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“Fear and bigotry don’t need explaining. They simply are, like traffic jams and taxes.”
― Eileen Wilks, Death Magic

“When you slice the truth too thin, you deceive.”
― Eileen Wilks

“Cînd lupii
îmi pătrund
în creier
ninsoarea sîngerează.”
― Nicoleta Popa, Autorul este plecat în weekend

“După cum bine È™tiÈ›i, Sire, suntem cu toÈ›ii oameni încercaÈ›i, botezaÈ›i cu foc È™i plumb. ÃŽnsă trebuie să vă mărturisesc: ne este frică. Ne este frică de umbrele miÈ™cătoare ce tremură în colÈ›ul ochiului È™i care dispar în momentul în care întoarcem capul spre ele. Ne este frică de foÈ™netele din noapte ce se sting atunci când sărim din coÈ™maruri tulburătoare cu armele în mâini, urlând spre Beznă.
Fiara ne pândeÈ™te - din umbră, din ceață - cu colÈ›ii ascuÈ›iÈ›i lucind albi printre negurile ce ne înconjoară tăcute. Uneori, se arată. La mare distanță, È™i numai pentru o clipă. Ne priveÈ™te de departe cu ochi de foc, adulmecându-ne spaimele, oboseala, neliniÈ™tea, apoi dispare, topindu-se în întunecimile dese. Mă întreb dacă este, într-adevăr, ceea ce căutăm, sau doar un joc de lumini, o imagine incertă născocită de minÈ›ile noastre cele atât de tulburate...”
― Catalina Fometici, Câinii diavolului

“Advice is like shit. Don't pass it around and don't take someone else's." -Cynna”
― Eileen Wilks, Night Season

“We stood upon a hill, green and studded with pale stones. Below us was forest, bluebells undulating among the trees, a tide of purple dissolving into shadow. There was a lake-- no, two lakes, the second a mere line of glitter in the distance. At our back, behind the nexus and extending to the northern horizon, were mountains of indigo and layered shadow, some darkened to black by the moody sky overhead, some greyed and smudged by shafts of sunlight.
Must I even say it? It was beautiful--- of course it was. The forest in particular, which glinted here and there with silver as the wind rode the branches, as if someone had clambered into the canopy to hang baubles. And yet I had the sense that I was not seeing the entirety of it, that the shadows were thicker here, more obscuring, than those in the mortal realm, and many of the details were clouded by a dreamlike haze. Even now, as I write these words--- I am still in Wendell's kingdom!--- I find the memory of that view trying to slip from my mind like a bird darting through the boughs, so that I catch only the flickering edge of it. Perhaps there is some enchantment embedded in the place, or perhaps it is simply too much for my mortal eyes to take in.
Where the Trees Have Eyes.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde’s Map of the Otherlands

“Un indian cherokee îşi învăța nepotul despre o bătălie care se dă în fiecare om. El i-a spus tânărului: „Bătălia se dă între doi lupi. Unul este leneÅŸ, laÅŸ, înfumurat, arogant ÅŸi plin de autocompătimire, tristeÈ›e, regret, invidie ÅŸi mânie. Celălalt lup este harnic, curajos, smerit, binevoitor ÅŸi plin de compasiune, bucurie, empatie ÅŸi credință.â€� Apoi s-a făcut tăcere.
Nepotul s-a gândit puțin la lupi, iar apoi şi-a întrebat bunicul: „Care dintre cei doi lupi învinge?�
Bătrânul indian cherokee a răspuns: „Cel pe care îl hrăneÅŸti.”
― Joyce Meyer, Healing the Soul of a Woman: How to Overcome Your Emotional Wounds

“For now, to keep myself sane, let me focus instead on the bluebells carpeting the forest floor; the misty sunlight that broke through the clouds, blurring the edges of things and turning the world to watercolors. The occasional glint of silver from the treetops. These are indeed baubles--- I climbed up into one of the oaks to check--- but larger than the ones mortals place on Yuletide trees, globes of delicate silver, hollow and light as eggshells. Something about them put me in mind of faerie stones, and I hastily released the bauble to drift back into the trees, among which it hovered like a puff of mist, disdaining the notion of gravity.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde’s Map of the Otherlands

“If this is a shortcut," I said, "then we will be bypassing a great deal of Where the Trees Have Eyes."
"Hum!" Snowbell said. "I suppose so. The Weeping Mines, for one--- terrible waterfalls where the high ones harvest their silver. The Gap of Wick, which a nasty boggart has claimed for his own. Also the darkest part of the forest, the lands of the hag-headed deer, which they call the Poetry. And many other perils besides."
He said it in his usual bragging tones, assuming that I would be nothing but grateful. And I was, I suppose, but another part of me wept at the thought of finding my way to the Silva Lupi, a place of scholarly legend, so magnificently fascinating and terrible, and then hurrying through like a busy shopper at a market.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde’s Map of the Otherlands

“Wendell pushed the door open.
Light.
It was full morning, and my vision flooded with color. Primarily green, but there was also the yellow of moss and lichened stone, the violet of bluebells clustered at the edge of the forest, the gold of sunbeams, and the rich azure of the sky. The door opened onto a hill in a small clearing, beyond which a wall of trees nodded their boughs in the wind, as if in greeting. The air was wet from a recent rain and heavy with the smell of green and growing things--- all as I remembered.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales

“The resulting garment was black, of course. But it was like no fabric I'd ever seen before, liquid and faintly glimmering. He had ordered each of his guardians to donate several of their feathers, and these he had woven into the material. They were not visible exactly, except as a suggestion of wings when the cloak caught the wind. It was a garment that needed no adornment, for it was like something snipped out of a dream, and he gave it none, apart from the row of buttons. I would have expected him to pick the finest of those I had gathered, but instead he chose a selection that would represent all the regions of his realm: silver from the Weeping Mines and the lower tributary of the Tromlu River; carved oak from the antlers of one of the hag-headed deer; colored marble from the Blue Hooks. The effect was more impressive than if he had adorned himself in jewels, for together the buttons possessed an enchantment that made strange images flit through my mind when I looked upon them, memories of places I'd never seen. A shadowy grove around a narrow standing stone; a flash of mist-shrouded water tumbling down a sheer cliff.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales