She speaks the language of the crows, that woman. If you're near her while she sleeps, you'll hear whispers of that ancient avian tongue...
Help me move this last stone into place, and let's lie quiet on the mossy earth, silent enough to hear those hags moon-croon us lullabies of magick.
Can you be truly be trusted not just with her light-of-day beauty but with the fearsome and fearful hunted Witch side-eyeing you from her raw heart-center?
I am resolving to get back to basics, swimming long and hard into the deep end of the Heathen ways where I once found such solace.
For now, we are full of faith in the fertile dark, and we are fed to the brim with all the Primal Feminine food we need to carry us through these longest nights.
The Death Priestesses are the chosen ones who swim in this chaotic soup of righteous rage and power-hunger willingly, who do not fear the breakdown, the loss, and the dark void of absolute nothingness as others do.
You’re here now, and that’s all that matters. Put on the bone-and-antler crown I made for you, and I’ll grow my horns long to match yours.
When I was good, I was a sensitive and sweet-blooded Witch indeed. My ethics were impeccable, and my magick was so diamond white it could blind an angel.
Their eyes will get wild, and their hair will come undone. They’ll lift their chins and dig their manicured nails into their palms.