#tales of lukomorye

[mauzeart]

Hiiii. I finally finished his design. Yarilo is the god of the spring sun, spring work, passionate love and sexual passions. A loving and beautiful young man because his love too great for one girl. He is like a violent wind, cheerful and mischievous.

The illegitimate son of Veles and Dodola. I read about his birth in a story. In short: Veles turned into a flower, Dodola smelled it, and Yarilo was born. So Slavic mythology is no less surprising than any other ahaha

I think his design turned out very well. What do you think?

#folk tales #tales of lukomorye #slavic mythology #slavic #artist on tumblr #character design #digital art #comics #character concept #slavic folklore #yarilo #graphic novel #god of sun #mythology

[foundtherightwords]

The Firebird - Chapter 11

Pairing: Prince Paul (Catherine the Great) x OFC, Fairytale AU

Summary: When Paul, a spoiled young prince, spots a strange bird in the forest near his palace, he impulsively chases after it, hoping to both escape from and prove himself to his disapproving mother. Thus he is plunged into an exhilarating adventure across a magical realm populated by enchanted princesses, dangerous monsters, and powerful wizards, an adventure that may change him more than he can ever imagine.

Chapter warning: none

Chapter word count: 3k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10

Chapter 11 - The House on Chicken Legs

It was the strangest sight Paul had ever laid eyes on since his arrival in Lukomorye, and considering he'd seen some pretty strange sights, that really was saying something. An iron mortar was flying into the clearing, carrying inside it an old woman, all bones and sagging skin, with a nose so long and hooked it almost touched her upper lip, a head of stringy white hair, and eyes that glinted within deep sockets under bushy brows that reminded him of a leshy's eyes. She was driving the mortar by beating it with a pestle in one hand, and in the other hand, she held a broom, which she used to sweep away her tracks. It seemed to Paul a rather cumbersome mode of transportation, but Baba Yaga—for he had heard enough tales of her to recognize her on sight, even without an introduction—clearly found it quite efficient.

The mortar stopped, and Baba Yaga stepped off. Her gimlet eyes bore into the four of them, searching, measuring. They all involuntarily cowered, even Ilya, who lowered his bow with an uncertain frown. At this closer range, Paul realized that Baba Yaga's eyes weren't quite like a leshy's. He couldn't tell what color they were, only that they were dark, sharp, and profound—not just physically deep, but containing unfathomable wisdom and age. It was rather like being gazed at by an abyss.

"Well, well, well," Baba Yaga said. "What do we have here? Three Lukomorians and a Russian! By Perun, we are eating well tonight!"

Zhara gently extracted her trembling hand from Paul's and stepped forward. "Please, grandmother," she said, bowing low. "I am Zhara Artyomovna of—"

"I know who you are, girl," Baba Yaga interrupted. "I know who all of you are, except for this one"—she pointed a bony finger at Paul—"but what I don't know is, what you are doing here."

"Please, we don't mean to trespass," Zhara said. "We're here to most humbly ask for your help."

"Help? To bring down your brother?" Seeing their surprised looks, Baba Yaga chuckled. "Yes, I know all about your brother and his scheme, girl. What's it got to do with me?"

"What's it got to do with you?! How could you ask such a thing?" In her shock, Zhara forgot her diffidence and raised her voice. "If my brother gained immortality, he would crush Lukomorye! He would destroy everything, including you!"

Baba Yaga's eyes glittered strangely. "That is not immortality he is striving for," she said. "He is only trying to cheat Death, and believe me, you cannot cheat Death for long. As for destroying me... I am older than these trees around me, older than the river running through that meadow, older than those hills there, older than the land itself. Whatever he can do to me, I shall welcome it." Her words sounded like they were coming from far, far away, and Paul shivered.

"Please, grandmother, you're our only hope—" Zhara said, extending her hands toward Baba Yaga imploringly.

"It is foolish to hope," Baba Yaga said, as cold and unyielding as a mountain. "There is nothing I can do for you."

Zhara looked back at her companions with eyes full of despair. At the sight of her tears and her trembling lips, Paul forgot all his fears. He would not let anyone treat her like this, not even if that person was—well, even if it was his own mother. He could not.

"Come, Zhara," he said, taking her elbow and guiding her away. "Don't degrade yourself. We must have made a mistake. She's clearly not Baba Yaga."

Zhara frowned at him, not understanding.

"What did you say, boy?" the old woman snapped.

He turned around to face her, trying to conjure up his usual expression of contempt, the one he often wore around his mother's lovers or the other sycophants that clung to her skirts. "Well, at least you're not the Baba Yaga that I have heard of back in Russia," he said. "That Baba Yaga was all-powerful and would never stand for any threats, not running away at the first mention of danger like some dotty old bird."

Zhara gasped. Even Ilya and Elena widened their eyes, shocked at such blatant impertinence. Baba Yaga was upon Paul in a flash, her skinny, claw-like hand closing around his throat.

"I know what you're trying to do, boy," she growled. "Think I could be fooled by such a childish attempt to rile me up?"

The horse with the golden mane chose that moment to trot over, perhaps because it was bored with the grass that Baba Yaga's woods had to offer, or perhaps because it noticed that Paul, to whom it had taken a strange liking, was being threatened. The sight of the horse made Baba Yaga drop Paul's neck instantly.

"Is that you, my Voskhod?" she said, her voice becoming tender as she reached for the horse in disbelief. "You have come back to Baba?" The horse gave a soft whinny and rubbed its nose against Baba Yaga's calloused hand. She turned to Zhara and her companions. "Ever since Afron stole him from me, I never thought I'd see him again. What happened to that slimy bastard, by the way?"

"Dead," Ilya said.

Baba Yaga cackled, sounding like she was gargling with a mouthful of rocks. Once she sobered up, she looked at Zhara again, and Paul thought the old woman's eyes softened somewhat. "Since you and your companions have returned my little Sunrise to me, I owe you. My offer is this: I shall take you wherever you wish to go and lend you whatever aid I can in your fight against your brother, but I shall not take part in that fight myself. What is between you and your brother, you must face on your own. Is that understood?"

Zhara almost fell to her knees with relief. "Yes! Thank you, grandmother!"

"Don't thank me just yet," Baba Yaga grumbled. She turned to face the woods and chanted, "Little house, little house, stand the way thy mother placed thee, turn thy back to the forest and thy face to me!"

There was a great rustling sound. The trees shook and groaned, the birds roosting in their tops shot up into the sky, squawking in complaint about being roused from their sleep, as some huge creature moved through the forest. But it was no creature. It was a hut, moving on a pair of chicken legs.

The sight of the hut, so familiar to him from the old tales, made Paul almost laugh out loud in delight. It walked into the clearing, sat down in front of Baba Yaga by folding its chicken legs underneath, and became an ordinary izba.

Or perhaps not quite so ordinary. A little lawn, complete with a fence surrounding it and a gate, had spread out around the hut, but these were not the usual wooden fences and gates. They were white, bone white, for indeed, they were made from human bones—long leg bones for the fence posts, topped with skulls, shorter arm bones for the crossbars. The gate was locked with a set of jaw-bones, sharp teeth still intact. As soon as the hut sat down, an eerie light shone out from the eye sockets of the skulls, illuminating the entire place. Three horses, the white and black they had seen, along with a red one—not chestnut, not bay, but true red, as red as Zhara's plumage—stood grazing on the lawn, under the shade of a great linden tree, quite unfazed by the ghoulish barricade.

"Ho! Ye, my solid locks, unlock! Thou, my stout gate, open!" Baba Yaga shouted. The locks sprang open with a horrible clicking sound, and the gate swung wide on hinges made from the bones of human feet.

The moment the gate opened, the horse with the golden mane, Voskhod, trotted through and joined his family on the other side. They all welcomed him, happily snorting and rubbing their noses into his mane.

"Those are my Night, Day, and Sun," Baba Yaga said proudly. "Sun is Voskhod's mother."

The humans were much more hesitant to enter. Paul followed the others as Baba Yaga led them inside, afraid he was going to find more gruesome things. To his great relief, it was a perfectly normal izba with its warm stove and simple, sturdy furniture. A mouth-watering smell of fresh baked bread was coming from the stove, and the travelers, their fear and suspicion overcome by the exhaustion of the last two days, sat down at the table to join the most fearsome witch of all the lands in a nice, cozy supper.

But the most extraordinary thing about the house on chicken legs was still to come.

After supper, Baba Yaga barked, "Well, where are we going, girl? Where is your brother?" In a halting voice, Zhara told her about Buyan Island. The old witch nodded solemnly and hit the ceiling with her broomstick a few times, mumbling something under her breath. There was a slight movement, and they felt the floor rise beneath them as the hut unfolded its legs again. This done, Baba Yaga climbed up on the stove to sleep, apparently satisfied, leaving the others to exchange puzzled looks. Then Paul glanced out the window, and his jaw dropped. Following his gaze, the others rushed to the window, and they, too, widened their eyes at the sight.

The landscape was rushing by, as it had when they were on Voskhod's back. The forest was a dark smudge, while the stars were shards of light glancing off of the skull-and-bone fence. However, the lawn with the horses on it and the fence around it remained stationary, and the hut didn't seem to be moving at all, giving the impression that the world was traveling past them instead of the other way around—and perhaps that was exactly what was happening. After a while, Paul felt rather queasy looking at it, so he turned away.

The hut traveled for most of the night, only stopping to rest at dawn, when the horses left to herald the day. They galloped out of Baba Yaga's pasture in reverse order—first Night, then Day, and finally Sun, leaving only Voskhod behind. The skull's eyes went out, and sunlight poured over the lawn like honey. Paul stood by the window, transfixed by it all. Zhara, now in her avian form, hopped about on the windowsill next to him, and he stroked her head and her wings almost absently.

"I can't thank you enough for allowing me to witness such magic," he said, and she gave a little chirp, sounding pleased.

And so it went with the house on chicken legs. It traveled through the land, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, but always moving forward. Paul, Elena, and Ilya worked around the house, and Zhara helped when she could. Paul, who had never had to lift his hand, not even to tie his own cravat, now had to get used to all sorts of manual labor—cooking, washing up, sweeping the floor, cleaning the yard, chopping firewood—but he dared not complain, not when he saw the two princesses and the knight working at these menial tasks as though it was the most natural thing for them to do. None of them ventured outside the bone fence. Baba Yaga was the only one that went out. Most mornings, she left in her mortar, though they knew not where and dared not ask. She left the larder and the cellar well stocked, and Ilya, who turned out to be the best cook of them all, made sure to have supper on the table by the time she returned.

Despite this peaceful routine, life inside the house on chicken legs was not exactly happy. For one thing, Elena remained sorrowful over Dobrynya and would sit for hours in the yard or in front of the fire, staring at nothing. One night, when it was their turn to clean up after supper, Paul whispered to Zhara that he didn't understand why Elena could grieve so much for someone she had only known for a few days.

"You once told me yourself, we cannot decide who we fall in love with," Zhara said with a shrug. "The heart wants what it wants."

Does your heart want me? Paul wanted to ask, but he bit his tongue and held his peace. It was not the time to speak of matters of the heart. Zhara always seemed distracted these days. Paul supposed that the closer they got to her brother, the more tangible the battle ahead became to her, and she could think of nothing else. He wouldn't have worried, except that she ate little and slept even less. As a bird, she would flit about the house or jump from branch to branch on the linden tree in the yard, never staying still, and at night, she would stand by the window looking out. Sometimes, waking on his cot in the corner of the room in the middle of the night, he would see her at the window, gripping the frame white-knuckled, as though by doing so she could make the hut travel faster. His attempts to persuade her to save her strength hadn't been successful, and he could only pray that they reached Buyan soon and face Illarion once and for all.

The only one who remained busy and cheerful was Ilya. He spent his days sharpening his sword, oiling his mace, and fixing and recounting his arrows, trying to see if he could make them last. He had even started to teach Paul how to use the spear, and Paul gained much more sympathy for his soldiers, who'd had to suffer through his drilling exercises.

Some days, Baba Yaga stayed home or returned earlier than usual, and she would watch their work with that same inscrutable glint in her eyes. One night, seeing Elena take off the poultice on Paul's wound, which was completely healed by now, the old witch said, "You have a talent, girl."

Elena blushed. "Thank you. Ever since I was a child, I've always had an interest in healing plants and herbs, and it just comes natural to me..."

"I'd say." Baba Yaga scratched her warty chin, looking thoughtfully at Elena. "How would you like to stay with me and learn more of the art? I could use a helper around the house too."

"Oh, that would be a great honor!" Elena said, her face brightening up for the first time in days. "Thank you, grandmother!"

Another day, after watching Ilya count his arrows again and again, Baba Yaga grunted and went digging in her trunk. She came up with a quiver, which she tossed to Ilya. "Put your arrows in that," she said, "and you shall never run out."

Ilya tested it, and indeed, any arrow he loosed from his bow would return to the quiver a moment later. "I've heard about this!" he said in amazement. "It belongs to Svyatogor the Giant—or used to, anyway. How did it come to be in your possession?"

"I won it, a long, long time ago," Baba Yaga said, her eyes darkening with some distant memory.

Something in her voice, in the way she looked at the quiver, lit a spark of suspicion in Paul's mind. He remembered how adamantly she had refused to help them, and how, in all the days they stayed in her house, they had never seen her perform any feat of magic other than controlling the hut—and even then, the hut seemed to have a mind of its own.

He followed the witch outside, where she sat polishing her mortar and pestle under the linden.

"You don't have any powers, do you?" he asked. "Not any that counts." He was surprised at his own brazenness, but if Zhara was placing her trust in the wrong person, he felt he ought to find out and warn her.

"You're sharp, aren't you?" the witch said without looking up. "So tell me, Russian boy, how do you know which power counts and which doesn't?" When Paul couldn't answer, she gave a little chuckle but didn't seem angry or offended. "Make no mistake, I may not have as much power as I used to, but I still have it."

"What do you mean, 'not as much as you used to'?"

She finally lifted those unfathomable eyes to his face. Harsh lines scarred her features. "You boys, always think of powers that control and destroy. I used to have those as well, until they were taken from me... by my brother."

"Your brother?"

"Koschei."

Paul's mouth dropped open.

"Koschei is—was your brother?"

"Yes, why do you keep repeating everything I said, boy?" She sounded irritated, rather like one of his old nurses or tutors when he kept pestering them with his questions about his father's fate or his mother's coup. "He took my powers from me in his quest for immortality. And look where that led him. Bested by a child. Pathetic."

Her reveal left Paul speechless.

"But—" he stammered, once he regained his train of thoughts, "if Koschei took those powers from you, and Illarion took those powers from Koschei, why do you refuse to help us defeat him? With Illarion gone, you can reclaim your powers!"

"And what would I want with them?" She shrugged. "I have the power to drive my mortar whenever I want to go. I have the power to protect my house and those in it. Don't they count?"

Paul thought about it. "Are they enough?" he asked.

Baba Yaga shook her head, her dark, dark eyes looking at Paul with something almost like pity. "If you think of power that way, nothing will ever be enough, boy." She went inside, leaving Paul to mull over those words.

Chapter 12

There will be a bit of smut in the next chapter. It's non-explicit, as usual with me, but I thought I'd give a heads-up anyway!

Taglist: @ali-r3n

#prince paul #tsarevich paul #catherine the great #prince paul fic #prince paul x ofc #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic

[wickedlittlecritta]

Tsar and the witch please, give!

the Tsar and the Witch is a weird little fairy tale inspired by Russian folklore about a dead kid and Baba Yaga's daughter going on a quest to get his death back. it was originally going to be a sweeping political drama based on 18th century russia but i got lost in the woods and decided i didn't actually care about any of that

“Where are we going, anyway?” Vasily asked, when Zhenya stopped for the night and decided to make camp. “Tired already?” Zhenya asked, setting up a circle of stones for a campfire while the three borzoi lounged around her. “I’m dead,” Vasily reminded her, but he did feel deeply exhausted. “I just want to know where we’re going. I didn’t realize that was a crime.” Zhenya sighed and removed a map of Lukomorye from her pack. It was much larger and more detailed than the one Vasily’s mother hand given him, and included the slash of mountain lake where they’d found the dragon and he’d been separated from Pyotr and Alexander. She pointed to a spot in the forests a little northwest of the lake. “We’re here abouts,” she said. “And we’re going here.” She traced a line further north, all the way to the coast, and then beyond, to an island some distance off the northern shore of Lukomorye. “You’re kidding,” Vasily said. Zhenya smirked at him. “You sure you aren’t tired, Majesty?” she said. Vasily was saved from having to answer by the hounds. They rose as one, looking into the forest, teeth bared in silent snarl. Zhenya grabbed her musket and began loading it with smooth, practiced movements. But it was still a one-shot musket. “Stay out of the way,” Zhenya hissed at him, and raised her musket. The hounds slipped into the woods, vanishing among the shadows. Vasily didn’t argue. He put his back to a big pine and loaded his pistols. For a long moment, the woods was silent. And then something roared, and the hounds howled.

It might have been a bear, once. Vasily mostly got an impression of bulk and fur and teeth. Zhenya fired, and then swore, as the matchlock gun failed to go off. She stepped back, adjusting it, and Vasily took a step forward. He wasn’t as good a shot as Alexander (or Zhenya, he suspected), but at least his flintlock pistols were more reliable than the matchlock musket, and he fired his first pistol before Zhenya had the musket ready. The shot struck the thing that was once a bear in the face, though if it did more than anger it, Vasily couldn’t tell. “Thanks,” Zhenya said, as he stepped behind her. This time the matchlock went off, and the not-bear roared and fell heavily to its forepaws, the hounds darting in and out. Zhenya took a step back to reload, and Vasily took his second shot. “What is that thing?” he asked. “It used to be a human,” Zhenya said, and Vasily started. It was too hard to see details of the creature—it was too dark, and moving too much—but the thought made him feel a little ill. Zhenya whispered something so softly that Vasily couldn’t make out the words, and a chill ran down his spine. The thing that might have once been a human, or a bear, toppled at her shot. Zhenya passed the musket to Vasily and drew her sword. It made only the softest sound when her blade pierced its heart. They stood in silence for a long moment, with the wind whistling lonesomely around them. “Sometimes, if a man is particularly cruel,” Zhenya said, quietly, like she was loath to break the silence, “the old gods punish him by turning him into a bear, or something like it.” “Should we bury it?” Vasily said. He didn’t know how they could, but it felt right. Zhenya nodded and sheathed her sword. Then she looked at him and smiled. “You’re not bad, in a pinch.” Vasily smiled back.

#ask game #the tsar and the witch #vasily the deathless

[zapolinien]

Symbolism in Kingdom's music videos. Issue #9

This time let's talk about the element that is present in all Kingdom clips.

The tree is the highest natural symbol of dynamic growth, seasonal dying and regeneration. In various cultures, many trees are considered sacred or magical. Reverence for the magical power of trees is based on primitive beliefs that gods and spirits live in them. The symbolism of animate trees has been preserved in European folklore in the images of a human tree or a green man. In fairy tales, trees can both protect and fulfill desires, as well as create obstacles and become frightening and even demonic creatures.

The tree is a symbol of development. Its branches, embodying diversity, depart from the common trunk, which is a symbol of unity. The tree is also a symbol of the universe. A green, blooming tree is a symbol of life, a dead, withered tree is a symbol of death.

The symbolism of a tree changes depending on whether leaves are breaking through on its branches, whether it has turned green, leaves have begun to fall, or the tree is completely devoid of leaves. An old, gnarled tree can symbolize wisdom and strength.

Aspen symbolizes fear, as its leaves seem to tremble, oak — a symbol of strength, slender willow — flexibility and sadness, pine can embody spiritual clarity and purification, palm — a symbol of warmth and freedom, etc. The roots of the tree, going deep into the ground, indicate our earthly life, while the branches rising to heaven, symbolize our higher self.

With the development of mythology, the idea of a mighty tree, which forms the central axis of the flow of divine energy connecting the supernatural and natural worlds, was embodied in the symbolic image of the Tree of Life (it is also called the Cosmic Tree or the World Tree). Its roots are immersed in the waters of the afterlife, and, passing through the earth, it reaches heaven.

This symbol is found in almost all peoples. The Tree of Life often became a metaphorical image of the creation of the world. In many traditions, it grows on a sacred mountain or in paradise. A source of spiritual energy can flow out from under its roots. The snake wrapped around its trunk represents the spiraling energy coming from the earth, or serves as a symbol of destruction. Birds' nests in the tree crown are symbols of souls and heavenly messengers. With the help of the Tree of Life, humanity rises to spiritual enlightenment, salvation or liberation from the circle of being. Medieval images of Christ crucified on a tree, not on a cross, are related to this symbolism, which is more ancient than the Christian one. Deuteronomy says that the fate of a cursed person is to be hanged from a tree. Thus, the crucifixion on a tree reinforces the symbolism of salvation through the crucifixion of Christ, who took upon himself all the sins of the world. This image unites the biblical Tree of Knowledge with the Tree of Life.

In many traditions, stars, lights, globes or fruits are depicted on the Tree of Life, symbolizing planets or cycles of the Sun and Moon. The lunar symbolism of trees is also common: the moon attracts water just as the juices rise up the tree.

According to Slavic mythology, the World Tree — the Axis of the World — stands on the outskirts of the Universe (near Lukomorye), its top rests against the heavens, and the roots reach the underworld. Gods descend and ascend along this tree, and it is possible to penetrate into other worlds. In "The Word about Igor's regiment" it is said about the legendary singer Boyana, who travels through the Tree, turning into a mouse (she is a squirrel, corresponds to the earthly world), into an eagle (corresponds to heaven) and a wolf (hell). In East Slavic ornaments, the World Tree is depicted conditionally: the crown is not yet in full bloom, the branches in the middle of the trunk, two roots and between them the grain from which the tree grew.

In shamanic beliefs, the World Tree is the path of shamans and their cradle. Legends speak of nests on the branches of this tree, where the souls of shamans are brought up. In a traditional dwelling, an obligatory element was a pole (in nomadic cultures) or a pillar (among sedentary peoples), which also symbolized the Axis of the Universe.

Among the ancient Scandinavians, the World Tree is the sacred ash tree Yggdrasil. It embraces the whole world with its roots and crown, the sky, clouds and stars are held on it. He has three roots: one stretched to heaven, the other to the middle (earthly) world, and the third to the underworld, under each of the roots there is a wonderful spring. There is a temple near this Tree, where the Norns, the goddesses of fate, live. The cosmic serpent Nidhegg lives at the base of the tree, a wise eagle sits on top of the tree, and a prophetic squirrel runs along the trunk.

The Egyptians believed that the Axis of the Earth looks like a giant golden tree, the top of which rests against the sky. Precious stones grow on its branches and the heavenly goddess Chickpeas lives. In Egyptian iconography, a tree sprouted from a Cosmic Egg represents Brahma, who creates the material world.

In the myths of Ancient India, the ashwattha tree (the sacred fig tree "pippal") grows in the center of the universe.

The ancient Chinese imagined the World Tree far to the east, in the Valley of Light. From the seething sea, according to their legend, a colossal, all-encompassing mulberry rises up. A rooster sits at its very top, ten suns inhabit the mulberry branches, having the appearance of golden three-legged ravens. They lit up the earth in turn, but one day they all came out together and would have burned the earth if it hadn't been for the great hero who struck down nine ravens-suns and left only one.

The fruit of the Tree of Life can also symbolize immortality. In China, for example, it is a peach. Many other fruit—bearing trees are represented as the Tree of Life: sycamore — in Egypt, almond — in Iran, olive, palm or pomegranate - in other countries of Central Asia and in the Semitic tradition. This cosmic symbolism apparently comes from more primitive cults in which trees were the embodiment of the fertility of Mother Earth. For this reason, despite their phallic verticality, trees carry feminine symbolism. Thus, in Egyptian iconography, the sacred figure was identified with the goddess Hathor, who was depicted as a tree giving food and water.

The fertility spells of Mother Earth were usually associated with deciduous trees. Their leafless, bare winter branches and spring, blooming ones are a suitable symbol of the seasonal cycles of death and rebirth. The exception is the worship of Attis in Asia Minor and later in the Greco—Roman world. The tree-emblem of Attis is a pine, the main symbol of immortality. The death of Attis (from castration) and the rebirth were celebrated by tearing off needles from a pine tree and wrapping it with wool. Probably, from here comes the tradition of decorating the maypole — the ritual of the spell of abundance.

Dualism in tree symbolism is usually represented by twin trees or a tree with a split trunk.

In the Middle East, the dualistic symbolism of the tree prevails — the Tree of Life grows next to the Tree of Death. This is the biblical Tree of the Knowledge of Good and evil, the forbidden fruit from which, tasted by Eve in the garden of Eden, brought the curse of mortality to mankind.

The Kabbalistic Tree. It's an inverted tree. Its roots are fortified in the spiritual world, and the crown touches the earth. The inverted Cosmic Tree, whose roots feed on the spiritual energy of the sky and spread it to the outside world and down, is a favorite image in Kabbalistics and other mystical and magical teachings. It symbolizes the power of the spirit and testifies that human life is the descent of the spirit into the body and back. It is also a symbol of philosophical growth, growth inwards.

In the Bhagavatgita, an inverted tree means the origin of everything from a single root.

Dante depicts the scheme of the celestial spheres as the foliage of a tree whose roots creep upwards, forming the possessions of Uranus.

In Islam, an inverted tree is a symbol of happiness and good luck.

The inverted tree is often used in genealogical schemes.

The Buddha tree. This is the name of the sacred fig tree (Bodhisattva tree), under which Gautama Buddha meditated until he achieved enlightenment. It is a Buddhist symbol of contemplation, learning and spiritual perfection.

In Taoism, the jojoba tree is a symbol of pure life, and its fruits, according to ancient legends, give immortality. It is believed that this tree grows in the Islamic paradise, being a symbol of the furthest limits of time and space. Folk beliefs attribute its prickly appendages a protective force.

#kingdom kpop #kingdom #kpop #arthur #chiwoo #ivan #dann #hwon #mujin #jahan #louis #symbolism

[justsweethoney]

#russian folklore #collectible #russian postcard #soviet postcard #russian Art #Art Palekh #witch #Baba Yaga #Pushkin tale #LUKOMORYE #Bagatyr #eBay #russian princess #ancient oak #gold chain #scientist cat

[dianakhoang]

Coming up with a title

I felt a bit tired of drawing (as we also have HTD Sketchbook), so I thought that I could do other things for this project. I decided to think about a cool title for my project to put on the cover. What is more, I am going to print just a linear strip holding all the books (like in the reference of the murder rooms) to make my book cheaper in production. I really like the title of Natasha Dzhola’s book - Lukomorye. It is simple and reflects the idea. I started to search for other Old Slavic words which could suit my concept and a collocation describing my project in several words as a subtitle:

• Russian, Folk, Fairy-tale

• Contemporary, modern, industrial

• Pop up, Folding

• Kuli-muli / Кули-мули (something unintelligible, obscure / непонятно что), Iriy / Ирий (a warm wonderful place somewhere near sea)

• Archaisms / Архаизмы (outdated names of objects and concepts that are still exist in modern life, but for one reason or another received a different name), Istorisms / историзмы (are the names of objects that eventually disappeared forever from life, for example, caftan, cocked hat, spindle)

• За тридевять земель / Distant lands, Град / Town, Царство / Kingdom

• Изба / Izba, Izbushka (a traditional Slavic countryside house)

I came up with IZBA just recently and this title seems very logical to me, I choose this word. I have pages in the shape of rooms, I wanted to draw doors on the cover of each, so why I cannot name it Izba and draw a house as a package for the set.

[bruev]

"В темнице там царевна тужит, А бурый волк ей верно служит" Скульптурная инсталляция "Царевна в темнице" по мотивам сказки Пушкина "Руслан и Людмила", Парк "Лукоморье", совхоз имени Ленина / The Sculpture of a princess in the dungeon, based on Pushkin's fairy tale poem Ruslan and Ludmila. Lukomorye Park, State farm named after Lenin, Russia 🇷🇺 / #лукоморье #пушкин #искусство " A grieving princess in a cell, And faithful wolf serves her well" В детстве нам читают и рассказывают сказки, и сказочный мир нам кажется волшебным и прекрасным! Потом мы взрослеем, и в наших головах появляется множество разных и неудобных ��опросов. А почему у Пушкина в поэме "Руслан и Людмила" волк бурого, а не серого цвета? А как звали ту самую царевну в темнице? Быть может Софья Алексеевна или Мария Фёдоровна, или Анна Энгельгардт? А может быть лицейский приятель, Владимир Вольховский по прозвищу Волк, был тем сказочным героем, который верно служил своей принцессе? Что известно нам об истории любви? - мы не знаем правильных ответов. Но со временем мы начинаем осознавать, что между строками поэта находится огромный-огромный мир, в котором легко запутаться и заблудиться. Более того, он настолько огромный, что в нем можно найти самого себя. Занавес открывается, жизнь продолжается, любая сказка обязательно сбывается... Самое сложное в этом громадное мире межстрочья не найти тех, кто нам нужен, а сохранить себя и сохранить своих настоящих героев, которые давно и верно служат своей принцессе, своему принцу, своей королеве или королю (ненужное вычеркнуть), который/которая/которые живут в сердце любого человека, если оно есть, если оно ещё бьётся, если оно живое... #мысливслух (at Детский Парк Лукоморье) https://www.instagram.com/p/CKJ5IylA7yV/?igshid=1jlsiq06r2vpz

#лукоморье #пушкин #искусство #мысливслух

[kagtavi]

I’m in the middle of a contest which my art school is holding. 

We make 1 concept per 1 week using poem by Alexander Pushkin  ‘ Lukomorye’

On seashore far a green oak towers, And to it with a gold chain bound, A learned cat whiles away the hours By walking slowly round and round. To right he walks, and sings a ditty; To left he walks, and tells a tale... A strange place! There a mermaid sits in A tree; there prowls a sprite; on trails Unknown to man move beasts unseen by His eyes; there stands on chicken feet, Without a door or e'en a window, A tiny hut, a hag's retreat. Both wood and valley there are teeming With wondrous things... When dawn comes, gleaming Waves o'er the sands and grasses creep, And from the clear and shining water Step thirty goodly knights escorted By their old tutor, of the deep An ancient dweller... There a dreaded Tsar by a prince is captive ta'en; There, as all watch, for cloud banks headed, Across the sea and o'er the plain, A mage a warrior bears. There, weeping, A young princess sits in a cell, And Grey Wolf serves her very well. There, in a mortar, onward sweeping All of itself, beneath the skies The wicked Baba-Yaga flies; There Tsar Koshchei o'er his hoard withers... A smell of Russ! Of Russ all breathes there!... There once was I, and the learned cat, As near him 'neath the oak I sat And drank of sweet mead at my leisure, Told me full many a tale... With pleasure These tales of his do I recall And here and now will share with all...

(this is the only translation I found and it’s not even close as good as original)

And i decided to make a series of fairy-tail characters in modern Russia. Desperate and familiar for those who live in this paradoxical  country.

an Oak . In Russia you can find some sort of... art. Its called “zkh (municipal servises) art” you can google it. looks like modern art... almost.

a wise cat. In Russian the other meaning for “cat” is “pimp’.

a mermaid. I live in Saint-Petersburg and there is lot’s of advertisement offering prostitutes. It’s illegal but still there is lots of it. Usually it’s just a name with a phone number. But sometimes instead of a name it’s written “Mermaids 24 hours XXX-XX-XXX”.

there prowls a sprite. In the original it’s leshy. In russian the shortened version for the name “Aleksei” is “Lesha” and it’s common to call “Lesha” - “Leshy”. And it’s usual for gopniks to change ‘Aleksei’ that way.

A tiny hut. Another popular object in russian fairy-tails. And instead of Baba Yaga, who usually lives in that hut, I drew an old lady who sells apples. It’s a pretty common sight to see old people selling their stuff (usually food) near the subway. Like this. 

Sorry for my English and I’ll return with the other characters from this poem.

#su_lukomorie #my art

[slimlastforskolins]

They’re Building A Pushkin Theme Park In St. Petersburg – ArtsJournal

They’re Building A Pushkin Theme Park In St. Petersburg – ArtsJournal

WORDS Posted: January 21, 20207:31 am

“Dutch design company Jora Vision will use Pushkin’s works as inspiration for the 17,000-square-meter Lukomorye park, named after the mythical Slavic land in which Pushkin’s fairy tales take place. … The amusement park will consist of three zones — a palace, a city and a harbor — each based on imaginary places in Pushkin’s stories. The park will also…

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[mauzeart]

Perun and Dodola. I think they look good together. Their relationship is such that with her he's a lovely bunny and with others he's a fierce beast. Hmm. Love them))

#folk tales #slavic mythology #slavic #artist on tumblr #character design #digital art #comics #tales of lukomorye #character concept #slavic folklore #love story #lovestories #love #relationship #perun #dodola #graphic novel

[mauzeart]

Hey there! I've updated and simplified Devana's design a bit. Otherwise drawing her would be excruciating in a comic…

#folk tales #slavic mythology #slavic #artist on tumblr #character design #digital art #comics #tales of lukomorye #character concept #slavic folklore #graphic novel #devana #goddess #goddess of hunting

[mauzeart]

Well, what can I say. I like this character. Meet Yarila's father, the god Veles. I read about him a lot of information and concluded that he is a very cool dude... even too cool hah.

He doesn't get along with Perun for the main reason that Dodola didn't choose him. Such gods passions.

He also reminds me of Hades for some reason, hmm.

By the way, he's blind, kind of sees everything with his inner eye…you know, all that magic stuff :D

#tales of lukomorye #folk tales #slavic mythology #artist on tumblr #slavic #character design #digital art #comics #character concept #slavic folklore #veles #gods #slavic gods #graphic novel

[mauzeart]

Hiiii. Spoiler for the next god. Stealer of girls' hearts hehe

#folk tales #slavic mythology #slavic #artist on tumblr #character design #digital art #comics #tales of lukomorye #character concept #slavic folklore #sketch #slavic gods #slavic culture #original character #ukrainian culture

[mauzeart]

Hiii guys. Today I can show you Dodola - the goddess of rain and light thunderstorms, warm showers and fertility. She is one of the most beautiful and kind goddesses of Iriy (the place where the light gods live). It is very difficult to anger her, but if this happens, then be careful. She is Perun's wife, the mother of Devana and Yarilo (I haven’t drawn him yet).

I didn't think about giving her any important role in the story, but after I drew her I started thinking… Because she turned out so cute and cool wah haha

#folk tales #slavic mythology #slavic #artist on tumblr #character design #digital art #comics #tales of lukomorye #character concept #slavic folklore #dodola #goddess #slavic goddess

[mauzeart]

Hi guys. I came with a new type of character design sheet. The god Perun is the god of thunder and lightning, as well as the patron of armies. He is the father of the stubborn goddess Devana.

I read in the description of his appearance that he had silver hair and a golden beard. I liked that very much.

Also I'm still thinking about how to write him into the story.

Thanks for subscribing, guys ♥

#slavic mythology #tales of lukomorye #folk tales #slavic #artist on tumblr #character design #digital art #comics #slavic folklore #slavic gods #perun #god of thunder #graphic novel #character concept

[mauzeart]

Hi guys. I've updated the blog design a little. This is my new avatar. The work is slowly progressing. Have a nice day, everyone :D

#folk tales #slavic mythology #slavic #artist on tumblr #comics #tales of lukomorye #logo