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witchscauldronThere is a ring around the waning moon tonight. It sits high and frozen in the tumbling, milky sky - the clouds are pushed and pulled by swift air spirits, relentless and restless as they move. I step outside, and the cold rips past me as they run tiny, freezing fingers through my tangled, streaming locks. It is as if all the air in my lungs has been stolen; I hang there for a moment, breathless.
Suspended thus, I do not wish to breathe - I only savour the sharp caress of the icy sky, the crystalline digits of my fae kindred, the call in my veins to set free a howl to greet the moon. The ring around the moon, so bright, and vivid - it meets the stink of a metal smelter in my too-sensitive nose, and I know snow comes. Ice crystals high in the air make the ring, and snow in the wind always smells like molten iron, or copper - a distinct, bloody tang that is at once awful and pleasing.
I listen to the signs wobbling madly in the wind - it must be going 70 km/hr, if not faster. The trees and their empty limbs clatter against one another like bare bones, shaken and rattled by restless spirits. I stand, feeling hackles rise against it, awed by the might of Winter rising. I want to sing in it, the Caller of Winter Storms once more. I wish to wrap my ebon wings around me, to stand in the darkness, to coax forth the beauty and the meaning of it all. Instead I turn my cold, human frame inside, and let it flow past me...
I need to Change.
-m.
Suspended thus, I do not wish to breathe - I only savour the sharp caress of the icy sky, the crystalline digits of my fae kindred, the call in my veins to set free a howl to greet the moon. The ring around the moon, so bright, and vivid - it meets the stink of a metal smelter in my too-sensitive nose, and I know snow comes. Ice crystals high in the air make the ring, and snow in the wind always smells like molten iron, or copper - a distinct, bloody tang that is at once awful and pleasing.
I listen to the signs wobbling madly in the wind - it must be going 70 km/hr, if not faster. The trees and their empty limbs clatter against one another like bare bones, shaken and rattled by restless spirits. I stand, feeling hackles rise against it, awed by the might of Winter rising. I want to sing in it, the Caller of Winter Storms once more. I wish to wrap my ebon wings around me, to stand in the darkness, to coax forth the beauty and the meaning of it all. Instead I turn my cold, human frame inside, and let it flow past me...
I need to Change.
-m.