Hravanis was just forty the first time she was forced to strike out in violence, to kill something she hated. The first time anyone had done so, in fact. But from that moment on she could do nothing but. Peace and running and hiding were not just useless, they were shameful. Hravanis called people cowards before they even had such a word. She called fishermen and seamstresses and healers and her elders cowards for not fighting back. She was too young, too angry and too full of hatred to see how unfair she was being. And her anger and charisma drew other young quendi to her.

The Thakalagamil was an armour set forged and wrought by the craftsmen of Nogrod in the early marches of the First Age. A gift and a gesture of solidarity between the Dwarves and their new Noldor allies, but certainly crafted with Hravanis in mind. It's title was somewhat of a fond joke, 'Old Woman of Steel', and one which Hravanis liked so much that the Dwarves even began using it as her name, though it was eventually shortened to 'Thakala' later.

I needed to get back into drawing after a bit of an ill spell and this just happened. 

Anyway Hravanis has mellowed by the Third Age but she's still... Like This... at times.

I had a really deep need to draw Hravanis caring for little elflings, like the Ancient Wine Aunt she is. An incredibly tall rough and tumble carer whom shirks her usual sardonic annoyance for a kind smile whenever a little one comes into her vicinity.

"Your help in this matter is appreciated, Hravanis. I know you have no obligation to me and mine."

She only grunted. Her face was expressionless, as unreadable as ever as she turned from the Elf Lord and started towards the door. No, she was not obligated, but serving the house of Felagund still left a sour taste, even after all this time. 

As a highkey warning to not in any way consider me good or even passable at Quenyan translations. 

Orcish bodies flew across the cavern, viscera and limbs pooling about the Rogmul's feet, shadow licking and reflecting in black blood and bile. A cacophony of shrieks and pleading mingled with the harsh and off-key note of Gwathnor's roar, shaking the very foundations of Moria from the inside out. A heavy stinking miasma of dread choked the air, making a heart labour against the insidious pull of death.