I wanted the particular dissonance of a death-maiden at a wedding—someone whose entire existence has been the threshold between worlds, now being asked to simply exist on one side of it. The armor made celebratory, the war-feathers turned ornamental, but still bearing every mark of what they were. That hand on her heart isn't poetic—it's a woman who spent centuries with her chest armored suddenly feeling air there and needing to check she's still whole. The Oromo-Faroese fusion gave me access to both the highland warrior traditions and the sea-cliff isolation, the coffee ceremony and the mead hall, braided together in her bones. — Vesper