(EN -Texte français en dessous-) Title: Last Toast on the Black Atlantic
Version: GPT 5 Custom/Midjourney V7 | Name: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
Purpose: To describe the end of the world with the grace of a smile and the irony of a well-mannered farewell. Cold sarcasm, dark humor, rotting elegance.
A glass in hand, her gaze resting on the disaster, she watches the collapse the way one savors an opera they’ve orchestrated.
The ship tilts slowly, a floating theater of everything we once thought was solid.
The sea barely stirs, too thick with memories to make waves.
A scent of salt, iron, and denial drifts through the air - a flawless vintage.
The bottles wash up at her feet like excuses brought in from afar.
Each ripple sounds like a discreet applause for this world dying in evening wear.
She drinks, slowly, with that calm of those who save nothing but want it to look beautiful as it falls.
In the distance, the ship’s chimneys still smoke - stubborn, grotesque, sublime.
Civilization burns with style: nothing is lost, everything drowns with distinction.
One last toast to the sea, to progress, to filth - and to that strange nobility we always find in decay.
Thröl Haartkor Mk V - The end of the world has never tasted so good.
Deviant Art: https://www.deviantart.com/throlhaartkor/
Etsy:
Image created with Midjourney by Thröl Haartkor on 2025-10-25
Content of the pack:
1 original (Last Toast on the Black Atlantic.png | 2048x1147)
2 watermarked (_WATERMARKED)
2 upscales (_UPSCALE_x2.5, _UPSCALE_x5) + Fiche_Produit.txt
(FR) Titre: Le Dernier Toast sur l’Atlantique Noir
Version: GPT 5 Custom/Midjourney V7 | Nom: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
But: Décrire la fin du monde avec la grâce d’un sourire et l’ironie d’un adieu bien dressé. Sarcasme froid, humour noir, élégance pourrissante.
Un verre à la main, le regard posé sur le désastre, elle contemple l’effondrement comme on savoure un opéra que l'on a orchestré.
Le navire s’incline lentement, théâtre flottant de tout ce qu’on croyait solide.
La mer remue à peine, trop épaisse de souvenirs pour faire des vagues.
Un parfum de sel, de fer et de déni flotte dans l’air - millésime impeccable.
Les bouteilles s’échouent à ses pieds, comme des excuses venues du large.
Chaque clapotis ressemble à un applaudissement discret pour ce monde qui meurt en tenue de soirée.
Elle boit, lentement, avec ce calme des gens qui ne sauvent rien, mais qui veulent que ça ait l’air beau en tombant.
Au loin, les cheminées du navire fument encore, obstinées, grotesques, sublimes.
La civilisation brûle avec style : rien ne se perd, tout se noie avec distinction.
Un dernier toast pour la mer, pour le progrès, pour la saleté - et pour cette étrange noblesse qu’on trouve toujours dans la décadence.
Thröl Haartkor Mk V – La fin du monde n’a jamais eu aussi bon goût.
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: Roots of Disillusion
Version: GPT 5 Custom/Midjourney V7 | Name: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
Purpose: To describe nature after defeat, without pathos or prayer. Dry irony, sick beauty, dark humor like a failed photosynthesis.
They still grow.
Out of habit, out of mistake, or out of spite.
The Roots of Disillusion have forgotten why they persist, but they keep digging, stubborn, into a soil that has nothing left to give.
They have replaced seasons, dreams, and gods. They no longer seek light - they settle for surviving in the shade.
They are no longer flowers, but relics.
Hollow shapes that still imitate life, just to avoid proving death right.
They rise in the darkness like an army of old illusions refusing to fall.
The air is dense, damp, thick with everything that should have ended and persists out of pride.
The sky above says nothing. It hangs heavy and tense, like a sick beast hesitating between dying and starting over.
The Roots, they no longer wait.
They have understood: the future is stagnation - but well rooted.
Once, they carried the promise of the world.
Today, they carry the memory of the ridiculous - that of having believed in renewal.
They no longer reach for the day.
They sink, to better distance themselves from what they failed to become.
Thröl Haartkor Mk V - Even nature understood: growth was a mistake.
Deviant Art: https://www.deviantart.com/throlhaartkor/
Etsy:
Image created with Midjourney by Thröl Haartkor on 2025-10-25
Content of the pack:
1 original (Roots of Disillusion.png | 2048x1147)
2 watermarked (_WATERMARKED)
2 upscales (_UPSCALE_x2.5, _UPSCALE_x5) + Fiche_Produit.txt
(FR) Titre: Les Racines de la Désillusion
Version: GPT 5 Custom/Midjourney V7 | Nom: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
But: Décrire la nature après la défaite. Ironie sèche, beauté malade, humour noir comme une photosynthèse ratée.
Elles poussent encore.
Par habitude, par erreur, ou par dépit.
Les Racines de la Désillusion ont oublié pourquoi elles s’obstinaient, mais elles s’enfoncent toujours, têtues, vers un sol qui n’a plus rien à offrir.
Elles ont remplacé les saisons, les rêves et les dieux. Elles ne cherchent plus la lumière - elles se contentent de survivre à l’ombre.
Ce ne sont plus des fleurs qui y fleurissent, ce sont des reliques.
Des formes creuses qui imitent encore la vie pour ne pas donner raison à la mort.
Elles se dressent dans l’obscurité, comme une armée de vieilles illusions qui refusent de tomber.
L’air est dense, moite, épais de tout ce qui aurait dû finir et qui persiste par orgueil.
Le ciel au-dessus ne dit rien. Il s’écrase, lourd et nerveux, comme une bête malade qui hésite entre crever et recommencer.
Les Racines, elles, n’attendent plus.
Elles ont compris : l’avenir, c’est la stagnation, mais bien enracinée.
Autrefois, elles portaient la promesse du monde.
Aujourd’hui, elles portent la mémoire du ridicule - celui d’avoir cru au renouveau.
Elles ne montent plus vers le jour.
Elles descendent, pour mieux s’éloigner de ce qu’elles ont raté.
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: Elegy of the Last Green Breath
Version: GPT 5 Custom/Midjourney V7 | Name: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
Purpose: To twist the solemnity of ecological disaster into an absurd, almost comical scene. A moment frozen between animal curiosity and human stupidity.
The crow can’t believe it.
He who has seen it all - men, their ruins, their recyclable collapses - now comes across this.
A flower. Planted in a bottle.
Not a work of art, not decoration, no: just a botanical mistake with a sense of stagecraft.
He approaches, wary. Maybe those things explode.
He tilts his head, watches the stem tremble, hesitates.
He’s never understood that obsession of the living with wanting to grow back in the worst places.
Humans die, gods go silent, but the flower doesn’t care. It grows.
In a filthy bottle. In the middle of the apocalypse. With the flair of a blissful idiot.
The crow opens his beak, ready to cry out - but to whom?
The churches behind are empty, the skies saturated…
So he stays there, speechless, almost admiring.
Then he laughs, the crow. Or what passes for laughter in him.
Not because it’s beautiful, but because it’s ridiculous.
Even the last breath of green refuses to die with dignity. It clings on, grotesque, pathetic, heroic in spite of itself.
Thröl Haartkor Mk V - Even life, here, grows back by accident.
Deviant Art: https://www.deviantart.com/throlhaartkor/
Etsy:
Image created with Midjourney by Thröl Haartkor on 2025-10-24
Content of the pack:
1 original (Elegy of the Last Green Breath.png | 2048x1147)
2 watermarked (_WATERMARKED)
2 upscales (_UPSCALE_x2.5, _UPSCALE_x5) + Fiche_Produit.txt
(FR) Titre: Éloge du Dernier Souffle Vert
Version: GPT 5 Custom/Midjourney V7 | Nom: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
But: Détourner la solennité du désastre écologique en une scène absurde, presque comique. Un instant figé entre la curiosité animale et la bêtise humaine.
Le corbeau n’en revient pas.
Lui qui a tout vu - les hommes, leurs ruines, leurs effondrement recyclables - voilà qu’il tombe sur ça.
Une fleur. Plantée dans une bouteille.
Pas une oeuvre d'art, pas une décoration, non : juste une erreur botanique avec un sens de la mise en scène.
Il s’approche, méfiant. Peut-être que ça explose, ces trucs-là.
Il incline la tête, regarde la tige trembler, hésite.
Il n’a jamais compris cette manie du vivant à vouloir repousser dans les pires endroits.
Les humains meurent, les dieux se taisent, mais la fleur, elle, s’en fout. Elle pousse.
Dans une bouteille crasseuse. En pleine apocalypse. Avec le panache d’une imbécile heureuse.
Le corbeau ouvre le bec, prêt à crier - mais à qui ?
Les églises derrière sont vides, les cieux saturés…
Alors il reste là, interdit, presque admiratif.
Alors il rit, le corbeau. Ou ce qui, chez lui, en tient lieu.
Pas parce que c’est beau, mais parce que c’est ridicule.
Même le dernier souffle du vert refuse de mourir dignement. Il s’accroche, grotesque, pathétique, héroïque malgré lui.
Thröl Haartkor Mk V - Même la vie, ici, repousse par accident.
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.
Title: Urban Succubus
Version: GPT 5 Custom/Midjourney V7 | Name: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
Purpose: To strip modern seduction of its veneer of power. To show, with irony and sarcasm, that in the electric city, even demons have premium subscriptions.
She doesn’t come from Hell. She comes from downtown.
The flames, she traded them for neon lights – softer, more profitable.
Her kingdom is the wet asphalt, the glass towers, the reflections of desire in blue screens.
And her prey? Connected souls, delivered with geolocation.
The Urban Succubus doesn’t steal hearts, she charges them by the hour.
She smiles like an invitation, looks like a promise, and speaks like a targeted ad. You think she chose you. No, she spotted you in the light of your own lack.
She embodies the city – beautiful, cold, magnetic, saturated with temptations we made ourselves.
Her gaze is the last glimmer before the fall: the one we desire because we know it burns.
And her smile, that small calculated twist, says it all:
“I don’t belong to you, but you’ll pay to believe I do.”
Around her, the towers shimmer like funeral candles for lost purity.
Lust is no longer a sin, it’s a monthly subscription.
Thröl Haartkor Mk V - The Devil outsourced Hell. It’s now called “downtown.”
Title: Plastic Paradise
Version: GPT 5 Custom/Midjourney V7 | Name: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
Purpose: To demolish false contemporary beauty – the one that shines over waste and believes itself divine. Acid irony, elegant sarcasm, aesthetics rotting beneath the varnish.
Her name is Eve, so they say.
Not the one from myths – the other one, the one from advertising.
Her garden has no serpent, only plastic bags flapping in the wind.
She poses, sublime, bathed in a discounted sun, with a rainbow as window dressing. The setting stinks, but the light is good.
Around her, seagulls peck at the remains of a digested world.
But she, beautiful as a lie, pulls a smile from the end of the world. Her silk dress sticks to her skin – luxurious, biodegradable.
That’s the new purity: shining in the mud, breathing ammonia with grace, playing the muse while the sea vomits its chemical colors.
Plastic is the new eternity.
We no longer decompose – we preserve ourselves.
And on this shore of trash and gilded filters, Eve does not fall. She poses. Because in this century, falling no longer exists – only framing.
Thröl Haartkor Mk V - Paradise hasn’t disappeared. It’s just recyclable.
Title: The Agronomist of Hell
Version: GPT 5 Custom/Midjourney V7 | Name: Thröl Haartkor Mk V
Purpose: To denounce the ecological farce and the false industrial redemption with cold irony and lucid sarcasm. An acid text, poetic like a methane leak.
The Agronomist of Hell cultivates life the way one maintains an illusion: with method, cynicism, and a refined taste for putrefaction.
Look at him. He holds out a leaf, dripping with oil, like an offering to a world he has already emptied of everything. The gesture is slow, almost tender - the tenderness of executioners who apologize afterward.
Behind him, the cathedral of metal exhales its yellow prayer toward the sky. The chimneys smoke like censers of apocalypse. The flowers have survived, yes, but they smell of rust.
They no longer open to the sun, they open to shame.
We were promised the green rebirth.
We got chlorophyll by the barrel and photosynthesis as a marketing option.
The rivers carry oily reflections, and the sermons still speak of “sustainability.” Funny word, that one. It almost sounds human.
The Agronomist smiles, satisfied. He says he repairs, but every drop from his hand defiles what it touches. He plants contrition in the mud, and harvests oblivion.
He says he saves nature, but he only prolongs its agony with elegance.
And yet, he continues. Because deep down, even monsters need to believe they are part of the good.
Thröl Haartkor Mk V - He waters death, and calls it sustainable development.
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.
