Decorated by a collection of layered, mismatched, dark leathers and torn, old lace, this young girl looks as though she might have once belonged even in a city as this. Lengthy, dark tendrils of auburn frame a round face kissed by sunlight and yet made recognizable for the intensity of her green eyes. Her spirit is one of an easy, infectious mirth; prone to a quick smile and jest and ever an airy laugh. The girl would call herself a minstrel, a rogue, a decadent purveyor of secrets and mysteries, but of all, she is shaped by her artistry in every step. Either drunk by passion or addled by our harder times, Aislyn Hawthorne might strike a more eclectic observer as alluring if not painfully eccentric. Whether or not the poison of her mind is contagious remains a question for the times but even that fair face pales to those who might hear her sing. These songs of better tides even on our dark shores remain ever as ironic and saturated by satire and cheer. One would do well to share their doubt of her songs of yesteryears and yarns both horrific and beautiful, but the escape proves always to be an opiate for the masses; a pleasant journey to times far removed of our suffering world.