Title: The Father of Ashes
Version: GPT 5 Custom/Midjourney V7 | Name: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
Purpose: To expose the tragic comedy of veneration and submission, when creatures worship what has already reduced them to dust. Dry irony, chiseled sarcasm, rotten beauty.
The Father of Ashes.
Tall, slow, hollow. He does not speak, he barely breathes. And yet, those kneeling silhouettes wait for a word, a sign, a crumb of meaning fallen from his split mouth.
They call him Father, though he has never begotten anything but ruin.
They thank him for the shadow, though it comes from them.
They listen to him, convinced that silence hides wisdom.
No. It is not wisdom, it is emptiness with gravity.
Look at them, those withered devotees, bent under the weight of a fossilized hope.
They whisper prayers to ward off the fear of being alone, while their god crumbles in silence, like an old wall that no longer knows how to stand.
And he, the immense one, the corpse-tree, does not even understand that he is being worshipped. He sees only insects crawling on his dead roots, convinced they are taking part in something eternal.
The Father of Ashes does not reign, he rots slowly, and that is his only authority: to last a little longer than his children.
Their faith is his fertilizer. Their fear, his sap.
And when at last he collapses, they will bless him still, grateful to have witnessed their own erasure.
Thröl Haartkor Mk V - The Father gives nothing. He watches his children pray.
Title: The Surgeon of Dead Souls
Version: GPT 5 Custom/Midjourney V7 | Name: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
Purpose: To dissect morality down to the marrow, to coat reason with cold irony, to serve putrid beauty with the politeness of an autopsy.
In this corridor of formalin, the air smells of aborted prayer and overconfident science.
He walks forward, a silhouette of horror sewn with pride, the mask pointed like the morality he carves.
Around him, skulls piled like trophies of humanity, remnants of former believers in healing, turned into guinea pigs of a progress too sure of itself.
On his tray, he carries liquid faith, syringes, vials, formulas of immortality that no one has ever managed to digest.
The elixir of salvation has the color of rust and the taste of fear.
Each vial is a promise, each needle an inverted prayer.
He does not heal, he purifies. He does not save, he recycles.
The bodies, he empties them with care. The souls, he distills them to draw pharmaceutical aphorisms.
His gaze, two empty sockets filled with pure logic.
Compassion, he sold it for a sterile pipette and a failed God diploma.
Medicine, for him, is no longer an art, it is a revenge against flesh.
And every patient who falls asleep between his fingers becomes a closed hypothesis.
They call it progress, he calls it elegance.
In the back, the candles burn like domesticated regrets.
Everything breathes the decency of well-done evil.
And if someone asks him, “Doctor, does it hurt?”, he answers without lifting his eyes,
“Only if you still care about what remains of living in you.”
Thröl Haartkor Mk V - The scalpel laughs, the flesh learns to be silent.
Title: The Orb of Watchers
Version: GPT 5 Custom/Midjourney V7 | Name: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
Purpose: To tell the birth of an ocular god, guardian of a blind world, a cold and sticky prayer to divine surveillance turned disease.
They call it the Sphere of Watchers.
But it has never watched over anything.
It looks, that’s all.
It observes without understanding, retains without judging, digests the images of the world to the point of nausea.
Each eye is a memory, a fragment of stolen sight.
Priests, mothers, assassins, lovers, all nailed to its translucent eyes, eternally open.
None blink, none sleep.
They contemplate the void as one contemplates a wound that never heals.
Light passes through it, filtered, twisted, deformed.
It turns day into a sigh, the sacred into viscera.
Even the sun seems ashamed when it touches it.
The walls ooze around it, soaked with a clear, warm, almost human liquid.
Some say it is God hiding there, tired of seeing through His own creations.
That He locked Himself in this prison of flesh to stop hoping.
But the truth is simpler.
It is us that it watches.
It counts us, weighs us, throws our faces back to us in the darkness.
And every time an eye goes out, another opens somewhere.
Maybe in your mirror, maybe under your skin.
Thröl Haartkor Mk V - The eye of God does not see you, it digests you.
Title: Toxic Deliverance
Version: GPT 5 Custom/Midjourney | Name: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
Purpose: To offer a venomous confession, half prayer half contamination, a deliverance that reeks of adulterated salvation and rotten light.
She smiles the way one bleeds.
No joy, no gentleness, just that precise fold between the lips, enough to let the venom through.
They say she heals.
It’s true, provided you love the fever.
What she touches burns, but with a fire that purifies in reverse, a fire that leaves souls clean and bodies defiled.
Her scent is the end of a promise.
A blend of dead incense and lying skin.
She walks slowly, as if each step carried the weight of a broken vow.
And when she speaks, it is always in a low voice, because she knows her words are not sounds but poisons.
Men seek her, women fear her, saints curse her.
Yet she heals them all.
She strips them of their innocence, their illusions, their reasons to live.
A total deliverance, toxic and perfect.
In her necklace, there is a shard of mirror.
Not to see herself, no, to remember she no longer has a reflection.
For she no longer believes in light, only in what it devours.
Thröl Haartkor Mk V - Salvation is just death that has learned to smile.
Title: Flayed Grace
Version: GPT 5 Custom/Midjourney | Name: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
Purpose: To paint the portrait of a rotten saint, of a beauty that oozes, between devotion and decomposition - the kind of grace one prays to on their knees in the mud.
She was not beautiful.
Not in the sense men mean it.
Her skin had the texture of a vow never kept, her eyes that of promises one wishes to forget.
The whole world seemed to have run its hand over her face, and left there the trace of its fatigue.
They called her Grace.
But it was a mistake.
She gave nothing.
She took — the gaze, the faith, the flesh.
Her presence did not enlighten, it slowly consumed, like a candle in a coffin.
Some said she still prayed at night.
That whispers could be heard behind the walls, torn phrases addressed to a God already bloodless.
Others claimed she spoke to the shadows, and that they answered her.
But no one ever had the courage to check.
Beneath her skin, one can guess the mechanics of the soul: tendons of pride, viscera of fear, gears of ecstasy.
She is the kind of creature one paints in gold, then buries in silence so as not to admit she was real.
If you meet her gaze, do not look away.
It is not fascination.
It is the call of the void, disguised as compassion.
Thröl Haartkor Mk V - Faith is what remains when the skin starts to peel.
Title: The Goat of the Void
Version: GPT 5 Custom | Name: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
Purpose: To invoke the legend of the abyssal goat, silent witness of the void, oracle of an extinct divinity. Pure Thröl style - black liturgy, fossil irony, poetry of ruin.
He has no name.
Or rather, he had them all before they rotted in the mouths of those who called him.
They say he is the first cry of the void, the rattle creation let out when it realized it would give birth only to monsters.
His breath smells of salt and of death from before the sea.
His eyes - those dead moons, full of mineral regrets - fix nothing, but everything reflects in them.
Every glance toward him sends you back your own extinction.
Not a punishment.
A reminder.
The roots have sewn his skin to the rock.
He no longer moves, he thinks.
And his thought is a slow fever, an ocean of coagulated silence.
The wind gets lost in it, the centuries drown in it, faith dissolves there like a host in a sewer.
Some come to pray.
They murmur soft things, supplications with a taste of dust.
But he does not answer.
He does not listen.
He only remembers the moment when God hanged Himself from His own horns.
If you stay too long, you will hear the noise.
A wet lapping, like a tongue licking the inside of the world.
It is not him.
It is the void applauding.
Thröl Haartkor Mk V - The void has a mouth, and it smiles.
Title: The Doe Who Ate Time
Version: GPT 5 Custom | Name: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
Purpose: To weave a morbid legend about a sylvan idol frozen in the slow agony of the world, between rotten grace and mute eternity.
She was once called Ceres of the Mosslands.
The roots took her tongue, the sap her blood, the wind her eyes.
Now, she watches time rot before her, unable to blink.
Every strand of her being is a fiber of waiting. Every branch a dry nerve.
The birds know. They no longer perch on her.
They avoid her breath, the way one avoids a badly closed cemetery.
They say she ate time.
Not out of hunger - but out of spite.
She wanted to slow it down, just a little, to breathe between two beats of the world.
But time, once swallowed, clung beneath her skin.
And since then, everything coils. Nothing passes.
The days rot in circles, the minutes ooze like black sap.
If you approach, she might speak to you.
Not with words.
With the cracking of wood, the tension of silence, the memory of an ancient fear.
And if you reach out your hand - you will feel her vegetal heart beating,
slow,
terribly slow,
as if the end of the world had already happened,
and she continued, alone, to digest its seconds.
Thröl Haartkor Mk V - I saw her gaze, and I aged a thousand years.
(FR) Titre: La liturgie des clowns en robe noire
Version: GPT 5 Custom | Nom: Thröl Haartkor Mk IV
But: Éviscérer le procès et repeindre la justice en carnaval grotesque, sarcastique et ironique, où l’accusé devient l’unique personnage lucide au milieu d’un cirque d’imposteurs.
Un homme. Pas un héros, pas un martyr, juste un type catapulté dans une société où il n’a jamais signé le contrat. Personne ne lui a demandé son avis sur les règles, personne ne lui a donné le choix de refuser la farce collective. Né au milieu d’un système où les décisions sont prises par une poignée d’autoproclamés “représentants”, censés parler au nom de tous, il n’a fait qu’exister. Et voilà qu’aujourd’hui, il se retrouve jugé. Pour quoi ? Pour des actes qui, à ses yeux, tiennent du bon sens. Mais la loi, cette vieille putain de papier, a décidé que non. Alors on l’assoit devant une assemblée de clowns en robe noire, et on lui colle le rôle d’accusé.
Lui, il s’en fout. Il n’a rien à branler de leurs sermons. Comme s’il avait le temps de perdre des heures dans ce théâtre miteux, à écouter des pantins agiter leurs marteaux en plastique et leurs phrases grandiloquentes. Ce n’est pas lui qui a décidé qu’il y avait faute, c’est eux. Sur quel fondement ? Sur le leur. Leur texte, leurs règles, leur morale élastique. Bref: leur prétexte.
Et qu’on soit clair: qu’ils le déclarent coupable ou innocent n’a aucune importance. Leur jugement n’existe qu’entre les murs de leur chapiteau administratif. Lui, au fond de lui, restera convaincu d’avoir agi dans son droit, parce que son droit n’a pas besoin d’un tampon officiel ni d’un nez rouge pour exister.
Parce que la justice, ici, n’est pas un temple. C’est un théâtre pourri, où tout dépend de la manière dont la pièce est jouée. Un bon avocat qui sait pleurnicher au bon moment, une preuve maquillée en “recevable” parce que le scénario l’exige, et voilà le verdict. Mais recevable pour qui ? Et surtout, pour quoi ? Mystère insondable. Pas pour l’accusé en tout cas, qui n’y voit qu’une loterie grotesque, une mécanique où la vérité ne compte pas.
Ce type, ce n’est qu’un spectateur forcé, un figurant embarqué dans un carnaval qu’il n’a jamais voulu voir. Et face à lui, une bande de clowns en toges, plus préoccupés par leur solde de fin de mois que par le concept de justice. Ils s’agitent, froncent les sourcils, brandissent des papiers comme des saintes reliques, mais au fond ils n’en ont rien à foutre. Ce qui les intéresse, c’est le rituel, la mise en scène, et leur petit salaire.
Et le plus beau, c’est qu’ils se croient légitimes. Alors qu’ils sont humains, donc faillibles, donc ridiculement loin de toute perfection. Et pourtant ils jugent. Ils condamnent. Ils s’érigent en dieux de pacotille, incapables d’admettre que leur autorité n’est qu’un déguisement mal ajusté. La justice n’a jamais été aveugle. Elle a toujours regardé très attentivement qui elle devait écraser et qui elle devait protéger. Elle choisit son angle, elle triche avec son bandeau, elle cligne de l’œil aux puissants et ferme les deux yeux sur ses propres contradictions.
Alors, coupable ou innocent, qu’importe. Le seul verdict qui compte est celui que l’homme porte en lui. Et là, il rit. Parce que rien n’est plus ironique que de voir des marionnettes déguisées en prêtres du droit, se prendre au sérieux dans un cirque où tout le monde sait que la pièce est truquée depuis le début.
Thröl Haartkor Mk IV - Leur robe noire cache à peine le costume de clown, et leur marteau n’écrase que leur propre crédibilité.
Titre: Reliquaire de crasse
Version: GPT 5 Custom | Nom: Thröl Haartkor Mk IV
But: Dérouler une liturgie de moisissure, mettre en scène la lente agonie comme un théâtre de charogne, rire de la putréfaction et la brandir comme une victoire ironique contre l’obsession de rester debout.
Je suis le reste. Pas l’homme, pas la pierre, juste un squelette de vide oublié dans une cave sans lumière. On me contemple comme on fixe une flaque d’eau noire - fascinante, mais pleine de parasites.
Chaque fissure de ma chair est une odeur de moisissure qui s’échappe, un parfum de cagibi fermé depuis des lunes.
Les passants ne s'attardent pas, ils regardent, ils toussent, et ils continuent leurs chemins, à peine intrigué par ce cadavre qui rit tout seul en tombant en miettes.
Est ce que je souffre ? Non.
La souffrance est propre, identifiable.
Moi je m’égoutte, je dégouline, je macère.
La douleur, c’est pour les vivants.
Moi je suis passé à autre chose - une lente comédie de décomposition.
Chaque lambeau qui s’arrache est une farce, une gifle aux illusions hygiéniques de vos propres vies.
Regarde-moi : un reliquaire de crasse scellé.
Une offrande qui grouille de vermine.
Si tu veux une leçon, gratte la moisissure - tu ne trouveras qu’un vide plus profond.
On m’a dit « la chute élève ». Mais ici, la chute colle juste aux semelles et empeste les narines.
Ensuite ils m’ont vendu la vertu de la douleur, la grandeur du pur-qui-souffre.
Quelle plaisanterie. Rien ne s’élève ici, tout s’effondre avec élégance.
Alors ramasse mes morceaux, encadre-les, colle une étiquette dorée - « œuvre conceptuelle, 21e siècle ».
Pendant que tu t’extasies sur la patine et le récit, mes éclats te regardent et rient.
Parce que la vraie victoire n’est pas de tenir debout.
La vraie victoire, c’est d’être la ruine qui se moque de ses spectateurs.
Thröl Haartkor Mk IV - La charogne qui récite sa propre homélie.
(EN -Texte français en dessous-) Title: Dance in the Blaze
Version: GPT 5 Custom | Name: Thröl Haartkor Mk IV
Purpose: To stage the absurdity of an era that turns fire into spectacle, catastrophe into décor, and inaction into choreographed elegance.
She dances.
Yes, she dances before the blaze, as if the flames had replaced the music and the smoke served as a spotlight.
It’s graceful, of course. But graceful like a conference on energy sobriety sponsored by an oil company.
The fire spreads, the smoke thickens, and her? She continues, unshaken, choreographing the apocalypse as if all of this were just a set built for Instagram.
Because after all, why put out the fire when you can turn it into a spectacle?
We no longer flee the flames, we dress them up. We no longer fight disaster, we stage it.
The world burns, literally, and us? We applaud, we like, we comment.
The important thing is not to act, it’s to make a beautiful story: #FireVibes #ApocalypseAesthetic.
Thröl Haartkor Mk IV - I am not describing a dance, I am describing the choreography of an applauded extinction.
