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ArtistA forgotten woodland creature sits on the forest floor; a hybrid 70 zu 30 of turkey and lizard. Its scaly, blue-green skin is reminiscent of a crocodile. It has tiny, blunt horns, large, erect ears, and enormous, blue-green, reflective eyes that seem to hold memories. Soft, natural light filters through the leaves, moss, and roots that surround it. The atmosphere is intimate, still, and contemplative—a being that draws forgotten glances. Cinematic close-up, shallow depth of field, painterly magical realism. Stylistically, it evokes Gustaf Tenggren, Terryl Whitlatch, and Aaron Sims.
Deep in the innermost thicket of the Moss Valley forest lived a creature that few had ever seen and even fewer could name. It was small for a dragon, yet too large to be mistaken for one of the forest's creatures, with slate-blue scales that shimmered like damp stones in the shadows, and large, dark eyes that seemed to gather the green of the world. Two short horns protruded from its head, overgrown with moss and lichen, as if the forest itself had decided not only to tolerate it, but to claim it. It was called the Stillhorn because it moved without disturbing the forest and listened without asking questions. It was neither young nor old, but had been there precisely as long as it was needed. The Stillhorn knew no haste. Its steps were slow and deliberate, and wherever it settled, sounds subsided as if making room. Birds fell silent not out of fear, but out of respect, and even the crackling of ancient roots seemed to grow fainter as he passed. He possessed no fire like other dragons, but carried warmth within him, a deep, tranquil ember that did not burn, but sustained. When the forest threatened to freeze solid in winter, the Stillhorn lay down among the roots of the oldest trees, and the ground remained soft enough for life beneath to continue breathing. It is said that the Stillhorn arose from a promise that had never been spoken. When an ancient forest was once nearly forgotten, the earth itself decided to give it a voice, not a loud one, but a lasting one. The Stillhorn did not speak, yet it remembered. In its presence, beings rediscovered why they were there. Lost animals found their way, and people who ventured too deep into the forest sensed in time when it was time to turn back. Not out of fear, but out of understanding. The forest was not a place to be conquered. Sometimes, when the mist hung thick between the tree trunks, the Stillhorn would sit motionless on the mossy ground, letting the world drift by. In such moments, he was almost indistinguishable from the roots. His eyes remained open, but his gaze was turned inward, to where memories rested, memories that must not be lost. He preserved not stories in words, but in states of being: the sensation of shadows on hot days, the weight of damp earth after rain, the stillness before the first bird call in the morning. But even a being like the Stillhorn was not destined for eternity. When the forest had renewed itself one day, when new trees had grown and old paths were rediscovered, the moss on his horns began to grow thicker, heavier. His movements slowed, his eyes softened.
