Magick is Afoot
The hallowed season approaches.
I wander around the islands, almost oblivious to the rain coming down, though it is matting my hair to my scalp and shoulders. Speirling has been my home for so long now, I hardly notice the storm.
But it is the time for the tides to change. The wheel of the year turns and elsewhere in Caledon, the leaves have gone blazing in reds and oranges and earthy browns.
Not here. Not yet.
The volcanic warmth from beneath Lionsgate gives the Speirling Isles a wee respite from the elements. Or at least the cold elements. A charge from the clouds lights up the sky, making the landscape suddenly brighter. I look skyward and become almost mesmerized by the twirling of the funnel cloud above my head. Funny how it can still...make...me...
Another lightning flash and a series of bleats wakes me from my daydream. Pitch and Soot. That's why I'm down on the island--time for their dinner. They graze on the purple clover prevalent in Speirling but look forward to their grain each evening. I reach into the bag attached to my belt and toss some of the kernels onto the ground. Soot looks up and I scritch her chin, after which she goes to eating, making sure Pitch does not keep it all for himself.
The upcoming month is sure to be hard on them, but they've survived it before.
The Court will meet soon--just as it has for eons when the veil is the thinnest.
The blood rain will come--an ancient veneration of the mystics and witches lost to times that were less forgiving of those with the Gift.
The ice will come--Aettrynne's yearly reminder that, beyond the politics, she is the Firth Witch and controls its waters.
And we will make the best of it, just as we always have.
I feel a wet roughness on my hand--Pitch has broken me from my musings, wanting another fistful of golden goodness. I chuckle and comply.
The wind shifts and I smell a sweet woodsy scent from the direction of the westward isles. Aettrynne has lit the bone-fire.
I am suddenly very glad that Dhampir has my brood abroad on holiday.
I wander around the islands, almost oblivious to the rain coming down, though it is matting my hair to my scalp and shoulders. Speirling has been my home for so long now, I hardly notice the storm.
 |
| Speirling before Hallow's Eve season |
But it is the time for the tides to change. The wheel of the year turns and elsewhere in Caledon, the leaves have gone blazing in reds and oranges and earthy browns.
Not here. Not yet.
The volcanic warmth from beneath Lionsgate gives the Speirling Isles a wee respite from the elements. Or at least the cold elements. A charge from the clouds lights up the sky, making the landscape suddenly brighter. I look skyward and become almost mesmerized by the twirling of the funnel cloud above my head. Funny how it can still...make...me...
Another lightning flash and a series of bleats wakes me from my daydream. Pitch and Soot. That's why I'm down on the island--time for their dinner. They graze on the purple clover prevalent in Speirling but look forward to their grain each evening. I reach into the bag attached to my belt and toss some of the kernels onto the ground. Soot looks up and I scritch her chin, after which she goes to eating, making sure Pitch does not keep it all for himself.
 |
| Soot going for her dinner |
The upcoming month is sure to be hard on them, but they've survived it before.
The Court will meet soon--just as it has for eons when the veil is the thinnest.
The blood rain will come--an ancient veneration of the mystics and witches lost to times that were less forgiving of those with the Gift.
The ice will come--Aettrynne's yearly reminder that, beyond the politics, she is the Firth Witch and controls its waters.
And we will make the best of it, just as we always have.
I feel a wet roughness on my hand--Pitch has broken me from my musings, wanting another fistful of golden goodness. I chuckle and comply.
The wind shifts and I smell a sweet woodsy scent from the direction of the westward isles. Aettrynne has lit the bone-fire.
I am suddenly very glad that Dhampir has my brood abroad on holiday.
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