The Oracle

The Oracle

It’s there, just budding over the horizon, stealing the southern sky. Ares lends his fiery hands to the creation of the occult. Cronos plays his cold eye over the form of Skorpios’s pincers, watching, waiting, to see if the scorpion will strike.

Its heart brightens, myth and hymn of Antares. The notes mingle into form, and she can feel the mix of auric flow, a cosmic shift in the subtle ripples of being. A vibrational change along the strands of the Web.

Her staff thumps in time to the earth; primal drums beckoning her pilgrimage. She calls to spirit, bird, and bone, waking ancient blood within the veins of time.

She burns in fire beneath the silken planes of her flesh. Seething flame licking nerves and spinal distraction. A cold determined glare fixes its stained facade over passionate soul, and she tips her head back, opening her throat in otherworldly incantation. Her vision is twenty-twenty, here among the Others.

The sting of the Scorpion reminds her that she is still living among the Earth. She comes back down, she lowers her calculating gaze toward the blood of Stone.

Emotions roil and rage under the surface, Ares’s charge to battle. But the fire within is covered in dirt, cold soil of the fatherly control of a Titan.

Still she sees and understands, that to smother the flames of this aggression is to meet cold death. Control is necessary at times, but the rising sign of the Scorpion to the south, the god of her name day, they cannot be ignored.

Cronos will convert passion to reason, intuition to logic. And where will she be led to then? When magic is nonsense and the Earth is dying? Who will fight then, if not her?

She thumps her staff in rhythm to the drums once again, calling on her darkened senses. She hears tell of a coming of rage and grief and acceptance. A bloodline not entirely lost, but never found.

She will journey into Hades, a crow for comfort, the bones for company. She will journey until she finds that which she seeks, and ever after be the wiser for knowing it.

-Líadan Rán



[Featured image courtesy of]

The Wooing of Emer

The Wooing of Emer

The myths of the Ulster Cycles and other legends and folklore that flow out of Ireland have been of interest to me for quite some time. After reading Cuchulain of Muirthemne: The Story of the Men of the Red Branch of Ulster by Lady Gregory, I became immersed and fascinated by the story that builds between Emer and Cuchulain. Evidently, he spurned her, betrayed her with another, and she spits fire at him in return.

Anyhow, this poem was a vision of sorts from what Emer herself may have felt upon meeting and interacting with the golden man himself.

The Wooing of Emer

The strain of my heart against his ribs
The heated blood that rises within me
He hath possess me, body and soul
Do I dare to utter the words to him? He who is golden and wild and ever-wandering
Seeking the Hero’s Victory
Foolhardy, indeed! You, whom I love
Leave me behind to pine? I think not,
I will surely protest in outrage of mistaking me for a meek and mild fawn,
A shy creature, poised and soft and compliant
O, not I! I am of a fire: rare and beautiful and deadly to behold!
For I will forsake you just as you forsake me
As surely you will be burned if you seek this thing,
This prize, this championship too bold to behold
And in your Victory, your blood shall be shed,
Upon the Stone of the Old Ones
You will perish, Dear One, and I refuse to bare the pain
So leave me now, and find your Warrior’s honorable death,
You who resemble the Sun, fiery in your lust to conquer
I will be no conquest of yours, and I shall stand fast with a Spell
To protect my heart



Read more about the legend and myth of Cuchulain and Emer on Wikipedia.

[Photo: Cú Chulainn Rebuked by Emer by H.R. Millar, 1905]

A Chance Meeting

A Chance Meeting

The feel of the world that surrounds me is ever oppressive in its summer heat… the slow drowning of sticky, humid air. I can still feel what’s left of the pleasantness in the slow, soft breeze–balmy, lingering within the leaves as they’re rustled by its whisper.

I think of poetry, of prose, of a narrative told in an ancient tongue. I don’t quite know the story, but the visceral feel of emotions and the scant pictures painted within my mind are ever present, needing in some way to release themselves.

There are stories I have, stories to tell. I watch and observe all I see around me and I am not without modes of inspiration. I come upon magic in all there is in the world, some vehement and sour, while other experiences promise hope, joy, and love.

A chance meeting is something a writer can always hope for; with a pleasant stranger discussing the weather, with an animal along a wooded trail, and with the Spirits in the land. Inspiration is divine, and divinity is all around us. Learn to see from within, and watch the secret places of the earth.

Keep a look out for these chance meetings because even the smallest bit of knowledge can be gained, giving the proper inspiration for a story to unfold.

Bone in Black & White

Bone in Black & White


I gave the skull to my friend the other day. Of course it was imperfect for me, but she assured me she absolutely loved it. I have to admit, even though it was a little too shaky, parts crooked, it came out relatively well. These shots were taken as soon as the paint was dry. The next day I coated it in lacquer… just to be sure it would survive a while longer.