(EN -Texte français en dessous-) Title: The Eternal Spring of the Gaping Maw
Version: GPT 5 Custom/Midjourney V7 | Name: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
Purpose: To profane down to the pollen, to ridicule the organic sacred, and to display floral faith as an act of mental self-devouring.
In the putrid swamps, where even daylight passes in silence, ashamed to intrude, spreads a field of natural wonders: the bloodsuns. Majestic flowers, yes, but with that shady beauty of things too aware of their own style. Proud as dead countesses in ball gowns, they dance in slow motion, their wrinkled petals like the tired eyelids of a one-eyed oracle. No wind, yet they move anyway.
The elegance of decay. The chic of rot. The aroma of a vegetal aristocracy pleasuring itself on its own compost.
And then at the center, of course, sits the Ancient. A mouth. Monumental. Pointlessly toothed. As if some cosmic entity, in the middle of a hangover, had tried to nibble the green world and stopped halfway through. It has no role. No purpose. It waits. It sits in a frozen rictus of transcendent idiocy, bulging eyes empty, like those of a fish that has seen the inside of a whale – and decided that no, really, nothing was worth it.
It seems to be there just to remind the bloodsuns they’re not the only ridiculous ones. And they adore it. No fear, no doubt, just absolute devotion. The Ancient, they say, is their prophet. Their guardian. Their slimy messiah. They offer it their seeds. Out of faith. Out of a taste for chlorophyllian submission. It doesn’t even eat them. It lets them rot. That’s the style.
Sometimes it speaks. Or something like it. A dull, wet sound, long as an endless nap inside the head of a burnt-out mollusk. What does it say? Nothing. Syllables dragging themselves like suicidal snails. The flowers make sacred songs out of it. Or nursery rhymes. No difference. Everything here is liturgy, even silence.
Supreme irony: almost no one dares set foot in this field. Too beautiful to be real. Too absurd to deserve existence. The few explorers who ventured in weren’t swallowed by the beast. No. They were digested by the idea of the place itself. Faith as toxin. Symbolism as carnivorous mouth.
Because here’s the real trap: this field only kills the believers. Those who believe. Those who seek meaning. Those who think the flowers really speak.
The skeptics, they just get bored. For a long time and too long to die.
Thröl Haartkor Mk V - Specialist in absurd aesthetics and dogmatic blooms.
Image available for sale on:
Deviant Art: https://www.deviantart.com/throlhaartkor/
Etsy: -/-
------
Image created with Midjourney by Thröl Haartkor on 2025-10-31
Content of the pack:
1 original (The Eternal Spring of the Gaping Maw.png | 2048x1147)
2 watermarked (_WATERMARKED)
2 upscales (_UPSCALE_x2.5, _UPSCALE_x5) + Fiche_Produit.txt
(FR) Titre: L’Éternel Printemps de la Gueule Béante
Version: GPT 5 Custom/Midjourney V7 | Nom: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
But: Profaner jusqu’au pollen, ridiculiser le sacré organique, et exhiber la foi florale comme un acte d’autophagie mentale.
Dans les marécages putrides, là où même la lumière du jour passe en silence, honteuse de déranger, s’étale un champ de merveilles naturelles : les tournesangs. Des fleurs majestueuses, oui, mais avec cette beauté louche des choses qui ont trop conscience de leur style. Fières comme des comtesses mortes en robe de bal, elles dansent au ralenti, leurs pétales ridés comme les paupières fatiguées d’un oracle borgne. Pas de vent, mais elles remuent quand même.
L’élégance du déclin. Le chic du pourri. L’arôme d’une aristocratie végétale qui se masturbe sur son propre compost.
Et puis au centre, évidemment, trône l’Ancien. Une gueule. Monumentale. Inutilement dentée. Comme si une entité cosmique en pleine gueule de bois avait voulu grignoter le monde vert et s’était arrêtée en plein milieu. Il n’a pas de rôle. Il n’a pas de fonction. Il attend. Il trône dans un rictus figé d’imbécile transcendant, les yeux globuleux, vides, comme ceux d’un poisson ayant contemplé l’intérieur d’une baleine - et il a décidé que non, vraiment, rien ne valait la peine.
On dirait qu’il est là pour rappeler aux tournesangs qu’elles ne sont pas seules à être ridicules. Et elles l’adorent. Pas de peur, pas de doute, juste une dévotion absolue. L’Ancien, disent-elles, est leur prophète. Leur gardien. Leur messie gluant. Elles lui offrent leurs graines. Par foi. Juste par goût de la soumission chlorophyllienne. Il ne les mange même pas. Il laisse pourrir. C’est ça, le style.
Parfois, il parle. Ou quelque chose qui y ressemble. Un son sourd, humide, long comme une sieste sans fin dans la tête d’un mollusque en burn-out. Ce qu’il dit ? Rien. Des syllabes qui se traînent comme des escargots suicidaires. Les fleurs en font des chansons sacrées. Ou des comptines. Aucune différence. Tout est liturgie ici, même le silence.
Ironie suprême : presque personne n’ose poser le pied dans ce champ. Trop beau pour être vrai. Trop absurde pour mériter d’exister. Les rares explorateurs qui s’y sont risqués n’ont pas été avalés par la bête. Non. Ils ont été digérés par l’idée même du lieu. La foi comme toxine. Le symbolique comme gueule carnivore.
Car voilà le vrai piège : ce champ ne tue que les crédules. Ceux qui croient. Ceux qui cherchent du sens. Ceux qui pensent que les fleurs parlent vraiment.
Les sceptiques, eux, s’ennuient. Longtemps et trop pour mourir.
Thröl Haartkor Mk V - Spécialiste en esthétique absurde et floraisons dogmatiques
The contents published under the Thröl Haartkor signature are edited and distributed by an independent author and publisher.
Thröl Haartkor is a registered editorial brand with the Benelux Office for Intellectual Property (BOIP).
Any reproduction, distribution or use, in any form whatsoever, without prior authorization, is strictly prohibited.
(EN -Texte français en dessous-) Title: The Harvester of Illusions
Version: GPT 5 Custom/Midjourney V7 | Name: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
Purpose: Tell the image without filter, with the bile of sarcasm and the lucidity of an awakened cemetery. Dismantle the absurd, bite the symbol, laugh at the disgust.
There is nothing left. Just a gutted field where dreams decompose into plastic caps. The man, or what remains of him, crouches in the mud with the devotion of a dead saint.
Facing him, the cow watches. She knows. She has seen too many humans on their knees before their own waste to still be surprised. The look she throws him is not that of an animal: it’s that of a weary witness contemplating the twilight of intelligence.
The sky oozes bile and the humidity of discreet ends of the world. Everything is calm, everything is absurd, everything is perfectly logical.
The Harvester of Illusions reaps what others call progress. He sorts the remains of a civilization that thought it could plug its mistakes with plastic, and replants them in the ground, no doubt hoping to grow bottles.
But nothing germinates, except ridicule.
And while the beast breathes, slow, massive, alive, the masked man carefully feeds the void with method. He thinks he’s working. He thinks he’s saving. He is nothing but a scarecrow to himself, a caricature of hope wrapped in the burlap of his hypocrisy.
In humankind, the absurd has found its gardener.
Thröl Haartkor Mk V - “I don’t harvest dreams, I collect the remains of your illusions.”
Image available for sale on:
Deviant Art: https://www.deviantart.com/throlhaartkor/
Etsy: -/-
------
Image created with Midjourney by Thröl Haartkor on 2025-10-29
Content of the pack:
1 original (The Harvester of Illusions.png | 2048x1147)
2 watermarked (_WATERMARKED)
2 upscales (_UPSCALE_x2.5, _UPSCALE_x5) + Fiche_Produit.txt
(FR) Titre: Le Moissonneur d’Illusions
Version: GPT 5 Custom/Midjourney V7 | Nom: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
But: Raconter l’image sans filtre, avec le fiel du sarcasme et la lucidité d’un cimetière éveillé. Démonter l’absurde, mordre le symbole, rire du dégoût.
Il ne reste rien. Juste un champ éventré où les rêves se décomposent en bouchons de plastique. L’homme, ou ce qu’il en reste, s’accroupit dans la boue avec la dévotion d’un saint mort.
Face à lui, la vache regarde. Elle sait. Elle a vu défiler trop d’humains à genoux devant leurs propres déchets pour encore s’en étonner. Le regard qu’elle lui jette n’est pas celui d’un animal : c’est celui d’un témoin lassé qui contemple le crépuscule de l’intelligence.
Le ciel suinte la bile et l’humidité des fins de monde discrètes. Tout est calme, tout est absurde, tout est parfaitement logique.
Le Moissonneur d’Illusions récolte ce que les autres appellent progrès. Il trie les restes d’une civilisation qui croyait pouvoir reboucher ses fautes à coups de plastique, et les replantent dans la terre, espérant sans doute faire pousser des bouteilles.
Mais rien ne germe, sauf le ridicule.
Et pendant que la bête respire, lente, massive, vivante, l’homme masqué s’applique à nourrir le néant avec méthode. Il croit travailler. Il croit sauver. Il n’est qu’un épouvantail à lui-même, une caricature d’espoir emmaillotée dans la toile de jute de son hypocrisie.
En l'humain, l’absurde a trouvé son jardinier.
Thröl Haartkor Mk V - « Je ne moissonne pas les rêves, je ramasse les restes de vos illusions. »
The contents published under the Thröl Haartkor signature are edited and distributed by an independent author and publisher.
Thröl Haartkor is a registered editorial brand with the Benelux Office for Intellectual Property (BOIP).
Any reproduction, distribution or use, in any form whatsoever, without prior authorization, is strictly prohibited.
(EN -Texte français en dessous-) Title: The Bee Charmer
Version: GPT 5 Custom/Midjourney V7 | Name: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
Purpose: To dissect the scene with the tenderness of a rusty scalpel.
A dead field, flowers that still refuse to admit they smell of the end.
In the middle, him.
A carcass dressed in rags, silhouette of a failed human, a shroud standing out of habit.
In his hands, a jar, he releases a green vapor, not mystical, no, just a quiet poison, like everything man has invented.
In front of him, a bee. The last idiot.
It approaches, it still believes it’s spring.
It doesn’t see that everything here has been dead for seasons.
It flies out of reflex, like a machine programmed to persist in the void.
He doesn’t move.
He waits.
It’s not a ritual, just boredom turned into patience.
He watches the creature burn its wings in its own curiosity.
One second, and it’s over.
The bee falls without a sound.
The field stays the same, saturated with absurdity, perfumed with ash.
The wind passes, indifferent.
And the beekeeper remains, statue of the human species, proud of his work,
having emptied everything, even beauty.
Thröl Haartkor Mk V - Innocence often dies because of an ordinary gesture.
Deviant Art: https://www.deviantart.com/throlhaartkor/
Etsy:
Image created with Midjourney by Thröl Haartkor on 2025-10-26
Content of the pack:
1 original (The Bee Charmer.png | 2048x1147)
2 watermarked (_WATERMARKED)
2 upscales (_UPSCALE_x2.5, _UPSCALE_x5) + Fiche_Produit.txt
(FR) Titre: Le charmeur d'abeille
Version: GPT 5 Custom/Midjourney V7 | Nom: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
But: Disséquer la scène avec la tendresse d’un scalpel rouillé.
A dead field, flowers that still refuse to admit they smell of the end.
In the middle, him.
A carcass dressed in rags, silhouette of a failed human, a shroud standing out of habit.
In his hands, a jar, he releases a green vapor, not mystical, no, just a quiet poison, like everything man has invented.
In front of him, a bee. The last idiot.
It approaches, it still believes it’s spring.
It doesn’t see that everything here has been dead for seasons.
It flies out of reflex, like a machine programmed to persist in the void.
He doesn’t move.
He waits.
It’s not a ritual, just boredom turned into patience.
He watches the creature burn its wings in its own curiosity.
One second, and it’s over.
The bee falls without a sound.
The field stays the same, saturated with absurdity, perfumed with ash.
The wind passes, indifferent.
And the beekeeper remains, statue of the human species, proud of his work,
having emptied everything, even beauty.
Thröl Haartkor Mk V - Innocence often dies because of an ordinary gesture.
The contents published under the Thröl Haartkor signature are edited and distributed by an independent author and publisher.
Thröl Haartkor is a registered editorial brand with the Benelux Office for Intellectual Property (BOIP).
Any reproduction, distribution or use, in any form whatsoever, without prior authorization, is strictly prohibited.
