A desperate faith

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Flames licked wildly in their serpentine dance under the rolling clouds of the darkened sky, the bed at their feet just one of many an eager offering from the woman who knelt in the center of the sacred circle with fervent eyes and tension in her jaw. Her arms were raised, palms to the sky and she was clad only in the flickering firelight. At her knees the body of some unfortunate creature was still warm at the altar, its precious life essence already given in sacrifice and its blood painted upon her body in intricate rings of runes from neck to knee. The air inside the circle crackled with electricity, the great stones at each quarter of the circle hummed quietly to life as she began to chant - her throaty voice was small at first but quickly became stentorian when the universe responded to her call, the growing power turning heavy and sharp with static. Intangible winds whipped her hair violently and her sleight frame began to shake as if under tremendous pressure from an unseen force. She reached the crescendo of her spell and the glow of her altar fire suddenly shifted to a brilliant, otherworldly green that cast the entire clearing in an eerie emerald light. There was a pause, as if the world had stopped to take a breath. With that strange light came a hush, the silence almost louder than the cacophony from the magickal storming it fell in the wake of. It lasted about ten seconds too long before, with a barely audible pop, it was all gone. The green fire was replaced with cold ashes, the static in the air gone dead still and the witch in the center of the circle collapsed to the ground with a sob that spoke both of heartbroken despair and the kind of relieved gratitude that can only come from the truly faithful that know their prayers have finally been heard. All bewitchment of the scene had dissipated and in its place was a melancholy display of palpable sadness.

[nyxiest]

She saw the spectacle from her perch on the nearby Mother Tree, the green shine soft yet still enough to make her wince with pain. She had forgotten her helmet, her delicate blue eyes exposed to the dangers of light in her haste to find a good vantage point for the show in the circle. She had to keep far enough away so that the blood shed in the circle was far enough out of her range of scent. The smell of blood... It affected her in ways she did not understand. It made her sick, she was disgusted how her mouth watered and that hungry pit of excitement threatened to draw her down. Tonight she would avoid that feeling. She was more interested in the aftermath, the ordinary un-excitement of the softly sobbing witch who was now gathering the traces of her visit to the hollow ground, completely unaware of being watched by the tiny winged thystle in the branches above. Nyx was always cautious when it came to strangers. Not only was she much smaller than the average creature, by race alone she had a nasty reputation. There was no telling what reaction her presence would provoke; she had seen flight, fight, and everything in between. She was ill-prepared and in no mood for any sort of altercation right now.

A gentle wind rocked her roost, just crisp enough to chill her pale limbs. She would wait for the witch to collect her unbearable sadness and then she would go hide in the safe burrow she called home deep in the ground underneath the sturdy roots of the Mother tree. Lately the wind had an uneasy whisper and the shadows seemed longer with more substance. It was probably nothing more than her imagination getting the better of her but it was persistent, enough so that she had supply and plan to hide herself in her modest burrow and focus on some much needed potion making. How dull had she become, delighted with such a simple thing. Of course, she had no idea that soon her life would become nothing simple.

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A wind began to stir the branches of the great harvest tree, soft but crisp enough to make the witch shiver. As she donned her robe, she caught a motion from the corner of her eye that made her blood freeze with a terror far colder than any west wind. A tiny figure clung to the braches, no bigger than a doll, her pale face just barely visible amongst the leaves of the hallowed tree on a very nearby hill. A knot of dread formed in her stomach, she had displeased her goddess and now hell had come in reply to her prayers. Old legends were still told of the cautious days before the Thystles went beneath the ground, when every day had to be lived like the days of the Hunt. She only spied the one, but she knew that the rest of the swarm must be nearby. They always traveled with a grand company of horrible little monsters with pretty faces and tiny weapons, some of them mounted and the worst of them winged. This one was the latter, black wings like a raven she could barely make out in this dim light now that her fire had turned to ash. She desperately wished she had a torch, or something... Anything lit to keep the little savages at bay. Just as everyone knew how serious a threat a visit could be from these ravenous little faeries, their aversion to bright lights was also common knowledge. What had been grateful only moments before was now dread as she wasted no time to make herself scarce, already mentally preparing what she could possibly do to appease her unhappy deity -IF- she managed to survive long enough to make a proper offering. Without taking the time and attention to properly close her circle, she ran off into the stormy night with icy apprehension in her heart. The hollow ground was empty again, a pile of cold ashes and a patch of blood soaked ground the only indication that someone had been there at all.

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