Genur.art

score_9, score_8_up, score_7_up, score_6_up, as its just there in a most the unsettling way. Statues tend to be scary when they just pop into existence in your apartment - especially when you realize they’re not entirely still. As Drei squinted into the dim light, the shape resolved - tall, faceless, crystalline. With wings. And it was made of... salt. An angel of salt. Not metaphorical, not poetic - but literal: its form was sculpted from compacted white mineral, brittle in places, glinting where the light caught its fractured wings. Veins of pink ran like quartz through its "You told the flamingo your name - and now you hold it's feather." The angel moved, not stepping, eroding forward. Grains of salt drifted from its feet, leaving a glistening trail across the rug. Its wings flexed once, cracking like frost on glass. "Zwo has been said. Eins has been said. Drei... you said yourself." Behind her, the pot began to shake on the stove. Sounds escaped from the lid, it was singing in Italian, with a voice that sounded like a saxophone playing backwards, it replied: "Pasta is only the beginning." And from outside the open window came a fluttering sound - like wings. Feathers. Feathers in a storm. A flurry of them. Hundreds. The angel tilted its head, shedding a few more salt flakes from its collarbone. "They are coming now." and with a loud bang... <lora:ponys-dream:.9>