Painting: 11 x 15”, Unmatted, Watercolor on Cold Press

Contact Amelia for purchasing options.

There are many versions of the Wild Hunt— or at least something like it— across Europe. It seems that no matter where we are, we fear the tangled, dark forest and stark, moonless fields. The moment the season turns and the first tang of sharp frost shrills in the air, things creep from the gloaming and begin the hunt...

There is always a leader of some sort, fae, cursed human, dark specter. A shadowed, faded form that sits astride an unearthly steed and watches, waits for prey.

There are soldiers, hunters, courtiers— a seething mass of bodies that hurl after their leader, over root and under bow, crying for the kill.

And then there are the hounds. There are always hounds. Cwn Annwn, Cu Sith, nameless creatures with ivory teeth and cruel, curved claws. They scream with joy when they find your scent, howling and braying and calling for blood. You run, but you know it’s useless— and with each step, with each frantic thud of your heart, their voices die. Just a little. Quieter and quieter and quieter, until the screaming is just a whisper...

And in the single, frozen moment before they spring, when your breath is ragged and your lungs burn with fire— everything is still, silent—

And then the world explodes.