#marble statue makers

[ssmoortiart11]

Bring Divine Dwarka Mai Marble Idol in your Home—Sai Shradha Moorti Art

Bringing home the Divine Dwarka Mai Marble Idol creates a spiritual and peaceful atmosphere in the house. Get the Dwarka Mai Statue from leading marble statue manufacturer in Jaipur at affordable rates. Sai Shradha Moorti Art offers marble statues and marble temples in different designs and sizes. Visit our website to see our beautiful marble art collection.

Contact us for custom-sized statues:+91-7976419167

Shop Now: https://www.saishradhamoortiart.com/dwarka-mai-marble-statue.html

[marbletemples]

A Guide to Ordering Marble Shiva Statue for Home by Fine Craftsmanship

[bhuvneshwarimoortiart]

How to Bring Lord Ganesha Statue at Home on Ganesh Chaturthi ?

This whole world of Hindus celebrates and does so in a very big way every year for the happy festival of Ganesha Chaturthi on the birthday of Lord Ganesha.

Learn more: https://bhuvneshwarimoortiart.wordpress.com/2024/07/19/how-to-bring-lord-ganesha-statue-at-home/

[agrawalmoorti]

Discover the Perfect Radha Krishna Statue for Your Sacred Space

Throughout the Hindu chronicle, Radha Krishna’s divinity has been celebrated. Having a marbleRadha Krishna murti at home or in your space helps to bring peace and godliness. Picking the right Radha Krishna statue consistently poses a challenge. No need to worry, as this blog contains all the details you need to know about the exploration and significance of Radha Krishna’s marble moorti in…

[marblemurti1]

Best Marble Buddha Statue Maker in Jaipur, India - Marble Murti Jaipur

If you're a connoisseur of art and spirituality, a beautiful marble Buddha statue can be a captivating addition to your collection. Among the various places known for their exceptional marble craftsmanship, Jaipur, India, stands out as a prominent destination. In this article, we will explore why Marble Murti Jaipur is the best marble Buddha statue maker in Jaipur and why their creations have gained recognition both nationally and internationally.

The Rich Legacy of Marble Artistry in Jaipur

Jaipur, often referred to as the "Pink City" due to the distinctive hue of its buildings, boasts a rich cultural heritage. The city has been a hub for exquisite marble craftsmanship for centuries. The artisans of Jaipur have inherited their skills and knowledge from generations past, making them masters in transforming raw marble blocks into intricate and awe-inspiring Buddha statues.

Expert Craftsmanship at Marble Murti Jaipur

Marble Murti Jaipur takes immense pride in its team of skilled artisans who possess a deep understanding of the nuances of sculpting marble. With years of experience and a passion for their craft, these artisans create Buddha statues that exhibit a perfect blend of traditional artistry and contemporary design.

Unmatched Quality and Precision

When it comes to marble Buddha statues manufacturer in India, quality is of utmost importance. Marble Murti Jaipur sources the finest quality marble to ensure that each statue reflects an impeccable finish. The craftsmen pay attention to every detail, from the facial expressions to the intricacies of the ornaments, resulting in lifelike and emotionally resonant sculptures.

Customization Options

Marble Murti Jaipur understands that every individual has unique preferences. Hence, they offer customization options to their clients. Whether you desire a specific size, pose, or expression for your Buddha statue, their skilled artisans can bring your vision to life with meticulous attention.

Embracing Eco-Friendly Practices

In today's world, environmental consciousness is vital. Marble Murti Jaipur recognizes this importance and ensures that their manufacturing processes adhere to eco-friendly practices. They prioritize the use of sustainable materials and techniques that have a minimal impact on the environment.

Global Reach and Customer Satisfaction

Marble Murti Jaipur has successfully catered to a diverse clientele across the globe. Their commitment to quality, reliability, and timely delivery has garnered them a loyal customer base. Testimonials from satisfied customers speak volumes about the authenticity and brilliance of their marble Buddha statues.

Competitive Pricing and Value for Money

While marble craftsmanship of this caliber is often associated with exorbitant prices, Marble Murti Jaipur offers competitive pricing without compromising on quality. They provide true value for money, making their masterpieces accessible to art enthusiasts with varying budgets.

Preserving Cultural Heritage

Owning a marble Buddha statue from Marble Murti Jaipur is not just acquiring a piece of art; it is embracing a rich cultural heritage. These statues represent the convergence of spirituality and artistry, a reflection of India's deep-rooted cultural tapestry.

The Symbolism of a Buddha Statue

A Buddha statue symbolizes peace, enlightenment, and inner harmony. Placing one in your living space or garden can create an ambiance of tranquility and mindfulness. Marble Murti & statues, with their eloquence and grace, hold the power to transform any environment they adorn. In conclusion, Marble Murti Jaipur rightfully claims its position as the best marble Buddha statue maker in Jaipur, India. With its legacy of marble artistry, expert craftsmanship, unmatched quality, and a commitment to customer satisfaction, it continues to create masterpieces that embody spirituality and beauty. If you seek a timeless and meaningful addition to your art collection, a marble Buddha statue from Marble Murti Jaipur is an excellent choice that will undoubtedly enrich your life and surroundings with its divine presence.

[avinashmoortiemporium]

Best Marble Moorti Manufacturer in Jaipur (मार्बल मूर्ति निर्माता)

Avinash Moorti Emporium is a leading marble moorti manufacturer in Jaipur with over 30 years of experience and expertise in the marble industry. We have established ourselves as one of the top-notch makers of Hindu god idols. Our statues come in various sizes, designs, and color combinations and are made with care to ensure the quality and design of the final product.

[satoriberry]

Higuruma Hiromi is a cat.

No. That's not the correct verb.

Higuruma Hiromi behaves like a cat. Occasionally. Well, it only happened once.

Higuruma Hiromi, a man who lives up to the reputation he doesn't even know he created for himself a while back, never ceased to amaze you. He amazed you a first time when he correctly guessed your favourite skittle without even knowing your name ("You have the face of someone who would enjoy grape skittles.").

He amazed you a second time when he technically won a case and managed to score his client a one-month house arrest instead of a decade in jail after proving her innonence with nothing but tax return receipts as his golden piece of evidence. He amazed you a third time when you watched him ride a mechanical bull and manage to stay still as a statue the whole ride - not even whobbling when he got off.

A few dozen (read: hundred) more shocks and synonyms of the word "wow" later, you found yourself cohabiting a cozy apartment with him, one that conveniently allowed him to dodge public transport and bask in the crisp morning air on his way to his firm, then lackadaisically gaze at the moon on the way back. Nevertheless, Hiromi didn't find himself any more chipper or excited about going to slave in an office than he was before.

It had been a while since Higuruma has done something major that made you ogle him with a mixture of fear and wonder, ergo, amazed you. It had been a while since he's wowed you, but that didn't make you love him any less. It may actually be quite the opposite: ever since you made the mutual decision of living together, you believe you've become even more charmed by the man. His painfully bland yet charged lifestyle was practically the whole reason behind you sighing dramatically with heart eyes whenever someone mentioned the first two syllables of his name.

However, Hiromi managed to update the surprise score you had in your brain just for him, and, for the first time in a while, made you wonder what exactly was he made of.

9:56 AM.

You stood in the kitchen, palms on the marble counter's edge and eyes drooping every few seconds as you tried to resist the urge to sleep, and the only noises that kept you somewhat awake came from the chirping of birds outside your balcony doors, the typical Saturday traffic and the faint sizzle produced by the waffle maker you had plugged in.

You chose to skip some sleep, that was now starting to sound much more appealing than it did previously, and cook up an elaborate breakfast to avoid the avocado toast and coffee combo you and him have been having out of convenience for the past 10 days or so. You were waiting for the waffles to be done so you could move on to the other food items.

You reached for the egg tray and held one in either hand, contemplating the cook that you were going to go for, then horror struck as you heard your shared bedroom door creak, followed by the sound of irregular footsteps against the wooden tiles. He was already up. Feeling a bit betrayed and looking visibly deflated, you replaced the eggs on the tray and went back to staring at the red light that indicated that the waffles were still cooking.

The footsteps became louder as Hiromi approached your figure, rubbing his eyes with the ends of his palms, completely mute aside from the "ouch" he let out after bumping the island.

"Morning sleepyhead," you greeted him with similar fatigue in your grin, enjoying the sight of him manouevring rather terribly. You didn't move, awaiting the back-to-chest embrace he made a habit of offering you every time the occasion presented itself. However, you didn't get one. You didn't feel two warms arms wrap around your midriff, nor did you feel a jaw being placed on one of your shoulders.

You simply felt a nudge on your neck. More correctly, you felt a series of nudges, pokes and nuzzling motions on the side of your neck, accompanied by his bedhair scratching your ear multiple times. You additionally felt him rub his boney cheek against your shoulder's exposed skin, uncovered by the baggy shirt you had on.

He was rubbing his face against you. Like a cat.

You were certain of that due to the familiar bump of his hooked nose jabbing you gently, and rubbing along the expanse of your neck in a vertical motion. All this with his eyes glued shut despite wiping the life out of them a few moments ago.

You breathlessly giggled at the ridiculousness of....whatever this was. "Hiromi, don't take this the wrong way but, what on Earth are you doing?"

He made a bizarre grunt, but no words came out of his mouth. He contently kept tilting and pushing his face into your shoulder, his body stiff and arms dead on either side. A few times, you felt him push the top of his head in the junction between your shoulder and neck, as if he was spreading his atoms all over you. The feeling of his somewhat spikey morning hair made you emit a perplexed chuckle.

After what felt like a century, he switched gears and began peppering light kisses that started at the cap of your shoulder and made a trail to behind your ear, where he placed a final peck before patting your head and making to the bathroom, croakily mumbling, "Morning angel."

Just as you were doing before, you stood in the kitchen silently, body still and palms on the countertop's edge. Yet contrary to earlier, you were gobsmacked, absolutely lost as to what the fuck your will-be husband just did. Your eyes didn't leave the spice rack that was in direct line with your vision, and your jaw was still floored by the feline assault you just went through. It wasn't until the waffle maker's light switched to green with a clicking sound that you snapped out of your shock-induced stupeur, and began moving again.

Scratching your head in a cartoony manner, you walked to the bathroom whose door was completely ajar and showed that Hiromi was almost over with his morning routine, splashing water on his face to rinse off the ridiculously priced cleanser you persauded forced him to get.

Grabbing a towel from the rack, he patted his face dry a couple times before looking up at you with a mocking grin plastered on his features. Throwing the towel away haphazardly, he placed a callous palm on your shoulder and planted a brief kiss on your forehead, then proceeded to let you know just how good whatever it is that you're cooking up smelled, before heading off, leaving you a second time with no answer to your question.

Higuruma Hiromi was a man with a myriad of tricks up his sleeves, but waltzing up to you and acting like a needy cat wasn't something you could have predicated.

[the-valiant-valkyrie]

willow: and my favorite thing about explosions has to be just how pretty they are :). in a sudden flash everything around you goes up in reds and golds so bright it makes your eyes water. and when it shakes the ground you can feel it in your teeth and bones. like it goes overtop of you- like a wave, but hotter and faster. and when you open your eyes back up again its like you're in a completely different place. and its like. nothing else in the whole world exists but you, and everything that's burning down around you :).

wilson: wow willow that was. that was kind of nice. almost like poetry.

willow: no it wasn't. explosions are pretty because they blow people up. shut up.

i've said this somewhere before but i think willow's relationship with art- especially profound or professional art- is really interesting. she feels no need to understand or contemplate it, which is fine because she doesn't have to. but she also gives off the impression that something like that could never come out of her- or that it's beneath (or really in this case, above) her. which i personally believe is very false.

i feel as if you got willow distracted enough not to notice she could actually end up sounding really profound and craft some really nice verbal prose around stuff that she actually enjoys. i think the issue is though that if you pointed that out she would stop immediately. and maybe bite you.

[ultrainfinitepit]

I am contractually obligated as an angel pin maker to make a pin based on that one fallen angel painting. Let me know which color palette you prefer in the poll below, or you can suggest a palette in the replies.

[slyvester101]

Fuck it, I’m posting the first part while I finish the rest take it

Here’s God!Tucker au: Part 1

+++

Wash found Tucker by accident.

He had been traveling, trying to get back to Armonia in time for the peace talks, but he’d gotten sidetracked helping out a town with some trouble makers and then was delayed when the bridge that marked the border crossing into Chorus broke down, forcing him to go all the way around.

And then the storm rolled in.

By the time he found shelter in an abandoned temple, he was soaked to his bones, armor completely ruined by the wet that seeped into them. He guided his trusty steed in, mumbling a quick prayer of thanks for the shelter and please don’t strike me down for bringing my horse in here. I really don’t want to leave her outside in the rain.

Wash gasps when he enters, gazing in awe as he looks at the scenery around him.

The temple is large and open, beautiful columns of stone lining the whole room. Even with the flora that has seeped in, vines winding around pillars and across the ceiling, flowers blooming from their bushes, branches of a large unkempt tree escaping into the ceiling, it all has an air of elegance that has Wash holding his breath, like it’d be disrespectful to let the air from his lungs taint the marble and stone.

But the most glorious thing about this place, the thing that has Wash making his way deeper into the temple, is the giant sculpted statue on the back wall. It almost reaches the ceiling, the figure depicted kneeling as he reaches out with his hands cupped. Rain water fills it now, but Wash sees the glisten of gold coins as an offering sunken at the bottom.

The figure is surrounded by decaying gifts, bouquets that have long since eroded, food that is barely identifiable, and trinkets made of the finest metal and gems rusted and broken after years of neglect.

Wash thinks he understands why this god was so well-loved. His face is soft and kind, the curl of his lip happy and maybe a little mischievous, long locs fall over his shoulder and down his back, gold making up the beads of his lovingly carved hair. He looks like a dream, a figure Wash would’ve been more than happy to worship just to look at him.

He steps in front of the statue, carefully observing every detail. On the back wall, right above the figure, a single line of carved text reads:

Long live the god of giving

God of giving, huh?

Something rises in his gut when he realizes the name of this god has been left out, not a trace of it written anywhere on the walls or on the trinkets left behind.

It dawns rather suddenly on him as he tries to name the feeling, something oddly familiar about the situation of a god so beloved also being so quickly forgotten.

This wasn’t a god the people worshiped, this was a god the people used.

The decaying gifts ring hollow under Wash’s revelation, the statue, while still beautiful, humming with a new sense of entrapment and sadness. By the state of the temple, it seems like this god ran out of things to give, abused and rung out for all he was worth until he stopped being useful.

Wash has seen it before, watched people beg for favors, for miracles, for the impossible, only to ditch their god the minute they receive their blessing, never even giving thanks, only ever coming back to ask for something else. He’s seen temples be built, be full and then be torn down and left for ruin in a matter of months.

He usually doesn’t care, doesn’t pay enough mind to all the new gods coming and going. He really only prays and worships out of habit, a polite set of manners that have been engraved into his soul (and he doesn’t have a death wish. There are certain gods willing to kill if you disrespect their temple or their people).

But there’s something about this statue, about this god of giving, that makes Wash wonder if maybe he’s a spiritual man after all.

“I would’ve never stopped worshiping you.” He whispers to himself, slowly getting on his knees and reaching up to cradle the underside of the statue's hand.

“I would’ve given you everything. Lose myself by offering you all I am. Maybe it’s a good thing you’re gone because…

Because I think I would’ve given you all my love.”

“Is that a promise?”

Wash turns to face the voice, his sword already unsheathed and ready to cut down the intruder—

Oh. Oh shit.

“You— You’re—“

“Lavernius Tucker, god of giving. Pleasure to meet you.” The man smiles brightly, the same warm and mischievous one depicted on his statue.

Wash eyes widen as he snaps to look back and forth from the man and the statue and—

Holy shit.

He’s… smaller than Wash was imagining, not the same plump and soft figured man they carved into the stone. He’s got more angles to him, lean and thin without much mass covering his body. There’s a tired droop in his shoulders, eyes weary and slanted. Wash thinks he’s leaning on a pillar more for support than for seduction.

“Are you alright?” Wash snaps out of his daze, shaking off the shock as his blood bred need to help takes over. He steps towards him, dropping his sword without a second thought in case the god keels over suddenly.

The man—Tucker—seems surprised at the question, standing a little taller as Wash comes forward with the same energy as a mother hen. He lets Wash crowd him, his hands gently skimming over his body for injuries.

“Uh, yeah. I’m okay. Just been a while since anyone has come here, especially someone as… sweetly devoted as you are.” He sways forward into Wash’s touch, his eyes fluttering as he soaks up the blessed affection.

Wash shuffles in his feet but doesn’t pull away. He’s never really met a god before, so he’s not sure what the proper reaction to a god showing favor is. It certainly doesn’t feel right since Wash just got here. “I— I haven’t

even worshiped you before.”

“Mmm, but I can practically taste it off you.” Tucker traces his hands over Wash’s chest until they hang gently on his shoulders, the touch sending shivers up Wash’s spine. “You may have stayed here to hide from the rain, but you didn’t need to say anything to me, didn’t need to pray or give thanks. But you did. You did and now I’m bound to you, my loyal little devotee.”

“Bound to me?”

He nods, giggling as he pushes himself closer to Wash to clasp his hands behind his neck. “You’re my only follower now, silly. You’re the one whose belief gives me power and with power…” He nudges his nose into Wash’s cheek and Wash can’t help but drop his head to meet him there, something deep in his bones singing as this gorgeous god seeks out his attention.

Tucker practically whimpers at him, resting their foreheads together as Wash moves to place his hands respectfully on his waist. He’s shaking, Wash notes, possibly from years left neglected and bound to this fragmented temple.

He breathes in deep and slow, savoring the feeling of being so carefully worshiped, something he’s never had in all his centuries of existence.

“With power,” He continues, “I can give you anything you want, just say the word.”

Right, god of giving. Probably thinks that Wash’s affections are an offering in turn for a wish or a miracle. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth, but he doesn’t want to seem rude or ungrateful to this fragile looking god. He deserves to be worshiped, to be loved and respected, his name sung in glory by all those who follow him.

Wash makes his choice.

“What if I just want you?”

Tucker startles at that, shock evident on his face. Wash keeps his face serious, not a single bit of doubt or hesitation to be found. He wants this, wants him, whatever that means.

His god seems to drop at that, like a puppet without its strings. He practically glows when he smiles again, something so much more genuine and happy then the one he had before, the one that’s immortalized on his statue.

Wash thinks that this is the Tucker that they should've worshiped all those years ago. Tucker kisses his cheek, a submissive little thing that has Wash heating from his cheeks to his shoulders, and proudly proclaims to Wash—

“Then I’m yours.”

Part 2

[ssmoortiart11]

Buy Best Quality Marble Statue of Shiv Parivar At Sai Shradha Moorti Art

Sai Shradha Moorti Arts has been a leading manufacturer, exporter, and supplier of marble Shiv Parivar statues for over 40 years and we have a single lord shiva statue.

If you are looking for any lord shiva statue at affordable prices then visit our website or you can call us:-

Website:- https://www.saishradhamoortiart.com/shiva-marble-statue.html

Call Now:- +91-7976419167

[marbletemples]

Why Ganesha Has Only One Tusk?

Lord Ganesha, the remover of obstacles and god of wisdom and prosperity, is depicted with one broken tusk. The uniqueness of Ganesha's features has attracted the attention of devotees for centuries. Whether you appreciate white marble Ganesh statues from home or visit the workshops of marble god statue makers in Jaipur, it is not easy to miss a single tusk that goes with rather an interesting story.

[bhuvneshwarimoortiart]

Can We Keep Human Bust Statue At Home

Human bust statues have been part of art and culture for thousands of years. They are the symbol of creativity, history, and craftsmanship. Whether you select a statue of a historical figure or a spiritual icon, these works of art will add a touch of sophistication to your home.

[randomwriteronline]

"Turaga, are you here?"

Vakama turned slightly without rising from his chair, still engrossed by the mask he was carefully checking for defects: "Takanuva?"

"I came for the Suletu," the voice replied from further away.

The Suletu? Ah, yes, of course - of course, he remembered. He stood up and hurried to one of the shelves in the room: the fixed kanohi shimmered faintly in the warm light of the new forges, almost sickly, grey hue shifting from dark metal to shining silver as he climbed upon a stood to get it down.

"How is Krakua?" the mask maker asked. The six of them had seemed awfully concerned by his condition.

"There's one full healthy limb still left!"

Vakama sighed: "Don't let him get around," he ordered, "Or he'll never get fixed up."

"Oh, the Mahri would certainly blow a fuse if that happened," Takanuva laughed rather earnestly. "They're mad enough about the surgeries and everything already. And Hewkii wouldn't approve of Nuparu's wheeled chair being used to get around with a busted arm that needs rest."

"And I'll have to side with him," the Turaga noted. He dusted off some of the faint soot that had deposited on the mask as he added: "I'd never made a Suletu before. It was a fun exercise."

"You made it? It'll be an honor to wear it, then."

"I hope so," he tried to say, but the words died halfway out of his throat when he turned.

A naked face with pale sulfur eyes stared back at him from its seat.

An arm was locked in a sort of contraption, and one of the calves was a noticeably different color from the rest of the body; little scars gave several joints a strange look, almost marbled.

One of its eyelids was stuck between open and closed.

"This is one of my favorite tricks!" Takanuva's voice said in a chipper tone as it came out of the mouth that was not Takanuva's. "Nobody else likes it."

Vakama remained as still as a statue for a few more seconds.

"Another one I do all the time is muting all sound coming from me while I follow others along," Krakua continued as he slowly dropped the imitation and eased in his own rotten, crackling voice: "Nobody likes that one either."

"I can see why," the mask maker replied softly.

Hands reached out towards him. He jolted away; then he remembered. The mask. Of course.

"You don't need to be so jumpy," Krakua told him when the Suletu was placed in his palms. He caressed it gently, fondly, bringing it as close to his face as possible and moving it in front of his eyes as though he was trying to take in every smallest detail. "You're not a Toa without armor in a chamber of swords anymore."

Vakama did not relax.

As a matter of fact, he tensed further.

He felt small again. Terribly small, terribly frail, scared out of his wits, unable to move, to think, to even approximate a single idea.

The Toa of Sonics placed the kanohi on his face and grimaced.

Was there something wrong with it? Had he messed something up?

No, that was... Ridiculous. It worked perfectly. Just... Perfectly. Mostly. Hold on.

He noticed the sudden change because it would have been impossible not to. It was like a pair of scopes had been applied to his eyes and more and more lenses were being piled up within them to adjust his perspective in real time, in a sort of stunted, awkward manner, as if whoever was running the test on him wasn't used to the strange instrument they were using.

The anxiety biting down on him wavered with each clumsy attempt until it finally dissipated. Everything was small now - everything was just as tall as him: Krakua suddenly didn't appear so towering, so frightening, from the top of his wheeled chair.

In a strange roundabout way, he almost felt like a Matoran.

"You have a very visual mind," he told Vakama as he scratched his neck: "I can't see well, I'm not used to this sort of thing. It's a bit hard to work with."

"You can manipulate me," the Turaga said - in a strangely calm tone, he was surprised to discover. This wasn't the first time someone had done that, after all. Maybe the first time someone had admitted to it so plainly, that it could have been. "I thought a Mask of Telepathy only read thoughts, not influenced them."

"Hm. It does that - read them, I mean, not control them," Krakua nodded. "And projects them across minds. But it can't force others to act on them like a Komau."

"But you did."

"I guess I did. Though I am specially trained."

Yes.

Of course.

He should have taken that into account, too.

It was so strange.

He remembered him sounding so differently.

"Hm... Like this, right," the De-Toa mused. The voice coming from him did not match his weakened appearance at all: it seemed wide, almost warm, enveloping.

A sudden memory struck the Turaga.

The way the grey and black armor had looked, the way the words had been spoken to him, the stance. The eyes...

"When did you record that message?"

"I don't know. Don't remember."

"Was it so long ago?"

"No, no... I became a Toa so little... No. No, that's not it. It's been a while by now, hasn't it? I've gotten bad with time. Five years before the whole thing happened and we got here, I became a Toa. We knew we had to ensure you succeeded, but it wasn't an urgency. With a critter like that, the when isn't important."

He watched the Suletu tilt gently as a sulfur eye (the only healthy one) closed deep in thought.

"It's been in these past years... One of these, I don't know which one - I've gotten bad with time. But I went to the wrecks of Metru Nui, what little there was left of it, and I found the little thing, and I searched through it until I found you and told you the message."

"And you spoke with that voice."

"I did."

"And told me what you had to."

"I did."

"It was something planned, wasn't it?"

"Agreed upon, memorized, yes."

Vakama looked at him: "So it was fake," he said. "It was all fake."

"It was scripted. Not fake."

"What's the difference?"

Krakua raised his functioning eyelid only a little, to match the broken one, and stared right through him.

"You have a very visual mind," he repeated. "And when I found you, you... You were so small," (his voice shrank, became tiny, so tiny, so thin, so defenseless as his torso tilted terribly down upon his legs, whole body crumpling as if to disappear, arms reaching for his chest as if his heartlight hurt so terribly, impossibly much) "And so scared, and I was so large and frightening and dark, standing above you to rain judgement..."

He remembered that. That feeling, that sensation, that desperate need to hide, to explain himself, to beg forgiveness for his poor perfomance and stupid actions, for each and every failure.

Krakua stared at him.

"You didn't need me," he said in his horrible scratched voice. "You didn't need a soulless battered rookie in the worst period of his life. You needed a warm hand. Someone who could pull you into their palm larger than anything else and tell you without words, you can make it out of here. You can find a way out of here."

The morphed sound, the sound that for centuries he had associated with Toa Krakua, curled around the Turaga with the kindness of a worn, well-loved blanket.

He wondered who that might have been. To whom the palm that had dragged him out of the illusion might have belonged.

A rain of names and colors trickled into his mind like drizzle, most completely unknown, all accompanied by words he couldn't hope to understand which translated to a swirl of noises, each composing a dissected piece behind that voice that unfurled like an artificial flower picked apart. He recognized only one of those fragments.

It puzzled him.

The Toa of Sonics wheezed a couple cackles, still curled up on himself: "I was the third smallest," he grinned, "They used to pick me up like a frog and carry me around so I wouldn't wander off... I was too quiet. They would've lost me."

"And what about Kongu?"

"He's got large enough hands. He could do it."

"But he hasn't."

"No. He'd explode."

He laughed again.

There was nothing of Toa Krakua in the being before him, not a trace: Zaria had fixed the damage that had made his armor so strange and ancient, he had fixed the half melted shape that had made his Suletu so hard to recognize; his voice had been stitched together from countless others, his mannerisms had been taught.

The actual Krakua resembled that vision only in color, only in a certain light in the sulfur eyes. He had a strange manner of moving, careful, slow, as if lost in thought and yet observant, perfectly aware of everything around him; he pulled himself upright again with a creaking tardiness, humming under his breath, smiling wide in an enigmatic sort of way.

A realization bloomed in Vakama: he had never heard his real voice.

Only a fake, and his scratched new one.

It was such a strange fact.

They'd never truly known each other, he supposed.

"No, we never did," Krakua convened softly. "Such a shame."

He leaned forward without a sound, grabbing the Turaga's nape and pressing the cheek of his fixed mask to the orange Huna's. A weirdly pleasant feeling filled the mask maker and persisted even when the other pulled away.

"You seemed nice."

Vakama watched the De-Toa leave with a wave and a distant half-laughed request not to tell Jaller; he stood, blinking in the light of the flames, not quite sure what to think.

[marblemurti1]

Buddha Marble Statue Shop In Jaipur-Marble Murti Jaipur

Marble Murti Jaipur is engaged in offering an entire range of Marble Buddha Statue which is regarded as one of India's most notable historical characters. Marble Murti Jaipur is the best Buddha Marble statue shop in Jaipur. In this category, we provide Lord Buddha Statues, Buddha Statues made of Sandstone, Buddha Statues made of White Marble, Buddha Statues made of Black Marble, and other Buddhas in a variety of shapes and sizes to suit the needs of our customers. 

Marble Murti Jaipur

Phone No : +91-9950832113

Mail-Id:  jyotivajpayee18@gmail.com

Address : Plot no 255-56, murtikar udyog nagar, near road no-10 , shivad modh, sirsi road , RIICO bindayaka industrial Area, Jaipur- 302012

[princessmacedon]

what will remain

Beyond the monastery's stone walls, within the woven forest just beyond, inside that ventricular green grove, there is a statue. Its dais lays in ruin, and what once burned as passion bright now smolders 'neath the rain, smoke in the form of fragile, verdant tendrils curling between the cracks. From its two palms joined as one, beseeching in their reach, a young girl infers that it may have been a prayer, once. Or perhaps it was a story? It could have even been a miracle, but it is lost, now; only its afterimage remains.

Maria presses a thumb to a conjunction of marble and moss; she turns her hand, plants the point of another digit at the edge of its reach, and lets her palm run gently down its surface. How could she so carelessly touch such a precious thing? But she is not careless; in this moment she loves it, perhaps not as well as its maker had, but more sweetly than the passing seasons that pull it year by year back into earth's embrace. She would hear it, if she could. And she tries to do so anyway.

Being a child of Macedon, there is something strange yet fascinating in the idea of a history old enough to be lost and forgotten -- something that aches every so often, like the bones of old soldiers on a rainy day. What had been hers had been new, a still-bright thread in the weave of the world; what had been lost had been proudly kept, recited to her as a child beneath her blankets, looking up with beamish eyes. Nothing born of that seaside kingdom had lain in the earth and grown old, a fledgling thing that closed its eyes not to rust, but blood.

And so she cannot help but in turn wonder: how will what remains of Macedon look some hundred years hence? What will still sparkle in the gardens she once laughed in, and what will look like this?

There are cracks in the marble, all filled with moss. The once-delicate curl of its fingers is marred, forever, by loss, a piece of the statue broken off and vanished without a trace. The young daughter of a bygone kingdom folds her hands over its wound, its coarse, ungentle edges pressing into soft skin.

So even statues have their calluses! When she pulls her hand back, it lingers playfully at her chin, laughter flowing across nail and knuckle alike to a brook happily a-babble. How lovely it is, to her -- how she wonders if it is everything her brother fears.

Because though the gentle Hero-King had not ground their kingdom to dust beneath his boot, he had with sword and valor unified their continent -- and to begin, there first must be an end.

And there is an end: to Macedon as her brother had loved it, as he had told her its histories where their father-- in his brief presences-- would read her fairytales; as he had recounted shackles shattered and freedom won, as he had burned, brilliant and bright, with passion, with resolve, until fire splintered his bones to broken pieces and still he burned with everything he had. Like this, Maria knows of no one who loves Macedon more wholly than he.

So he must be very afraid, she thinks as she throws herself against a beast that would set a different kingdom's brother's heart to stop. Her dear friend, however, is to her as natural a companion as horse or pegasus -- more so, in fact, for this precious homeland she ponders is a land of wyverns and endless skies. The former supports her, neck acting as brace and cradle as it curls around her; she lets her head tip backwards with a laugh, and there sprawled across the heavens above, in turquoise shards, the latter peeks through a canopy of leaves.

Giggles fade to silence, and Maria lets rest her hand against her forehead, palm turned upward as if to catch the dappling sunlight.

...Perhaps Michalis sees Macedon in its solid lines, its monuments and castles, its territories and independence. Yes, then he must be afraid of such a fate as awaits this eroded statue in nameless nowhere. How of the glory and pride that had inspired its creation, only its decay remains; how the future it had been made to yearn for already lays forgotten, buried in the past. All things as made them human -- their efforts, their ambitions, their trials and losses and at last, their triumphs-- gone, to dust. Of the story behind this once-beautiful, still-beautiful statue, nothing remains.

"But Brother," the last of their kingdom murmurs, "Life does."

To the eyes of a youngest sister, there is nothing to fear in the crumbling of lines. The colors they once withheld may change in time, but so too will they spread -- they will bleed as much as they swirl, becoming less here, and more there -- and more there! Though the hues of Macedon will cease to be so distilled, they will have become a dazzling shade in a magnificent prism.

If only you could see as I do; if only I could have you understand. A sentiment he must mirror, she is sure, toward not only herself but their shared sister as well. Yet try as she might, there will always be a part of them that she cannot understand, so different were their upbringings. She had never known the weight of a crown as Michalis had, nor its looming, suffocating shadow as had Minerva. Her two beloved siblings had grown tall well before she had ever been born, as shield and blade, as well and as spade, as heritors to a proud but fledgling history and Maria, a flower in that garden, plucked and then sold.

She drinks the sun even now. It lays breezy kisses against her palm until her arm grows tired, and she turns to her side and giggles, a fearsomely tenacious dracoknight in her own right... though the words be split rather than sum. She is a dracoknight for the blood in her veins, the history in her tapestry, the friendship she forges and all the places it takes her; and she is fearsomely tenacious because she dreams not only of what Macedon will be on the morrow, but in all the days to come. Because she is sure that come a decade, come a century, come a millennium or more, wyverns will still soar in endless skies over verdant mountains, and her homeland will endure.

It will endure, Maria knows, in all the ways that matter: in the pride of a stubborn people, fearsome foes and stalwart allies; in a love of the sea's shores and the ever-climbing mountains; in bonds born in their blood, man and wyvern taking to the heavens, ineffably, irrepressibly free. That, she believes, is the wish their great grandfather had made. And so when kingdom gives way to country, when the millennia turn over in their graves, in this way, Macedon will remain.