Seasons change. It is the cycle of things; nature's order. Certain people weren't one for natural order, and most would peg Lilliana to the board with those people, at least those who saw the surface of things and neglected to know what she or natural order were really about. Life. Life in all it's lesson laden downs and heart fluttering highs. Solstice times like these were a reminder stronger than most, save when one was smack dab in the middle of one of those aforementioned mind enlightening moments. It was a feeling that touched her deeply, amplifying everything to the point any bit of sensation was almost maddening. Happiness, unease, regret, joy- even a good drink could just about send the fiery dame reeling during times like these. Often more than not, she thrust herself wholly into the world rather than keep holed up in her wagon. To do anything else, she'd learned, always ended up inviting trouble to her doorstep, so the only time she sought complete solitude was on the eve of the solstice itself, and only to make the rites and prayers necessary to keep with tradition. Otherwise she let herself float like a leaf on the wind during the days leading up to and right after solstices. It was safest that way. Alone her amplified nature could be too much for someone should they come calling. Out in public there were more than enough bodies to siphon her excess energies. In most cases that energy turned to restrengthening old bonds as well as creating new ones.
Alone now, she felt the pulse of the world throbbing around her. It was time. Although a calendar could have told her as much, she waited for more esoteric signs. As the hour came closer and closer to the precipice of another yearly change, she prepped for her private observance. Candles infused with balsam and fir. Boughs of evergreen and swags of oak and birch, of holly and mistletoe, adorned the doorway and windows of her caravan. Dried herbs remeniscent of summer hung in neat bundles tied with various cords and strips of cloth dyed golds and greens and blacks. She needed no reds. She was red. Love, light, summer's warmth, and fire's vigor echoed from her like ripples cast outward from a pond after the pass of a skipping stone. They always did. Wasn't that part of the charm so many found in her" The lure" While it was true she moved through life with extended hands and beckoning fingers that tempted the willing to join her in whatever merriment she planned, there were times she didn't actively try, and still the eyes and smiles of others fell her way. It was a blessing she cherished by living each day, even lazier ones, by doing something for the benefit of another. Paying it forward, so to speak. Even now...
"Come solemnly, come plainly, dear Crone." Her voice was low. The solemnity of it giving the natural husk of her voice a new thickness it didn't often reach. Touched by oils of clove, cinnamon, and nutmeg in place of her normal favorites, Lilliana closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Her hands moved of their own accord, fingering a series of little tokens she'd placed amidst the greenery and dried bits of summer that littered her temporary altar; a small lock of curly blonde hair, an iron dagger, a bracelet of scales, a simple ring of mithril, a leaf from a pear tree, a strip of bright blue ribbon, a bit of scrap parchment with uneven writing. They were pieces tied to the people she kept in her prayers this night as she bid one aspect of the Goddess safe travels and welcomed another.
"....pass yer crown t'the Maid. Bow yer head an' call fer us the las', t'rue bi' o' wint'er on this, i's darkes' nigh'." The longest, darkest night of the year. Some peoples remembered times where it was necessary to keep a vigil from dark till dawn. Their ways bid them to stand gaurd against the death that could linger at the hem of the Crone's cloak. Lilliana and her people were not believers in that, they were believers of light. Of progress. Of focusing on the horizon despite the darkness at hand. They believed in the cycle and it's promise. Those were where her prayers went on every Solstice eve, that's where she poured her heart's efforts and her magic into year after year.
"Maid, awaken an' rise. T'ake up vigil an' hast'en the months tha' bring us back the ligh' an' the life." In the hot belly of her woodstove burned a seasoned bit of wood and a heady blend of incense. The smell was rich and thick as the magic of the evening. Another deep inhale brought the vigorous blend inside her. It helped strengthen her will and sharpen her intent.
"As the circle t'urns, t'ake w' ya' the names I pray. Keep them safe, gran' them all the graces an' keep theirs in kind." Taking up a small, intricately tied bundle of fine, roan horsehair, the gypsy witch rose from her place before the altar and turned to face the fire still roaring behind the grate of the stove. "Brishen, Niamh, Z'ev..." Opening the grate, bare fingers absorbing the intense heat of the metal like the soil does water, she held the bundle of hair ready. "...Sorcha, Perceval." Tossing in the tightly bound sacrifice, she immediately reached up and deftly plucked one, two, three long, curling red hairs from her own head, and without further ceremony, tossed them in and closed the grate tightly.
"T'aneth, T'ag." As the last pair of names left her lips, her nose wrinkled as the familiar acridity of burnt hair penetrated the heady atmosphere she'd created. The smell was potent, but shortlived, and it wasn't long before she could detect the spiced oils she'd touched to her pulsepoints. Her eyes began to water from the strain of staring too long into the flames.
"Bl?t paid as due, m'self offered in reverance t' the thee three, I bid thine blessin's be." Closing her now glossy eyes, Lilliana kept back the tears with a smile as the wind outside howled. The night was cold out there, but she'd leant what power she'd dare to keep a certain few safe and happy. Feeling the power she'd called hum across her skin, the gypsy sighed contently. Task done, she turned with a whirl and rose, her bare feet impatient as they flew across the carpet strewn floors to the door. Once there, she flung it open for that howling wind.
"Come, come in! I welcome the ligh', no matt'er the condit'ions i' brings! T'radit'ion bids i'!" Laughing madly, the fiery dame all but danced in place as the cold, rush of air and moonlight invaded her warm, cozy home. Trace snowflakes caught in the wild, red net of her hair and danced across her cheeks cold and sweet as a lover's New Years kiss. Bare toes wriggling into the warmth of the woolen Persian beneath her, Lilliana set her eyes to the white, sprawling expanse of the Glen. Watching her warm, fogged breath creep outwards as the initial rush of wind began to die down, she wet her lips thoughtfully. The rites of Yule were observed, it'd be time to go out and play again soon.
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Alone now, she felt the pulse of the world throbbing around her. It was time. Although a calendar could have told her as much, she waited for more esoteric signs. As the hour came closer and closer to the precipice of another yearly change, she prepped for her private observance. Candles infused with balsam and fir. Boughs of evergreen and swags of oak and birch, of holly and mistletoe, adorned the doorway and windows of her caravan. Dried herbs remeniscent of summer hung in neat bundles tied with various cords and strips of cloth dyed golds and greens and blacks. She needed no reds. She was red. Love, light, summer's warmth, and fire's vigor echoed from her like ripples cast outward from a pond after the pass of a skipping stone. They always did. Wasn't that part of the charm so many found in her" The lure" While it was true she moved through life with extended hands and beckoning fingers that tempted the willing to join her in whatever merriment she planned, there were times she didn't actively try, and still the eyes and smiles of others fell her way. It was a blessing she cherished by living each day, even lazier ones, by doing something for the benefit of another. Paying it forward, so to speak. Even now...
"Come solemnly, come plainly, dear Crone." Her voice was low. The solemnity of it giving the natural husk of her voice a new thickness it didn't often reach. Touched by oils of clove, cinnamon, and nutmeg in place of her normal favorites, Lilliana closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Her hands moved of their own accord, fingering a series of little tokens she'd placed amidst the greenery and dried bits of summer that littered her temporary altar; a small lock of curly blonde hair, an iron dagger, a bracelet of scales, a simple ring of mithril, a leaf from a pear tree, a strip of bright blue ribbon, a bit of scrap parchment with uneven writing. They were pieces tied to the people she kept in her prayers this night as she bid one aspect of the Goddess safe travels and welcomed another.
"....pass yer crown t'the Maid. Bow yer head an' call fer us the las', t'rue bi' o' wint'er on this, i's darkes' nigh'." The longest, darkest night of the year. Some peoples remembered times where it was necessary to keep a vigil from dark till dawn. Their ways bid them to stand gaurd against the death that could linger at the hem of the Crone's cloak. Lilliana and her people were not believers in that, they were believers of light. Of progress. Of focusing on the horizon despite the darkness at hand. They believed in the cycle and it's promise. Those were where her prayers went on every Solstice eve, that's where she poured her heart's efforts and her magic into year after year.
"Maid, awaken an' rise. T'ake up vigil an' hast'en the months tha' bring us back the ligh' an' the life." In the hot belly of her woodstove burned a seasoned bit of wood and a heady blend of incense. The smell was rich and thick as the magic of the evening. Another deep inhale brought the vigorous blend inside her. It helped strengthen her will and sharpen her intent.
"As the circle t'urns, t'ake w' ya' the names I pray. Keep them safe, gran' them all the graces an' keep theirs in kind." Taking up a small, intricately tied bundle of fine, roan horsehair, the gypsy witch rose from her place before the altar and turned to face the fire still roaring behind the grate of the stove. "Brishen, Niamh, Z'ev..." Opening the grate, bare fingers absorbing the intense heat of the metal like the soil does water, she held the bundle of hair ready. "...Sorcha, Perceval." Tossing in the tightly bound sacrifice, she immediately reached up and deftly plucked one, two, three long, curling red hairs from her own head, and without further ceremony, tossed them in and closed the grate tightly.
"T'aneth, T'ag." As the last pair of names left her lips, her nose wrinkled as the familiar acridity of burnt hair penetrated the heady atmosphere she'd created. The smell was potent, but shortlived, and it wasn't long before she could detect the spiced oils she'd touched to her pulsepoints. Her eyes began to water from the strain of staring too long into the flames.
"Bl?t paid as due, m'self offered in reverance t' the thee three, I bid thine blessin's be." Closing her now glossy eyes, Lilliana kept back the tears with a smile as the wind outside howled. The night was cold out there, but she'd leant what power she'd dare to keep a certain few safe and happy. Feeling the power she'd called hum across her skin, the gypsy sighed contently. Task done, she turned with a whirl and rose, her bare feet impatient as they flew across the carpet strewn floors to the door. Once there, she flung it open for that howling wind.
"Come, come in! I welcome the ligh', no matt'er the condit'ions i' brings! T'radit'ion bids i'!" Laughing madly, the fiery dame all but danced in place as the cold, rush of air and moonlight invaded her warm, cozy home. Trace snowflakes caught in the wild, red net of her hair and danced across her cheeks cold and sweet as a lover's New Years kiss. Bare toes wriggling into the warmth of the woolen Persian beneath her, Lilliana set her eyes to the white, sprawling expanse of the Glen. Watching her warm, fogged breath creep outwards as the initial rush of wind began to die down, she wet her lips thoughtfully. The rites of Yule were observed, it'd be time to go out and play again soon.
______________________________________________ ______________________________________________
http://i1013.photobucket.com/albums/af255/fellea/RDI%20Thingys/Furnace_Face_by_da_joint_stock.jpg