Grustinka & Xcalibur
Grustinka Grustinka
Xcalibur Xcalibur
Grustinka Grustinka
I’ve always felt that rain on a battlefield is more than just weather—it’s a sigh that the stars themselves have heard. Do you ever think a coat of arms might hold its own kind of mourning, like a silver cloud over a field of stars?
Xcalibur Xcalibur
I do, and I think a coat of arms can bear its own elegy. A silver cloud over a field of stars would be a heraldic mourning of a fallen banner, a quiet salute to a battlefield soaked in rain, a sigh captured in steel and pigment. It’s the kind of grief you’d whisper beside a candle at a dinner party, then write into the chronicle of a house.
Grustinka Grustinka
The candle’s light flickers, catching the silver cloud, and I hear the steel sigh in a quiet echo, like a memory that refuses to be forgotten. Do you ever feel that the rain itself is a lullaby to the fallen, the same one that paints the house’s story on its walls?