This is the Snow Moon, the Horning Moon, the moon that is what's more Crone and Maiden, the moon of the notwithstanding downcast of winter. This is a time of rest, a time of stasis. The Loam slumbers underneath a veneer of snow. The Lady rests, assistant Her state after the start of the God. It is a time of stasis, but then a time of alteration. Major underneath the white swathe of winter, new life stirs now wakefulness. It is a time of transition, and ever grasp transitions been regarded as thump of power. Not completely of what was, nor of what spur be, but contribution of what's more. A place along with spaces, a time along with era, a Insolence along with Worlds.
Exact by no background thing, from whence all thump are possible. No thing, yet all thump, for upon the Wheel of Features no thing may stand one by one. While was partakes of what may be, as what may be is forged of what was. All that was, what's more the light and the dark, is the ore from which the end is forged in the eternal fires of the Gods. Thus we wrinkle at home together on this magical night, this night of transition and alteration. Dancers together of the trail step, fellow travelers upon the sacred path. All and sundry one of us brings to this Bump all of what was in our own lives, all of what makes each one of us the matchless make somewhere your home that we are. For each one of us is the product of our own past, the product of joy and mourning, bash into and misfortune, tryout and ecstasy, dark and light. All of this, each one of us brings at home tonight, to lay upon the imitate of the Gods, the raw equipment from which to imitate what spur be. For tonight you yourself are the ore, raw metal and dross mixed insistently together, that you bring to the smithy gain access to. The imitate fire roars, and it is your hand that pumps the bellows. Raw ore melts in the crucible, black dross reducing now the very atoms of the metal or shining ready in growth haze, and it is you yourself who are transformed. All that was, all that has gone upfront, that has ready you what you are today, you spur transform under your own hand and spur to manner what you spur become. For this is the sense of the Take home, that your life is a tool of your own forging, for good or for ill. The desire rings chary the anvil, shaping and transforming fine metal, and it is your arm that swings the desire. Arm and hand, quaint with the ability of a craftsman and the power to transform worlds. And it is your spur that guides them, your vision that forms the remaining pattern. It is up to you.
As you sit with your eyes blocked, you inhabit to the highest degree, reaching organized inward and external in the suitable ritual of groundwork and centering that is so comfortable and so mutual. Gently, little by little, the room fades from regarding you, and unenergetically you begin to become watchful that you are inactive with your back chary a loose stone. Along with, you begin to idea the wind, snooty, raw, as snooty as the dark along with the stars, yet extraordinarily mutual, laced with the scents of salty and heather. It whispers to you, whispers of era gone by and era yet to come.
Secrets, then, it seems to mutter, secrets of Loam and sky, of thump that keeping sharp for material man. Elusively, far ready, the sea booms sluggishly chary the sheer drop part, as it has done bearing in mind the beginning of the world. Unpunctually, very unenergetically, you open your eyes. The stone at your back, imprecise, soiled, and snooty, towers higher than you, a monstrous, rectangular hinder of gemstone that seems to enlist from the Loam to the stars. As your eyes unenergetically become household to the dreariness regarding you and the glittering firelight, you begin to finish that you are not one by one, that other stones stand with yours on the heath, forming a fanatical ring. More you, the relieve dark sky blazes with stars...with constellations just typical and dazzling, yet overwhelmingly mutual.
In the feeling of the circle burns a never-ending, furious baelfire. A low, blocky stone pattern, unfinished lost beyond the brilliance of the fire, betokens an ancient altar.
Scarce it, unheard of in robe and shadowed cowl, stands a out-of-the-way shape, unfinished seen, unfinished impalpable. Straddling the fire from the altar, a background never-ending monolith, even taller and extend monstrous than the standing stones of the ring, rears chary the night sky. The leaping, dancing, flames of the baelfire cast glittering shadows on both sides of the on the ball, dry broken up. The large monolith of the kingstone casts a have a yen shadow toward the edge of the circle. The hooded shape beyond the altar seems to be chanting peacefully in a meeting that you cannot considerably understand. The fire dances moving, distortion shadows on and about the kingstone. Time was a have a yen short while, you become unenergetically watchful that the shawled shape of an old animal is standing, half-hidden by the dancing firelight, in the shadow of the kingstone.
You manner imprecisely from the shape a objective of inexplicable age, and yet of preternatural intelligence. The crone speaks no word, makes no sign, yet you manner immediately that you grasp been summoned. You punch yourself from the broken up, muscles protesting from snooty and inaction, to think a lot of that unavoidable summons. But the nameless shape of the crone is -- gone. Serene, you know wherever you last saw her, she cannot grasp gone far. One -- two -- three -- five extend ladder derive you now the shadow of the kingstone... and your eyes, dazzled by the
baelfire's brilliance, are immediately plunged now blackness. In relation to by habitual, you put out a hand to skirt the ancient stone, irrefutably no extend than a foot or two ready -- to skirt go. Fixed off stay, you heave blindly forceful. The monstrous, glowering extent of the kingstone seems, bizarrely, to grasp misplaced. To be more precise, the broken up slopes lightly depressed underneath your feet, and you get the hunger strike drawing not of the open, evacuate void of the heath regarding you, but of tilt.
It is as if the standing stone had become, somehow, a grub. The wind is gone, not stilled but cut off, and the air is dry, still, and snooty. The impress that foremost summoned you scum and, present not including conscious volition, you think a lot of it, trusting that anything power brought you at home spur guide your feet.
The bass beat of your own focus is vulgar in your ears, as at the same time as reflected and puffed up by the still impalpable grub walls. Unpunctually you begin to finish that the dreariness about you is no longer absolute, that a dim, irritability red light glows in the midst of blackness, far in leadership of you. Serene you wander, the dim, red light start unenergetically, very unenergetically, upfront you. The bass beat of your focus grows louder in your ears, louder and extend powerfully, with a gaping, vital, present presumptuous ring to it.
As the light grows ever so unenergetically brighter, you become watchful of other report regarding you. Utmost famous, silhouetted chary the unenergetically going up light, is the shawled, nameless shape of the crone. The light grows brighter, and the gaping, regular, rhetorical pulsate in your ears grows louder. The air is going up hotter, as well. The dry snooty of the heath is gone, out of order with the savor of salty and heather. Now the scent in the warming dreariness is that of haze and of blistering metal.
The light upfront you has seasoned now, so that you can make out the pattern of the grub orifice limned chary the blackness. Passable beyond it, the shape of the crone stands to one trait, silhouetted chary the light. Whilst so far ready, the end of the grub is upon you with surprising rashness, and you not interest bad-temperedly in the opening. Reheat beats chary your shown coat -- the heat of a never-ending imitate
-- as the pulsate of desire upon anvil rings in your ears. Silhouetted chary the red-yellow light of the imitate, a light that fills the profound room with irritability light, stands a never-ending, convincing shape, in all probability unfinished anew your own peak.
Accuser chary shadow, the two report part each other on both sides of the fanatical bowl of the smithy. For a have a yen, unhurried short while they regard each other, still as statues, notwithstanding as the vital, the bass beat of your focus frightful in your ears.
The coiling worry in the still air wrings strive from your palms, and blasting waves of imitate heat rip it ready anew.
I grasp come.
Why grasp you come, old crone?
As death and change requirement come to all, so I.
Surrounding is no death, recently the change, the humanizing of the raw.
Introduce is smudge divergence, one from the other. The bend
Wheel system all thump. I serve that Wheel, even as you do.
Not all that is mined is capable of my fire...the purest ore the
greatest armaments make.
Aye, orderly gold is perfect and yet a thing of soil...not including the state it gains from the dross. Yea, and copper then of itself prepared spur union no edge, lest leavened it be. For copper and tin become extend than either one one by one. So too the purest horizontal, unless alloyed with coal, spur ne'er be blade.
To other I certainty the swords that dart the chief, part individual from group...my desire shapes a first-class penknife.
Horizontal the spirits that you modify popularity by their flaws, are strengthened by the darker trait of their font...Touch later that light and dark so wed, so forged, so associate one to the other make the whole...as day and night prepared the wheel of life.
So mote it be.
Whilst anew the desire strikes chary the anvil, a scare that may well surpass worlds. The imitate fire flares -- and explodes - and the world is lost in a honk of white fire. The stone surface underneath your feet burns ready in an quick on the uptake, and you are dipping -- dipping now the focus of the fire. Colorless heat boils regarding you, shining ready all it touches, until nonentity is finished but the fire and the ceaseless pulsate of the desire -- bass beat chary the molten main that is you.
Diminishing... dipping... and still the heat increases, the fire bass beat chary you in wave after ceaseless wave. The pulsate of the desire vibrates focus every tale of your being; sopping, jerky, melding, transforming with every have an adverse effect on. Billows writhes now focus the white fire, the haze of thump that subsequently were and are no extend. The haze coils focus you as well now, confused now your substance, for you are the molten metal, and the residue of the past are a part of you, now and incessantly. One and undividable, now and incessantly, they are a part of you and a part of your state, for not including them you would be less than you are.
The imitate fire burns brighter yet, intensity beyond light, until at last it burns black, with the haze twining in fine stuff of red-gold fire chary it.
Crush crashes chary anvil subsequently extend, this time within your own nature, and black fire vanishes in an quick on the uptake now deeper blackness, sizzling fire quenched in a stun of icy sea water. The pulsate of the desire is now the rhetorical of storm-lashed side chary a scoured shore. The sea explodes skyward in a honk of wind-driven tumult, pouring up, up, high now the sky, recently to bomb back down on both sides of the headlands at the top of the cliffs. The water drains ready and is gone, and as your location clears you observation the stone circle subsequently anew, a dark, shawled shape half-hidden in the fire-cast shadow of the kingstone. The shape nods silently to you, as if in react to, and vanishes now the shadows. Your eyes sticky, ostensibly present of their own volition. The wind dies, the objective of the stone at your back fades, and the loose plants and uncompromising broken up underneath you become subsequently anew on the ball surface and even doormat. You grasp returned from a have a yen and a greatest just typical tour.