L'Oracolo Cornuto della Foresta Velata 隱密森林の角神諭 ベールに覆われた森の角を持つ神託

In the forgotten margins between worlds—where the last breath of twilight clings to the roots of ancient trees—there lived a figure known only as the Oracle of Horns.

No one knew his true name. Some whispered he had once been a man, a scholar from a distant city of marble and ink. Others believed he had been born of the forest itself, shaped from bark, bone, and breath. But all agreed on one thing: to look upon him was to feel time bend.

He wore a crown of spiraled horns, vast and ancient, as though carved from the skeleton of some primordial beast. Feathers, thorns, and relics of forgotten rites adorned it, each piece humming faintly with memory. His garments were tattered, stitched with threads of moss and fur, carrying the scent of rain and old earth. And his eyes—dark, searching, eternal—held the weight of stories yet to be told.

Travelers who lost their way in the Veiled Forest would sometimes find him.

Or perhaps, he found them.

They would stumble into a clearing swallowed by mist, where silence was so deep it seemed to listen. And there he stood—motionless, one hand pressed to his chest, the other to his temple, as if tuning himself to a distant frequency.

“You have come,” he would say, though no path led there.

Those who sought answers would ask questions—of love, of death, of destiny. But the Oracle never answered directly. Instead, he would step closer, his presence heavy like a storm about to break, and whisper:

“Truth is not given. It is remembered.”

Then he would show them visions.

A woman searching for her lost child would see not the child, but a flame flickering in a storm—and understand she must become the shelter, not the seeker.

A man obsessed with power would see himself crowned… alone, surrounded by ash—and realize what he had yet to lose.

A grieving soul would see their loved one not in death, but in transformation—rooted, blooming, eternal.

And always, when the vision faded, the Oracle would touch his temple once more, as if sealing the moment into the fabric of time.

“Go,” he would say softly. “You already know the way.”

No one who met him ever returned unchanged.

Some left with clarity, their burdens lifted.

Others fled in terror, unable to bear what they had seen.

A few… never left at all.

It is said that the forest keeps those who listen too deeply.

And on certain nights, when the moon hangs low and silver, if you wander far enough into the woods, you may hear a whisper in the fog—a voice that is not quite human, not quite wind.

And if you follow it…

You may find him waiting.

Hand on his chest.

Hand on his temple.

Listening for you.

The Venice Carnevale is not solely about masks. Local Italians and an increasing number of foreign costumers now prefer historical costumes or painted faces. During Carnevale, the whole Venice becomes a real life theatrical stage, and many of these historical costumes carry deep perspectives...

The original portraits were done on the busy streets of Venice during the Venice Carnevale, and as always, using only natural lighting. I then added a painted scene and converted it to monochrome so that it looks like it's a page out of an old fairy tale.