#white cottongrass

[i-identify-plants-in-pictures]

Eriophorum scheuchzeri / White Cottongrass

Matterhorn and Riffelsee Lake by Nicola Paltani

[naffeclipse]

Summer Coat

Hare!Reader x Fox!Sun and Moon

Commission Info

I'm delighted to share this fic that @pure-plum was so darling to commission me for! Finally some Of Fox Maws action with Hare Y/N being a flustered mess and the fox boys being just so sweet to admire them in their new summer coat!

Content Warning for suggestive themes.

———

In a muddy plain of cottongrass, you graze. The tips of your fingers brush over slender, grass-like leaves, emerald and lush in the afternoon light. The seed heads are white, fluffy, and spherical, almost like hare tails but you try to not think of the comparison to your own.

The warmth of the day lies on your fur. Midsummer is upon you and you have changed with the subtle rise of heat in the land of your home. Watching your step, you miss a mud puddle while weaving through the low valley meadow. You pluck a few of the leaves and stuff them into your mouth, chewing slowly. When you brush past the seed heads, they sway and bob in the air, and your fur is rustled by a gentle, sweet breeze.

Pressing on your tiptoes, you scan the meadow and low hills in the distance. You find no hungry eyes watching you. Twisting your long ears, you listen and wait. Not a sound save for the whispering cottongrass. 

Kneeling in the tall grass, you carefully avoid more muck that longs to suck at your feet and stain your fur. Though it better matches your new coat. After a few weeks of hiding in your form, a shallow den, you have emerged with hunger and cravings. The painfully boring and slow process of shedding your thick winter coat of white and emerging with a shining new fur of deep brown is well worth the sleek lightness you now don. 

Constantly, you watch for steel teeth hiding along the ground. Your leg healed from the crushing bite of such a cruel device late in the winter, and you were tended gently by two fox men. Your heart beats quickly in memory of how they help you. It’s strange being at their mercy and yet not suffering for it. 

When it rains, your healed bone will ache, and you’ll trace the scar left between the fibers of your fur, but you can run as fast as you ever have. The fox men ensured you could still flee.

Softly sighing, you grasp another handful of cottongrass. You haven’t seen them since you began your molt, but by then you were roaming by yourself upon a fresh leg and newly acquired mobility.

You’re surprised they haven’t hunted you down yet, considering how much they told you they’ve been trying to get closer to you—

One of your ears prick on a noise. A step. A quiet padding of a foot on soft ground.

You twist, straightening to stare over the fluffy tops of the grassy meadow. It sways. Your eyes sweep over the area. Any movement, any hint of something that doesn’t belong where you do, must be close. Your nose twitches but scents in the air are carried away by the summer breeze. Your tiny heart thunders. Your muscles coil, ready to spring you across the valley at the slightest sign of another.

Low in the meadow close beside you, the grass waves and reveals a darker shape. A shadow, prowling low. Its fur is silvery blue. Frozen water flows into your veins as you hold yourself like ice. So, so very still, you hold your breath. 

The predator might miss you. If you don’t move, don’t run, you might escape.

But in the corner of your vision, another shadow stirs, and fangs glint. Golden brown and grinning with a maw full of teeth, the predator prowls closer. Your heart drops into your stomach.

“There you are,” a hungry voice purrs.

You leap up and bolt. Fear surges into your veins as your feet kick up mud and whip through the seed heads. Before you can clear a boggy bank dividing the grass, a fox leaps upon you. 

You cry out a small sound of fright when arms encircle your waist and pull you to the ground. He twirls you over the leafy strands covering the moist earth, his fur dark and blue like metal. 

In your adrenaline-fueled panic, you catch red eyes holding you—like Moon’s—but instinct takes over when the predator growls softly, “Where are you going, flower?”

You twist out of his grasp when his hands open in the slightest, and scramble out from under him in the opposite direction. Bounding away, the stretch of muscle in your legs pushes you faster. A flick of a thick, golden brown tail sweeps the grass a few inches away from you. Pivoting, you try to jump past the reaching hands, but they snatch you by the upper arms. 

A gasp rips from your throat before you writhe. Kicking and struggling to find purchase with your claws in the attacker’s arms, you cry out a high-pitched scream before a hand finds your cheek and cradles your face.

“It’s us, snowbell, just us,” the voice says, still hungry, but gentle in his want. 

You at last stop. The pounding pulse in your long ears is still thunderous, overtaking you, but you fall still long enough to flick a glance to the fox who holds you captive. Yellow and red swirls intercut the golden brown of the fur on his chest. A glimpse of eyes, blue and sweet, hold yours before gingerly kneeling and sitting you down before him. 

“Sun?” you breathe the name while your lungs heave. Your ears twist, catching the sound of grass parting before you snap your head back to find Moon quietly settling on your other side. His grin is wide and toothy as he regards you. “Moon?”

They look so different. 

“Yes, velvet.” Moon lifts a hand, his claws sharp and dangerous, to rub the velvet of your ears. His caresses find your sensitivity. You immediately endure a shiver falling down your spine but you hold yourself rigid, holding back how weak he makes you at a touch. “Did we frighten you?”

His chest holds the same blue and silver markings, intercut with a now dark gunmetal blue coat. 

It dawns upon you until you flush with embarrassment.

“We only meant to surprise you and perhaps play a little,” Sun says sweetly but his cheeky grin is anything but remorseful. “It’s been so long since we chased you.”

Your eyes widen as your heart resumes a swift tempo. Sun’s fluffy tail sweeps behind you, brushing against your ‘bunny’ tail as the two foxes so often call it. You shift but stay sitting, your back straight as you regard the two predators to your right and left.

“I didn’t recognize you,” you at last confess. You stare at Sun’s golden brown fur washing away his brilliant white coat and turn back to Moon to wonder how swiftly his pale fur molted away.

Sun’s smile splits to reveal sharp, white teeth. “It’s summer, honeysuckle. We change too.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. He leans forward and brushes his whiskers against your neck until you almost hike up your shoulder to protect yourself from the tender touch. Sun’s eyes shine with pleasure. You feel smaller than before.

“Look at you,” Moon murmurs. His soft voice surprises you before his hand descends. His fingers trace your cheek, so less fluffy than it was in winter, but no less soft underneath his touch. You hold very still, afraid a mewl might escape you as he admires you.

Your eyelids flutter as you collect yourself. Does he mean to say that you look more appetizing or simply less vulnerable to being spotted by predators in the summer melt?

Moon shifts to better face you and drapes his tail over your lap. You lift your hands, fingers curling over the soft warmth of his fluff covering you in his summer color. A heat bleeds into your cheeks.

“It’s not as pretty as my white coat,” you stammer.

“I don’t think so.” Sun presses close to your side. His mouth softly presses to your sleek, dark brown shoulder and you freeze under the slick touch of his fangs. The softest nudge from his head jostles you. “You look lovely, always.”

Your middle heats up while you endure his piercing, blue gaze. 

“I must agree,” Moon leans in closer until you turn to fall into the red colors of his eyes. His muzzle touches your cheek. You struggle to not twist and escape the overwhelming intensity of his full attention. “No matter your coat, you are beautiful.”

Your lips part but not a sound comes out. Instead, you scrunch in on yourself and wonder if it’s not too late to slip out of their grasp, but it is futile. They already have you in their clutches.

“You foxes lie too well,” you decide instead, and shrink upon yourself for daring to say so.

“Oh, yes, we do, but we have never lied to you, velvet.” Moon’s chuckle is low and gravelly. His eyes flash as his hand rests on your hip. 

“We adore you too much to do such a thing,” Sun promises but it’s laced with a lick of his tongue over his teeth. He sets a hand on your side and slowly rubs up and down, tracing your ribs and falling to your waist. “We simply had to find you today to admire you. You were hiding from us for so long! We were worried.”

You are struck by their combined efforts to unmake you with their hands and the soft nips of their mouths. Moon noses your cheek and you screw your eyes shut. Sun helps himself to the curve of your neck, nuzzling deeper against you while you fight with all your might to contain the vicious squeaks and whimpers that long to leap from you. 

They would enjoy that, wouldn’t they? The foxes have been dining on you slowly. They nibble and lick until there is nothing left of you to eat save for your bones, and even then, you’re certain they would crack you open just to eat your marrow.

“Please, you’re going to make me melt,” you gasp underneath their invasion. 

“No, no, snowbell,” Sun chides. He stops his nibbling on your shoulder to hold your gaze. “We’re not done enjoying you and your pretty new coat yet.”

“Sun,” you whine softly.

Moon quickly overtakes you with a lick of his pink tongue against your cheek. Your lips part as warmth spills over your body. You tremble underneath his affection.

“Look at you, velvet. You look good enough to eat,” he rolls a laugh from underneath his rasp. You stiffen with a squeak. His eyes flash with hunger, “I think I’ll have one little bite.”

“No,” you plead. “Moon, please.”

“Hm? Flower, did you say something?” he grins. His canines flash. His jaws loom over you as you whimper. 

Then Sun growls softly. You jump in the slightest, your voice caught in your throat.

“You have to share with me, brother,” Sun brushes your cheek with his muzzle. His golden brown fur is so bright against yours. “I need a taste of our little hare too.”

You’re close to dissolving. Even now as they crowd you, overwhelming you with their mouths at your every edge and hands stroking over your body, their claws card through your fur. The foxes pet your legs and back and leave their impressions on your silky soft fur. The caresses of their sharp fingertips sink into you and you start to mewl. 

You held back for so long, despite everything. You are so small and pliable in their hands, and there’s no telling whether they find you delicious and want to scarf you down or simply want to love you until you deliquesce into a shimmery, muddy puddle.

“How precious,” Sun praises you, and you squirm even more as he gently nips your ear. “Even your noises are beautiful.”

“What lovely, sweet sounds,” Moon agrees. His eyes hold you while he draws his fingers down your side and traces your hip. “Perhaps we should savor you more.”

Your heart races. Nearly bursting underneath the foxes’ maw, you scramble for a way to save yourself. You are a being of prey and you must survive, even if it’s the affection of two predators.

“Your fur,” you say, stopping Moon dead from where he was opening his jaws to nibble on your jawline. “It’s handsome.”

He stares as you swallow all your fear and how flustered they made you to reach out and softly stroke Moon’s shoulder. Your claws are meant for digging and cutting plants, not for attacking a meal, but they glide softly over the smooth, satin-like blue sliver of Moon’s summer coat. 

He falls still, his jaw now open but slacked. His red eyes roam over your touch as if finding it otherworldly. 

“And mine, honeysuckle?” Sun yips, his eyes wide and eager. “What do you think of mine?”

Your pulse races but you turn to face Sun’s yearning expression and slowly lift your other hand, calming your shaking just enough to slide your fingers down his chest. Your fingers brush through his red and yellow swirls as well as his golden brown coat. Sun’s wide eyes follow your touch in pleased disbelief.

“Yours is striking,” you whisper. “Very attractive.”

You are just bold enough to fawn over them, and you might dare say that you’ve stunned them for a moment. Sun and Moon exchange looks, brows lifted in surprise and yet content, happy.

Moon’s tail slips over your ankle and rests there for a moment. You find Sun’s fluffy tail curly over your other side as they lean over you, their attention softening at the turn of events you so desperately spun. 

“You don’t lie,” Moon muses.

“I’m not good at it,” you admit, “but why would I lie about how handsome you two are?”

Sun makes a soft sound, almost a squee of delight.

“What else do you think, snowbell?” he asks, leaning down as he tilts his head. His sharp triangular ears flick. “You can keep touching us. It’s alright. Don’t be shy.”

You blush again, but slowly, you find yourself leaning forward to reach both of them. At your slightest nudge, they obey your command to move in front of you so you might better trail your touch down their arms and turn over their large hands. Their palms are sleek and smooth. Moon’s claws twist as if to resist scratching your wrist. Sun is restless, his tail tip whipping softly against your side as he keeps his palm open for you.

“You’re so big,” you say under your breath; a thought that escapes you but now leaves you burning in the face.

Sun’s and Moon’s eyes alight as they both bark and laugh.

“You’re so small,” Moon reaches out to touch your jawline.

“And lovely,” Sun adds with a cheeky grin before he gently strokes your arm. “Perhaps you want a taste of us too? If you have such a desire.”

His question is almost shy, uncertain, and so strange for the two of them who delight in scooping you up for themselves, but the foxes’ eyes flick over your face in search of your answer.

You hold very still under such a thought. Your heartbeat begins to slow within your chest as slowly, you decide while a fluttering takes over your middle.

You lean closer on your knees to reach up and press your nose to the corner of Sun’s maw. His fur is soft and he smells of fresh wood. He holds perfectly still but his tail wriggles against you, giving him away. 

A low growl starts beside you but you are unflinching when you take your kiss and face Moon. Before his lips can part, you find the edge of his muzzle and lay your mouth into him. A scent of silvery evergreens fills you before you draw away.

You bow your head slightly to hide your blush, eyes averted at what you just did. Your ears twist at the softest breaths of the foxes. Large hands take your own, and two muzzles catch you on both cheekbones. 

You squeak, much to their growling delight.

[todaysdocument]

Cottongrass at Katmai National Park and Preserve, July 10, 1973. 

Record Group 79: Records of the National Park Service

Series: Alaska Task Force Photographs

File Unit: Katmai

Image description: Cottongrass in the wind. It has thin stems tipped by round balls of white fluff. 

Transcription: 

[stamp] Katmai National Monument

Katmai 1724-8

MASTER FILE

DATE 7/10/73 

FIELD # 1724-8

SUBJECT cottongrass, Eriphorum sp. 

LOCATION [blank]

CREDIT: NATIONAL PARK SERVICE PHOTOGRAPH BY Philip Vaughan

ALASKA TASK FORCE MASTER FILE 

1777-73

[missmungoe]

February 23 is Makino’s birthday, and my plan was to have this whole chapter up, but I’ve been sick and so that didn’t happen. But! Here’s a snippet from the next part of On the Water, for those so inclined!

Some pirate!Makino and Shanks, a little light angst for the soul, and.......dirty swordplay (fair warning).

-

He brought her across the compound, past the moss-covered well in the courtyard, until they’d put the forge far behind them.

Makino observed him warily, and the broad hand resting casually on Gryphon’s pommel where he walked ahead of her through the cottongrass, the hem of his cloak brushing the snowy white tufts. The high collar obscured his face, giving no indication of what he had in mind. Except―

“You’re not actually suggesting I fight you now?” she asked.

The slight incline of his head saw his grin flashing, his profile outlined by the afternoon light filtering through the branches, and her heart skipped. She knew that look. “Going back on your word, barmaid?”

Pursing her lips, she was surprised by the flicker of defiance she felt at the suggestion that she’d yield without even trying.

From the gleam in his eyes, she knew he’d caught it.

“I didn’t say that,” Makino refuted with a huff, as she hurried to catch up, but it was hard keeping pace with his long strides. “But you can’t expect me to be able to fight you the first day I pick up a sword.”

Turning towards her, “I don’t,” Shanks said, as she suppressed a shiver, but then she couldn’t help it when his voice got like that. “I mean to teach you. What I want to know is if you’ve got what it takes to learn.”

He wasn’t teasing now, and she shifted her weight, drawing her spine taut, although it didn’t do much, when he had nearly two feet on her.

They’d stopped in a clearing between the redwoods, where the dense moss had yielded to hard-packed earth, steady under the soles of her boots. High above their heads, a pattern of blue sky could be glimpsed through the canopy.

She couldn’t see the forge, or any evidence that anyone else had ever set foot here, a stillness so untouched she almost felt like a trespasser.

Shanks showed no such qualms, at ease among the quiet. The sun crowned his hair in gold, the solitary king of a wild, uncharted realm. But then this was part of his territories; one thing among many she was still getting used to.

Like the fact that he wasn’t so solitary anymore.

He held out his hand then, indicating the sword in hers. “Here,” he said.

Curious, Makino handed it over, watching as he wrapped his fingers around the slender hilt, so much smaller than Gryphon’s, and yet it didn’t look out of place in his hand, but then it wasn’t about the sword, when you were that skilled.

She wondered suddenly how much training it would take to look like that―as though you’d been born to do it.

He seemed to consider its weight, before he flipped it, catching it deftly, the blade humming where it cut the air.

Makino watched, mesmerised.

“She’s light,” he said, as grey eyes swept to hers, and her breath hitched as the tip of the sword was suddenly under her chin. His grin flashed, an edge just as wicked. “And fast.”

Her breath shivered, feeling where it pressed so gently to the softest part of her throat. The eyes holding hers were tempered steel. It was hard to say which was more compelling.

Taking a step closer, Shanks continued, the deep pitch of his voice making her skin pebble, “Wielding it will require speed, and precision. It’s not about strength, but about knowing where to apply pressure.”

The blade kissed her throat softly, right above her pulse, and Makino held her breath. Their bodies were nearly flush, his big frame looming over hers, a nearness that felt somehow more dangerous than the sword at her throat, feeling the hardness of his muscles, and the heat rising off his skin.

Bending his head towards her ear, she shivered as the coarse stubble of his beard brushed a sensitive spot on her neck, before his voice rumbled through her, as Shanks offered her only warning:

“And to cut where it counts.”

Her eyes widened when he moved, the blade releasing her throat, before she felt the cut, like a pulse where it raced through the air, stirring the branches above their heads.

A stunned beat passed where time seemed to stand still. Makino didn’t dare breathe, unsure of what he’d even done.

Then her braid unravelled, and her eyes rounded, watching the long plait unspooling, released from its intricate knots as her hair spilled around her shoulders.

The leather tie she’d used to bind it lay on the grass between them, split open. There wasn’t a single strand of hair beside it.

Touching her fingers to her hair, she saw how they shook, the rush of adrenaline a little delayed, leaving her knees suddenly weak, but then it was a terrifying realisation, understanding just how strong he was.

Lifting her eyes to his, Makino was too stunned to even rebuke the cheeky move.

Just as well, because the roguish grin stretched across his lips didn’t ask for forgiveness, as Shanks said, “Next time, I’ll do the seams on your breeches.”

He lifted the sword to demonstrate, pointed towards the centre of her thighs, but was blocked by the scabbard in her hand, although her flustered laugh ruined the effect somewhat as she shrieked, “Don’t you dare!”

His grin took that as a challenge, but he thankfully refrained from demonstrating it. This time, at least. Instead, flipping the sword, he bent at the waist, offering it by the hilt, the way a knight might.

His eyes lifted to hers, the steel in them muted. From the smile resting on his mouth, he’d caught the slight stutter in her breath.

For a beat, Makino just watched him, and the sword where he held it out, and might have mustered a glib rebuke about teasing her for her romantic notions when he insisted on doing things like this, but found herself too overcome to say anything at all.

Their hands touched as she took it, a gentle caress as Shanks shifted his grip on the hilt, a calloused thumb brushing the soft skin of her wrist before he released her.

She watched as he reached for Gryphon, the sound as he drew it from the sheath stirring the hairs on the back of her neck, a coarser timbre than Siren’s song.

“Let’s begin with the basics,” he said, and shifting his grip on his sword, made a forward thrust.

Turning, he nodded to Siren. “Now show me.”

Glancing at the scabbard in her left hand, Makino considered putting it down on the grass when she got a different idea, and reaching behind her, slid it through the red sash where it crossed over her back, the weight settling between her shoulder blades. Then facing him, she wrapped both hands around the hilt, before she tried to copy what he’d done, and managed as good of an approximation as she could, her footing a little unsteady, but then she’d been so focused on how he’d been holding the sword, she hadn’t paid much attention to where he’d placed his feet.

She felt as he stepped closer, the flat side of his sword pressing against her thigh as he directed, “Keep your weight here.”

Following the instruction, she tried the same move again, with less wobbly results.

“Good,” he said, with that pitch that made her stomach flip. “Again.”

She repeated it, and then again, as Shanks circled her, pointing out areas of improvement, in a low, steady voice and with the flat side of his sword directing her to adjust her weight, or ease her grip on her shoulders.

She felt it give her ass a cheeky tap, and her eyes shot to his, catching the edge of a wolfish grin as he instructed, “Again.”

She did, although felt how shaky it was, but it was taking a surprising amount of effort to focus on the sword and not on him, the commanding line of his wide shoulders under his cloak, his body a lean powerhouse of muscle, hewn from years of similar work.

Another thrust of her sword, and his voice answered, touched with that firm command that revealed neither satisfaction nor displeasure, “Again.”

She repeated it, and didn’t stop until her breaths were coming in pants, but with each repetition, it felt a little less awkward, until she lost track of time completely, immersed so thoroughly in the lesson.

He showed her two more move sets, then had her repeating them, over and over until sweat soaked her shirt under her coat and her arms were cramping from the effort.

“Shoulders down,” Shanks instructed, his head bent close to her ear where he’d appeared behind her, and her breath stuttered, before she adjusted accordingly, only to be rewarded with a rumbling, “Good girl.”

Heat plunged between her legs so fast she nearly fumbled the sword.

She heard his deep chuckle, and the ghost of his breath caressing her neck as Shanks mused, “Oh? Do you like it when I praise you?”

Her breath shivered. She was mortifyingly wet.

She heard him sheathing Gryphon, and her heart jumped, before she felt him come up behind her, until his front was nearly flush with her back, but he didn’t touch her.

Then a touch between her shoulder blades had her back arching, her gasp soft as he said, “Keep your spine straight.” And feeling her respond, he murmured, approving in a way that had her knees going suddenly weak, “There you go.”

It was getting hard to concentrate, her fingers trembling around Siren’s hilt. It was like her body was moving on its own, responding to the firm directions, and his murmured approval when she did as he asked.

Warm fingers spanned her stomach, slipping under her shirt to cup her breast, and her breath caught on a moan, dissolving her gentle retort that this wasn’t part of her training.

She felt him circle her slowly, big fingers calloused from sword hilts and rope burns sliding over her skin, soft and unmarred, before he paused in front of her. Her eyes were level with his sternum, fixed on the dark hair sweeping over his pectorals.

She could hear his heartbeat, steadier than hers, although didn’t know if it was her haki or the fact that he was so close.

Then his voice spoke, this time in a deeper pitch:

“Open your legs.” 

Her breath shivered, but she obliged, and gasped when her back connected with one of the trees, just as rough fingers slipped beneath the waistline of her breeches, to spread her thighs.

“Good,” he approved as she arched against the bark, braced between the tree and his body, and she heard his groan when he found her already slick. He gave a slow thrust, and her free hand seized his hair, her toes arching off the ground as he chuckled, “Just like that.”

A rough finger slid between her folds, and she set her jaw to stifle her sounds, even as her haki assured her there was no one else around.

As though he knew, “Let me hear you,” Shanks said, taking her harder, and her next gasp was louder, a half-plea that he soothed. “Good girl,” he murmured, coaxing as she strained to fit his fingers, his thumb rubbing her gently. Her hand gripped his hair, her toes curling in her boots.

Then his nose pressed beneath her ear, before his voice hardened. “Come for me.”

Her knees buckled, the sword dropping from her slack fingers as she scrambled for him, her hands fisting in his cloak even as he held her up, but he didn’t stop, rubbing soft, fleeting circles as she panted, straining to follow the order, so close she felt lightheaded. Just a little more, if she could just―

The order came, right before she did.

“I said come.”

Her hips bucked, as her teeth clamped down to stifle her scream.

He held her as she finished, gasping and shuddering, his fingers slipping out from under her waistline, leaving a wet streak across her belly as she collapsed into him, her head buried in his neck as she fought to catch her breath.

She felt him move her hair over her shoulder, dragging his fingers through it, a claiming kiss marking a treasured spot on her neck, before his voice rumbled, “Still think I shouldn’t have cut the seams on your breeches?”

Her laugh shivered, soft and winded, and when she sank to her knees he let her. She felt boneless, and like she could lay down in the moss and go to sleep.

“Do you think we’re done?”

The tip of his sword touched her chin, forcing her eyes up, soft and heavy-lidded. Makino hadn’t even heard him draw it.

Shanks considered her, his eyes hooded under his scars. The Emperor now, untouched by her exhaustion, even if he was largely to blame for it.

“Pick up your sword.”

Her breath stilled, but she answered the order, although took her sweet time doing it, a demure impudence that got her an arched brow, although she did her best not to show the effect it had.

Her knees felt like they were barely holding her up. And she knew how she must look, with her cheeks flushed and her breeches unlaced, and her hair falling around her shoulders, damp and mussed from his fingers, the evidence of her climax in her sluggish movements, and wondered, a twinge impish, if she might use it to her advantage.

Ignoring the lethargy that gripped her, Makino shifted her stance, Siren raised as she faced him down, his hand resting over Gryphon’s pommel, and his attention narrowed on her, as though in that moment, there was nothing else in the world.

And held by that unwavering focus, and the presence that commanded the rest of the world to wait, she wondered suddenly what it was like to face him in battle.

His fingers gripped the pommel, before his eyes darkened, and that was all the warning she got before he was suddenly in front of her. But then he had that way about him; like a rogue tide, she could be safe on land, but suddenly look up and find the shore gone.

“Here’s a tip,” Shanks said, so close their lips nearly touched, only there was no trace of the grin she’d expected. “Never let your opponent this close.”

He drew back, Gryphon flashing, and she was just about to throw Siren up between them when the sudden fear seized her that she wouldn’t be able to block him, that he was trusting her instincts too much, too soon, and that he wouldn’t have risked something like this if he’d known she was pregnant. But she hadn’t told him, and if she got hurt now, he’d never forgive himself.

It was less than a second, but her panic was a fact, and so instead of blocking him, Makino scrambled back. The tree connected with her spine, knocking her breath loose as Siren clattered from her fingers.

She saw his eyes widening, her reaction catching him off guard, but before she could throw her hands up, he’d stopped, Gryphon sheathed so fast she hadn’t even seen it happen, as her eyes flew up to his.

“Hey,” Shanks said, his hand lifted, as one might soothe a startled animal. His voice was rough, his expression wrought with such genuine horror, her heart constricted. “You know I’d never hurt you, right?”

Shame flooded her skin, a hot flush down her throat, dissolving the lethargic spell of her climax without kindness, and unable to bear the look on his face, Makino averted her gaze to their feet.

“I know,” she said, although knew how unconvincing it had to sound after her reaction, and so hastened to stress, “I do. I don’t know why I reacted like that.”

Shanks only watched her. He’d lowered his hand, but he wasn’t touching her.

Letting go of her breath, “Maybe I’m not cut out for this,” Makino said. This time, she willed herself to meet his eyes. “Not the real thing, anyhow.”

His look softened, some of the hardness bleeding from his handsome features, although not all of it.

Bending down, he picked Siren up from the grass, before holding it out.

“Fight or flight,” he said, as she took it from him, and tried not to notice how badly her hands shook. “We don’t always know which we’ll choose, until we do. Very often, the latter is the wiser option.” His mouth tilted, tugging at the scar on his lip. “And some will choose the first out of stubbornness. Or pride.”

Two fingers touched the underside of the blade, lifting it up until it was level between them, before sliding along the polished metal to the hilt where she gripped it, her knuckles white against the sea-green wrappings, although she eased her grip when he touched her hand gently.

“It’s not cowardice to flinch at danger,” Shanks said, holding her eyes, his own like the mirror-steel held across her palms. “It’s human nature. Learning to fight is just as much about learning to control your instincts as it is to wield a weapon.”

“What if I can’t learn to control them?” Makino asked.

Warm fingers wrapped around hers, as he directed her to hold the sword, the way she should have done to block him, the palm of his hand pressed to the flat side of the blade.

“You have to trust yourself first,” he said, and then with pitch that made her shiver, his look serious, “And I hope you can trust that I’d never hurt you, even by accident.”

Fresh shame filled her, not for her reaction, but for the secret that had caused it.

The words perched on her tongue, but her mouth refused to shape them. Because if she’d told him she was pregnant, would she even be doing this? Or would he, and perhaps with good reason, have deemed her training too dangerous in her condition?

She was surprised by her own defiance, observing the sword where she held it between them, even as she couldn’t help but wonder if she had the will to wield it. Because if she flinched against him, who’d never hurt her, how was she ever going to use it in a real fight?

She tried to picture herself wielding it―to superimpose the image upon the nightmare, where she’d done nothing, although wondered what it would have changed. She was years away from mastery, and she was thirty-two. She might be too old, and too set in her ways to change, the way she would need to in order to wield it as more than just a pretty practice blade.

She considered the small hand wrapped around the hilt, which had only ever held a serving tray, and her defiance dimmed a bit, wondering if a sword like that would be better suited someone else. Someone who was his equal in truth.

A scarred knuckle tilted her chin as he ducked his head to catch her eyes. “Hey?” Shanks asked, his brow weighed with concern.

Her smile wavered, before she admitted, “Sometimes I wonder how I would have been, had I gone with you back when you first asked me.” She thought of the girl who’d been twenty and foolish, but fearless, and wondered if the sword would have suited her better, as she murmured, “That I would be braver, and that I wouldn’t overthink every little thing.”

His smile softened. “My girl,” Shanks said, his thumb brushing the curve of her chin, before he told her patiently, “You’d still overthink everything.”

She pinched his side, her counterattack instantaneous this time, and relished in his startled curse where it tumbled out with his laughter.

But then, this time without teasing, “And I don’t know anyone braver,” Shanks said, as her grin faltered.

She didn’t know why it hit her so hard. “You set out to sea when you were eight,” Makino reminded him thickly.

He shrugged, as though that was somehow not comparable. “I didn’t have a lot of options. And I was a kid; I had no idea what I was getting into. You did, and you could have chosen to stay.”

She held her tongue from asking if he sometimes thought she should have, if not in Fuschia then maybe somewhere like this, closer to where he was, but still safe. Thinking of the hidden forge, she doubted there were many places as safe on this ocean. And it wasn’t hard to picture it, thinking of the swordsmith’s daughters, and imagining a little boy toddling after them on unsteady legs as she kept watch from under the awning, her belly rounding under her hands, her sparrow safe in the cup of her palms.

A sudden fear snared her throat, dragging her forcefully out of the fantasy.

If she told him, would she be going with him when they left?

“Makino? Light of my life? Helloooo?”

Looking up found his brows raised, a bemused smile tilting his wide mouth. “Are you practicing in your head? It’s impressive, don’t get me wrong, but you should give your mind some rest, too, or you’ll be elbowing me in your sleep trying to perfect it.”

Her relief left her grin appropriately flustered. “Sorry,” she said, reaching for the scabbard between her shoulder blades. “You’re right; I should probably take a break.”

“It’s for your own good,” Shanks said. The look in his eyes ran warm over her skin. “You know, with your work ethic, you would have been Rayleigh’s favourite student. Don’t tell him, though, or he’d regret ever bothering with me.”

Smiling, she slid Siren back into her scabbard, the softer song of her sheathing left to linger between them. Resting it across her palms, she considered the gentle weight, a little less strange than it had been that morning.

Her eyes lowered to her stomach, the slight curve hidden by the cross of the sash.

Gripping the scabbard, she firmed her lips.

She’d wait until they’d raised anchor. If they were already at sea, it might be harder for him to make the choice. If nothing else, it bought her a little more time.

Although if there was one thing she felt like she didn’t have, it was that.

[travel2unlimited]

Wildflowers of Eastern Greenland Greenland may not be green, but it the short summer period it explodes with wildflowers. Many bloom for a very short time - weeks or perhaps even days, almost all are small and close to the ground, if not miniature, but all are super showy and bright to attract the few pollinating insects that exist. There were many coming Arctic wildflowers like cottongrass or poppies or various saxifrages, but there were some quite rare finds like the carnivorous butterwort. All in all, there are 25 species collected in this post plus 3 types of berries. I hope it’s one of the more comprehensive lists of the Eastern Greenlandic flora, and my job as a botanist-at-heart is complete and done. The species pictures are Dwarf willow, Arctic cottongrass, Northern common cottongrass, Mountain sorrel, Alpine bistort, Arctic wintergreen, Arctic alpine fleabane White Arctic bellheather, Entireleaf Aven, Mountain aven, Drooping saxiflage, Alpine saxifrage, Tufted saxifrage, Purple saxifrage Yellow mountain saxiflage, Dward fireweed, Arctic mouseear, Moss campion, Arctic campion, Hairy lousewort, Alpine Cinquefoil, Common Butterwort, Showy Pussytoes, Mountain Harebell, Tundra Chickweed, Arctic Mouseear, Mountain crowberry, Bearberry, Bog Blueberry #travel2unlimited #travel #travelblog #arctic #arcticcircle #greenland #eastgreenland #oceanwideexp #expedition @oceanwideexp #flora #wildflowers (at Greenland) https://www.instagram.com/p/CiOip-0j-Rf/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[theseastorm]

Princess Tuvstarr and the Fishpond, John Bauer (ca. 1913)

Princess Tuvstarr (Princess Cottongrass), a girl with long wavy blonde hair, slips away from the Dream Castle to meet Leap the Elk, a strong, loyal, and protective creatures who carries the princess into the world on his powerful back after the princess pleads to take her with him: 'How big and stately you are. You have a crown, too. Let me come with you. Let me sit behind your neck, and then carry me out into life.' The elk hesitates. 'The world is big and cold, little child, and you are so small. The world is full of evil and wickedness, and it will hurt you.' 'No, no. I am young and warm. I have warmth enough for everyone. I am small and good, and want to share the good that I have.' 'Princess, the forest is dark and the roads are dangerous.' 'But you are with me. You are great and strong, and can easily defend us both.'" Thus, the strong and wise elk carries the innocent and vulnerable Princess on his back out into the world. At first, all is well and the princess is delighted with what she sees on her journey. But, the princess is vulnerable and dangers from the dark forest lurk everywhere and, little by little, rob the princess of her innocence. At some point in the journey, she finds herself naked, robbed of her fine white gown. The elk watches over her vulnerable naked body as she sleeps under the stars at night. He becomes anxious, worried that his strength and wisdom will not be sufficient to protect the little princess. "He seems to want to move on, and bends down to let the princess climb on his back. Then they are gone in a rush, galloping east. He hardly hears when she calls to him, and rarely answers. As if in a fever he breaks through the tangled forest at a furious rate. 'Where are we going?' asks Princess Cottongrass. 'To the pool,' is the answer. 'Deep in the forest is a pool, and that is where I go when autumn is coming. No person has ever been there, but you shall see it.'" The elk warns her to be careful of the danger in the water, to watch her golden heart chain around her neck. But, the princess, mesmerized by the dark shining water bends forward for a closer look and the golden heard slips over her head and drops in the pool. 'Oh, my heart, the golden heart that my mother gave me the day I was born. Oh, what shall I do?' She is inconsolable and wanders over the tussocks to look for her heart. The elk warns her 'It is dangerous for you here. Looking for one thing, you will forget everything else.' But, the princess wants to stay to find her heart. She gently strokes the elk and kisses his bent head. 'Then, small and slim and undressed, she goes and sits down on a grassy hillock. For a long time the elk stands quite still and looks at the small girl. But when she no longer seems to notice that he is there, he turns and disappears with hesitant steps into the forest.' "Many years have passed. Still Princess Cottongrass sits and looks wonderingly into the water for her heart. She is no longer a little girl. Instead, a slender plant, crowned with white cotton, stands leaning over the edge of the pool. Now and then the elk returns, stops, and looks at it tenderly. Only he knows that this is the princess from Dream Castle. Perhaps she nods and smiles, for he is an old friend, but she does not want to follow him back; she cannot follow any more, as long as she is under the spell. The spell lies in the pool. Far, far under the water lies a lost heart." Still Princess Cottongrass sits and looks wonderingly into the dark depths of the water.

[allmimsyweretheborogroves]

White puffs of cottongrass, bobbing cheerfully in the wind, wafting across a sea of autumn grasses. Deep in the peat,  a bubbling spring, sweet and dark. The last summer flowers— fragile and soon lost,  dance gently.  

[knitmoregirls]

Marzipan Experiment - Episode 564 - The Knitmore Girls

This week's episode is sponsored by:

    So, you already know about the Akerworks Yarn Caddy Kit. Now, we are adding a little twist for you: Introducing the Akerworks Butterfly Kate, designed to fold into itself, making it incredibly easy to pack in a bag and take on any adventure! The Butterfly Kate has a wooden base, a carbon fiber shaft with two angle settings, a nifty pattern holder, and our patent-pending TensiTamer gizmo to keep everything in place and select your desired tension. It's designed either for use with our Yarn Caddy, or as a single shaft Lazy Kate for use with spinning bobbins.

Akerworks: We like making things.

          Carry your creativity with Erin Lane Bags! Whether you show your fiber fandom with the woolly wonder Sheepleverse, or dive into history with the Curiosities collection, our project bags, totes, and hook and needle organizers are at the ready to keep your hobby happy.

    We all have it, we all snicker about it.

Fun Fur.

Whether it’s eyelash, boucle, or just generally furry, it’s hard to find projects for novelty yarn.

With a sweet face, spiraling horns, and delightfully rotund body, Friendsheep by Cate Carter-Evans lets you transform your novelty and textured yarns into sweet, fleecy little friends. Pattern available on Ravelry; more info at infinitetwist.com

    Books plus knitting plus happy memories. That’s Little Skein in the Big Wool. We make kits, yarn and project bags that bring your favorite stories to life. Find *your* favorite story at littleskein.com

  LoLo Body Care, formally Bar-Maids, creates exceptional moisturizers hand-poured by staff who add a good dose of heartfelt love to each one. Most all their supplies are made in the US, and their beeswax sourced from a local farm. Besides quality, the value of their product lies in that they last a very long time and are loved to the very last bit. They built their brand on being eco-friendly and their new packaging rocks. Their customers and customer service are rare and treasured jewels.

  On the Needles:(0:32)

  Gigiis working on Drea’s shawl in Oink Pigments White and "Zoot Soot" stripes, accent border in "Mommy Dearest" red.

Gigi uses Teaspoonthief's modifications.

Jasmin  finished the front, and is nearly finished with the first sleeve of  Genevieve’s Christmas Sweater 

(Oliver Sweater) out of Onyx Fiber Arts DK.

  Gigi has been working on a couple of Wee Envelope sweaters. The knitting is done on the pink one; a bright green one is also done. Gigi has cast on a third one. 

Jasmin started a test knit hat for Romi (snowflake hat)

We will be collecting hats (locally) for refugees in New England:

Maine Access Immigrant Network

237 Oxford St., Suite 25A

Portland, ME 04101

  Events: (7:51)

-#MyRhineBIPOCSweater

- True North Hearts and Hands donations:

https://subcultureyarn.com/craftivism-hearts-hands-baby-layette-bag-donation/ 

-We will take a break from podcasting from January until March.

If you have suggestions for what to bring for the Podcast Tune-Up, let us know!

Stitches West! Feb 20 - 23

In Stitches (11:45)

Jasmin wore her Polwarth pullover, Westport Waves Hat, looped loop cowl, Cottongrass Pullover,

handspun ribbi, and Greyhaven hat.

Genevieve: Hearthstone pullover, Gryffindor hat

Gigi: red cowl, night shirt, cross stitched Christmas pillows, trapunto school project pillow 

  Mother Knows Best:(21:28)

Awful task? Do it with a friend. (Winding, mending, weaving in ends, etc.)

Jasmin mentions Vanishing Wool by Clara Parks. Correction: The book is called Vanishing Fleece

Recipe for Marzipan 

  When Knitting Attacks: (29:59)

Gigi started a new cuff.  Instead of switching to garter stitch, She kept purling.

Jasmin kept magically adding stitches to the garter stitch snowflake hat. 

  And Sew On:(35:36)

Gigi’s sewing class at Cañada College: class modeled finished slopers and took pictures.  Now I can

adjust commercial patterns using my sloper. 

Also two days a week next semester that I am not in class will be sewing days. 

Sewing area is cluttered with mending.

Check out this episode!

[david-box]

[Image ID: A digital illustration of Flayn, from Fire Emblem: Three Houses, drawn riding a reindeer like Princess Cottongrass does in the Swedish fairy tale. Flayn and the reindeer are seen walking left along a brown, flat riverbank with some similarly colored plant life on the sides of the illustration and in the foreground.

The river is still and drawn in a dark grey-blue color, and in the background is a large white ornate doorway decorated with carved gold decorations. The doorway leads to a dark grey area that cannot be seen well.

Most of the illustration is done in near-grey colors, including the doorway and the decorations, but the girdle on the reindeer's chest and mouth are done in deep blues and brighter gold accents. Flayn's hair is similarly brightly colored in comparison, as is her dark blue ribbon on the back of her coat and her gold crown and dress accents.

Splashes of blue can be seen on the sides of the river where the plant life is. Lightning bugs illuminate parts of the scene in the foreground. End ID]

flayn as princess cottongrass for @fodlansfables 🌱

[icybreaths]

MUSE AS A DEITY.

RULES.     think carefully about your character and their development through their journey (canon or oc) within their story. fill out the chart and tag whoever you want! multi-muses, feel free to pick any of your characters  —   just a few, or all of them. please repost, so the dash isn’t clogged with reblogs.

JEWEL STONE    ◌     HYOUHAKYOKU.

GOD(DES) OF   —    Winter, ice ages, and the magnetic poles ASSOCIATED WITH  —    Creation, destruction, change, adaptability, hunting, battle SACRED PLANTS  —   Arctic cottongrass (versatility), Antarctic hair grass (endurance and grounding), Antarctic pearlwort (resourcefulness) SACRED STONES/GEM(S)  —    Amethyst (crown; healing), Moonstone (third eye; strength, calming, balance), Labradorite (throat; intuition, expression), Bloodstone (heart; health, longevity), Tiger’s Eye (solar plexus; motivation, endurance), Amber (sacral; cleansing, protection, confident expression,) Garnet ( root; safety, strength, inner fire),  Clear Quartz (entire body; versatility, cleansing), SACRED ANIMAL(S)  —    Polar bears and arctic wolves COLORS  —     Blues, greys, dark purple, silver, black, white, red SCENTS   —    Mint, petrichor, blood, polar sea breezes ACCEPTED OFFERINGS  :  WAYS TO HONOR.   

Jewel is fond of nature so any offerings must be left in such surroundings, however, one may honor her anywhere. Her power is at its peak in winter and is the best time to request blessings. 

-- Offerings: Bones and teeth from kills in cold climates, or any sacred stones, either of which being wrapped in blue velvet fabric (any of her colors would work though). One may bury their offerings around the mouths of or in caves behind waterfalls too cold to swim in, or in the ground after a snowstorm (snowfall/sleet/hail/blizzard/avalanche) or cold rainfall. Just make sure the hole is deep enough before covering it. 

Formal request: At a high altitude, use a sacred stone (or multiple; the stones mark one’s intention based on their symbolism) coated in one’s blood to crush mint leaves and allow the cold winds to carry the fragmented herb away. Breathe in the scent of the air and think about the wish.

-- Ways to Honor: Homemade alters including any sacred plants or stones, mint plants, or colors associated with her. Bones and teeth hold more merit if the worshiper hunted the animal(s) themselves. Animal furs are always welcome. Carry any of the stones on oneself or mingle them with silver bases (chains/rings/earrings). Carve ice sculptures for her.

Do no harm to the sacred animals. If one comes across one of the sacred animals and they are already dead, leave the body alone. Or, if one wished to earn her blessing, circle the sacred body in blood spilled from the hand and then leave it. Do not clean the wound, allow the blood to flow freely. The challenger will be hunted by the wildlife in the area and it is their job to slay the creatures, harvest parts of them, and make use of those parts somehow. Examples would be to wear the furs, make jewelry of the teeth, or to devour the animal’s flesh.

Harming the sacred animals in any way would ensure bad luck and an unlikely, awful death.

tagged by.    Took it from @destructivour ! tagging.     anyone that would like to, feel free to tag me~

[hesterretseh]

White meadow with cottongrass von Hester

[anna-lemos]

Blooming White Cottongrass Alpine Flowers Canvas print by Anna Lemos https://www.redbubble.com/shop/ap/48716543 #whitecottongrass #scheuchzerscottongrass #pennacchiorotondo #eriophorumscheuchzeri #flowers #wildflowers #alpineflowers #mountainflowers #fiorialpini #cottongrass #alpineflora #blackandwhitephotography #floralphotography  #artphotography #artphoto #photoart #artprints #printsforsale #wallart #walldecor #wallartforsale #homedecor #homedecorforsale #homedecorideas #decor #buysmall https://www.instagram.com/p/CActy1knyFe/?igshid=2hsx6qk05laa

[bluehome91]

Eriophorum angustifolium, commonly known as common cottongrass or common cottonsedge, is a species of flowering plant in the sedge family Cyperaceae. Native to North America, North Asia, and Northern Europe, it grows on peat or acidic soils, in open wetland, heath or moorland. It begins to flower in April or May and, after fertilisation in early summer, the small, unremarkable brown and green flowers develop distinctive white bristle-like seed-heads that resemble tufts of cotton; combined with its ecological suitability to bog, these characteristics give rise to the plant's alternative name, bog cotton.

[missbryophyte]

Eriophorum vaginatum ©missbryophyte

[darkestbloo]

N, P, Q, R, S~!!!!! ;3;

N - Favourite animal?

Uhh, that’s hard so I’ll go with animals that aren’t pets xD sooo Tigers!

P - What kind of music I like.

Most kind of music tbh, indie, rock, pop, EVERYTHIN~

Q - Favourite flower?

White cottongrass and Mountain avens! 

R - Is cheating ever okay?

Hell no!! 

S - 2 habits.

Gnawing on my lower lip and singing along to whatever I’m listening to when I’m alone

Dank for askin!! ;3;

[caveartfair]

The Artist Duo Transforming the Elderly into Natural Wonders

Photo by Riitta Ikonen and Karoline Hjorth. Courtesy of the artists.

This is the story of an art project that began with three words, typed into Google: grannies, Norway, photographer.

It was 2011, and the Finnish artist Riitta Ikonen was dreaming up a new proposal related to Nordic folk tales. While studying at school in Brighton, England, Ikonen had developed a friendship with a Norwegian student who had a particularly animated relationship with the natural world. “I would go and visit her in Norway, and she would talk to the rocks and the mountains,” says Ikonen, who speaks in a melodic accent. “I thought, hold on a minute, I’m from Finland, so I obviously appreciate my lakes and bogs and mountains. But I don’t really talk to my mushrooms and blueberries. So what’s happening here?”

Imagining that this intimacy had roots in Nordic lore, and that the country’s elderly population would be closest to those traditions, Ikonen began to conceive of a project involving Norwegian senior citizens. She would need a collaborator to take photos, so she dropped the appropriate search terms into her browser, and discovered the work of Karoline Hjorth, a photographer whose book of portraits, Mormormonologene (2011), is a celebration of Norwegian grandmothers.

Photo by Riitta Ikonen and Karoline Hjorth. Courtesy of the artists.

The meeting between Ikonen and Hjorth that followed would evolve into a seven-year (and ongoing) collaboration known as “Eyes as Big as Plates,” featuring excursions to several different countries—including Greenland, Japan, and the U.S., with hopes of future travel to Africa and South America—and a roster of local grannies and grandpas, whom the pair have artfully transformed into mythical gods and organic creatures. The resulting works are gorgeous, richly imaginative photographs, recently published in a book of the same name; a selection from the series is currently on display at the Chimney, in Bushwick, Brooklyn. The duo’s photos from a Korean edition of the project, conducted in partnership with the upcoming Winter Olympics, are also on view in Seoul, South Korea.

The 60 or so portraits range from the folkloric to the whimsical, poetic, and fantastical. In one image, we see Salme, a friend of Ikonen’s late grandmother. The artist duo pictured her wearing a baroque headdress composed of decadent puffs of small white flora. Ikonen and Hjorth consider their subjects collaborators, and in their book, each of them receives a short text to accompany their image. In this case, we are informed that “Salme is placid yet tough, just like the cottongrass growing in the many bogs around her.”

Agnes, who according to the book is the oldest Norwegian woman to have ever completed a parachute jump (twice, in fact, at the age of 85 and then again, at 90), is pictured standing on a stark black rock face at the edge of the sea; she wears an armature on her head made of sinuous, tendril-like twigs, dramatically swept to one side. “She’s personifying the North Wind,” says Ikonen.

Photo by Riitta Ikonen and Karoline Hjorth. Courtesy of the artists.

Astrid, an enthusiastic bridge player from Norway, is reimagined as the “semi-menacing forest maiden” Huldra, from Nordic folk tales, who is distinguished by her long locks of hair. Ikonen and Hjorth accomplished her transformation into the seductive creature by giving her a thick mane composed of giant ams of rhubarb taken from Astrid’s arboretum. (She was eager to get rid of the bushels of rhubarb; during the shoot Ikonen offered them to passing joggers, who gratefully ran off with the jumbo fronds.)

The project is not limited to women; the book and exhibition also feature portraits of elderly men, like Velkkari, who is shown sporting proud blooms of cow parsley from his chest, and Mr. Maruyama, an ikebana flower arranger from Japan who wears a halo of fukinoto, an edible spring vegetable that grows in abundance near his home in Sanjō, in the Niigata Prefecture.

For Ikonen and Hjorth, recruiting their collaborator-performers can take a certain amount of moxie, and sometimes even requires a covert reconnaissance mission of sorts. “We might be in Paris, and you might be at an opera soiree evening and there might be an old lady dancing, the last person on the dance floor,” says Ikonen. “And you just think: Who is this fascinating person I have to meet? You approach them and ask them, ‘Who are you and what are you doing tomorrow?’” Ikonen isn’t speaking hypothetically. A similarly auspicious encounter with an opera singer named Marie-Ange led to a shoot the following day, in which she is pictured at the edge of a lake, wearing a theatrical bustle made of weeping willow branches.

Photo by Riitta Ikonen and Karoline Hjorth. Courtesy of the artists.

Photo by Riitta Ikonen and Karoline Hjorth. Courtesy of the artists.

The name of the project—taken from a folk tale about a dog that lives beneath a bridge and has eyes as big as plates—is something of an emblem of the curiosity that guides these interactions. “We ask them, ‘What has happened in your life and how do you make sense of your surroundings?’ ” says Ikonen. “We enter with open eyes. They dictate what happens in the shoot. It’s kind of like an adventure club.”

Often, subjects are photographed in places that hold special significance for them—at a favorite rock or beach. Other times, Ikonen and Hjorth pick the place for its natural beauty or mystical quality. Asked whether the photographs are more about the humans or the environment, Ikonen pauses to consider. “I think they might be, interestingly, about how there might not be a difference between the two,” she says. “It’s very nice when after the shoot you ask, ‘How do you feel?’ Sometimes the answer is just: heavy or wet or cold. But occasionally it is: ‘I’ve never looked at my surroundings like this. I really feel part of where I am right now.’”

The duo shoots with an analog camera, which means the process can be slow and physically challenging. It often entails something of a bonding experience with the elements. “The person might be sitting in a bog, dressed as a bog, for three or four hours,” says Ikonen. “It’s quite rare that we would go to a bog or field and spend that amount of time being quiet and focusing just on being.”

Photo by Riitta Ikonen and Karoline Hjorth. Courtesy of the artists.

Indeed, even when their faces are semi-hidden (or entirely obscured by a sprouting costume of moss or branches), the elderly subjects convey a certain stillness, peace of mind, or vulnerability.

Edda, for instance, is pictured amid steaming Icelandic hot springs that bubble up between two tectonic plates. She is dressed like an ethereal oracle in an aerodynamic cloak of hay. There’s a national myth about a breed of hot spring birds that dive into the bubbles, Ikonen says. According to folklore, they represent souls of the dead. And during her shoot, Edda described having seen relatives at these hot springs that were not quite from this world.

Ikonen acknowledges that the photographs suggest a poetic allusion to the afterlife, of a return to nature. “Maybe it’s the fantasy of being in nature, some fleeting moment in the idealistic brain of the human where you could be one with nature,” she says. Yet at its heart, the project is one that’s profoundly life-affirming, both in its portrayal of the elderly and of our environment.

Photo by Riitta Ikonen and Karoline Hjorth. Courtesy of the artists.

In a 2015 photo from the series, Jakob, a fisherman from the southwest coast of Greenland, is pictured wrapped head to toe in ice, lying on his side and embedded among a bank of snow-capped stones as though ready to drift out to sea. Jakob has spent his whole life surrounded by and observing the conditions of ice. But in recent years he has witnessed it melting at greater speed, tides rising higher, and reindeer migrating in larger numbers.

“We are not the masters of the weather,” Jakob reflected during his portrait session. “You have to live life to the max because of the conditions in our land—this is life, so we enjoy it.”

from Artsy News