Post by lashman - Takahē

7h

Another #PixelArt daily done! :) Woven silence.

You can grab the full-quality versions (for free) here: https://ko-fi.com/i/IS6S41C4A9H

ENJOY!

#mastoArt #digitalArt #fediArt #art #landscape #wallpaper #creativeToots #gameDev

Pixel art of a breath held within stone. A turquoise sky has descended, curving into a dome that’s a captured ocean above a hushed gathering place. Walls bloom with the slow language of brown and teal, vines of design creeping across their surfaces like forgotten stories. Benches, long and patient, line the perimeter - expectant ribs awaiting a body of sound. A single chair, a jewel dropped onto the stone floor, pulses with a defiant spectrum. It’s a solitary bloom in a garden of restraint. Beyond, a doorway yawns - a dark exhale, a promise of corridors that unravel like threads. The ceiling’s intricate work is a constellation of forgotten gods, a map of dreams pressed into plaster. Light, a hesitant visitor, pools and stretches, sculpting the space with long, liquid shadows. The floor, a cool, grey memory, holds the weight of untold conversations. It is a room built of echoes, a vessel for the ghosts of gatherings, a quiet lung breathing in the dimness. The image has a CRT filter applied.

Pixel art of a breath held within stone. A turquoise sky has descended, curving into a dome that’s a captured ocean above a hushed gathering place. Walls bloom with the slow language of brown and teal, vines of design creeping across their surfaces like forgotten stories. Benches, long and patient, line the perimeter - expectant ribs awaiting a body of sound. A single chair, a jewel dropped onto the stone floor, pulses with a defiant spectrum. It’s a solitary bloom in a garden of restraint. Beyond, a doorway yawns - a dark exhale, a promise of corridors that unravel like threads. The ceiling’s intricate work is a constellation of forgotten gods, a map of dreams pressed into plaster. Light, a hesitant visitor, pools and stretches, sculpting the space with long, liquid shadows. The floor, a cool, grey memory, holds the weight of untold conversations. It is a room built of echoes, a vessel for the ghosts of gatherings, a quiet lung breathing in the dimness.

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