#perisan rugs

[amirhosseingholizadeh]

https://www.gholizadehrugs.com

In this website we offer you nomadic perisan carpet offered by Gholizadeh Rugs

[nejad-rugs]

Nejad Oriental Rugs donated a dozen Kindles to a kindergarten class in one of the country’s highest poverty districts.

All sales from Theresa Nejad’s Kids Rug Collection will go to donating more Kindles with the big goal of giving every student in the school access to this very valuable learning tool.

[jaehyunsbreadbasket]

Snowed In With You: Chapter One

Mark Lee x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: You and the boys set off on your road trip to Chenle's cabin, and when you finally arrive, rooms are assigned. Chenle, realizing that there are lot's of things he needs to make this trip perfect, takes some of the boys on a grocery run, leaving you and Mark alone.

Word Count: 1.1K

"Where's my coffee!?" Jaemin whines towards the front of the car, he and I being seated in the last row of the van.

"Here take it! Shut up now." Renjun yells back as he passes the drink to Jisung, who's sitting in between Chenle and Jeno. Jisung then hands it to Jaemin.

Jaemin relaxes in his seat as he begins sipping on his deadly eight-shot americano. He holds the cup with two hands like a baby would a bottle, "Do you want some?" he asks me with wide eyes, angling the cup towards me.

"I'll pass, Jaem. Thanks though." I give him a smile that he returns, happily going back to his drink. Mark chuckles from where he sits on the other side of me.

I sit scrolling through my phone as some Michael Jackson song plays in the background, "The driver gets full aux privileges" Haechan had said when we first got into the car. We've been driving for about two hours now. What Chenle had failed to mention when he was promoting this lovely holiday trip was that his cabin was four hours away from Seoul. Four. Hours. Four hours of listening to Renjun and Haechan's endless bickering from the front seat; four hours of listening to Chenle and Jisung's bickering from the second row; and four hours of Jaemin resting his head on my shoulder, babbling on about anything and everything as he experiences his caffeine high. Occasionally reaching in front of him to bother Jeno, who's sitting quietly, playing a mobile game.

Suddenly curious, I peek next to me at Mark's phone, wanting to see what his car ride pastime is. He's typing something, it appears to be a poem of some sort, but before I can read it, he's closing the tab and going to scroll though his Instagram. My eyes quickly move back to my own phone screen, worried that he might've caught me snooping. The way that he leans closer to me and cocks his head as he looks at my phone screen lets me know that he did, "Sorry," I say softly, my embarrassment clear.

"Don't be, you're totally fine. Some people just can't control their nosiness, you know my friend Johnny is like that." Mark gives me a teasing smile, his playfulness clear on his face. I scrunch my nose as I look away from him, busying myself with something else.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"I love the smell of money!" Renjun says as we enter the Zhong cabin. High ceilings, with windows that reach them all the way from the floor; huge leather couches; a perisan silk rug that certainly cost more than my rent. The thought of spilling something on any of the furniture here terrifies me. I halfway expect a maid to come out of the shadows, accompanied by bellhops offering to take our luggage to our rooms.

"Me too!" Haechan chimes in as he drops his bags and launches himself onto the couch.

"I'm glad you guys like it," Chenle says as if there was any doubt in his mind. How could anyone dislike this? "There's four rooms down here and three upstairs. Y/N will have her own room of course, so one of you guys will have to share." Chenle explains.

"How about you and Jisung share?" Jeno offers. Renjun and Haechan nod their heads at that.

"You know I like the way you think." Renjun says, squeezing Jeno's shoulders.

"If you think his brain's so sexy then you guys can share a room." Jisung replies.

"I second that notion. I'm obviously getting my own room, seeing that it's my cabin and all."

"And so it was written," Mark says, "I call upstairs."

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

A view hours have passed since we've gotten here, and we have all been unpacked. Haechan and Renjun & Jeno taking the other rooms upstairs, while Chenle, Jisung, Jaemin, and I take the ones downstairs.

My room is massive, far too big to be occupied by just one person. The thought of this house being empty for most of the year is insane, if I was Chenle, I'd convince my family to rent it out during the year.

"Are there any streamers here?" Chenle yells from down the hall, I peek out of my room to see him rummaging through the shelves of the hall closet.

"I love how you're asking us when this is your house," Renjun yells from the living room.

"Shouldn't you know what's in your own house, Chenle?" Jisung adds.

"You should really know what's in the house and what's not before just you go around inviting people," Haechan scuffs loudly as if Chenle has just asked the most ridiculous question in the world.

"Why are you guys attacking him like that, stop it" Mark laughs as he comes down the stairs.

"They're so mean to me Mark, do you see how they treat me?" Chenle puts on a huge pout, sniffling dramatically.

"Aww, poor baby," Jeno says as he comes over to Chenle and rests his head on his chest, "It's gonna be okay, we'll get you some streamers. Anything else you need?"

Chenle wanted to have two parties over the course of this trip: one for Christmas, and one for New Years. And yet he made no arrangements to get any decorations beforehand.

"Cookie mix, snacks, confetti canons, and all the things for Christmas dinner," Chenle lists off his holiday necessities.

"I need markers, " Renjun yells.

"I want ice cream" says Jaemin as if it isn't 30°F outside.

"Skis."

Everyone's head snaps to Jisung. "You came on a ski trip without having skis?" I ask him.

"I didn't know what kind to get," He defends.

"Well I'm only getting the things that I need, so anything extra you'll have to get yourselves. I'm leaving in five." Chenle goes to living room to retrieve his coat and hat before making his way towards the door.

"Wait for me!" Jisung says.

"Me too." Renjun adds.

Jaemin grabs Jeno's hand and leads him out the door with him, despite Jeno not expressing need for anything. Haechan gets up from where he sits on the couch as well.

"Haechan, where are you going?" Mark asks.

"I want an adventure," Haechan spreads his arms out as he walks out the door, closing it behind him.

"Guess it's just us, then," Mark sits down where Haechan was previously sat and looks over at me.

"Yep, just us..." I cross my hands behind my back as I look back at him, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet. We stare at each other for a moment, neither of us quite knowing what to do next. We both seem so cautious for some reason.

All of a sudden, Mark breaks the eye contact, and I can't tell if that makes things more or less awkward. He turns on the TV and flips through the stations a bit before deciding that nothing better was on than the evening news, "I'm sure they won't be gone long."

Prologue ⇐ ➠ Chapter 2

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[yeeharley]

day five: something to believe in by jeremy jordan and kara lindsay / arranged marriage / time periods

⭒

The palace of King Osborn far surpasses that of the Parkers, and somehow, it makes Peter feel even less welcome than he had before when the guards outside had patted him down like a common criminal to make sure he wasn’t planning an attempt on his fiance’s life.

Really, though, what reason would he have to kill his future husband? This marriage is supposed to pull him out of poverty- why would he endanger that kind of an opportunity?

Indignities aside, he’s starting to wish he had never agreed to this marriage. The ornate taprestries, the ornate candelabras and chandeliers, the Perisan rugs that probably cost more than the circlet on Peter’s head-  he doesn’t fit in here, prince or not, and he knows he probably never will. Everything is shiny and perfect and expensive, and he feels like a coat that’s been dragged through the mud after a long rain.

Drab. Messy. Entirely unassuming.

Decidedly un-princely.

Peter follows his escort of guards through the interwoven hallways, withstanding the urge to cross his arms defensively across his chest to offer himself some semblance of protection. He’d picked out his nicest outfit- the light blue one that makes his hair and eyes seem darker- but among these rich golds and dark reds, he knows that he looks like a child. A peasant.

He should’ve waited. Waited for someone other than the Osborns to propose an alliance.

But nobody else wants him.

Nobody wants him.

The next- and, hopefully, last- hallway leads to a pair of large double doors encrusted with yet more gold and and a large lion (the symbol of the Osborn family) in the center of each. The guards standing watch besides large suits of armor step toward the center, pull the doors open, and gesture him through.

And Peter wants nothing more than to turn and run. Tell his aunt and uncle that, no, sorry, he actually won’t be getting married, ‘right thing to do’ be damned. 

This can’t be the right thing to do.

If it was, he wouldn’t feel so disgusted with himself.

The throne room is, if possible, even more emblazoned with wealth than the rest of the castle. A long red carpet runs its length, bordered on both sides by exotic-looking plants and even more guards, each of which shoots him a distrustful look as he walks by. The walls are covered in portraits of the family ancestors- kings and queens abundant, staring down at him like they know he isn’t worthy of their crown prince.

No musty old portrait needs to tell Peter that, though.

He already knows he’s not.

One foot in front of the other, he thinks, trying to walk in a straight line without looking up at the thrones in front of him. He can feel the king’s eyes on him, boring into the top of his head, and wishes that he would look away.

The prince is watching him too. He can tell without having seen him.

He must be disappointed.

Peter finally reaches the end of the carpet and, with as much poise as he can manage, musters up a little bow before removing his circlet from his curls, tucking it under one arm, and (don’t look, don’t look, don’t look) raising his head to the dais.

The king is the first person he sees. Norman Osborn, monarch supreme over his inherited kingdom, is looking down at him with what seems to be disdain- yes, that’s definitely it. His lip curls up like he’s seen something dead, and Peter ducks his head again, trying to blink back tears.

He knows that it doesn’t matter if Osborn or his son don’t like him. This is to be a loveless marriage- their only goal is to pull the Parker kingdom out of poverty and add a bit of land to the mass of Osborn’s.

But Peter would definitely prefer to be at least a little bit liked. Tolerated, maybe.

“Your majesty,” he murmurs, wincing at the way his voice carries.

Osborn says nothing. Just looks down at him over his hooked nose, eyebrow raised, one corner of his lip turned downward.

But someone else does.

“Prince.”

Peter looks up, heart jumping at the sound of a younger voice. His eyes are immediately drawn to the tall figure standing beside Osborn’s throne, clad in dark red robes just like his father. A gold crown made up of what must have been painstakingly-crafted vines is placed atop his wavy hair- a dark, dusty blond color that clashes beautifully with the color of his clothing.

Harry Osborn’s eyes, however, are the thing that draws Peter in. Dark green, like deep pools of water in the middle of the forest. Like the emeralds that had been set into Ben’s crown. Peter feels like he’s staring right into his soul, taking in all of his insecurities, and he knows- he just knows that Harry’s disappointed that this is his future husband.

How could he not be?

“Y-your Majesty,” Peter stammers again, still staring into those dark, dark eyes. 

Harry tilts his head to one side, furrowing his brow as if he’s confused, before bending down to whisper something in his father’s ear. His only response is to nod, and the entire time, neither Norman or Harry look away from Peter’s spot on the carpet.

Is this how bugs feel under microscopes? Small and completely at the mercies of others?

“May I have a word with you in private?” Harry asks, voice gentle and deep. 

Peter would like to say no. Wishes he were in a situation where he could.

“Of course,” he whispers.

Harry tilts his head to his father and, to Peter’s surprise, descends the steps that lead off of the dais before bowing to him- bowing- and offering his elbow with a careful smile.

A gentleman, Peter thinks, wrapping his hand around the underside of Harry’s forearm. He leads him off to one side of the throne room, into an alcove set into the wall, and draws a small set of curtains around to ward off prying eyes. Gently releases Peter’s hand. Offers up a small seat set off to one side, which he gladly takes, clutching his circlet in both hands.

His knuckles are white. Bony.

“It’s nice to meet you, Peter,” Harry says. His voice is rich, every syllable measured and even. Lilting, like the strings of a harp.

Peter hazards a smile and a little nod. “You as well, your majesty.”

Harry frowns at that. He leans up against the wall next to Peter’s chair, crouching down a bit, before taking the circlet from his hands and setting it atop his curls once again. He flushes at the feeling of his soon-to-be husband’s hands in his hair, biting his bottom lip.

Harry is definitely not unattractive, that’s for sure. He’s quite handsome, really.

“You can just call me Harry,” he says. His voice is quiet, as if he’s afraid of someone overhearing. “If this is to be a partnership, Peter, it must be an equal partnership.”

Peter looks up in surprise. They meet eyes again in the low light, and this time, Harry is smiling- he looks unsure, nervous, but there’s an excited glimmer in his eyes.

“You’d really like to marry me?” He asks, shocked. “I bring nothing to the table! No advantages or talent or money-”

Harry holds up a hand to stop him. “Peter,” he whispers, crouching down beside the chair so that they’re at an equal height. “I don’t require any incentive to marry you.”

At that, Peter flushes. He reaches up to press one hand against his cheek as if that can hide what must be cherry red, blushing even more when Harry laughs.

“I think this could be a good partnership,” he says, reaching over to gently pull Peter’s hand from his face and hold it in his own. “I think I could be happy.”

Squeezing Harry’s hand, he nods, if not a bit hesitantly.

“I think I could be happy, too.”

[deluxewhump]

The Northern Front III

part I

part 2

III: Lucien as General Louviere’s plaything. Reintroducing Captain Grimaldi.

Lucien keeps his eyes down. It’s easier than wondering if anyone is looking at him. It’s easier than seeing anyone he knows from before. He can feel the way some of the soldiers look at him from the way their feet slow as they pass by. He doesn’t glance up at their faces and they don’t dare stop or say anything— not as long they are in earshot General Louviere.

He thinks something is off, something is different about the town and the military camp set up within its crumbling stone walls, but he can’t put his finger on it. His muscles are not quite right yet, his arms still ache and his legs are stiff and hurt around the hips. He has to wince and bear it to keep up with the General’s long, easy strides. It took his eyes days to adjust back to sunlight, and he still blinks heavily when they leave the tents. 

“Down.” Louviere snaps when they enter his tents, and Lucien drops to the floor beside the long table in the center of the dirt floor. The General takes a seat behind it, as he does when he is going to accept visitors.

Soon, Lucien recognizes the voice of one of the priests— of course not the High Priest they had thrown off the tower on that first day, but one of the younger clergy. He can feel the priest’s gaze on him. The recognition. The horror— horror, or pity? Something in his voice wavers with it as he petitions for permission to worship. 

“Tell them to worship in their homes.” The General says curtly.

“It...it is custom they worship together. As part of our belief.”

 “They may gather, but not all together. Not in one place.”

The priest hesitates. “They need… they need guidance, General. Leadership.”

Lucien glances up through his lashes in time to see the coldness settle over the General’s features.

“They have leadership.”

“O-of course. I only meant…. I meant spiritual guidance…”

“Then you should consider making housecalls.” General Louviere waves a hand in dismissal. 

Lucien remembers his baptism, in his seventeenth summer, how they’d dunked him in the cold river though he was not one of their own. After, as before, he had not felt clean. 

The hand that touches his head makes him jump. 

“Easy.”

By way of apology, Lucien leans into the touch.

***

He can live this way, from hour to hour, day to day. It doesn’t take much thought. That’s alright. He doesn’t have much thought except for reading General Louviere’s mood and body language, the smallest word or command. 

It isn’t long, though, before the General leads him under the cool stone arch of the castle. Lucien hesitates at the smell of damp stone and mildew, at the blinking darkness of the keep. 

He can’t help but feel ice in his veins at the prospect, and his legs simply stop carrying him. 

The General understands Lucien is no longer a half step from his side and pauses, turns to face the boy. He raises his eyebrows. “Forget something?”

Lucien tries to speak but only opens his mouth. 

General Louviere’s face actually softens. “You’re not going down cellar. I have a meeting to attend. Nothing to do with you.”

Lucien is momentarily able to breathe, still wondering if it could be a trick but having no real choice but to follow the General even if it is. 

“Come along now.” Louviere pats the side of his leg like he’s calling a dog. “Before my patience runs up.”

They climb a wide, short flight of stairs and enter a long stone room with a fireplace large enough to roast an elk, the threadbare remnants of a centuries old tapestry on the wall like cobwebs.  A perisan rug spreads over the stone floor, sunbleached where the windows let in the light. 

“Captain.” Louviere says, bowing. Before Lucien can clumsily copy his movements he is shoved forward toward the table. As General Louviere takes a seat Lucien can’t help but to glance at the Captain at the table's head.

He hasn’t seen Captain Grimaldi since the day the tanks broke through. His face is less impassive than when he was surveying the villagers. Still, Lucien can’t help but feel he is in the presence of some wrathful God, or perhaps the Devil himself. He wonders if Constance would warn him of signing his Book. At his heels is a large hound, long snouted and pointy-eared. Lucien drops his eyes quickly, standing at General Louviere’s side until he receives further instruction. 

“Well, Captain?” The General asks. “You've been gone three months. How does it look?”

“Like it’ll stand another hundred years.” The Captain replies. Lucien thinks there’s something ironic in his tone, or bored. He remembers the burnt-out city, the screaming sounds the planes had made as they fell out of the blue sky. He tries to pretend he’s somewhere else as the men talk, that he’s an object with no ears to hear or eyes to see. 

“The wine please, pup.”

He jumps to attention at that, finding both men looking at him. He scans the table and finds a pewter pitcher to his right. That must be it. There’s cups at every place setting, so he simply picks up the pitcher and brings it first to the General, who is closest to him. As he pours, he wonders if he should’ve served Captain Grimaldi first and his face gets hot at the thought he’s done wrong. They don’t seem interested in ettiquette. 

“They starved Leningrad for 900 days.” Louviere warns. 

“This little hamlet doesn’t have three million people to feed.”

“Even so. In winter they tell me it’s scarce.”

“In winter I plan to have won this war.” The Captain deadpans. Lucien’s hands shake but he doesn’t spill a drop as he fills the Captain’s cup. “And it is only just midsummer.”

Midsummer. Lucien’s mind clamps on the word like a bear trap. It had been winter when the army had arrived, when they’d caught him hunting in the blue dark of dawn and brought him back to the General, accused of running away. 

Midsummer. He’d been in the cells below the keep for some five months, then. That’s what was off around camp. It was no longer winter. For a horrible moment he wonders if it is even midsummer of the same year, or if it has been an entire year, or two, and he’s gone so mad from the cells he lost all sense of time.

“Are you alright?”

Lucien’s hearing buzzes when he realizes Captain Grimaldi has spoken to him. He’s too close, close enough to smell the leather of his boots and the aftershave on his neck. He stares for a moment at the chrome insignia of the Regime on the Captain’s black collar, nods jerkily. 

“Fuck’s sake.” General Louviere grabs him by the elbow, hauling him back and upsetting his grip on the pewter wine pitcher. Lucien’s knee bangs into a table leg and the pitcher flies from his hands to the faded persian carpet, bringing its anemic pinks back to rich burgundy. The hound at the Captain’s feet jumps up, snarling. 

General Louviere stands so quickly he upsets his chair, and the clatter makes Lucien flinch before the hand does, striking fast across his face. The General’s broad palm cracks against his nose, catches his lip and makes his brain feel like it’s been shaken inside his skull. 

He cries out, reaching a hand to the stinging spot just in time for the General to hit him again, this time from the other side. He yelps and cringes, wondering if it’s going to continue, if he is going to switch to fists or be kicked to death like the kitchen boy in the yard the other day, a flurry of polished black boots until the General’s hair was out of place, his face red with exertion. It felt like an inevitibility, that Louviere would find the end of his patience with him and decide to kill him. 

The hound snarls until its master raises a hand. The beast immediately heels. Louviere grabs a fistful of Lucien’s hair, shoving him to the ground so his hands sprawl in the soaked carpet. Instinctively, he protects his head for a blow. 

“Alright.” Captain Grimaldi drawls. “That’s enough.”

The General straightens, tugs his uniform.

“Forgive the boy. I thought he’d received sufficient training.” He growls that last word in Lucien’s direction. 

Grimaldi sips his wine. “I hope you didn’t allocate too much time to terrorizing kitchen boys, General. While rebellion took root under your nose.”

The General falters, chastised. He has to upright his chair to sit in it again. 

Slowly, gingerly, Lucien begins to climb to his feet. He’s never seen General Louviere behave that way, never seen him with his tail between his legs. 

“Boy.” Says Captain Grimaldi. Lucien feels as if he’s been dunked in cold water from head to foot. 

“Come. Sit, before you end up on the floor again.” 

Lucien doesn’t know if that’s a threat or a criticism of his clumsiness, but he pulls out a chair and sits with his head bowed. 

“They tell me a grain silo will only rot the wares, even if we brought it dry from the south.”

Captain Grimaldi nods, brushing his thumb over the scar that splits one eyebrow, spills onto his right cheek. “When in Rome. Another root cellar, then.”

“And the artillery?”

“Taken care of. You keep my troops alive, General. I’ll arm them.”

Captain Grimaldi stands and General Louviere mirrors him. Lucien feels it is a sign of disrespect to remain seated and pushes back his own chair. Even the dog stands, waiting for its master’s next move.

“One more thing.” Grimaldi grins. Lucien can see the years of weather on his face beneath the salt-and-pepper stubble. The little smile goes up to his dark eyes and crinkles the crows feet around them. “I’d like to borrow your boy.”

Lucien stares at the wood grain of the table, one giant slab from some ancient oak. They probably needed a whole team of horses to drag it up the hill in one piece, five feet in diameter. His hands begin to shake.

“The…the boy?”

 Lucien can feel the General’s irritation like radio waves in the air. He knows it well, knows to avoid it, to fear it. The only thing he fears more than Louviere is Grimaldi.  

“I have a few questions for him.” The Captain says, bored. 

“He… he doesn’t know anything about the traitors.” The General scoffs. “He’s been in a cell since the Solstice. He barely knows his own name.”

Grimaldi half-shrugs, unbothered. “You’ll get him back.”

General Louviere must hear the condescension in the Captain’s reply. He remembers himself, clasps his hands behind his back and bows at the waist. 

“Of course, Sir.”

For the first time since he laid eyes on General Louviere, Lucien wants to run to him, to stay close to his side. Better the Devil you know…

“Come.” Grimaldi says simply, to Lucien or to the hound is unclear. Both follow him out.          

[anonymoushouseplantfan]

If I had anything to do with the marketing & client relations at the s-c haute couture houses furnishing Meghan with linen... (yes, those are conscious word choices) I'd roll myself up in my 18th c Perisan silk rug in the Dior room, pretend that I'm a sushi and beg to be admitted to the nearest poshest asylum. Seriously you guys, I wore mostly H&M and Zara my entire internship year, and it looked tailored and pricy as fuck. Look, I just swore. This woman has me aghast with her cheapening talent.

[alicehandmadesilkrug]

1.5x2ft(46x61cm) Hand-knotted unique oriental Perisan rug in living room...

[carmanellender]

modern farmhouse style bedroom with iron bedframe window perisan rug and footsto… https://ift.tt/2Qy2AiP

[zabpadotcom]

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[the-book-queen]

Hide your wallets, it’s that time again! #TBQsBookDeals Your Monday thread of #romancedeals is ready, FREE to $0.99. Happy shopping! 📚❤

FREE ✦ His Wicked Embrace by Lauren Smith

Notorious rogue with no intention of settling down + Perisan princess kidnapped after her parents' murder.

#HistoricalRomance | https://amzn.to/2NXnXXy

$0.99 ✦ Bad to the Bone by Roxanne St. Claire

Second chance + secret baby. He's an ex-con, she's a vet. Meet (again) when his dog is sick.

Pat Rec

#ContemporaryRomance | https://amzn.to/2VQg1db

$0.99 ✦ What a Wolf Desires by Amy Pennza

Fated mates but she's not exactly sold on the idea. He's the Pack leader. She also has a rare ability, which makes her a target.

KU Title

#ParanormalRomance | https://amzn.to/2SVF251

$0.99 ✦ Nobody Does It Better by Lauren Blakely

Pre-Order Deal (out 4/8)

1st POV. Best friend's sister + snowed-in/forced proximity.

#ContemporaryRomance | https://amzn.to/2UpKQ8h

$0.99 ✦ Midnight Run by Lisa Marie Rice

She thinks he's just a "rugged lumberjack who exudes sex appeal" but he's actually an undercover detective -- and she’s in danger.

#RomanticSuspense | https://amzn.to/2NSEvzG

Putting these lists together takes time. If you appreciate this content, please consider buying me a Ko-Fi. http://ko-fi.com/danielletbq

[nejad-rugs]

Client’s Oriental rug expertly repaired by Nejad’s talented and experienced artisans

www.nejad.com   CALL 215-348-1255

[ovojamescraig]

OVO James Craig 

[omma987-blog-blog]

Persian carpets and their history were the culmination of artistic expression that dates back to the achievements of 2500 years back. Persian carpets belonging to the group "Oriental carpets" and they are the most important and best their representatives, because of the quality of workmanship, design and rich combination of color scheme, and because of tradition and reputation enjoyed by the world, because the Persians that is today's Iranians are among the pioneers ancient civilizations which dealt with carpet.

[alicehandmadesilkrug]

1.5x2ft(46x61cm) Hand-knotted unique oriental Perisan rug in living room...

[carpetsofindia]

Showcasing timeless perisan rugs from our Mulberry Collection. Class never goes out of style. #persianrugs #handknotted #rugs #vintage #handmaderugs #handcarved #traditional. https://www.instagram.com/p/B--LMlTHdAe/?igshid=1cf3f75g8o4qh

[nejad-rugs]

Nejad Rugs is proud to ounce again donate to the summer fund raiser event sponsored by JAG Junior Fund, a non-profit supporting brain tumor research