Disclaimer: Tolkien's the genius, not me.
It was quiet when he entered the workshop, except for the soft rasp of sandpaper over wood. Mahtan's daughter was bent over a carving, oblivious to all but her work.
He had seen her sculptures, said to be so lifelike one almost expected them to open their mouths and speak, before laying eyes on her person. With her bright green eyes and easy smile, she was a work of art in herself.
Silently he crossed the room, and placed a bracelet on the worktable beside her, and retreated. As he reached the door, he heard a soft gasp from within.