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Saturday, December 19, 2009

Goddesses All


(for Maggie)

Am I forsaken—forsaken by myself?
Lists long of what would be gleaned from life
sparkled for so many years—within in reach.
Tasted it…smelled it—but could never quite touch it.
It loomed about the corner of my mind’s eye,
white and towering as a mansion.
Tapestries and pedestals, portraits and perfume—
Gold glinted from every ornament my heart desired.
Is it all erased, that opulent dream?
Did I wash it from my consciousness,
as I sat in the bath listening to God?
‘Can you accept a ripped seam, worn shoe, a bit of tarnish?’
I washed the floor tonight on my knees,
ate dust and breathed the fumes.
‘I am happy.’
Each swipe of the cloth brings purpose.
Such tasks once seemed so heavy, but now I am light.
I am Light.
Knees hurt, back aches—this life is not easy.
There are no silken sheets or velvet chairs.
But there is plenty of water—
and some food, and well wishes, and my floors are clean.

Weeds and Bones

(for Braden)

Touch the light and fan so bright
a beauty that cannot fade.
Like roses in autumn, you bloom anew
never fearing the frost.
How could you? The flame is your keeper—
more passionate than a lover.
Your kiss is indelible,
a mark upon my brow as a blessing from a goddess.
Gentle woman. Kind woman. Real woman.
You dress your house in nature—weeds and bones—
door opened to the unwanted and dying.
From your mouth springs earth—your eyes the rain.
With wattle and daub you weave what’s left of soil and sinew-
magic baskets for catching broken hearts…
wherein you hold them—safely—to let them heal.

Eidolon oh! Eidolon!

(for Kara)

She talks to clovers and whispers as an angel
“grow—grow!” steeped in heady revolution,
listening to a call few seldom hear.
She beats the drum--Boom! Boom! Boom!
Her heartbeat reverberates through the bones.
I felt it at first glance many years past— Even now
the moon, trees, and stars are her playthings—
She owns them naturally—revels in their conversation
of wondrous mirth!
Face to the heavens, she spins upon the night grass
Laughing, ‘Eidolon—oh! Eidolon!”

The Famine War

(with thanks to Jeannine and Christina)

Lara blue eyes walks the street-Tralee—like scarlet.
Do you hate him for not coming home?
Empty paint pots and no canvas, cold hearth
I see the stone floors of that space you-Laid out.
Frost coats them in the morning with
Green smears from wool heated by desperation.
How you hated them all— gold rings, and fine bonnets—
Tear through the Lass. I felt your horror—
Drunk and tumbling, in dirty sheets-
Stale tobacco—whiskey and beer lingers
On their breath-hot anticipation.
Was it you I felt all those nights? The loss, the lonliness—
That black void that will eat up every ounce of substance?
Irish Lass. He called you his ‘Real’ Irish lass.
Tall, dark—he played the violin while you mixed your paints
Ignoring the war—the lack, he only spoke of better times
Of what would be, of what was grand:
Long, dark red hair- Skin like milk
Everything is as it should be- a chailín mo chroí!
I knew an Irishman who said that to me.
I felt so passionately; I thought I would explode.
His first words to me touched my gut—my soul it shimmered.
Was I merely remembering you, Lara? Was it your son I bore?

Everything is as it should be. All will be well.
So he said when he left to fight.
So my Irishman said when he left to live.
Two winters past and the frozen dew returns
Paint the cross—although all hope of God died long ago.
Smooth whispers hot as hands urged your talent
But it was flattery to get ‘neath the skirt.
And there you lay on the dew-slick stones
As hunger gnawed beneath skin grown thin as paper.
Had it all come to this?
I’ve known lack all my life, Lara. I am no longer afraid of it.
It no longer has to be. Abundance is everywhere.
Open—open your blue eyes and see through mine—green.
The whole world is green and alive.
The war was over but he never came home.
Did you wonder that he had abandoned you?
To Dublin? In the arms of another?
It crossed your mind
For in the years apart had taught you much.
Men love conveniently—so casually.
I have never loved with my whole heart.
They say cannot until I see you through.
Let go Lara, blue eyes—let go. Surrender my love to me!
It was easier to believe—better somehow to think
That he might still be alive.
But spring came and the ice melted,
And with it Lara blue eyes frozen by fear ceased.
The great blue yawn—down to sleep forever in frost.
Well, not me, Lara. I’m not going down…
I walk through fear aflame.

Shining Bright

(for Sarah)

She praises the sun,
hands to the sky,
in motion—fluid and strong.
Lips move loud prayers,
and she blinks,
a period when the sounds dies.
End of the sentence.
‘What do you see in the sun?’ you ask.
A laugh thunders scattering the
wonder wavering behind her eyes.
like butterflies taking flight.
‘My reflection,’ she says.
You cannot help but look upward.
‘Don’t look too long,’ she smiles.
‘I shine very bright.’

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Since September...

Sacred Contract

did you know for months I called you
with music , repetition, from far off fields
blue at night… tell me o muse of travelers
far and wide… calling me home
to knock on a door that has been closed
for so long… by a fist to the face.
in years long past…spirit
hid inside something cold--
I cried when I called you
not imagining you’d hear… Forgetting
the soul knows no boundaries—like art
Timing inspired—
Divine. Passionate. God
wrote your name across my heart
at the beginning of all things when
we agreed to help each other--
You are of Me—Soul group—
we have a contract to fulfill
La mia famiglia! My family!
That voice…your face… I know it
too has met the fist…
Built the walls…
Knocked upon the door…
I answered you too.

king james

king james came riding in ona white horse
no wait
he afraid of hights
it was on a wave fast as light
kinda underneath-like.
watch-u want, boy?
slidin’ under my bedroom door
knock. knock. knock. knock.

slippery as a shadow
smelling like church
king james whispered in tones dulcet
and ancient—i paused
yeah baby, i heard that sermon before
heard it better
knock. knock. knock. knock.

don’t you know i got religion, boy?
hell yeah. oh he know.
but down here we ain’t got no
crosses, boy
ain’t interested in crucifixion
just bars and churches, bars and churches
hmm… maybe a magnolia or two
Wanna see?
knock. knock. knock. knock.

i want, says king james
soundin’ like a song
from the old, old days
gimme those hills and valleys
gotta kneel before the mother
put flame in her heart
lawd! how i remember that tune
you a right good gospel singer, honey!
knock. knock. knock. knock.

i love me some of that old religion
ginger and milk
leave it out on the step for the boo-hag, boy
neath the porch swing. she’ll be round to get it
in a minute
and ride you all across this land—up and down
up and down—shit yeah,
‘till you can’t see no more
even when the sun rises
knock. knock. knock. knock.

the horse’s hooves, hear em?
da hag ride at night
and she got a mean streak, that one
don’t listen to no king; ain’t got one, she says
no country, neither—just a room
where she keep the wrecked souls
They cryin’.
hear it?
knock. knock. knock. knock.


do I go there?
don’t know if I dare
down the halls of that old school.
smells like dust and vomit
no matter how hard you scrub
it ain’t comin’ clean.

just keeps spewing out
the mouths of children
like apples
stuffed full of ugliness.
there was no warning—

They can’t stand the light.
but it don’t stop comin’
Neither the light nor the
poisoned darts
through the glass--
the lookin’ glass.
it’s all i see now.

hear that mama?
skirts are flimsy shelter.
he’s been deaf since birth.
new baby’s cryin’,
hafta figure it out my ownself.
jus’ hide for now--
don’t let no shine through.
stay quiet.
Don’t breath!
cover your head and
black out the sky.
If you can’t see them,
they can’t see you--
or the starlight.

it’s dark under here.
no good air, either.
But jus’ sit awhile and listen
‘till they gone.

Dancing In the Spirit

The drums beat, and the color’s so bright,
you can’t understand the heat of this place
until you’ve slept under canopies of Spanish moss
in trees older than stone.

The gound’s alive—songs all night long—every night.
No pause—never—not even for January.
Ringing out through the limbs of a hundred Cathedrals are
whispers of Wappoo, Wando—the Kiawah.

They’re rattling the bones—chanting for the moon,
calling back to the Africans—“Angola! N’gullah!” and
breaking chains against the cobblestones in time to
a fiddler who sailed from the Barbados to
taste Carolina Gold.

Grains made the white man’s fortune.
Its rattling echoes down sleepy streets
raising the dead to stroll among the living.
There’s a rhythm, a dance of centuries… many souls
woven together like sweet grass—gold, black and brown.

We are still carrying the weight
in shared baskets—blending together,
as we walk through the stream—
pirates, ghosts and courtiers—all
still Dancing in the Spirit.

A New Country

There in naught in me
Nothing more to give.
Nothing to take.
No belief.
The still small voice urges me to go…
to release, detach—move across this groundless
place where Fear and Hope wear the masks of Theater.
They put on such a show; it’s hard to train the eyes away.
So I sit—watching.
Hope whispers promises; Fear screams threats.
But the lines never change.
It is a play with no beginning, no end—no meaning.
No point of reference.
I study in vain for familiar terrain, but there is only black sky
meeting endless desert lit with a million flaming trees—
each one a star-blazing eidolon.
The burning grounds—the heat of loneliness?
Hope and Fear dance—whispering—screaming, as I shoot
across the place of ‘sky in the land.’
I am nowhere, and there is nowhere more beautiful.
Faces in the light—so many have come and gone before.
Angels and Demons, drunk on illusion, dance about the boughs,
unaware of the line between black and white.
From nowhere the break is visible… the horizon between sky and desert.
The two meet perpetually, always in change—this never changes,
and I may alight there, and ignite…
a new tree, aflame in a New Country.

Thursday, August 27, 2009


Dana of Nin hates ignorance and violence. But she hates to lose even more. So when the arrogant Atalon magician, Liam the Drake, accuses her of being born to ‘low magic’ and forbids the practice of her healing arts, she cannot help but tell him to his face that she hates him more than anything…even if his looks are not appropriately evil.

Liam the Drake is a high-king, warlord, and master of the House of Drake. Descended from an immortal Atalonian Fire Queen, he has little tolerance for an insolent Ueleda witch like Dana of Nin. The fatherless twig-picker cannot trace her magical line and is not fit to practice magic…although she would make a very acceptable concubine.

But when they are mysteriously bound together with an unbreakable betrothal spell, pride and prejudice quickly becomes passion. The knave who has cursed them must be revealed and the spell undone before hearts, minds and souls merge, and they become lost in one another forever.

Sunday, August 9, 2009

GUEST BLOG:Reflections of a Mississippi Magnolia-A Life In Poems by Patricia Neely Dorsey

Patricia Neely Dorsey's Reflections of a Mississippi Magnolia-A Life in Poems is "a true celebration of the south and things southern." The author states , "There are so many negative connotations associated with Mississippi and the south in general. In my book, using childhood memories, personal thoughts and dreams, I attempt to give a positive glimpse into the southern way of life. In my book I try to show that there is much is more to Mississippi and the south than all of the negatives usually portrayed .I invite readers to Meet Mississippi (and the south) Through Poetry ,Prose and The Written Word."

If you want a glimpse of Southern life,
Come close and walk with me;
I'll tell you all the simple things,
That you are sure to see.
You'll see mockingbirds and bumblebees,
Magnolia blossoms and dogwood trees,
Caterpillars on the step,
Wooden porches cleanly swept;
Watermelons on the vine,
Strong majestic Georgia pines;
Rocking chairs and front yard swings,
Junebugs flying on a string;
Turnip greens and hot cornbread,
Coleslaw and barbecue;
Fried okra, fried corn, fried green tomatoes,
Fried pies and pickles too.
There's ice cold tea that's syrupy sweet,
And cool, green grass beneath your feet;
Catfish nipping in the lake,
And fresh young boys on the make.
You'll see all these things
And much, much more,
In a way of life that I adore.
Copyright 2008 Patricia Neely-Dorsey
from Reflections of a Mississippi Magnolia-A Life In Poems


Reflections of a Mississippi Magnolia-A Life in Poems
" a celebration of the south and things southern"
"Meet Mississippi Through Poetry, Prose and The Written Word"

Thursday, May 14, 2009









Sunday, April 5, 2009

MY EMPLOYER: A Message of Hope for Tough Times

It's during tough economic times like these that I find I really have to remember who my 'employer' really is. I am an aspiring author, but I am also a painter. I've made a living off of my art work for years. Believe me, it is not a career path for the faint of heart. I spent many years never knowing when or where my next paycheck would come from. As means of supplementing my income from sales of fine art, I took to painting murals, as well.

I remember one day I was looking at my check book and the stack of bills sitting on the counter. All in all I needed $1500 to cover that month's expenses, but I only had $40 in my checking account and I had not sold a painting in over three weeks. Now, I had been living off of my art for a little under a year, at that point, and the pressure of not having a 'steady' income was starting to wear on me. I was newly divorced with a three-year-old child, and had frequent nightmares about ending up 'homeless.'

Still, I loved what I did for a living, and for a new, unknown artist, my work WAS selling. I was given heaps of encouragement from everyone around me that I was 'doing the right thing.' But of course, praise doesn't pay the mortgage.

Looking at that stack of bills, I just sat down on the floor and had a huge boo-hoo. "Why, why, why does this have to be so hard?" I asked my God. "Am I not doing enough? Am I completely off base here? Should I pack it in and get a 'desk' job somewhere? I just want to do your work well."

The phone rang. It was a friend who was dealing with some very serious issues-- they far surpassed anything I was dealing with at that moment. I left the house and went to spend some time with her... to listen, to give a shoulder.

After I left my friend's house, I felt so much better. My 'money' problem did not seem such a big deal. I got a call on my cell phone as I drove back home. It was a woman who wanted a mural painted in her living room. She asked if I could come that evening to show her my portfolio. Of course, I went!

When I arrived at her house she showed me the living room and explained the project she wanted done. Impressed by my portfolio, she then took me to her bedroom, the kitchen, the down stairs powder room, and her eldest son's room. She had a mural project for each room. All in all, the work would total about $3000. She paid me half down to get started: $1500.

I will NEVER EVER forget that moment. I walked out of that woman's house, got into my car with the $1500 check and bawled all the way home--in complete awe. It was exactly the amount I needed.

My God had answered, "Just stick close to me, kid--and do your work well." My getting 'paid' had little to do with my artwork-- and everything do with helping the 'friend-in-need.' Listening to her problems instead of focusing on my own had pulled me off my pity-pot, and cleared my perception. It had opened my heart to love rather than plunging it into fear. When I'm in fear, I close myself off to possiblities--to miracles.

Ever since, I have never doubted who MY EMPLOYER is. It's not the gallery manager, literary agent, publishing editor, or the Dean of Arts and Sciences. In reality, they have as much power over outcomes as I do--which is precious little. I just take life one day at a time. I do simple footwork--painting, writing, connecting with others--and I let the Boss take care of everything else.

True Story.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

BAD ATTITUDE: Ancasta the Sionnach from 'Arawen of the West Watch'

Ancasta the Sionnach stood on Breakes Hallow Warf, her eyes trained on the lights glimmering across the sound. She was in Glenfallen, but her thoughts were not.

“You’re a very bright girl, and very enthusiastic, but I cannot train you as a Sentinel, Miss Princeport. The Initiation Trials showed that your lack of a Familiar spirit not only excludes you from any sort of combative situation but also hinders you from completing tasks on target.” said Arthur Windleash from behind his desk.
“But I can work on my timing, and not every position in the Guard is dedicated to combat. With my abilities, I would be an asset for espionage—or maybe I could be a-a tracker, even.” she argued.
“But even a spy or a tracker must be prepared in the event of assault, my dear. And your Trial results show that you did not complete a single conflict scenario, even though you were given twice the amount of time to finish.” He shook his head, “A Sentinel, no matter what, must finish the mission with as little loss of life as possible. I cannot in good conscience train you as a Sentinel, Miss Princeport. Your presence would leave your fellow Guard at unnecessary risk,” he said.
“Please, my dear. No more.” Walking around his desk, he took her hand, “You are a Sionnach, Ancasta. To be born to the Fox Magic is rare, and you should be proud of that. Your mind-powers are amazing. There’s not a witch in the world that could keep you from slinking into his head.” He smiled. “Ever since she took you as an apprentice, Coventina earmarked you for diplomacy, and I agree with her decision. The country is filled with squabbling witches and fractured covens. Who better to settle disputes than one with the ability to understand both sides completely?
“Now, I believe Blackmoore has already given you your first assignment?”
“Y-yes.” She could not breathe.
“Good luck, then.” The Boston master nodded toward the door for her to leave.
Opening the door she stepped into the reception room, a small crowd in her path.
“By the West Watch, I knew he would do it!” said Alexander Mountrain slapping his son on the shoulders. “A Sentinel!”
“I’m not a Sentinel yet, Dad. I’ve just been selected for training.” Said Arawen as his Aunt Coventina threw her arms about him.
“Oh, but I’ve raised him right. Haven’t I, brother?” She laughed at Alexander while tousling her nephew’s hair.
“Aye. Ye did good, Covey.” Merlin Blackmoore, Arawen’s former teacher, cracked his crooked grin, “Top-notch, young Arawen, top-notch. Perform in trainin’ as ye did for Initiations, and I’ll be recommendin’ ye to the Red Guard.”
Mighty Mordred, she could not bear the scene. Without a word, she darted past Arawen and his well-wishers.
“Cas? Hey Cas, what’s the matter?” Arawen called out to her.
“Nothing.” She kept walking, biting her lip to stop the tears.
“Ancasta Princeport! Don’t tell me you are still blubbering over the Initiation Trial results!” Coventina called out from the group, “Stop daydreaming you silly girl, and start packing for Omaha. Master MacCrimmons needs a translator for the natives.” Coventina explained to the others, “They’ve got a Pawnee Medicine man that keeps ice forming on their summer crops.”
Laughter. They all were laughing at her.
“Cas wait!” Arawen was on her heels.
“Go away!” She whimpered, tearing down the hall. “You heard your Aunt, I’m on a ‘big assignment.” Her voice cracked, “I can’t believe it—fifteen-hundred miles west to figure out why some native prefers cold corn.”
Arawen caught her arm, his snicker making her cringe.
“Don’t laugh at me!” She shouted, pulling her arm free.
He hugged her.
“Then don’t make me laugh.” His hands patted her back, “Great Mother, you always have had great wit.”
“More like witless.” She sniffled against his shoulder, “Windleash seems to think so, anyway. All these years of study, the last two dedicated to Pennick Mountrain’s work on the physics of Essential Transmorphy, and I’m sentence to ‘pick melons’ in some godforsaken—Ooo! The Nebraska territory, Roo? It just isn’t fair!” She threw her arms in the air. “You’ve said so, yourself.”
“Yes, and I meant it. Believe me. I’ve been pushing for you. You should be working for the Guard in some capacity. I even approached Windleash about it last night.” he said shaking his head, “I thought for sure he was going hire you as his personal secretary. I still can’t believe he chose that needle-nose, Pudgie Nightwood.”
“S-secretary? You think I’m only cut out to be a secretary?” she felt stabbed.
“Cas, I don’t mean it as an insult. Windleash needs more people like you. You’re brilliant, but—
“I’m weak, slow, and spirit-challenged.” She spat.
“I didn’t say that.” He defended. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear it, but your abilities are limited to mind reading. It takes more than that to be a Sentinel. You don’t have the muscle, and let’s face it. You don’t have the temperament. When you don’t get something right away, you get flustered and give up.”
“Ha! Easy for you to say, when everyone’s always cheering you on!” She shouted. “Maybe things would be different if I would have had someone grooming me for the Red Guard since I was in diapers. But I didn’t. I got apprenticed to your Aunt, who decided what my career would be on my first day of tutelage. Then she stuck me in the Mountrain library for eight years and forgot about me.”
“That’s not true.” Said Arawen. He struggled to control his anger, “Coventina is very proud of you. She loves you like her own.”
“Please. For eight years, I’ve done everything she’s ever asked. And the one time I ask her for something, she says, ‘no.’” she scoffed. “I could have passed the Trials with flying colors if she would have let me use The Cage of Bloodlines.”
“The Cage of—ha. Okay I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say something that ridiculous.” Arawen looked almost amused. “The Cage of Bloodlines, Ancasta? Its use was outlawed in the time of Henry Tudor.”
“Yes, well this is a different age, day and country, isn’t it?” she argued. “I even had someone willing to share their power with me.”
“So what? That’s not the point.” Arawen defended. “When witches start swapping and merging powers with each other, there are all kinds of unwanted side-effects, most notably, insanity. Coventina would never take that risk with you.”
“Because she already had plans to send me to Omaha.” She rolled her eyes.
“Fine, Ancasta. You win. The entire world is against you.” He threw up his hands, turned to walk away, but then added over his shoulder, “You know why I think you really couldn’t make the Guard, Cas?”
“Why?” she asked.
“You have a bad attitude.” He walked away.

A drunken fisherman passing by accidentally brushed Ancasta’s cloak.
“Eh—err, sorry there, miss.” He touched the brim of his hat.
She whirled on him, her boot connecting with his groin.
“Why don’t you watch where you’re going, jackass!”

Friday, February 13, 2009

Witch House Are You? The Families of Glenfallen.

The House of Willogate
At the northernmost point of Cape Thicket sits Willogate Farm. With their power rooted in Earth, the Willogates are a tactile lot, not given to flights of fancy or shows of emotion. With feet planted on the ground, and intent focused upon a goal, they are a driven lot who live for achievement.
Like their Saxon ancestors, the Willogates of Glenfallen are tall and golden. However their ability to produce gold is not limited to offspring. Willogates have a knack for making money, but are not particularly keen on sharing it
Founder: Alfric the Traitor
Symbols: the willow tree, the golden Harlon
Colors: Brown and Gold
Most famous ancestor: Sabrina the Bran (the Raven Witch of Breaks Tower)
Best qualities: Sensible, sensuous, love roots deeply in the soil of the heart
Worst qualities: Envious, competitive and miserly

The House of Etherhill
On the eastern coast of Cape Thicket is Breaks Lighthouse, home to the ‘Airy’ Etherhills. Disdaining all things ‘bourgeois,’ the bohemian Etherhills prefer to live life on a ‘higher’ more artistic plane. Naturally, the wine flows freely as they wax poetic, play concertos to the moon and pine for a love that is not ephemeral.
Like their French ancestors, they live for the moment and delight in imagination. Noted for their incredible violet eyes, the Etherhills are quick to laugh and just as quick to cry.
Founder: Chaid of Nathair
Symbols: the tower, the raven, the snake
Colors: Blue and White
Most famous ancestor: Also Sabrina the Bran (the Raven Witch of Breaks Tower)
Best qualities: Imaginative, artistic, love is a spiritual experience
Worst qualities: Selfish, self-seeking alcoholics

The House of Drakesford
In the south, where Fire rules, is the Drakesford’s ‘Old Summer House.’ As descendents of the ‘Liam the Drake,’ founder of the old-world ‘Glenfallen Circle,’ the Drakesfords have a tendency to arrogance.
Like their Welsh ancestors, they are noted for their striking black hair and eyes. They are brilliant, passionate and gluttons for power. Once established as the most powerful House in the Glenfallen Circle, they have never been willing to release the title, and have not been above using Machiavellian tactics to keep it.
Founder: Liam the Drake; aka: The Great Drake or The Draig Tien
Symbols: The black dragon
Colors: Red, Black and Gold
Most Famous Ancestor: Liam the Drake
Best qualities: intelligent, dynamic problem-solvers, love with passionate loyalty
Worst qualities: despotic, suspicious and promiscuous

The House of Mountrain
Sitting on the west coast of Cape Thicket overlooking the sound, is stately Mountrain House. There the friendly Water clan opens their doors as they do their hearts to all who would enter.
Like their Scottish ancestors, they have retained their ginger hair and sea-green eyes. Good humored and easy going, the Mountrains rarely have a bone to pick with anyone who isn’t a Drakesford.
Founder: Baltin of Rainy Mountain (aka: The Mount of Oaks)
Symbols: the Oak tree, the white owl, and the wave
Colors: Green and Gold
Most Famous Ancestor: Pennick Mountrain (Creator of the magic caldron known as ‘The Cage of Bloodlines’)
Best qualities: caring, loyal, trusting, an intrinsic understanding of love’s depth
Worst qualities: stubborn, hotheaded, jealous in love

The House of Dovecot
At the center of Cape Thicket is Dovecot Lodge, and here lives the family whose magic dwells in Spirit. As descendents of Dana of Nin, the peasant Healer who became a ‘Light Mistress,’ all of the Houses of Glenfallen hold the Dovecots in high esteem. Theirs is the only House to always be headed by a ‘Mistress’ instead of a ‘Master.’ Dana of Nin’s heiress is the ‘law’ in Glenfallen. (And the Drakesford heir enforces her law.)
Like their humble Irish ancestor, Dana, the Light Mistresses of Glenfallen share the same remarkable dove-gray eyes, and an irresistible spunk and spirit.
Founder: Dana of Nin
Symbols: the dove, the crown, the chalice
Colors: White and Silver
Most Famous Ancestor: Dana of Nin
Best qualities: graciousness, humility, kindness, Love is unconditional
Worst qualities: potty-mouthed, hot tempered and ‘people pleasing’