A Sacrificial Boar In Tír Na NÓg Does Not Want To Be Sacrificed For Christmas

A sketch of a nearby barrow. There is a children’s graveyard associated with it (the small stones you see); since stillborn or unbaptized children could not be buried on hallowed ground, in a proper cemetery, people in Ireland in 18-19 centuries buried their stillborn and unbaptized babies themselves. Such improvised unofficial graveyards were normally located in church ruins, on ring forts or on barrows, that is, in spaces that were vernacularly considered sacred / liminal.

This one has a very peaceful vibe in life. I like to think that whoever lies there looks after these children ‘entrusted’ to them.

Today’s digital coloring practice. This OC of mine is in fact a sentient walking bog body of a sacrificed Irish king, only here he’s in a lifelike glamour (I’ll do the bog body look next, I promise!)

Also he’s got himself a tee saying ‘LAWFUL EVIL’, isn’t he a fashionista!

The Wren Prince III - The Druid's Crannog

Near Mannin Castle, Co. Galway

I just discovered your blog and trying to refrain from spamming your notifs, but you literally have one of the most beautiful artsyles I’ve ever seen and I needed you to know that, I love your bold inkwork <3

Thank you so very much!!! I really really needed to hear that! <3

Beltane is coming

You might think that this is Maedhros, but this is not Maedhros. This is my OC, Prince Adhnár mac Earnáin of Síd Earnáin (yes, old king Cole Earnán is not exactly famous for his vivid imagination).

Truth be told, this is no Prince Adhnár either, this is Princess Áine. But since her life is hell atm, she is closeted even from herself for the time being (that won’t last forever, I promise).

First page of my new sketchbook aka the Ivy King in his natural environment.

Have you ever walked the lonesome hills and heard the curlews cry? Or seen the raven black as night upon a windswept sky? To walk the purple heather and hear the westwind cry To know that's where the rapparee must die... (The Pogues - Young Ned of the Hill)

A commission of Brigid for @bloodtreachery (awww, it was SUCH a pleasure to do it!). I put an emphasis on her aspect as a poet, hence the fire of poetry ablaze! The poem in the flames is a liberal translation of these lines from The Hosting of the Sidhe into Old Irish (courtesy of my wonderful husband):

...if any gaze on our rushing band, We come between him and the deed of his hand, We come between him and the hope of his heart.