[M] Alban Hefin

Cwmfen nic Graine · 06-29-2010, 10:44 AM

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WARNING This thread contains: graphic sexual content, graphic violence, or extremely offensive material starting with the first post. Reader discretion is advised.

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Backdated JUNE 21. Alban Hefin (Litha) Ritual.
I added a Warning just in case.... I wasn’t sure how people would feel about this. >__> You can have Larkspur enter whenever throughout this post.... PM me if you need anything! ^w^ Also, pretty much it’s like she’s tripping without the drugs.... yeah. I ended the post right before she throws it in, so you can come in then if you want and you can pp some too, ^w^
500+

Alban Hefin had begun.

The Warrior had gathered what she needed in the days prior, and it was during the day, under the eye of the Sun whose power was now at its peak, that the child of Nemain prepared for the Rituals of the night. Oak wood was carried in the hungering jaws of the wolf to Oberon’s Spring. Carefully, the Warrior laid each small log down, creating a large ring of wood. The black wolf placed the wild thyme at the center, along with daisies. A yellow ribbon she had found in town was laid alongside the freshly picked herbs. Satisfied, the white orbs turned to the midday sun and the black wolf donned the form of two legs so that she could wield her bow. Swiftly, she had hunted the Wrens, the bird of her children and the bird of the day of long hours. One arrow was given to each bird, counting then, at four. By sundown, she had returned to the spring, and carrying four impaled wrens and a rabbit, still living.

Badb was used to light the Oak. The wreath of fire breathed and licked the air with tongues of yellow and red, of prosperity and sexuality. The Warrior’s eyes, like moons in the night sky, were alight with the fury and frenzy of War, with a passion that she could not have. She stood in the center of the ring, allowing the warmth of the flames to stroke her body and carress her. The woaded female closed her eyes, and the one-eyed Raven, his presence unseen but felt, calling her mind to a place that held not the world of mortals but of Dreams. The woman’s breathing changed, becoming slow, and yet deep and barely containable. The hungry jaws parted as her eyes opened slowly to find the her gaze upon the blackness of the sky. She saw there dancing the colours of the flames with tongues that enticed her. The Sun was sleeping, but the God that ruled this longest day was not asleep and lived within her calling, within her passions and desires that called the War of the Morrigan within her.

Her gaze turned to the earth that was living beneath her woad-banded toes. The rabbit that she had bound with the yellow ribbon no longer struggled, but its eyes were wide and its breathing frantic. She had laid it in the grass before the four wrens that burned near the fires, the daisies wrapped about them. The scent of their burning flesh was breathed in deeply as she knelt before the rabbit. The swift hands of the Caledonian-Korean caught it, and on her knees she lifted it and offered it to the flames and the gods. Badb returned to her hand, the song of War lifting up furiously. Her deep breathing quickened as the blade tickled the flesh of the rabbit. Its small body struggled in her grasp, but she worked swiftly and efficiently to remove that which covered the pure sinew beneath. A single cut down the belly—not too deep—and she tore the entire pelt from it, skinning it alive with her teeth and her hands. Badb bit the earth as the scream of death shattered the nighttime air. But it did not die, for Death had not yet come. The pied Raven crawed harshly, his voice mocking the nakedness and the pain. Rising fluidly, the optime offered the living flesh to the gods once more, offering her successes of War, offering her carnal desires that would remain unsatisfied. The white orbs glittered in the light of the flame, and she felt the pain and the nakedness of the life in her hands. A moan was given to the night.

Blood darkened the woad and made her hands slick. Lowering the rabbit, she waited for a single spasm before she would release it into the wreath. Then she would give the thyme to it. Then she would devour it. But not yet—

Larkspur D'Angelo · 06-29-2010, 11:38 AM

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400+

Many nights, he did not sleep. He tried now and again to battle his nature, but this was futile and left him exhausted. Larkspur was a creature damaged, ruined by pain and neglect. The Khalif might have been more merciful had they killed him. Now a man who did not understand the world lived in it, functioning because he adapted so quickly, functioning because he was a follower and because the can tah around his neck whispered and spoke and told him what to do. This pack, this place he was supposed to call home, it was made that way because darkness willed it. Though his fur had begun to turn white, he felt his soul darkening each day. Something had changed in him since that night with the green-eyed witch, something he could not pinpoint and could not name. He had been close, though. He had been very close to looking into the eye of the ini and he had fled, as always, because he feared it.

Yet he did not fear shadow, nor the scream that tore apart the night. It instead drew him, like a moth to flame, further into the blackened boughs of the forest. Under his large scarred body muscles carried him deeper in, ears forward and eyes wide and holding the devil’s light that all night-creatures used. At night he traveled four legged, as was his pattern, for hands and an awkward body could not keep him safe. Larkspur did not understand what it was to be like a man. He had learned through the horse, and he had learned through Misery, but he could not maintain himself without the wolf. Certainly, this was how it should be. Some of the Khalif believed this as well, dividing as all families must, bound only by hatred and teachings so arcane they could not let them go.

A fire burned against the dark and behind it stood a woman. She looked unearthly. Empty eyes and blue markings, the rabbit in her hands still alive, still writhing in pain. His jaws parted, tasting these things in the air. Jack-O-Lantern eyes burned and stole the fire’s light, runic scars white-hot and orange-yellow against his dark body. Yet he did not move and did not intrude; this was not his place and he, knowing only of arcane things and other worlds, respected that her magic was one he dare not touch.

Cwmfen nic Graine · 06-30-2010, 08:31 AM

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500+

The muscles spasmed.

Her fingers loosened in perfect time, as if the rhythms of the ritual sang clearly in her tranquil souls. The slick body of the living thing was sent to the flames of the Wreath, its cry of death rising up once more before being cut short. Perhaps the heart had burst or the mind been overwhelmed, but the woad-marked Dreamer drank in the sound that was sent to the heavens in the flame’s smoke. The one-eyed Raven called his mockery, taking flight as he skimmed the flames to guide that soul to the gods of Alban Hefin and offer them this sacrifice, this creature that lived in the nighttime face of Nemain. Without turning, woad-banded fingers lifted the wild thyme from the earth and it in after the rabbit. The gods would be pleased to taste the flesh of one seasoned with the leaves of appropriate flavor, and the wolf would devour it despite her own preferences.

The scent of thyme rose within the air, laced with the scent of burning flesh.

Her eyes, fixed upon the place of Death, lifted to find the pair of eyes in the darkness. They came with white carvings that called to the colour of her eyes. The Raven Dreamer watched them for long moments, the songs of silence broken only by the tongues of the flame and the popping of the oak. Her stance was low as if hunting, her body moving slightly as if guided by the muscle of a hunting snake. Feral with that Frenzy of Nemain, the Warrior, upon this night of magik, had grown less refined, had returned to the state that she had been born in. The lunar gaze, fixed now upon those intruding eyes, did not falter as Badb was taken up once more. The blade was thrust into the flames, the hot wreath engulfing it willingly. The burning meat was taken from the flame, cooked too rare and still dripping with blood. Placed before the wrens, Badb was returned to the earth once more. Then she changed, her form, distorted by the shadows and light of the flame, shattering to leave behind that most natural of shapes. And yet the eyes never left the orbs of flame that carved the dark air with white.

A call was given to the night, the dolorous song rising with the silver lace of night light.

The woad-bound maw lowered, the eyes finding that the flaming orbs, having carved white in the dark air, belonged to another canine. With eyes sharper than before, she could see the figure through the flames. She snarled, her hackles rising and strong, white teeth exposed. The woad tipped tail flickered as her harsh breath clawed through her hungering jaws. She challenged him to come, and yet, upon that night she did not promise Death to him. She promised only a Challenge. And then she would devour the sacrifice. “Come, Night-Carver,” the smooth, alto melody enticed. “Join with me.” The deep breathing calmed the bellicose fury of her features. Perhaps he would join her in the fire leaping, in the cleansing, and dance to the music of the silence.

Larkspur D'Angelo · 07-02-2010, 11:00 AM

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This ritual was old, one older then the earth-demon Tak or his followers. He recognized this in every motion. She moved as if she was not in control of her own body, yet he believed she was. She was painted and strange, but she did not feel as the others had. Perhaps he had not touched her yet, and this was why. Haku had burned that black fire, and the green eyed woman, Eris, had been chosen because she too knew of darkness. A raven cried out and took to the sky, and he knew it was magic in truth—for no raven dared the night when much greater wide-eyed birds commanded dark skies.

Finally she turned to him. All parts of her body changed, hair on end and teeth bright in the darkness. It was not out of fear—it was not out of anger. Larkspur had seen both and knew the language of the unspoken as well as he knew the language of the dead. The woman called to him and his body responded, advancing from the tree-line as it was bid. Covered in scars the salt-and-peppered wolf looked as unwelcomed in this world as she did. He lingered a distance from the fire, his white breast catching the colors of the flame and holding them. Larkspur did not speak.

This night still belonged to her.

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