#rivermaid

[kelseykingillustration]

A quick snack

[starshinesoldier]

#noodlersheartofdarkness #heartofdarkness #qorwatercolors #mgrahamwatercolors #rosihandmadesketchbook #originalcharacter #oc #Rhine #rivermaid #mermaid #glitterwatercolor Finally colored some lineart from July. #myart #starshinesoldier

[thalion71]

the wanderer's guide

art: @yuzukimist (ao3) fic: the wanderer's guide (ao3) rating: T words: 15.9k characters: Aredhel, Maeglin, Celegorm, Eol, Idril Celebrindal, Luthien Tinuviel, OCs (assorted) relationships: Aredhel/OMC, Aredhel & Maeglin, Aredhel & Maeglin & OMC warnings: graphic depictions of violence summary: There is fate, and Doom, and choice. It takes very little to change your path. But there are still constants in the Song, and verses that echo.

one of my collabs for @tolkienrsb 2024! i got to work with yuzu on this half-maia maeglin prompt. i had a great time working on this this summer. thanks so much for the opportunity friend :D

[ghostinacardboardbox]

I will always love the trope of "serious character is forced to go to a fun event by silly character(s) and ends up having a good time as well as realizing that they actually had a good time just by spending time with people who care about them" and for this reason alone the Shrimp and Crits 2020 Halloween special feels tailor-made for my specific tastes. The part where Peggy gives Ari the little cat ears and Sara draws on whiskers with her eyeliner so that he won't be the only one not wearing a costume... when Ari thanks Sarah for bringing him to the party and she just goes "oh did you have fun?" and sounds so smug about it...

[aurore-parle-de-ses-idees]

keep putting lotro in silm fic. 10/10 very fun. would recommend

[sweetearthandnorthernsky]

23 for rivermaid/water spirit of choice?

23. Loss of powers/abilities/skills many thoughts head full about beleriandic rivermaidens etc.

Gelion knows. 

Long before the Eldar that dwell by her shores know, she knows. 

She knows long before Ulmo shakes the ground or Manwe thunders through the sky or Varda’s stars burn with too intense light. 

It is subtle, at first, barely even noticeable until it is too late. 

Her waters are less clear than she usually keeps them.

More foul things cross her shores.

She is unable to see as far as she might.

Then, all burns.

The fish and creatures that make their homes in her water die, poisoned.

Helevorn is defiled, and Gelion doesn't know if her friend will ever be able to leave her waters again.

The days grow darker, and it is all Gelion can do to keep those dwelling along her shores -- retreating from the fighting that shakes the coast -- safe, but soon she will not be able to do that anymore.

Piece by piece, like the shore chipping at a stone bank, Beleriand chips under the force of the Valar and the Maiar fighting with all their might.

She is a spectator now, unable to offer even mild protection.

When Beleriand finally capsizes, like a boat dragged under the riptide, she wonders if it was the right choice.

[themournwatcher]

The Riverside

a little short thing I wrote for my dnd oc Trygve and his girlfriend Katrin 😌

Trygve laughed as Katrin pulled him along to the river’s edge. Her spritely feet seemed to find no hindrance as she danced past the forested edge to the Tearstain River. Far were they from the watchful eyes inside the wall of his uncle’s holdfast, and with the breath of spring wind warming their backs, they knew that there would be no one to chide them as they spent their day together.

“Where are you taking me?” He asked as they came to a stop on the stony edge. “Are you planning to wile me away into the river, drown me as a nymph might? Will I become so moonstruck by your fabled beauty that you will pull me under?” His hands snaked around her waist as Katrin giggled.

“You tease me!” She accused. “I am not a pretty rivermaid, Trygve, but you might be a sly fox.I brought you here because I found this part of the river once when I was a girl. My mother brought me here to pluck heather for dyes as a child.” She gestured with her hand to the river, and Trygve turned his head to follow the line of her hand. “I would hop along the stepping-stones here while she worked. She was always afraid that I would fall in.”

“Did you?” He asked. Trygve’s lip twitched upward into a smile as he imagined the smaller, round-faced child that Katrin was, hopping along the stones and singing her fairy-songs.

“Once,” she laughed. “It was early winter–the river hadn’t frozen yet, but the stones were icy. I had never felt water so cold. Thankfully my mother was there to drag me out before I could turn to ice. It didn’t stop me from jumping across again when the spring came the next year and thawed them out.”

“How fortunate for me, then,” Trygve said as he reached up to brush a loose strand of brown hair away from her face. “That you did not turn to ice that fateful winter morning, so that you could bring me back here in this warm spring. Do you wish to hop across the stones now?”

“Now you’ve made me scared of nymphs!” Katrin protested. She chases the sensation of Trygve’s hand against her cheek and in her hair. “I have a much better idea of what we could do today instead of jumping river-stones.”

“Oh?” Trygve said. “And what idea have you in mind, Katrin? What could be more fun than jumping river-stones? I, for one, have never found a thing more riveting than–”

“You talk too much,” Katrin groaned before she leaned up to press her lips to his. Trygve chuckled into the gentle kiss, and his hands settled at her waist with a feather-light touch. Slowly he pulled her closer to him, and Katrin reached up to grasp at the high collar of his shirt. “There,” she said as she pulled away. “Is that not more fun than river-stones?”

“It is,” Trygve agreed as he blinked his brown eyes open once more. “What else did you have planned?”

“Something… like… this.” The mischievous grin on Katrin’s face was so quick that Trygve had no chance to think about what was in store for him before he was nimbly brought to the ground–thankfully on the grassy knoll near the shore rather than the stones themself. Katrin’s laughter echoed through the treeline where it opened upon the river.

She loped her arms around his neck and dragged Trygve down. His red hair was like fire spread across the green grass of spring, and her dress was stained with the color of verdant life. “Promise me that you will love me forever,” she whispered. Trygve, who knew his word was his oath and honor, said nothing and merely smiled as he leaned down to kiss her. That is promise enough.

When they had enough of playing kissing games by the river, they stripped down to their smallclothes to play their stepping-stone games and their swimming games instead. The cool waters with the warm sun on their backs only lends to laughter as they chase and swim and kiss until the sun is high overhead. They ate fresh ripe berries from between their fingers and drank of honey-mead that Trygve had snuck from the jarl’s personal store.

Soon, Trygve wrapped Katrin up in his arms as he leaned back against the grassy knoll on the shoreline. She hummed pleasantly, and draped her soft and plush form across his lean body. Together they spent the rest of the afternoon curled up together in sleep. Warmed by heart and honey-mead and the sun itself, there they rested until the blue sky was streaked with hues of gold and pink and purple, and Trygve was only roused from his slumber by the gentle kisses of his lover.

[a-lonely-dunedain]

Mosspuddle!!!

she's literally just a bog hobbit <3 yes she might be an spirit of Ulmo older than the sun itself maybe depending on what rivermaids actually ARE, but deep down she's literally just a girl in a bog. minding her own business (expect for when she's pulling pranks on passing Big Folk)

[piffeller]

RIVERMAID

[islandnaturals]

As Ancestral vibrations shift the frequency A canopy of greenery embraces me ...Trod to the mountain In search of the fountain🎶 #ancestralplane #rivermumma #rivermaid #rivercleanse #riverbath #islandbruja #iamtipharah (at Jamaica) https://www.instagram.com/p/CLxcrtrBA2K/?igshid=13xcsk843ftfp

[vivacitypith]

[starshinesoldier]

#sonnet #sonnetwatercolors #ink #penandink #dippen #indiaink #mermaids #mermaid #rivermaid #rivermermaid #mermaiden #oc #originalcharacter #rhode Whoops, colored this a while ago but forgot to post it. #myart #starshinesoldier https://www.instagram.com/p/BvIHmDtldeu/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1owzofw8ni488

[aquariuz]

So this happened. Its a dragonfly mermaid tail, a custom request. And why not?? Dragon flies are aquatic creatures...💙I love that any creature who lives in or around the water can be turned into a theme for a mermaid tail. So many possibilities!! Love how this turned out, and the wings are detachable~#mermaids #mermazing #mermaidvibes #dragonfly #mermaidlife #littlemermaid #mermaidsarereal #mermaidtail #fabrictails #mermaidobsessed #merfolk #waternymph #reallifemermaid #underwatermermaid #cosplaymermaid #cosplay #mermaidhair #mermaidsofinstagram #rivermaid #rivermaiden (at Aquariuz)

[storyandmyth]

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Kristie Stephenson Storyteller (@storyandmyth)

THE BUTTERFLY KNOWS INSTINCTIVELY OF ITS DAY IN THE COCOON THAT THE DARK IS WHERE YOU GO TO FIND THE LIGHT. It does not question or argue with the purpose of its struggle. It knows only to not give up. It cannot know that on the other side it will soon transform into a beautiful butterfly. Without its struggle through the dark cocoon, the caterpillar could not gather the fluid it must have to break free and fly. IN ORDER TO TRANSFORM, THE BUTTERFLY MUST GIVE UP A HUNDRED FEET TO GROW TWO WINGS. It must sacrifice what is no longer useful in order to evolve into its beautiful new being. To grow it must let go. Will we? THE BUTTERFLY FLOATS BECAUSE IT HOLDS NO NEGATIVE PSYCHIC ENERGY. It may remain a mystery to scientists how a butterfly’s wings, relative to their size, can push more air than a bird, and allow it to hover like a helicopter. But to those of us who look heavenward for explanation, a simple answer awaits. IN CHAOS THEORY, THE PRINCIPLE KNOWN AS THE “BUTTERFLY EFFECT” MEANS THAT ANY SEEMINGLY INSIGNIFICANT ACTION CAN CHANGE THE COURSE OF ONE’S DESTINY, OR HISTORY ITSELF. The butterfly cannot choose to be mindful of its actions. But we can, and must, if we are to rise to our calling, whatever that may be for each of us. - Christina Carlino . . . . . #butterflyeffect #cocoon #caterpillar #butterfly #butterflywoman #blessingbeads #madewiththoughtandintent #madebypersonswithdisabilities #river #rivermaid #rivermumma #beadbracelets #transformation #purpose #vacationjewelry #islandessentials #islandgifts

[aurore-parle-de-ses-idees]

Reassurance with Est b/c I think she could use something nice

est hangs out with the spirit of the long lake not long after coming home from edhelion :D

You go walking on your own, into the grey misty rain a little after dawn, east out of Loeglond and along the lakeshore. The birds are calling and the cattails bob in the gentle waves rolling in from the deeper waters. In the near-dark, the fog rises like smoke and the sunlight in the mists is like fire, and you used to love this sight but now all you can see is the refuge in the mountains, the fire and the smoke and Talagan before the library. The homes of Loeglond are greatly unlike the tall halls and the libraries of Edhelion, but they are close enough like this that you can hear the cracking of stone and wood again and you walk and walk and walk, and in your pocket you run your fingers over the careful, smooth lines of the simple lightning rune.

You might have thought to walk to Lake-town, if you had planned this, but instead you had all but fled your home when you could not sleep, and though your eyes itch and the thought of lying down to rest seems more wonderful than anything else, you wander along the muddy banks in search of some reassurance you do not know the shape of.

Your family doesn’t know how to treat you, now. You don’t know what to tell them, either. You are different, you are different, and home is not and your not-fitting is a sharper thing now, one that cuts even in the walls of your father’s house. They try gentleness and you can’t bear it, being treated almost like a child again, and they try to ignore it and you can’t pretend nothing’s changed, not for their sake or for your own. They have asked, all of them, what you want or what you need, but all you can say is I don’t know, I don’t know. You can’t see yourself clearly enough. You know you’ve changed, but you can’t quite put the words to how. Telling the story is not enough on its own for any of you to understand.

You walk along the Long Lake until you come to a shallow inlet, still and nearly undisturbed by the gentle rain. You find a large rock beneath the overhang of an old and weathered tree, and you pull your knees to your chest and stare out at the lake alone.

The rain persists long into the morning, slowly soaking you even in the shelter of the tree, and soon you start to shiver. You should go back, you think, but you do not move, not until the man arrives, footsteps whispering over the mud as if it has no hold on him.

“Hello there,” he says, and you blink blankly at him. “What are you doing out here?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “Watching.”

“For what?” the man asks- and you think he’s a man, dressed like the people of Lake-town, brown hair long enough to cover his ears but far shorter than most of... most of your people. There’s something almost elvish about his face, though, the weight and the subtle proportions and the way he nearly seems lit from within, just a little too clear and too visible to be a human in this weather. You shake your head and try not to stare so rudely.

“I don’t know.” For the next great fall, or the next task, or the next day. You had grown used to a routine that does not hold here, and though there are things enough to be done on the rafts, it leaves your mind far too free to wander.

The man sits beside you. You look at him sidelong. “I won’t intrude, if you do not wish it, but I would talk with you if you would.”

“What about?” you ask, a frown pulling at your brow.

“Anything at all,” he says. “I do not often have the opportunity to speak as much as I would like with those who live along my shores.” Your frown deepens, something stirring in the depths of your memory, distant and foggy as the world around you. A story in your mother’s voice.

“Who are you?” you ask, and he only smiles and gestures out at the lake.

“You seemed troubled,” he says. “And I thought that perhaps you would like a friend. It’s a lonely sort of day.”

He stays with you for hours, though you speak only in brief fits, without purpose or direction, and he listens patiently, asking little and not prodding when you go silent.

“I would dearly love to cut my hair short,” you say as noon approaches. “Not for mourning, but for the feel of it.”

“Why don’t you?” he asks, and you shrug.

“It wouldn’t be worth the questions,” you say.

“Would Edhelion not be reason enough for those who know of it to understand?” You pause.

“I have never had it short,” you say.

“Would you like to?”

“....yes.”

You don’t know where he produces the tools from. Wherever creatures such as he create their forms for this world. You sit silently on the stone as your hair falls away, and you marvel at the lightness of it and the soft curl of it against the side of your face and the warming mist on the back of your neck, and for the first time in too long you smile. It isn’t how things are done, usually, but it feels too much better for you to care. You mourn what was lost in the Blue Mountains, yes, but never had you thought to do so publicly like this. If people assume that is what this is, well, that is for them to think. You don’t care.

“It’s a little thing,” he says, so quietly you doubt it’s meant for you at all. “But most beginnings are.” He brushes the last loose hairs from your shoulders and nudges you over the edge of the stone to see your reflection in the still water. “You greatly resemble your mother like this,” he comments, and you whirl to stare at him. He smiles. “I have been a friend to the people on these waters for many years. I don’t show myself often, but I know many of the folk here.”

You talk with him well into the day, after that, and the sun burns away the worst of the mist once the rain eases, and you sit and talk and walk a short ways along the lake with its guardian. You think he enjoys the conversation. You hope so. He doesn’t much resemble most of the tales you have heard of him, but he is kind, as they say, and he laughs easily and lets you ask far too many questions, even if some of his answers are rather opaque.

You don’t tell many of the meeting, even years later, but you hold it close to your heart. You tell your father, and he believes you easily and goes out alone on the lake the next day, a small offering in the style of the men of Lake-town in hand like you haven’t seen him do in a very long time. You almost think it’s strange, how many ways the spirit reminds you of your mother, but perhaps there is reason enough for that.

It’s centuries before you see him again, but even then he remembers you, and you smile, and talk with him long into the night.