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ArtistA mysterious, amphibian-like guardian creature sits hunched on a mossy stone in the middle of a sunken moor. It has pale, moon-like eyes scattered across its head and limbs—eight in total—some of which peer in different directions. Its elongated fingers resemble drifting threads of memory, trailing into the water. Around it, the landscape is otherworldly: crooked, rotting wooden walkways weave through tall reeds and ghostly fog. A half-sunken copper buoy rests nearby, wrapped in old ropes and glowing faintly from within. A barefoot young person stands knee-deep in water, holding a book made of lily fibers, facing the creature without fear. Mist rises around them, and in the water, ripples form delicate patterns like forgotten calligraphy. The atmosphere is quiet and dreamlike, with the light dim and tinted with sepia and greenish hues. One of the creature’s eyes gently closes as a drop falls from its chin into the glowing water. It is dusk, and the fog holds silent echoes. Style: Dark fairytale realism with poetic lighting and subtle surrealism Artist reference: Nicolas Delort
In the Sunken Moor, where the water dreams and the light rarely settles, crouched a being with eyes like moons and fingers like forgotten thoughts. It meant nothing. It was simply there. Some called it the Speak-Eye Watcher, others the River Whisper. But no one ever knew if it really spoke—or just saw. It was old. Perhaps older than the wood of the crumbling walkways that creaked through the reeds like memories from a time when words were still traded here. Tied to a copper buoy, half-submerged, lay something that looked like a memory in tin. A message in a bottle with a rusty handle. But the being didn't touch it. It waited. And saw. When the fog came—not the usual kind, but the kind with voices in it—its eye branches moved slowly, like plants that dream. Sometimes one of the small eyes looked in another direction, as if it had rediscovered something long lost. On this day, a wind blew that smelled not like wind, but like ink. And with it a young figure, barefoot, with a book made of water lily fibers under his arm. It trudged through the knee-deep water as if it belonged to it. As if one could enter the moor without explaining oneself. "So it's you," she said. The creature didn't answer. But a drop ran from his forehead, trembled on his chin, and fell into the water. The waves formed a pattern. Ancient writing. A name. "You remember," it whispered. "I was a child when I last saw you. And you were silent. Just like now." Chatterbox slowly blinked with one of its upper eyes. Then it reached for the buoy, pulled it to the shore with a soft glubb, opened it—and brought out a voice. Not one of flesh, but of mist, wind, and sound. "You left something behind," said the sound. The figure lowered its gaze. "A question. And no one has ever answered it." The being offered her his voice. It trembled in her hands like a freshly captured thought. When she placed it against her forehead, the water around her lit up briefly – then everything fell silent. The chatterbox closed the buoy again. And waited. For that was how it always was: One came. One forgot. One returned. And the being was there to record what could not be said. In the last light, as the fog cleared, it sat alone again on its stone. The drops fell from his arms like seconds. And its eyes – all eight of them – looked in different directions. For one who sees everything no longer needs to speak. One only needs to remember.
