asenathkarnak

[asenathkarnak]

And the more I think of it, the more absurd it is that you could threaten me at all, Sergeant Loughton, when the Last Word tells me that you’ve been fused to that diner chair ever since you turned sixteen.

I saw Natalie Dormer as Moriarty in Elementary and decided that this is what Val looks like. they even sound very similar. now, do the prayer marks on Val's skin look kinda like circular gallifreyan? yes they do because I have no imagination. also as I'm looking at the script now it says "black and delicate marks of ink" but oh well, it's too late now. and anyway I think making them black here would've been too distracting.

I've been trying to fuse that dude with the chair for so long. I intended to make it look more horrifying but ultimately decided against it because there were too many unnecessary and distracting details, also the perspective was wrong (I mean, even more so than it is now. I'm not very good at perspective)

adding a close-up of this too because I'm kinda proud of the way the light on this mug turned out lol.

[asenathkarnak]

The Annotated Dracula, 1975 (Wilfried Sätty)

[asenathkarnak]

I'm relistening to The Silt Verses again and i cannot stop thinking of the Paraclete's Gulch as the St Kinga's underground chapel and the salt mine system surrounding it.

it's got:

underground water pools

various historical and/or religious carved statues

a chapel chamber

and so so so many tunnels

like. Is this not a perfect visualization of the Gulch

[asenathkarnak]

Maral, ashkhatun's daughter. she's one of the herders

all her friends are bugs : )

[asenathkarnak]

A Plea for Masser

Masser –

The night ached my collar bone and no matter how much I plead at the rain to wash me clean from my scorn, to clean my garden’s Kanets, it is vain The flowers’ scent is forever tainted with my blood which he drew with fangs that scald

Masser –

On nights like this, I still see when I close my eyes his yellow orbs like melted gold and his raking claws How many times have I seen you now, Masser, since the day he left my door, leaving nothing but a letter? How many nights since tears left me dazed and starved on the floor like it’s the only place to be?

The taut strings of my zither snapped after the thirty eight time I played the same song I did that night when he stayed in his room, regretting my fright He might have wound me in body but he etched to himself guilt without remedy

Oh, Masser –

Will you tell him he should have at least allow me one last chance to hold his face, one last kiss perhaps to quiet his beast? Maybe it would’ve been of no use but a parting embrace would have spared me from night like this where I crush my Kanets just for a small peace (written by Vorinthia/@mondrosen on ESO)

[asenathkarnak]

THE SIREN IN LOVE WITH THE FISHERMAN

Sir, you have grappled onto me with silver hooks, lured me in with worm bait and love, a bucket full of pearls and bloody chum.

In the morning I woke up startled, dreaming of thunderstorms, dreaming of boats, of a million of you swimming in schools around me, my body a shark; my heart without gills – your hands cold silver against my spine, my scales scraped off, you sleep a blade against my skin, my body, suddenly so new and empty, with everything inside of me wrapped up in paper rinsed of its blood.

By Shinji Moon

[asenathkarnak]

imagine coming home and finding your boyfriend like this

[asenathkarnak]

some moons

[asenathkarnak]

It begins at dusk.

Upon the empty flats of the lower delta, with a promised bride looking out across the endless water.

She’s been warned all her life about coming here, to the banks of the great nameless river.

Because the river, to the lifelong and generational enmity of the people who live in the broken village, will not obey. 

During the harvest season, it floods its banks, drowning their fields in rich, sluggish silt. 

During the planting season, it retreats sulkily out of sight, leaving behind parched ditches of cracked mud for the farmers to pick over.

Fish, when they do come up, come up wrong. Either on the surface, or when you split them open.

Wicked children who dare to play in the shallows usually come back safe and sound to the broken village. 

But there are occasional days and nights when they don’t, and their grieving families will carry out a fruitless search amongst the reeds, uncovering a complete absence of bodies or footprints but stumbling across freshly discarded debris that seems to have come from another time and a place entirely.

Old glass bottles. Wheels of twisted black rubber. The coiled, slippery bodies of ancient eels and strange, twitching crabs.

All across the face of the Peninsula, scattered and hidden, are tenuous places - and this is a tenuous place if there ever was one.

She should not be here, lingering upon the cusp of dark and impossible depths.

She’s been forbidden against coming here alone, but today she needs to be alone, and this is the only place for miles that’s lonely enough.

Because tomorrow is her wedding day, and her long white dress is waiting for her upon her bed, and her relatives have flocked to town from all across the countryside, and she has nowhere else to go.

The promised bride is hoping, quietly and gently, that something dreadful will happen to her.

Murder, or lightning-strike, or simply sinking accidentally into the silt.

Something, anything, needs to happen to her to stop what’s coming for her tomorrow.

Her tears strike the dark water. The surface breaks, and changes.

And in the spreading ripples, she sees a reflection that is not her own.

There is a garden beneath the river. 

It’s been there all along, she realises. Waiting for her to become capable of seeing it.

And the things that grow and flourish there are living and bright like nothing that grows above, and the one who tends to the garden is brighter and more beautiful than any man could be.

The girl looks down.

The Trawler-man looks back up.

Future generations will argue about exactly how he is portrayed, with certain depictions tending towards the ornately angelic or even monstrously crustacean. 

But I like the simplicity of how it was taught to me.

A figure that’s always still, and never certain.

The Trawler-man wears a grey mackintosh and a hood, and it ripples and changes with the currents, just as his skin ripples and changes.

He turns one face towards you when he wants to listen, and another face when he wants to speak.

“Why are you crying?” he asks, and when he’s spoken, he turns the first of his faces away from her.

“Tomorrow is the Day of Going Forth,” the promised bride tells him. “Which means that tomorrow I will be married. And I know that this is certain, because all of the arrangements have already been made, and everyone keeps telling me how happy I must be at last.”

“But I also know that it can’t be true, because this is not who I am. It is not who I will ever be.

I cannot give myself up to be shaped by this match and this commitment. I cannot be bound into this life that they have planned for me.”

“Then become something else,” the Trawler-man says, with the first of his two faces. “My currents are kind, and your flesh is pliant. I will make you something that cannot be bound.”

“But I am afraid,” the promised bride replies. “I have seen the bodies that come back from below. I have seen the obscene outcomes of the dreadful river.”

The Trawler-man laughs, and says,

“They send you to their factories and fields to harden your palms, burden your back and choke your lungs. They strip you of your dignity and they turn your hair white and your gums bloody as they rot you from within. Why should their outcomes be natural, and mine obscene?”

The young bride says,

“But either way I become a vessel - for your purposes or for theirs.”

The Trawler-man tells her,

“You are a vessel, no more than that; to be anything else would be in excess of your own nature. Come. Bear me a gift, and I shall leave you something in return.”

He extends a sodden hand. One of his smiles is kindly.

The promised bride turns and gazes out over the empty plains, back towards the road that will lead her to the broken village and her wedding day tomorrow.

She turns back again.

She plunges downwards, into the garden beneath the river.

[asenathkarnak]

my flesh shall take the great shape of my revenge

[asenathkarnak]

the silt verses

[asenathkarnak]

from the commission pileup i'm trying to speedrun before leaving for the states:

will update yall once i put it through a coffee wash to really get that riversilt/dredge from the primordial muck effect

[asenathkarnak]

“Fungi make worlds. They also unmake them."

On etsy as prints, notebooks, brooches and stickers.

[asenathkarnak]

[asenathkarnak]

submitted by tsoyenko : Lolita

[asenathkarnak]

Metallic Brocade Evening Dress with Seed Beaded Trim, 1921

Callot Soeurs

via Chicago History Museum

[asenathkarnak]

Passion Flowers (passiflora species)