Pocahontas + Hairporn

pocahontas + hairporn

Blue Haze: Beautiful Desert Photographs By Mariyan Atanasov

From the artist:

The project Blue Haze is from the Sahara desert and more specifically Merzouga, Morocco. I couldn’t have a chance to travel abroad this year because of the COVID and the idea of this project was born while I was checking my photo archive – those pictures are from my trip to that destination 2 years ago.

I spent a couple of days in that part of the country and despite that, I didn’t take a lot of photos there, therefore I decided to create some small case study about it. My first idea was to present it in a more natural way, but in post-processing, I just started to play more with the colour channels and I liked what I got as good colour combinations so I decided that it is more interesting to represent it in a non-standard way. At the end this is the result.

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The commander dropped on his knees, into the muddy slush before the wounded tree, and pressed his head against the trunk. The cold of the void greeted him.

Thank you, Ratzinger, for writing "Games with Eternity" and inspiring me to art again ❤️ If anyone likes the elves of the Witcher Fandom - Aen Elle especially - this is a must read.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24038296

On the River Styx

‘There is no destiny,’ his own voice. ‘There is none. None. It does not exist. The only thing that everyone is destined for is death.’

 …

 ‘How… How will it happen?’ he finally asked, cold and emotionless.

 ‘I’ll take you by the hand,’ she said, looking him directly in the eyes. ‘I’ll take you by the hand and lead you through the meadow. Into the cold, wet fog.’

 ‘And then? What is there, beyond the fog?’

 ‘Nothing,’ she smiled. ‘There is nothing more.’

- A. Sapkowski Sword of Destiny

She wakes to the chill of night, feverish with fear.

Mist cradles her soul, hobbling her limbs on the doorstep between this life and the other one. Frozen in the woods of her dreams, she hears a word – a dear and painful word, a word that used to mean something – hammering against the inside of her skull. However much she wishes though, she cannot utter it; a sudden and irresistible forgetfulness washes over her, scattering the beguiling images in a swipe of a careful hand across her mind. The mist swirls beautifully. It shapes itself into wild horses, unicorns, and apple blossoms blowing in the wind that is coming in from the sea. And the forest in which she had stood but a moment ago crumbles and morphs, delicately, like when salt is sprinkled onto freshly painted canvas. The touch coaxes her with a promise of a peaceful, dreamless sleep, and a part of her listens obediently. She must heal, eventually.

Yet, the pain used to mean something. It had had her entire world wrapped up in it, and worlds did not end at the sound of her footsteps – they embraced her. She can feel the unease in her blood: there are things she can never forget, wounds she reopens just to feel cradled by their significance again. Thus, Ciri clings to the remnants of this feeling through fear, which runs potent and hot under her skin, for she does not want to forget. The painterly touch against her mind halts at these thoughts, second-guessing its course for the briefest of moments, and Ciri hears a woman crying out with a voice that is her own, though not.

She jerks upright.

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