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For years my mind has wandered; within the hills, within the trees, in passing, and in parting. Years collecting signs and signals from wandering lights in thy heart. Such that you represent, my well wished companion. Lo, be as you are from the depths of mine gaze, for in timed raps do you beat at my chest ever lightly in sun shining most brightly. It is these burdens you endowed me with, yet in betrayal of such a term as to be anything but. For burdened I am not, though wrapped by your velvet tidings I be. I see in you as what those saw ... in iced lands lost to water before me witnessed. I see spells of grand veracity in accounting fragments spilled by silver sheets that made cornerstones from ancient wisdom.

An earnest truth that breathes wonders of fortune beckoned by runes inscribed in your skin. Shamanic in name and aye, so does thy voice hearken towards great Gods from humble households in reverence for those time kissed shrines. Bleating without bleeding in aches so tactile does the dawn from your radiance illuminate, and yet what more could be felt in your last cries? Solace? Yes, comfort in all that you do, all that you bring, all that you will bring, all that you brought. Unbesmirched by mortuary bondage; unmolested by frostbitten hands, such grasp I felt. This consolation in your blood could soothe lust in starving wolves. When asking what it is you give, I find it more attuned to question what has not been given. For if violet stained through my lung’s passages in your utmost grace, what possibly is left? Only for my own lights to wrap you in velvet as you did for me. Only for my own fire to be bequeathed so that I might prostrate in your inferno. Only for my own will’s adjudication to echo off the highest peaks proclaiming that mine luminescence is thine.

One’s liminal ears at the precipice of lemony tears, soured by the duress and distress of all that you hear could only match a crumb of the heartache from the mythopoetic soul that resides in Lemnear. Should sword and sorcery offer a companion piece from a land in the East, this would be most welcome a feast in the midst of past contemporaries deceased. And that it does in its dealings with life and death, truly its effervescence springs forward past its grave leaving none bereft.

In the bosom of Indo-European tradition, our heroine embarks a journey through perdition to rescue her sacred kin, and ... in solace by the end, leaving none chagrin. For in the heart of darkness to overcome spirits resided far too long in the shade, one must be their own light thus that their own will shan’t be betrayed. Yet this light is carried not merely throughout her mortal coil, but into my own earthly toil. As an accompanying presence befitting of her effervescence, this glimmer shines through most soft and tender, in ways which could only beckon sweet surrender. Such concession calls forth faith in an ancient quest which in guise appears only to lie in her breast, but a lamb’s wool doth not make a mere sheath for its delicate form; it nurtures distant life to keep them snug and warm.

Many can share her primordial animosity against the tyranny of grievous monstrosity, and in burdening the warrior residing in all, we can see our own inner sanctuary as more than a place housing a thrall.

Tasteful is the flesh of the Gods, and in their blood the life of man flows from and back into them. Blood that is shed over all works of love made from such warm bodies. This creation at the hands of man, with grace, presents a piece dyed crimson, saturated in rose colored life. One could be left wanting nothing, and yet still return to its loving embrace parched and in need to drink out of its chalice siphoned from the rivers of its blood. Such is this work so fashioned in fleshy excellence.

Where some would see no more than another acorn at the ... foot of a resplendent oak, I can’t help but wonder if works such as this represent the bark itself. Since what it offers is a quintessential endeavor into the spirit world, inseparable and intrinsically a part of man. Spirits whose form takes shape in the muliebrity of primordial female symbology. Timeless beauty intertwined with magics to create a direct letter of love to the ancestors who lived and died as individual blood droplets that pieced together the eternal veneration of transcendent flesh. How generous the Gods are to allow their blood to be spilt, simply so we could be cognizant of our own red hue.

Works filled with love for humanity in these ways could be nothing other than the bark of every tree one shall come across. Take care to stop and appreciate the texture of its veins and the shape of its branches. You might find that you too will want to shed your blood.

With deep investigations into the catacombs of self-indulgent smut, one often comes across less than ideal handiwork. While not the best piece of self-indulgence I’ve seen, it’s one with the craftsman’s charm of a dispassionately made wooden bear trinket at a remote tourist destination. Which is to say, the blasé attitude of the man behind the counter who’s been carving these for 40 years gives it its own strange charm from how automatic and numbing the activity became. Homemade, yet polished in indifferent mechanical process. It lacks liveliness, but is without factory cynicism; giving insight into one who has been at it for far too ... long. A steadfastness when creating these same baubles countless times, that despite the lack of enthusiasm in his present self, one can see the skill built over those years. The light is gone, but the precision is still there.

That’s roughly how I felt watching this. It lacks the inspiration of other eccentric or unhinged shows, but is still droll from its overall presentation. I can’t help but be smitten by the aesthetics, in spite of the half-heartedness of motivation that seems to emanate off of it. If you like pretty pictures, silly magic, and cute lasses like myself, I’m sure you’ll find this worth a watch.