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witchscauldronSamhain dead welcomed and feasted, loved ones remembered and honoured, and all the fires burning....then to sleep. Out of sleep, a dream...
A forest is eched out of onyx, traced in faint silver. It is luminous, rather than light-sucking black, and it is bare cold tangled deep wood. There comes a baying through the darkness, softly at first, and then louder. Keen eye, sky's eyes, unblinking...look down. Hounds are coursing the trails, hunting...no horse, no hunter. Only three hounds, bristling and slant-shouldered, tirelessly plunging into night's heart after unseen prey...but they are enough.
White hound, ticked in black - there is ease and joy in her movement, as if just fresh from a long sleep, stretching and looseing strength as she goes. Along the path, hares dart from the underbrush, and her eyes gleam, but she does not turn from her path.
Black hound, cut of the same dark as the wood. He bears a lightless chain of crimson around him, and eyes of black fire; royal bearing cuts down his prey as swiftly as anything else. His stride eats the ground, and he is utterly silent...still seeking answers.
Red hound, she is the bitch and the queen, and the hunter and the hound and the horn and the spear. She is the Hunt...and the Hunt is hers. Her paws leave bloodstains on the black leaves that she flies across.
Claws scrabble against the winter-night woods, and vanish, still howling, into the void beyond sight's edge.
I awake before the dawn, pulled from rest by hoarse screams - the raven queen's herald sits in a tree overhead, watching.
A forest is eched out of onyx, traced in faint silver. It is luminous, rather than light-sucking black, and it is bare cold tangled deep wood. There comes a baying through the darkness, softly at first, and then louder. Keen eye, sky's eyes, unblinking...look down. Hounds are coursing the trails, hunting...no horse, no hunter. Only three hounds, bristling and slant-shouldered, tirelessly plunging into night's heart after unseen prey...but they are enough.
White hound, ticked in black - there is ease and joy in her movement, as if just fresh from a long sleep, stretching and looseing strength as she goes. Along the path, hares dart from the underbrush, and her eyes gleam, but she does not turn from her path.
Black hound, cut of the same dark as the wood. He bears a lightless chain of crimson around him, and eyes of black fire; royal bearing cuts down his prey as swiftly as anything else. His stride eats the ground, and he is utterly silent...still seeking answers.
Red hound, she is the bitch and the queen, and the hunter and the hound and the horn and the spear. She is the Hunt...and the Hunt is hers. Her paws leave bloodstains on the black leaves that she flies across.
Claws scrabble against the winter-night woods, and vanish, still howling, into the void beyond sight's edge.
I awake before the dawn, pulled from rest by hoarse screams - the raven queen's herald sits in a tree overhead, watching.
