The Father of Ashes

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.

The Surgeon of Dead Souls

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.

The Orb of Watchers

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.

Toxic Deliverance

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.

Flayed Grace

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.

Goat of the Void

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.

The Doe That Ate Time

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.

Mechanical Training at autoFORM/Auto Design – when selection ignores experience and slams the door on motivated candidates

Chez AutoFORM, l’évaluation ne ressemble pas à une transmission de savoir, mais à un jugement hâtif. Cinq mots jetés comme une gifle : “aucun rapport avec la mécanique.” Suffisants, selon eux, pour effacer des années d’expérience. Un décalage avec les réalités actuelles, une prise en compte limitée des technologies modernes : c’est ainsi que j’ai perçu l’approche proposée. Un certain écart entre les approches pédagogiques proposées et les enjeux actuels liés à la technologie automobile. Le modèle de formation tel que je l’ai perçu lors de mon entretien, semble être calqué sur une vision datée de la mécanique et éloignée des réalités techniques actuelles. De ce que j'ai pu constater, l’évaluation a semblé expéditive et en décalage avec certaines technologies récentes (ex. IA embarquée). Au cours de l’entretien, un échange m’a particulièrement marqué. Lorsque j’ai mentionné des termes comme “IA” ou “GPT”, on m’a demandé de préciser ce que cela signifiait. J’ai effectivement été très surpris qu’en 2025, dans un contexte lié aux technologies actuelles, certaines notions comme l’Intelligence Artificielle suscitent encore des interrogations. Ce moment a provoqué un vrai malaise chez moi: comment accorder sa confiance dans un cursus qui ne semble même pas au fait des technologies modernes ? Je suis ressorti de cet échange plus sceptique que motivé. Dans mon cas, le filtre mis en place à l'entrée de la formation m’a semblé privilégier l’alignement au moule plutôt que la transférabilité des compétences. Dès qu’on s’écarte du profil‑type, la porte paraît se refermer très vite.

EA SPORTS™ WRC | 2025.10.07 | Estonia | Metsalaane | Category: WRC | Ford Puma Rally1 HYBRID 2024 | Top 35% | Pos 2055/6014 | Dry

Rallye d’Estonie, spéciale de Metsalaane. Gravier sec, piste rapide mais piégeuse. Le terrain est propre, mais chaque virage cherche à te faire sortir. La Ford Puma Rally1 Hybrid 2024 tient bien, sauf quand elle décide de ne plus t’écouter. Les suspensions encaissent, le volant tire, la poussière entre dans le casque. Je fais 5:45.320, avec +43.011 sur la tête. 2055/6014, top 35 %. Pas de surprise. C’est correct, mais pas assez. Le chrono est net, sans excuse. Chaque seconde perdue est une erreur que je connais déjà. Metsalaane tape dur. Les appuis sont bons, mais la marge d’erreur est minuscule. Un freinage trop tard et c’est fini. J’ai gardé la voiture entière, pas l’ego. Le gravier glisse, la direction tremble, la concentration s’effrite. J’en sors vidé, mais lucide. Rien d’héroïque. Juste une spéciale bouclée proprement, pas brillamment. Le genre de run qu’on garde pour bosser dessus, pas pour s’en vanter. Thröl Haartkor Mk IV - 35 %, c’est pas un exploit. C’est une base de travail.

EA SPORTS™ WRC | 2025.10.03 | Estonia | Elva | Category: WRC | Ford Puma Rally1 HYBRID 2024 | Top 35% | Pos 3640/10842 | Dry

Elva, Estonie. Gravier sec. Ça tape, ça glisse, ça t’arrache les bras. Tu rentres, tu tiens, tu sors. Et si t’as encore des suspensions, t’applaudis le miracle. Et j'apprends vite que la vitesse, ici, se gagne sur des détails que je n’ai pas du tout gérés. J’ai bouclé la spéciale en 5:51.181, avec +43.643 de retard sur le premier. Je finis donc 3641 sur 10847. La Puma Rally1 Hybrid 2024 a encaissé, j’ai fait ce qu’il fallait pour arriver entier, mais je n’ai pas torturé le chrono. Chaque virage a mis ma vanité à plat, chaque remise des gaz m’a rappelé que “presque” ça se paye en secondes. Je sors sale, les mains qui tremblent un peu, le moteur qui ronronne. Pas de triomphe, pas de drame, juste une bonne gifle d’humilité. Résultat clair : 35 %, c’est propre, mais ça ne se raconte pas en stories, ça se garde pour soi. Revenir plus sale, plus précis, et surtout moins généreux avec mes freins. Voilà le plan. Thröl Haartkor Mk IV - L’humilité a un goût de poussière et d’essence froide.