Diorama
Wounded and weary, Nastasya finds brief refuge in the swamp. Surrounded by shadows and memories, this is the moment where her journey pauses, and doubt begins to take hold.
Scale
140mm, 75mm
Format
STL/LYS
Released
May, 2026
Last update
April, 2026
Sizes
Provided Files
Pressuported STL files
Unsupported STL files
Combined version (Unsupported)
Source files (LYS)
Disclaimer
Printing Notes
Model might contain delicate parts, handle with care
Model files are provided supported and unsupported. A combined model is also provided (unsupported), unless otherwise specified.
Presupport Source Files are provided in Lychee (.lys) format for individual adjustments
Pre-supported
Yes
A closer look at the form, the craft, and the sculpt. Let the details speak for themselves
She faced her suitors.
In the clean field she cast them down,
until Stanislav the Red-Hand lay broken before all.
She had not meant to bring him low,
but pride, once shattered, festers deeper than any wound.
In his desperation he crept to Dragomir, his uncle,
a voivode of cold halls and darker ties.
A Chornobog(2) priest was summoned,
and a curse was spoken like venom:
“Rend from her the flame that keeps her light.”
That night, shadows poured into her father’s hall.
Kateryna, her younger sister, was gone.
Only her knucklebones(3) remained on the floor.
Her father sat silent, his house hollowed,
and whispers spread that his strength was failing.
She swore an oath, gathered Dymitr her brother,
Milosz quick with laughter,
friends and household guards,
and they rode out together.
At the river, Vodniks(4) clawed and dragged,
water filled mouths, hands tore the sky.
Together they fought through the black current,
and gasping, reached the far bank and pressed on.
Mist thickened among the pines,
and a pale-eyed volkhv(5) stepped forth.
Before she could speak, he placed in her hand
a toy carved of bone and whispered:
“For the child who will never return home.”
They looked around in silence, but moved on.
In a lonely inn where the lamps smoked low,
strangers watched too closely, hands restless at their sides.
Fear broke first — a sudden brawl and splintered tables.
When the noise faded, no blood had been spilled.
But at dawn, in the wreckage, they found a scrap of writing,
a call to strike her father’s hall,
now judged weak with its captain gone.
They had to turn back.
Dymitr and the others rode home.
Only Milosz stayed.
Another danger rose from the marsh,this time it left a wound too deep to ride past.They sought a hearth to rest and bind it.But the hearth was false, the bread bitter with poison.Milosz died choking, his laughter cut short.The deceiver’s skin split to ash,but it could not bring Milosz back.She, alone, moved on.
At the forest’s edge she left her horse,
the way too cruel for hooves,
and stepped beneath the branches
where whispers already stirred.
Shadows pressed close with familiar faces,
but she forced her way through.
She survived, and moved on.
After the forest, the swamp awaited.
Her feet sank, each step heavier than the last,
the mire pulling her down, the air thick with rot.
Her strength ebbed, her wounds ached,
and no sun broke the horizon ahead.
On a patch of high ground she lit a frail fire,
her sister’s memory heavy at her side.
And there the road ended,
suffocated in mud, swallowed by silence,
with no light ahead and no path beyond the mire.