Witch's Charge

 In her cave beneath Speirling Isles, the Firth Witch stares into her fire.

 

The veil thins. It comes time to commune with those in the other realms of existence--to pay honor and earn the boon of their wisdom and strength. 

 

It is also the time to be on guard. There are forces in the otherrealms that continually batter against the veil, trying to rip their way back into physicality. Lesser witches would have long ago become possessed, but not Aettrynne. 

 

There is but one thing that has always possessed her. The flames that flicker in her eyes are not the reflection of the bone-fire in front of her but the cold flames of hatred that long ago consumed her soul. Her treaty with the Guv'nah of these lands, however, stays the wrath that would create a wasteland if loosened upon these "Caledonians."

 

The Witch has, as it is said in the common language, "bigger fish to fry."


This season, there will be new priestesses to initiate, no matter how much their mother has to say against it. The Coven will grow. The Children of Time will learn of their birthright. The exiled kits of Morgaine will revel in the understanding of what it means to have the Firth Witch as a grandmother. The so-called Dukes and Duchesses of the Court of the Aethers will concede eventually--as they always have--and another generation of witches will come to power under Aettrynne's guidance.

 

A slight smile pulls at the corner of the Firth Witch's mouth as she thinks of it. Silently, her mouth begins to form the words that mortals will not hear. It carries on the winds to the skies over Speirling, to Middlesea, to Pensans, to Wildefleur and the Mainland. The song lilts and whispers, echoing in the minds of her daughters, her priestesses--Aevalle, Gerr, Fae, Dantae, and Dhampir. They hear the Witch's Charge!


Hear now the words of the witches, 
The secrets we hid in the night, 
When dark was our destiny's pathway, 
That now we bring forth into the light. 

Mysterious Water and Fire, 
The Earth and the far-reaching Air, 
By hidden quintessence we know them,
And will keep silent and dare.
The birth and rebirth of all nature,
The passing of winter and spring,
We share with the life universal,
Rejoice in the magical ring.

Four times in the year the Great Sabbat
Returns, and the witches are seen
At Lammas and Candlemas dancing,
On May Eve and old Hallowe'en.
And when day time and night time are equal,
When sun is at greatest and least,
The four lesser Sabbats are summoned,
Again witches gather in feast.

Thirteen silver moons in a year are, 
Thirteen is the coven's array.
Thirteen times at Esbat make merry,
For each golden year and a day.

The power was passed down the ages,
Each time between woman and man,
Each century unto the other,
Ere time and ages began.
When drawn is the magical circle,
By sword or athame of power,
It's compass between the two worlds lies
In the land of shades that hour.
This world has no right to know it,
And the world beyond will tell naught.
The oldest of gods are invoked there,
The Great Work of Magic is wrought.

For two are the mystical pillars,
That stand at the gate of the shrine,
And two are the power of nature,
The forms and the forces of the divine.
The dark and the light in succession,
The opposites each unto each,
Shown forth as a God and a Goddess:
This did our ancestors teach.

By night he's the wild wind's rider,
The Horned One, the Lord of the Shades.
By day he's the King of the Woodland,
The dweller in green forest glades.

The bright silver lady of midnight,
The crone who weaves spells in the dark.
She is youthful or old as she pleases,
She sails the torn clouds in her barque,

The master and mistress of magic,
They dwell in the deeps of the mind,
Immortal and ever renewing,
With power to free or to bind.

So drink the good wine to the Old Gods,
And dance and make love in their praise,
Till the Summerland shall receive us
In peace at the end of our days.
And Do What Thou Wilt
Shall be the challenge,
So be it in love that harms none,
For this is the only commandment,
By magic of old, be it done!


Eight words the Witches Creed fulfull:
It if Harms None, Do What Thou Will!

 

(OOC: The poem "Witch's Charge" was written by Doreen Valiente. I want to give credit where it is due!)

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