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I keep having fun with the concept of hare Henry x) He's not a big hare, it's just a hare-sized forge hahaha (and the horseshoes are probably for hare-sized horses or pony)

Landscape from Middle Ages

The lone archer Hare, who returned from the Hundred Years' War, saw his home village being attacked by a band of Rats. Of course, it's inspired by Kingdom Come game cuz this week I've been playing it all after work every day. Adore tales about lonely cool strangers who travel and save someone. If you only knew how much time I spent on these shades of green, I've coloring and recoloring that grass a bunch of times. Really wanted to try to found the withered color of grass - not a standard green or too yellow autumn green :"D

April's harvest. Not much, but honest work.

Beware of Pity was an easy, effortless winner. What an amazing book, and a great introduction to Zweig. It inspired me immensely—I have pages and pages worth of notes and quotes, and I'm so very excited to read more.

Possession can easily count as two separate works, and, therefore, was twice as taxing to read. It was alright, really, and the author was brilliant for coming up with so much "lore," but it was simply not my cup of tea. Where people see great romance, I see a self-centered man whose actions are destructive to the point of ruining lives. I understand that humans are flawed, I do! But I don't like a story full of bad actions and worse consequences of those extremely flawed beings to be presented on a plate with gold rims and called something it's not.

I have the most to say about Daisy Miller, but, perhaps I'll save it for later—a long thinkpiece, likely. It's a short story, but I just adored it. I love love love a tragedy, and it really scratched all the right spots. It's a very thought-provoking piece; it had me thinking and pondering on its meaning for days.

O Caledonia was recommended to me by positively everyone, and glazed from every angle, so I will just say that I went into it with expectations raised a bit too high. It's good for what it is, but I can't call it a revolutionary work. It's a cute coming-of-age story with a great setting that I, personally, couldn't relate to, but I know many people did and will.

Forest Lake with Water Lilies in Bloom and Numerous Insects, c.  1869.

Anthonore Christensen, (Danish, 1849 - 1926) 

Illustration from The Two Brothers for Grimm's Fairy Tales by Elenore Abbott (1920)

Richard Doyle - Day Dreaming

Saturnina Canaleta de Girona (detail), Federico de Madrazo y Kuntz, 1856.

The snow Queen by Artuš Scheiner (1863 – 1938)

Venatio

Men are simple creatures. Base and transparent, like mutts panting after scraps of meat. Rosa had long since deciphered their nature—pliant, lust-driven, leashed by sinew and want rather than reason or virtue. From the dust-creased palms of a Moravian wheat-thresher to the gilded fingers of a newly knighted lord, she had known them all, some intimately, others merely through their desperate attempts to impress. At first, she had sought disproof with the fervour of a scholar chasing lost pages of De Rerum Natura, hoping for her thesis to be flawed.

But each encounter etched the truth more deeply: men were canes domiti—nothing but tamed dogs, slavering beneath a lady's table, ever loyal so long as their lusts were sated.

Young and decrepit, serfs and scions, those who could quote Seneca in Latin and those who could scarce scrawl their own names in the dirt—all bore the same hunger in their eyes. Rosa had yet to meet the exception, though her vanity whispered always that such a man must exist, if only to prove her worthy of one.

Was the Skalitz boy different?

She dared hope so. A village-born son of a blacksmith, raised not on scripture or scrolls but soot and swordplay, he should have been like the rest. Yet he listened. Not with the feigned patience of the lustful, but with the attentive silence of a man who wished to understand. He had brought back the book she had spent years writing, wrapped in cloth to preserve the binding. He had slain the raiders who defiled her estate, though he made it known that he took no pleasure in senseless slaughter. It was not just the deeds, but the manner of them.

And yet, even he—even he—waited like a patient mastiff, biding his time for the kill.

He struck not when her strength was at its fullest, but when sorrow made her limbs slow and her thoughts scattered. Her father taken, her halls pillaged, heirlooms broken or carried off—what was left to her but grief? And in that moment, Henry moved, not as a knight defending honor, but as a hunter who senses the faltering gait of his prey.

But Rosa was no wounded roe, bleeding prettily in the thorns, awaiting the mercy of death. She was a huntress herself—one who had tasted conquest as well as being conquered. Perhaps she allowed the moment. Perhaps she welcomed it. A distraction, after all, was not unwelcome when the world itself seemed to unravel. The embrace of another, even a hound’s, could warm the chill left behind by treachery.

Still, a question lingered: had he come to her aid out of care, or calculation?

She could not say.