kaichi--ku - Kaïchi
Kaïchi

a little stupid artist

116 posts

Latest Posts by kaichi--ku - Page 3

1 month ago
Bambicent Is Not Real. She Cannot Hurt You-👁️👁️
Bambicent Is Not Real. She Cannot Hurt You-👁️👁️
Bambicent Is Not Real. She Cannot Hurt You-👁️👁️
Bambicent Is Not Real. She Cannot Hurt You-👁️👁️
Bambicent Is Not Real. She Cannot Hurt You-👁️👁️
Bambicent Is Not Real. She Cannot Hurt You-👁️👁️
Bambicent Is Not Real. She Cannot Hurt You-👁️👁️
Bambicent Is Not Real. She Cannot Hurt You-👁️👁️
Bambicent Is Not Real. She Cannot Hurt You-👁️👁️

bambicent is not real. she cannot hurt you-👁️👁️

Bambicent Is Not Real. She Cannot Hurt You-👁️👁️

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1 month ago
Tedesco Babygurl

Tedesco babygurl

“The Patriarch of Venice”

Prints


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1 month ago
Another Kili Drawing???? YES

Another Kili drawing???? YES


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1 month ago

this may not be the focus of my blog, but today i rewatched the lord of the rings trilogy for the zillionth time, and reaffirmed just how much i love aragorn

This May Not Be The Focus Of My Blog, But Today I Rewatched The Lord Of The Rings Trilogy For The Zillionth
This May Not Be The Focus Of My Blog, But Today I Rewatched The Lord Of The Rings Trilogy For The Zillionth

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1 month ago
Cunty Cardinal Movie Poster

cunty cardinal movie poster


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1 month ago
Orange Pain

orange pain

Orange Pain

closeup 😗


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1 month ago
Galadriel's White Cape In 4k
Galadriel's White Cape In 4k
Galadriel's White Cape In 4k
Galadriel's White Cape In 4k

Galadriel's white cape in 4k


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1 month ago
Ewan Mitchell And Phia Saban, House Of The Dragon Season 2 Paris Photocall, 6 June 2024.

ewan mitchell and phia saban, house of the dragon season 2 paris photocall, 6 june 2024.


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1 month ago
I Colored It 👍 Yay

I colored it 👍 yay


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1 month ago
kaichi--ku - Kaïchi

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cat
1 month ago
And In The Darkness, Bind Them.

And in the darkness, bind them.


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1 month ago
kaichi--ku - Kaïchi

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1 month ago
Aemond Sketches
Aemond Sketches
Aemond Sketches
Aemond Sketches
Aemond Sketches

Aemond Sketches


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1 month ago

the aura in this photo is still yet to be beaten

The Aura In This Photo Is Still Yet To Be Beaten

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1 month ago
EWAN MITCHELL + Smiling — Billy Taylor In The Halcyon (Part 1)
EWAN MITCHELL + Smiling — Billy Taylor In The Halcyon (Part 1)
EWAN MITCHELL + Smiling — Billy Taylor In The Halcyon (Part 1)
EWAN MITCHELL + Smiling — Billy Taylor In The Halcyon (Part 1)
EWAN MITCHELL + Smiling — Billy Taylor In The Halcyon (Part 1)
EWAN MITCHELL + Smiling — Billy Taylor In The Halcyon (Part 1)
EWAN MITCHELL + Smiling — Billy Taylor In The Halcyon (Part 1)
EWAN MITCHELL + Smiling — Billy Taylor In The Halcyon (Part 1)

EWAN MITCHELL + smiling — Billy Taylor in The Halcyon (Part 1)


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1 month ago
Thranduil, The King Of Mirkwood Forest.

Thranduil, the King of Mirkwood forest.


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1 month ago
Grrm With Stark Pack

grrm with stark pack


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1 month ago
George R.R. Martin Holds The First New Dire Wolf Born In 10,000 Years.

George R.R. Martin holds the first new dire wolf born in 10,000 years.

source: x


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1 month ago
kaichi--ku - Kaïchi

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1 month ago

I Don’t Wanna Be Friends

(he made this pretty clear by the end of the season)


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1 month ago
God’s Unique Creations

God’s unique creations


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1 month ago
Ewan Mitchell As Aemond Targaryen In House Of The Dragon
Ewan Mitchell As Aemond Targaryen In House Of The Dragon
Ewan Mitchell As Aemond Targaryen In House Of The Dragon
Ewan Mitchell As Aemond Targaryen In House Of The Dragon

Ewan Mitchell as Aemond Targaryen in House of the Dragon


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1 month ago

Elessar oh Elessar

Elessar Oh Elessar

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1 month ago
Mairon

mairon


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1 month ago
Сказки Средиземья | Tales Of Middle Earth
Сказки Средиземья | Tales Of Middle Earth
Сказки Средиземья | Tales Of Middle Earth
Сказки Средиземья | Tales Of Middle Earth

Сказки Средиземья | Tales of Middle Earth

English text below

Из сна, в котором можно было забыться навеки

Он падал.

Горло саднило от крика, но воздуха не было. Только жар.

Жар и свет.

Под ним — пылающая бездна, над ним — небо и обугленные края кратера, исчезающие далеко вверху.

Он не знал, кто он. Он знал только одно:

Он должен был схватить кольцо. Оно было его. Его прелесть. Его всё.

Руки судорожно тянулись, но пальцы уже были пусты. Огонь выл. Плоть горела ещё до касания лавы.

И страх, такой жуткий страх, что даже сердце пыталось убежать вперёд, в пятки, в крик, в пустоту.

Глаза раскрыты. Широко. Слишком широко. Глаза…

Не глаза чудовища — глаза мальчика.

Он резко сел, всхлипнул и застонал, ослепленный светом и собственными слезами.

Он был в постели.

Он был… хоббит.

Мальчик. Просто мальчик. Маленький, с кудрями, с носом картошкой, с ночной рубашкой сбившейся на бок. Он дрожал, будто лихорадка прошла сквозь него. Грудь ходила ходуном. Щёки были мокрыми.

— Ах ты мой сладкий, — прошептал голос, мягкий и теплый, как одеяло. — Что с тобой, маленький?

Бабуля.

Она уже была рядом. Уже ворковала и гладила его волосы, обнимала, прижимала к себе, целовала в макушку. От неё пахло мёдом, мукой, корицей и сушёными яблоками. Она села на край кровати и покачивала его, как младенца, хотя он был уже большой. А он не сопротивлялся. Он прятался у неё в руках, как в спасении от огня, что ещё дымился где-то на краю памяти.

— Я… я… — пытался выдохнуть он, но слова были тяжёлыми, как угли. — Я упал…

— Всё уже позади, — шептала бабушка. — Всё уже хорошо. Это был только сон.

Из кухни донёсся голос — весёлый и звонкий, как звон фарфора:

— Смеагооол! Иди кушанькать рыбочку! Горячая, вкусненькая! И я сделал тебе кольцо, хе-хе! Из хлеба!

Он всхлипнул — но уже от смеха. Того самого, хоббитского, который идёт от самого живота.

Он вытер щёки, ещё раз уткнулся в бабушку, а потом спрыгнул с кровати босыми ногами на ковёр. Вон там, за дверью, кухня. Рыба. Друг. Жизнь.

Прошли годы.

Смеагол вырос — и стал тем, кого звали теперь Смеагол Писатель. Его дом у берега был полон бумаг, банок с чернилами и рассказов. Он хранил тот страшный сон, записанный рукой дрожащей, но твёрдой. Он расплёл его в слова, добавил детали, вдохнул в них жизнь и глубину.

Так и появилась та история, что потом передавалась из норы в нору, читалась хоббитятами у камина, и взрослые притихали, когда доходили до слов: «Моя прелесть».

Но они знали: это всего лишь сон. А Смеагол жил долго и счастливо. И ни в каком Роковом Кольце он никогда не нуждался.

From a Dream One Could Be Lost In Forever

He was falling.

His throat ached from screaming, but there was no air. Only heat.

Heat and light.

Beneath him — a blazing abyss. Above — the sky and the blackened rim of the crater, vanishing into the heights.

He didn’t know who he was. He knew only one thing:

He had to seize the ring. It was his. His precious. His everything.

His hands reached out in panic, but his fingers were already empty. The fire howled. Flesh burned before even touching the lava.

And the fear — such dreadful fear — that even his heart tried to flee ahead, into his heels, into a scream, into the void.

Eyes wide open. Too wide. Eyes…

Not the eyes of a monster — the eyes of a child.

He sat up with a gasp, sobbing and moaning, blinded by the light and his own tears.

He was in bed.

He was… a hobbit.

A boy. Just a boy. Small, curly-haired, button-nosed, his nightshirt twisted around him. He was shaking, as if fever had just passed through him. His chest rose and fell in jagged breaths. His cheeks were wet.

“My sweet one,” came a voice, warm and soft as a quilt. “What’s the matter, little one?”

Granny.

She was already there. Already cooing, already stroking his hair, wrapping her arms around him, kissing the top of his head. She smelled of honey, flour, cinnamon, and dried apples. She sat on the edge of the bed and rocked him like a baby, even though he was already big. And he didn’t resist. He hid in her arms as if they were a shelter from the fire still smoldering somewhere at the edge of memory.

“I… I…” he tried to breathe the words, but they were heavy, like coals. “I fell…”

“It’s all behind you now,” whispered Grandmother. “Everything’s all right. It was only a dream.”

From the kitchen came a voice — cheerful and ringing, like porcelain clinking:

“Smeagooool! Come eat your fishy-fish! It’s hot and tasty! I even made you a ring — hee-hee! Out of bread!”

He sniffled — but now from laughter. That hobbit laughter that bubbles up straight from the belly.

He wiped his cheeks, pressed into his grandmother once more, then jumped barefoot onto the rug.

Out there, beyond the door, was the kitchen.

Fish. A friend. Life.

Years passed.

Smeagol grew up — and became known as Smeagol the Writer. His house by the river was filled with papers, inkpots, and stories. He had kept that terrifying dream, written first with a trembling hand, but then spun into words, layered with detail, and breathed into with life and depth.

And so was born that tale — the one passed from burrow to burrow, read by hobbit children near the hearth, and grown-ups would fall silent when the line came: “My precious.”

But they all knew — it was only a dream.

And Smeagol lived long and happily.

And he never once needed a Ring of Power.


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1 month ago
Certainty Is The Great Enemy Of Unity 🐢

Certainty is the great enemy of unity 🐢


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