Friday, November 4, 2011

Chapter 15. The circle draws (The athame queen the wooden spoon and the bard)

You feel a pulling at that energy connection and you are drawn back to the centre.  You see the high priestess complete the greeting of the four directions and the sealing of the circle.  It seems that this seal is quite tight and rather than filtering  it actually shuts out the world.  You look at the HP and notice she looks for a moment like  the centre of a web of light.. Each strand connecting to a person in the circle, the strands seemed to flow one way  .. towards the HP... then you notice a secondary web of connections outgoing to the priests, priestesses and  somehow the acolytes have only a smaller connection to them.

A feeling and smell of  thyme and a scent of something tangy draws your attention over to one of the corners where you see a group of men and women clad in black, purple, green, and brown robes.  In the centre of the group you see an elder woman with a face etched by the cares of the world, a slight hardness of the eyes as of someone not taking any shilly shally.  Yet in the background there is a sparkle. Around her waist is clustered a simple unadorned athame and some various pouches.  You remember her as the one who provided dinner last night... Next to her is a man with a face that at one look seemed almost ugly by society standards.. yet a power sat behind it  and a rough hewn nature came through.  Sitting next to them was a woman who reminded you of  the beautifully voluptuous  goddess figures, she glances in your direction and you feel a sense of her look weaving into you, and she smiles.  Next to her is a man dressed in a brown robe who almost looked like a christian monk , yet by his eyes you see circles of dancers under a moonlit nite dancing round fires.  The other figures seem to blend in and out like a graceful dance.  They seem connected somehow yet at the same time solitary unto themselves. 

Your attention circles back to the ritual and notice that  one of the priests, ( who when looking at him you swear belongs on a small hairy horse thundering across the steppes).  is striding round  the circle chanting from a piece of script.  His phrases are complicated and involve goddesses and gods names that  sometimes he stutters over and you see him wince. His eyes which are black and seem to squint blend into a flat asiatic face which has definite interest and character.   There is a strength about him and you get the feeling he would look good in an ornate robe with moons and suns on it with a large floppy brimmed hat invoking the alchemical change of lead to gold while discoursing on the meaning of some obscure goddess name.  Swirling in the other direction is a vision of brown hair and glimpses of a gorgeous face, and the whiff of an exotic scent.  She is also reading off a page.. curling her wrist delicately as she does so.  You can almost feel a contained vibrant energy between these two.   You are sure that they can both dip into a realm and depth of ceremony and carry on for hours without needing the props they are now gingerly using. The mongol’s nose turns up as he does another rollicking circuit and gestures towards one of the acolytes impatiently .  You hear a gentle cursing as the acolyte  says in a voice sotto that seems to travel to your ears. “ damn this incense...If they had got the aromancers to do it they wouldnt have all this hassle.”  You can see them holding a cunningham book and deliberating over which herb to throw more into to balance the mix which is sporadically burning and seems to have an acrid smell about it.

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