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ArtistWatercolor in the style of Josephine Wall, Tomasz Allen Kopera, Dariusz Zawadzki, Andreja Peklar, Ivan Shiskine, a whimsical scene set in a cozy, rustic study with an anthropomorphic old silver dragon, wearing glasses and christmas hat, sitting at a wooden desk. The silver dragon has a detailed, face with large, expressive eyes. Dressed in a historical, royal coat with a belt, the silver is diligently writing in an open sketchbook displaying intricate drawings. The setting includes a cluttered wooden desk adorned with various artist's supplies and tools, and a small bookshelf filled with vessels and knick-knacks; christmas season, antique, historical Christmas decorations, winter outside; all bathed in soft, natural light streaming through a window. In the foreground, a anthropomorphic owlbear skull, curiously watch the dragon from the corner, adding a playful touch to the scene. The overall cozy season mood is one of creativity and charm, with a rich color palette of brown, green and soft beige tones.. style by Donato Giancola x Loish x Ross Tran
There was a winter when the snow fell earlier than anyone could remember, and the days grew shorter, as if hiding from themselves. Dawn lingered only briefly, and twilight returned before the mind was fully awake. In a half-timbered house at the edge of the woods, where pine branches brushed the windowpanes and frost drew pale lines on the glass, a dragon sat at his desk and wrote. He was old, but not in the way humans measure age. Frost clung easily to his scales, settling into the fine ridges of his skin, and his beard had taken on the pale white of parchment left too long in the moonlight. Small, round spectacles rested on his snout, and behind them, his eyes moved slowly and deliberately, as if every thought deserved to be weighed before it was allowed to stay. He wore a scholar's robe with faded gold trim and a soft, red winter cap, its tassel swaying gently as he leaned forward to read his lines. The dragon was a scribe, not of kings or wars, but of the seasons. Before him lay an open book, its pages filled with careful drawings and annotations: bridges sketched as they once stood, halls remembered only by their shadows, machines that never quite worked, and dreams that had nearly come true. Some pages were neat, others cluttered, marked by hesitation and revision. He wrote not to preserve perfection, but to keep failure from disappearing entirely. Ink stained his claws, and the scent of dried herbs and old paper filled the room, mingled with the faint resinous fragrance of the pine branches that hung from the beams for the winter months. An owl sat nearby, wrapped in a knitted scarf, watching him with unwavering patience. It had long since learned that silence was part of the work, and that some truths only came to light when nothing was spoken aloud. Occasionally, it turned its head and listened to the sounds of the house, the soft creaking of the wood as it contracted in the cold. The writer believed that winter was not merely a season, but a measure. The cold revealed which structures endured, which ideas shattered, which promises could survive without warmth. Every year, when the first snow covered the paths and the forest held its breath, he recorded what remained. Not triumphs, but continuities. A light that still burned. A bridge that still stood. A tool that was repaired instead of discarded. A book that had not yet been forgotten. Outside, the world slowed down. Snow accumulated in soft layers on the windowsill. Trees bent under the weight, but did not break. Inside, the dragon's pen moved steadily, mapping the silent persistence of things that refused to end. When he finished a page, he paused—not to rest, but to listen. Winter spoke softly, in the language of silence and restraint, and he answered by writing it down. As long as the writer remained at his desk, winter would never be empty. It would be measured, remembered, and thus endured.
