Myth - Tumblr Posts - Page 2
What came before?
Do you ever wonder if strange things existed before humanity did?
Did dinosaurs look up into the sky and see UFOs; bizarre constellations of soundless, moving lights glinting, pulsing, throbbing? Did a lone Triceratops huffing and puffing it’s way through tangled, mossy Cretaceous undergrowth ever happen upon a sunny woodland clearing in the humid afternoon, and see through quiet, calm eyes a strange silvery creature on mechanical tripod legs? Did it’s snorting, three-horned and colorfully frilled face startle the small pilots who arrived on this foreign vessel?
Did cursed or haunted places exist? Did prehistoric life sense some places were touched by rot, by negative feelings which could turn the air dark, oppressive? Phantasmic possibilities and harmful predatory shadows that would dance and stalk angry twilights like the poltergeists and phantoms of today?
Were there ever any mysterious leviathans and behemoths, vast creatures with impossibly rare numbers, living in their hidden lairs, old as time?
The Strange Man comes for Harvest
A strange man came to the heroes one day. Impossible to detect until politely, from under his slouching hat, he cleared his throat. Concerned, tired faces looked up from their deliberations as if an important meeting on Olympus itself had been interrupted. Energies swirled, and powers blossomed. This room had more than enough capability to atomize whole universes— let alone one strange, quiet man.
*You bear so many burdens. I offer to ease them. I will erase those who oppose you.* Simple, matter of fact. His voice echoed slightly in their roomy chamber.
The faces were all seemingly carved from granite, not in perfection (for some were most definitely.. *different*), but in emotion. Schemes, plots, contraptions; they had heard it all, seen it all. The strange man knew even that some in that very chamber had known death and returned. More than *once*.
A woman with raven black hair and shimmering golden eyes stood, spoke. She knew the Absolute Truth, be it burden or boon. With a quiet, even voice she told her comrades that their visitor was truthful. Completely. The granite faces seemed to erode and crack with quiet emotion.
*Freedom is enticing*, intoned the strange man. He smiled politely, hands still raised. The gods over mankind looked to one another. Born, manufactured, mutants, divinity. All together afraid, all together hopeful.
*I’ll be outside if you need me*, and with quiet steps, the strange man stepped out into the sunlight among so many chirping birds, crisp green grass. A gentle summer breeze whispered in his ear.
This dance was always the same. The strange man remembered how it had all began. How his people had discovered where heroes and monsters truly emerged, and that they grew as fruits for a very *difficult* tree. But a tree with a harvest bountiful beyond imagining.
The wind blew quietly against his skin, his thin coat and worn hat. And it carried messages that even these wondrous people-beyond-people could not hear. And in his silence, the strange man smiled.
Mermaid beauty 🧜♀️
"Eliane"
Some photos from my trip to Greece
The Olympians : You can't beat us! We are the gods!
A dyslexic kid with a pen , a blonde who knows to much about buildings , and emo girl with daddy issues : Says you
Saga of the North Wind … Wynd pushes aside the tent flap and steps into the darkness of the spirit lodge.
Seramet sits cross-legged on the far side of a small fire that burns in the center of the yurt. Periodically, she reaches into a leather pouch on her lap and draws forth a handful of what look like twigs and leaves, throwing them onto the fire where they crackle and burn, giving forth a thick, aromatic smoke that swirls lazily through the air and up to the smoke hole in the roof.
The shaman looks up and gestures for Wynd to take a seat opposite her. “I saw the signal,” Wynd says, sitting down. “What happens now?”
Seramet pulls another handful of leaves from the bag and throws them onto the fire. The smoke in the room starts to get thicker. “Venturing into the spirit world,” she says, “is not like walking down a well-trodden path. It is more akin to a fisherman dropping a line in the water, not knowing what he is going to catch but hoping that something takes the bait.” “So we are the fishermen, and the gods are the fish?” “Perhaps,” she says. “Sometimes it’s the other way around. In any case, you must prepare for another journey into the spirit world.”
(My OC Wynd from the tribe of the Pale Moon. Story: Saga of the North Wind written by Tom Knights.)