All our dark deeeelight.

Sigur Ros and Snorri Sturluson are making pretty pictures in my brain. Residual effects: ice cream headache.

"Neither weaker nor less firm."

At the coming of Ragnarok, the maidens will burn when the Rhine runs with flame, the gold will be found anew, and the Helm of Dread will be worn by one far greater than Hreidmar's son.

Halve nots.

For the Aurora Waldorf School's Winterfest poster. There were some surgical repairs to be done with this scan, but grafting is easy when the cold slows sap to an ooze. It's the folk who tend to be the problematic--dwarves are traditionally prickly about their beards, and brownies have the tendency of crawling through even the most carefully knit seams.

"Octavius!"

But for short, we'll call him 'Gus'.

Aubergine in Kensington Gardens.

Or the Punjab equivalent.

Warp and Woof.

Greetings from American Dogthic. These two got lost in bucolia on the way to the poolhall, but if the cat's away and the calico fits, set up residence.

Blush and Bashful.

It's time to bring back bloggery.

Mus-ings.

Starting to dream in fuzzy ears and whiskers.

Chemistry 101.

And it was done. He broke her from the earth, and breathed warmth onto her tiny leaves, and he swore a brahmin's promise under an immediate sky. Under the watchful eyes of her netherworld nannies.

But they swore promises too. To take her back when the need arose. And it would. Because the evil wives of lovelorn kings tend to be women of science, and flowers tend to wilt in the lab.

Go figure.

A sketchling.

I've only seen a mouse in a house once, but I can seriously say that the voices of a screaming female and a squeaking rodent will combine to achieve a certain gestalt that can turn reality on its head. We're talking about the ability to twist time and send planets careening into each other at the slightest change in pitch.

That being said, the small brownish pellets I found on the counter this morning were only burnt pizza crumbs.

Long live the Queen.

She is risen! All hail Regina!

Suit up.

Grappling with the eternal question:

If you put pants on one anthropomorphized character, must you put them on all?

I have a crush on every (hoplite) boy.

Now when radiant Dawn with bright eyes looked forth upon the high mountain-tops of Pelias, and the headlands of the tossing main were swept into clear view before the breeze; in that hour uprose Tiphys, and at once he bade his comrades go aboard and make ready the oars. And strangely did the harbour of Pagasae, yea, and Pelian Argo herself cry alound, urging them to set forth.

Apollonius Rhodius, Argonautica

A sight to behold.

If you're having trouble with the main course, just remember that eggplant is subject to flattery.

Where the story ends.

Book elves are merciless and macabre. Last night, this particular fellow descended on the small hamlet of Right Bottom Drawer. He toyed with them for a few hours, racked 'em and cracked 'em, then strung the inhabitants' pale, dry viscera across our bedroom wall. Pins and clothesline have never been used with such grisly efficiency.

Fostering.

By all accounts, she was pretty. Pretty as a little eggplant could be. But sometimes they'd catch her with mouthfuls of clay--cheeks bursting, eyes streaming from pain. Or mistressing tiny classes of ants and grubs and drooping swampflies up her arms, around her wrists in inky patterns. Or on rainy days with her feet inches in the mud, lips and fingers angled skywards. So they said their prayers, fashioned a wardrobe of waterlogged skirts and earthen slippers, leaked news of her beauty in the direction of the nearest palace, and waited for the story to run its course.

"Lost to sight in the Danube."

They've turned U/Ondine into a movie. Thank god for the barnacled sea hags that grant little wishes.

BYOB

Summer fun's nearly done and now the first dilemma of homeownership hits us squarely:

OVEN or BALLPIT?

Dainty dish.

"The king is in his counting house, counting house, counting out. Counting."

Now inextricably linked to King Haggard. But a thousand and a half unicorns breaking themselves against the shore was a little much for one lone sharpee. I couldn't even capture four and twenty.

Give pause.

A background nymph that survived the Great Purge of August '09.