• Summoning

    If you wish to summon Lorian (the writer), you must collect few peculiar items.


    – few pine needles gathered in the darkest part of the woods.

    – a wolf claw (not stolen from actual wolf, you must search for one the wolf shed, or Lorian will bite through your aorta in righteous rage).

    – an old animal bones gathered at midnight.

    – a hellebore.

    – a piece of burned paper with a poem by you, written with coal.


    Chant something… delicious.


    When you summon me, you can get:

    – an advise where is the best to pick mushrooms.

    – an information what lays beneath that old tree that looks like lovers (it may be surprising for you).

    – I will read your stories. Comment them thoroughly. Give feedback.

    – a flock of raven feathers.

    – an actual raven (you must free it into the wild after you admire its beauty).

    – fragrance closed in tiny corked fairy bottle: scent of darkness, mist and moonlight.


    After you summon me, you will have to give me your name, though. This may be disturbing for you, when you realize what have you done…

    … but so good for me…

  • Surprise, surprise

    I found two books, published recently. About fae. In one, fae are vile and cruel and bloodthirsty and kill family of main character. In other, the fae prince has black eyes. I was basically shocked. But the cool thing about these two books is that these are only similarities.

    I read review of one (first) of these books. I dare say that I write better one. Yes, I can huff with relief. The author(ess) definitely wouldn’t recognise a fae, if she saw one.

    “You are stunning. Your beauty could be mistaken for fae beauty.”
    “What?” I giggled unconsciously and my eyebrows rose almost to the forehead. I considered asking him why he was trying to do magic influence and alleviate my fears. But he spoke up first, interrupting my investigations.
    “Can I taste you?” he asked a question that made warning signs appeared in my brain, but still I needed him close to me to do my thing.
    “I don’t know if we should,” I said, twitching with my fingers in my skirts.”

    Well, my fears were… alleviated. I am numbed with sadative.
    Though I still suffer.
    [ sorry for this, I was so down for half a day, that my ideas were in two other books. but seemingly, I don’t need to be. end of fairytale ]
    I of course won’t bring titles. I am not (that) cruel.

  • No Gods

    we are surrounded by delicious gleam
    sipping from the stars, allowing them under our skin
    letting them melt our spines into the liquid fire
    I promised you moon, enchanted into your veins
    I promised you night, exploding in your mind with splinters of passion
    lighting up your ardour with licks of carnivorous flames
    we are kindlings for eternity
    bathing in a violent darkness [ our bride ]
    we are cruel like fate and bright like a day
    no masters or gods to obey
  • Through Your Eyes

    I won’t mourn your demise

    I’ll celebrate your life

    Shall walk the earth and see

    Through your eyes

    There will be times you know

    When I will feel so low

    I’ll watch the stars

    And you’ll be there I know

    – Myrath “Through Your Eyes”


    Rest in peace, my friend. I will see you in the woods of the otherlife, running with with the wolves, a gleaming soul among the wild stars.

  • Rings

    I just encourage you to love mushrooms. To step inside the ring. Better, sleeping in it make you enjoy your life much more.

    Risk? They told you you shouldn’t? It’s a blessing of the woods to pass the border. And enjoy. Much.

    Come, step inside.


    We are hungry.

  • Do Not

    Block me on socials, if you find my stuff too dark. Just block and move on.

    But. I am a writer. I write fiction. I put tons of warnings on my stuff. I do not condone my characters’ behavior in real life, nor I suppot cruel, nasty and manipulative people.

    And that said, I do not welcome “fixing me” in any way. Do not like? Do not read. I find it harshly rude to come at me, saying what I do is wrong.

    There is always safe space for you. I find my safe space among dark and cruel descriptions.

  • Mothlike

    mothlike; transparent soul
    trapped between the night and day
    sunk in the crevice connecting life and death
    pale gossamer; blood unfurling on her skin
    with crimson wings and dripping feathers
    fallen bride – dancing in the last beams of the dying star
    ashes and cinders; between her fingers – a decomposing earth

    mothlike; night butterfly without a hear
    a nest of many birds beats in its place
    poking with beaks on the pellucid surface
    glass-like, an open window – visible flesh, inviting, like an autumn
    vermillion and copper; red-tinted, sweet
    sweeter than berries
    delicious like the soul of the twilight

  • Pumpkin

    Let me carve you, sweet autumn child, paint the bleeding smile on your face; beam with blicklight my fall prey, as I flame you up.

    I am your dreadful terror, you are my delicious samhain treat.

    [ and the pumpkin is laid on my window, to scare the kids. because kids never saw pumpkin carved so deeply ]

    It all must sink in, after all.

    [ I am so silly. bwah bwah ]

  • Come…

    Better to be take the danger in and suffer than to never feel thrill in one’s life.

    Come mortal soul, bathe in delicious gleam…


    [ all hallows approaches, with autumnal vermillion and muffled screams ]

  • Birch Tree

    he stood near the tree. touched it’s coarse bark, which seemed to breathe under his fingers. it’s hollows looked like eyes, with darkness hidden deep within – a memory of another life, where it still had limbs and lungs and blood. now it breathed through leaves; bled with resin.

    the curse still flew through its roots, boiling inside its branches. the wind still carried her name from the valley to the forest and from the forest to the birch groves, where it grew, bathed in sun in summer, covered with snow during winter.

    when it slept, its dreams spread and the people in the villages nearby couldn’t fathom the mystery of a crying woman, scattering flowers on the hill.

    he always was coming during solstices. even if he couldn’t show his face to humans, even if this would bring them misfortune and madness. mask covering it, a fox mask of black colors, blending with the night.

    and even if he could have all what the world could offer. he couldn’t have her.

    we are not unlike each other, inge. you wait until I lose my hope. I wait until you lose yours.