I Keep Having Fun With The Concept Of Hare Henry X) He's Not A Big Hare, It's Just A Hare-sized Forge

Richard Doyle - Day Dreaming

Inspired by The Siren by J. Waterhouse

It’s been a while since I got to play my lyre. Musical instruments make the most wonderful sound when you play them out of the water, but the last time I went up, my trusty friend got carried away by waves and collided with the cliff the second I let go of it to adjust my hair. Now its pieces are resting among the debris at the very bottom of the ocean, with many other instruments I had broken over the years. To be fair, I could dive in and fetch it, but the whole ordeal of connecting the pieces together and fixing it up will undoubtedly prove to be very tedious. 

As my fingers glided along the strings, I heard a heavy splash coming from the side of the shore. In the early hours of the morning, birds and land critters are far from plentiful, and it was only natural for me to turn at the loud sound. There I saw him: a creature, blissfully splashing in the water, unaware of my close presence. He was beautiful. With a merman’s physique and masculine features, the tail was nowhere to be seen. Instead, I observed two equally long arm-like appendages, which, frankly, didn’t take away from his charming presence. It was becoming troublesome to both look and play at the same time, and so I gave up on the latter activity. The abrupt stop of music, however, hasn’t escaped the creature’s attention. He turned his head towards where the sound of my lyre was coming from, and it finally happened: I’ve been discovered. I wasn’t afraid, on the contrary, I quickly tried to present myself in the best light, adjusting my wet hair with a hand free of my lyre in an attempt to give it more volume, which proved to be quite difficult now that I was out of the water. He called out to me a few times, each time louder than the previous one, and all I could think about was how funny his voice sounded when he was yelling what I believe were various words. I laughed, and he went silent. Did I startle him? As I began to curse myself over the careless mistake, the creature dove into the waters and made a quick way towards me, working the bottom limbs similarly to a mermaid tail. Only when he arrived at my rock, he noticed our most striking difference — my tail. With childish wonder, he reached out his arm to barely touch it, sliding his hand back and forth along the scales. “Do you find it revolting?” I asked, and his hand went still, as his eyes locked on mine. His response was short, said with a low and calm voice. 

I didn’t understand his language, and he didn’t understand mine, but neither of us needed words to communicate. By sitting close to him, being in his presence, it felt like he understood me better than anyone had: my mother, my own kind. Boldly, I rested my head on his shoulder, inhaling the unfamiliar scent. We stayed still for a while, uninterrupted, until the sun has fully risen. Only then he gently pushes my head off his shoulder, giving me time to adjust to my new position. As he departed, I wasn’t afraid that I might not ever see him again. On the contrary, I could feel that he too knew of a special connection we now shared. I sat on my rock a while longer, thinking about my future, the sea-dwelling suitors, and him, him, him.

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.

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

"O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,"

A Self-Portrait’, of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1847

Dean Cornwell - Illustration for The River's End (1919)

Αrt by Ulla Thynell

White Mourning

“I always find it strange, how rarely evil comes dressed for the part. One might expect a wicked being to look like this creature—horned and fetid, unmistakable. And yet, the truest threats arrive masked as angels of light.”

Summary: In the dead of winter night, the betrothed arrives. A dragon rots in a filthy cage, brought as proof of a holy slaughter. In a castle thick with secrets and snow, the bride, haunted by the dreams of fire, begins to stray. And when the wedding bells ring, the veils will be drawn for mourning.

Read on AO3!

Vivien McDermid (Scottish, 1981) - Swan Silence (2022)