.”

[rainre]

did you miss weird ships or had lack of it in LfL? Willy/Findo, where Willy kidnaps him and tortures, but doesn’t kill him, because he liked Findo too much (and also because Findo’s reaction is worth it, he almost faints from fear). By the way, they have vibes from these arts, hurray, I love this artist.

Original artist Avogado6! U can search for them in different social networks, they are on X (twitter), most likely they are here on Tumblr. . . So yep.

I'll not stop the flow on LfL until there is no suitable content left or until I lose interest. you will have to endure me MUHAHAHAHA😈 (and you can also love me, I love when people love me😌).

[sadlybeans]

Náro

prince of the noldor, certified chaos incarnate

I am 🎶 way too lazy 🎶 to draw detailed things 🎶 so I just drew this 🎶 in a comic style 🎶

✨ Headcanons ✨

Suffers from chronic baby face. Is often mistaken to be Curvo or Tyelpe by people who don’t know him.

Short hair. Convenient for working in the forges, excellent defence against rowdy children.

Brown skin like Finwë, but looks like a miniature of Míriel.

S h o r t

(Y’know, the average noldo is about a head shorter than Nelyo -commonly used as a measure unit. Well, Náro is the height of an average sinda, which makes him about two heads shorter)

(I cannot emphasise enough how short he is. The only person in the family of his height is Káno)

Hates (wearing) jewellery. Will not use earrings, rings, bracelets or necklaces, but can be convinced to wear a circlet.

✨some more headcanons that have nothing to do with his appearance✨ that are also placed in my personal AU and therefore might be conflicting with canon but i don’t care because i’ve run out of fucks to give, it’s eight am and i haven’t slept in twelve hours

Speaks tons of languages. Will use all of them at once when excited or angry (Nerdanel is never amused by this).

Cannot be trusted to write formal letters and documents. Partially because of the above fact, but mostly because he is the equivalent of a kinder aged child and should not be given important stuff.

Discipline the children? HA. No, he’s sitting down in the corner with them because he’s an enabler and could never say no to a cute pouty face.

Helicopter parent.

Actually allows the kids to socialise with their cousins. What do you mean? Of course he isn’t doing it to have his gaggle of little monsters corrupt Ñolvo and Arvo’s well behaved kids, why would he do that.

Cried for a week straight when he found out Káno was making heart eyes at Findo.

Then he spent a fortnight locked up in his forge and came back with a set of two identical daggers he gave Káno without explanation.

Constantly asks Tyelpe to spy on Nelyo and Finno because goddammit he wants more grandchildren.

Gets drunk easily.

He’s the type of drunk who cries for everything.

He will also constantly ask for Nerdanel like an excited puppy.

Overgrown cat behaviour. And no, he does this sober.

Extended family dinners with half siblings? Will -naturally- push Ñolvo’s cup/utensils to the floor ‘by accident’. Blackmailed by Finwë to stay in Arvo’s house overnight? Slams doors, pushes furniture around, drops shit on the floor. In the middle of the night of course.

Takes the slightest casual comment about a new craft/art that someone is doing as a challenge to do it bigger and better.

Nerdanel can’t sew for shit. Náro embroiders cute little details in the boys’ clothing.

Can’t paint or draw for shit. His sketches and plans for his work are incomprehensible and look like they were drawn by a toddler with Parkinson’s desease. Only the Valar know how the fuck he manages to create exquisite beauty out of that.

Handwriting is damn illegible. He can actually manage something presentable if necessary but he rarely gives enough fucks to do that.

Ambidextrous but instead of being proficient writing with both hands he can’t write with either.

ok i’m tired so i may write more later

wait one more

HE LOVES HIS WIFE AND CHILDREN. that’s it thanks

[eliln]

Un kaiju flotó sobre mí y voló un auto con su rasho láser

[gntvart]

[sun-shine-art-blog]

I so love FINDO fanart so I decided to draw my own!

[shiro-s2e2-erukinzu]

This is soooo CUTE! Go check out FINDO's art on Twitter and Tumblr! I really like their work! 😊

[w-i-s-e]

OMG, Ive loved these two ever since I first saw Incredibles 2 during the middle of 2018. There are just such cuties, and are totally OTP.

(Not mine, Original Art created by Findo)

And the great thing about it is that its actually seems to be supported by offical material.

[theruffiansretrorampage]

art by FINDO

[amaliashiro]

Hey, have you heard the rumor about the 8th school mystery? In the school's pool lives a matchmaking mermaid. She can create or break bonds between students. During the day, she goes as a student and plays with the invisible red threads between students. After school, she changes back into a mermaid. When she is swimming in the pool, she might lose a scale. If you find and eat one, you will gain temporarily her power to change bonds. However, if she finds you doing it, she will curse you with bad luck in your futur relationships.

A fanfiction rumor about Yashiro becoming a school mystery I had for some time now. Enjoy!

Art credit : FINDO