#SO many different versions Ive made of those horns that they changed like every other drawing

[brighter-star]

Colour study I made with my roblox avatar (Because I love that goober's design so much), I also made an alternative version bc of a suggestion from my friend to swap the colours around

[verosmoonshine-blog]

In Vein of Azerite

(Takes place approximately 2 months ago, three weeks prior to his promotion in the Agents of Suramar) TW: Violence

Prelude | Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV (coming soon!)

(Bonus: Veros’ proposal to the Agents to ley-walk the Dead Scar)

The Nightborne’s fingers trailed lightly against his bare abdomen, tracing the still fresh scar of the sword that had impaled him weeks ago. In the mirror, Veros stares at himself, frowning at how the gash ruined his skin. His right bicep was marred as well from the messy attempt to cauterize such a deep wound, scarring in the shape of his handprint. He was lucky to have been brought to healers in time to revert some of the gruesome damage from the excursion.

He huffs, throwing on a shirt and retrieving a reinforced chestpiece. Despite it all, he ultimately got what he wanted from the mission: Azerite. Studying it and its properties alongside the Agents of Suramar was soon to begin.

Now he just needed more.

Just days earlier, he proposed a date for the Agents to ley-walk the Dead Scar. The tainted power within those ley lines crystallized held similar properties to Azerite, he discovered. Mana Shards, a crystal produced from successfully filtering a majority of unholy magic in the Scar, appeared to be forever changed by the dark corruption rooted in the land. These Mana Shards had made them into what was essentially a smaller, watered down version of Azerite. Studying these without risking the destruction of Azerite would be useful, but he needed a team to retrieve more of those Shards. The Agents would help him retrieve the Shards; Azerite he had to acquire alone.

Veros straps on his spaulders, the gems socketed within glowing as they sense his energy. The sample of Azerite he collected in Silithus was small, and not enough for him to further his more daring studies. Luckily, he had intel that veins of Azerite were sprouting up in certain regions of Feralas. The Seething Shore was an active battlefield for such a mineral, but there was less activity within the woods just east from it. As a Ley-Walker, he could find Azerite in secluded areas, undisturbed by the likes of war and greed. No one would know he had taken any at all.

The thought delights him as he finishes strapping on his armor. Dalaran held a plethora of magi armorsets, many of which he happily purchased. If he were to take these missions serious and make strides in the study of Titan blood, he could not risk being as horrendously unprepared as he was in Silithus. This time, he would emerge victorious.

Filled with determination, Veros tosses his satchel on and claps his hands together, a spark of violet magic bursting forth and enveloping him until he shimmers out of his apartment. After a long moment of floating in a rift of arcane, Veros feels his boots land in soft grass, a warm, humid breeze brushing lightly past his face. Gone were his apartment walls and closets, replaced now with the dense, murky green of the forests of Feralas. He takes a deep breath, taking in the scent of the trees and plants, soaking in the sounds of the little creatures that chirp and groan deep in the forest. Tranquil and beautiful, Veros notes, and for a moment, he ponders if he would have lived here in a life where he remained his Kaldorei self instead of living beneath the barrier.

He shakes his head. Those thoughts would have to wait. He crouches, placing a hand down into the unruly grass, palm laying flat atop the ground. His runes glow brightly, and shortly after, he feels the cool energy within the earth connect to him. The rivers of mana stream through the arcanist, his own power linked to the ley lines deep within, and he feels it travel through dozens of curves and grooves through the nerves. In deep concentration, he searches through the lines, combing and swimming through each strand of power like a harpist, until finally, he strikes a chord, a thick nerve of power swollen with an influx of arcane. He could almost hear the shrieking music through the lines, the twisted melody of Azerite singing into his very soul as he reaches for it. There, north of where he stood -- that ley line bears a cluster of Azerite, and good Stars, it calls to him so.

He rises to his feet, swelling with the power of the ley lines. His armor, socketed with enchanted gems, fills and contains the energy he had absorbed, sparking with arcane lightning. With a deep breath, Veros shimmers, bursting with power as he blinks several yards away, repeating the teleportation again and again. He rushes through the forest, sprinting and blinking forth, traveling across the very ley line that showed him the clusters of Azerite, streaks of violet and blue magic trail shortly behind him until finally, he skids to a halt, boots digging roughly into the dirt as he catches a glimpse of that citrus yellow poking out of the ground.

The strange, broken hum of Azerite fills his ears, the shrieking melody not meant for the ears of mortals echoes through the forest. As much as knowledge and discovery tempted him, Veros found he could never shake off just how deeply it disturbed him to see the lines this way. Regardless, Veros had work to do. Azerite is not going to study itself.

Veros climbs up the hill before him, mindful of the vines and little lizards that skit away from him. As he hoists himself up and looks over the land before him, he could clearly see the veins of that powerful mineral growing under the protection of the nature surrounding it. Veros grins, retrieving the large pickaxe strapped to his back and sliding down the other side of the hill. A massive cluster of Azerite, entangled in roots and vines catches his eye, and he makes haste towards it, his mind already theorizing and questioning the nature of the mineral. How quick does Azerite grow? Does it sprout out instantly? Have the plants been affected by its influence?

As he nears the mineral, the song of the hardened titan’s blood grows louder, but another set of sounds assaults his ears as he approaches. Whispers, incoherent yet many flood the air, a dark aura beginning to veil over the environment. The temperature drops, and Veros stops in his tracks, twitching his head to and fro in search of the source of the disturbance. The whispers continue, as if a thousand separate hushed conversations decided to take place at once in the forest. A shadow passes quick in his peripheral, and he whirls around, searching for the interloper, but finding none. His neck and ears begin to itch feverishly, streaks of umber and indigo painting the corners of his vision as he staggers away from the Azerite. Though Veros could see no one in the immediate area, he could not help but feel the presence of a dozen sets of eyes staring into him.

He was surrounded.

Veros clutches the pickaxe tightly, eyes darting through the thicket. He combs through the voices in his head, trying to focus on one of the many whispers. Either the voices were far too hushed to make anything out, or they spoke a different, incomprehensible language; Veros did not know which, nor did he know if he even wants to. As he takes another step back, a bright, vivid golden glow lights up in the thicket, followed shortly by a dozen more golden flames appearing, like peering eyes watching his every move. His breath catches in his throat, and before he could rationalize any of his thoughts or a plan of any sort, his legs began to move, and he sprints away, dashing through the foliage in primal fear. The whispers intensify, and behind him he could hear the thundering sounds of footsteps tailing him, the murky green of the forest illuminated now by a frightening golden glow.

A hollow command in Thalassian rings over the forest, one Veros roughly understands as a call for detainment. His brows scrunch as he leaps through the grooves of the trees. No one else should have been here, no one else should have known. What a fool he was to believe no one else would catch on! He cannot be taken prisoner, not now, not ever!

Veros whirls on his heel, turning to see three human women, dainty and fair, clothed in flowing white gowns with stripes of black and gold pursuing him, their delicate hands glowing vividly with the Light. As he locks eyes with them, they leap in the air, clouds of magic lifting them to keep them levitated over the forest floor. Priests, he realizes, and he lifts his hands just as they do, arcane lightning crackling at his fingertips until his spell bursts in the air, creating a violet dome around them that silenced their spells. The priests fell, returning to the ground, and Veros blinks away, materializing a short distance in another direction. Several more golden orbs appeared in the woods, the hymns of the Light, the broken melody of Azerite, the whispers in his head, all clashing together to the beat of his heart and uneven breaths. He feared, oh he feared, not just for his life, but for his own sanity.

He rushes through the trees, branches snapping and foliage crunching beneath him, and as he looks down, he realizes the shadowy tendrils that slithered across by his feet, lurching up to seize the arcanist. Veros yelps, instinctively casting a blaze of arcane fire at his feet, propelling himself into the air and blinking ahead to another direction. A horn blows, and he turns in the direction of the sound, his blood running cold as he feels a dark presence enter the forest. Swirling in the thicket, the vague silhouette of a massive raven, void of any light and seeping with shadows at its inky wings swoops into the forest, its body forming and coming undone, held together by the nightmares of the Void strung together in an impossible physical form. The raven screeches, swooping through the forest at an immense speed, and seated atop the massive unliving creature is an elven woman clothed entirely in black. She hunches over the raven, flicking an arm back to reveal the massive scythe she wields, her spaulders lighting up with crimson magic, shaping itself into her own pair of ribbon-like wings. A thick red veil shrouds her face, and despite her own attire being drastically different from the white and gold of the other priests in pursuit, it was clear that she was one of them as well, no doubt their leader.

As the raven lets out another screech and comes closer towards Veros, he realizes that there is no chance at running from this. The Shadows that brought the raven into physical form seems to echo the nightmares of those around it, and as it and its rider approach, Veros begins to see his own fears clouded in the murky expanse of feathers. The voices in his head boom into uproarious shouts, the voices once hushed and incoherent were now loud and clear. The images of demons, his burning city, his withered family and friends begin to flood his mind, flashing with the horrible thoughts of death and destruction, even down to the Headquarters of the Agents set ablaze and stained with gore.

Veros crumples, screaming as the mental images assault his mind, fire, arcane and ice flashing through his hands frantically as he tries to pry himself away from the intrusions. He forces his eyes to open, feeling blood trickle from his nose as he lifts his head, and watches as the swirling void of the raven disperses into smoke, its rider gliding through the air at an immense speed towards him, her scythe drawn and teeming with the Shadows. Fear locks him in place, his stomach churning and veins running ice cold, and he watches, unflinching, as the woman lands in front of him hawkishly. Her prosthetic legs dig into the dirt, slicing through the grass while she slides just past him. The massive blade of the scythe swings around, the woman now standing a ways behind Veros, the curvature of the scythe wrapped close to his neck with the blade only threatening to part his flesh. Inside his head, he hears a dark, sultry, yet taunting laugh.

He did not dare to move.

He did not dare to breathe.

The air around him begins to settle, and he hears the dozens of other priests gather around the two, speckles of white robes fluttering in his peripheral. His heart pounds, his pulse felt in his throat, and he looks down at the blade, a wave of nausea crashing through him as he lays his eyes on the dark runes etched into the blade. At the joint of the blade and the staff of the scythe rests a massive, inhuman eyeball made of crystal, staring at nothing, yet somehow, staring deep into, and perhaps even beyond his soul. The laughter in his head came directly from this blade, he realizes, and he shudders as the smooth voice melts into his head again.

“My my, what a delicious specimen we have here…”

Veros gulps, taking a breath to steady himself. He knew of Xal’atath, knew of its dark origin and vaguely of its properties.

He knew also the woman who wielded such a hideous weapon.

“Lady Sunblade…” Veros says, his voice strained, but laced with a hint of humor. “Heh… F-Fancy seeing you way out here.”

The woman is silent for a long moment, but she eases slightly, allowing him more space between he and the scythe. The air is still and quiet, no one else daring to make a move or sound.

“Veros Moonshine…” The woman finally speaks, letting out a heavy sigh. She drops her scythe away from him, stepping back so she faced him. “Pray tell, my Shal’dorei friend, why do I only ever find you in places you don't belong?”

Veros chuckles, grateful to be off of the threat of death, though his hands still remained up in their surrender. “I… take it you won't be inclined to believe me if I said I were out here for an innocent stroll.”

The priest lifts her sculpted crown off her head, the veil slipping away to reveal her face. Minty eyes fell to the nightborne, a maternal, yet stern look etched into her features. Lady Neo’la Sunblade, the High Priest of the Conclave stood before him, horribly unamused. “You shouldn't be here.”

Veros shrugs slightly. “No one should be.”

“Especially not one of your kind.”

“Yes -- N-Now hold on, what ever do you mean by that?!”

Neo’la pinches the bridge of her nose irritably. “You’re a simple man, Veros, you’re a merchant. You should not be anywhere near dense places like these.”

Veros does not rise from his knees, instead crossing his arms defensively. “Contrary, Lady Sunblade. I've gone a little beyond the ‘simple' part by now. Besides, I've any right as you do to wander these woods as I please.”

Neo’la scoffs, shaking her head at him. “You are embarrassingly mistaken, Nightborne.” She spreads her arm, gesturing to the zealots that stood at the ready, awaiting her orders. “The priests of Netherlight Temple have claimed this neck of the woods for independent research. You are a trespasser here.”

Veros narrows his eyes, now turning to examine his environment. Priests and zealots had already been in the midst of the forest, and he hardly knew for how long. He rises to his feet carefully, feeling Neo’la’s eyes on him as he scans the area. The priests intended to stay and set up camp, it seems. His nose scrunches, and he turns back to face her again.

“This place has no laws or rules, my Lady,” Veros says cautiously. “I am breaking no rules, I am no trespasser.”

“So long as I and my zealots are here, my word is law.” Neo’la states simply. “There is much to be gained, much to be studied here.”

“Then from one researcher to another, allow me to propose that I take part in your studies, High Priest,” Veros offers, placing a hand to his chest. “I have come here in the pursuit of knowledge, wanting only to further the study of--”

“I've been kind enough already to spare your sanity and let you walk freely,” Neo’la interjects, her scythe thumping against the ground. “Had you been anyone else, we would have had you imprisoned and questioned. You have your chance now to run home, and neither of us will speak anything of this. If anyone asks, we never met here.”

Veros’ brow twitches. “I am grateful, Lady Sunblade, that you have spared me so. I suppose that makes me twice in your debt. But I came here for one thing, and I do not intend on leaving without it.”

Neo’la raises a brow, not quite angry, but rather intrigued by his remark. The priests behind her make a move towards him, but she holds up a hand, commanding them wordlessly to stay in position. “Why? Why bother? What reason do you have for collecting such a powerful gem?”

“Why are your priests here bothering with it?” Veros deflects, gesturing to the robed figures. “You see worth in it, you know it's worth studying. Leaps and bounds through science and discovery can be made with Azerite -- I just need a large sample. I want to explore its properties, I want to see for myself what it can do, how far we can take it!”

“And how am I to know there is no malicious intent behind your quest?”

“I am not like the individuals who are easily distracted by power,” Veros sneers. “I have no need for it. I have power on my own to draw from. Azerite has potential I want to explore, not so I can conquer and slay like some lowborn. I just want knowledge.”

Neo’la approaches him, staring into his eyes with a hollow, almost lifeless look. Veros holds his ground, staring back, but her very presence made the hairs on his skin rise. “So noble that it’s hard for me to believe you. Azerite in the wrong hands can corrupt. You're just one man about to take on massive power -- why should I trust that?”

Veros scoffs. “You've practically an entire army right here at your disposal. How can I trust that your hands are the wrong ones for Azerite to fall into? I'm one man, I'm hardly a threat. You, however...”

“We are searching and purging this area of potential Void corruption. Priestly duties.” Neo’la tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. “But I suppose you're right. I'm quite hypocritical in this case, aren't I?”

Neo’la raises her clawed hand, grabbing Veros’ jaw to turn his head and examine him. “You've changed quite a lot since the last we've met. There's a different look in your eyes… Just what have you seen?”

Veros holds her gaze, watching as that friendly minty green glow of her eyes fades, replaced with a fiery burst of amethyst, Shadows teeming in the depths of her pupils. The dark power envelopes her figure, sweeping a cold breeze across the forest, the whispers of the Shadows returning to the background noise. Veros flinches, ignoring the whispers and the calls, held in place by the gaze of the High Priest.

“I’ve seen enough to make me realize I cannot remain passive,” Veros says, his own voice calmer than he expected. He gently takes hold of her hand, moving it away from his face. “My kin have taken me in and shown me what it means to fight. I have a new purpose.”

“Do you, now?” Neo’la asks, the Shadows echoing her words. “You want to take control of your fate, of your future?”

“I want to study. I want to learn about my world.”

The priest grins wickedly, flashing a sharpened canine. “How bad do you want it?”

The pulse of the arcane within the lines beneath him begin to match his heartbeat, and Veros adjusts his stance, readying himself for action. “Bad enough. I am an Agent now, Lady Sunblade,” He grins. “I will not yield.”

“Very well...” Neo’la chuckles darkly, flicking her wrist back to extend her scythe. She sways her free hand in front of her, holding two fingers up that swirls with umber and golden magic. “Fight for it, then. Show me what you're made of.”

The two of them move in sync, the priests spectating them beginning to circle the pair as magic accumulates in the center. The arcanist fills with power, the ley lines feeding mana directly into him. Chaotic magic churns between the pair, the High Priest’s own body melding into pure shadow, dispersing into an inky cloud as Veros erupts with white hot arcane fire. A sonic blast sweeps through the forest, streaks of vivid violet and umber smoke painting the floor of the forest as they dart through. Veros launches himself into the air, his runes filled with an immense power that he had not felt in thousands of years. His glowing eyes sweep through the murky green in search of the Azerite, turning only in time to watch Neo’la emerge to her physical form, her scythe drawn and swinging brutishly down towards the arcanist.

Another booming crash echoes through the forest, her blade screeching against the arcane barrier that barely came up in time to shield the nightborne. He blinks to the ground, she slithers towards him in a cloud of shadow. Arcane lightning splurges from his arms, a barrage of missiles exploding from his fingertips towards the priest. One strikes, the others crash and shatter against a barrier of pure Light, the forest illuminated by flashes and bursts of cyan, violet and gold, brighter than the fireworks of the faire.

BOOM.

Ropes and whips of shadow solidify into the priest’s hands, sending out the magic to lash out at Veros. He blinks away from them, desperately dodging and avoiding them, only for them to become tangled wires across the mossy floor, forcing him to watch his step else he trip across the eldritch power. Veros grasps at the power deep within the lines, ripping the mana into his hands and allowing it to erupt to the surface like magma. He clenches his fists, swirling his hands to bend the mana into blades, severing the wisps of shadow that threatened to overtake him. Neo’la shoots forth, the lines between her physical form and the Void blurring, and she reaches a clawed hand towards his face, a wicked grin across her own. Fearful, Veros pulls the mana he controlled into himself, the arcane crystallizing around his body and encasing him in makeshift armor, the priest grabbing not flesh, but hardened mana. She snarls, raising her scythe, the blade glinting in the setting sun’s last glimmer of light before swinging it down, the weapon shrieking as it slices through air and crashes into the armor.

BOOM.

The armor shatters, sending the arcanist flying across the forest, bouncing and flailing through the forest floor as momentum takes no mercy. Dirt and grass stain his attire, and as he finally skids to a halt and looks up, he hears the whispers of madness assault his mind, the inky cloud encroaching ever closer. As he peers into the cloud of smoke, the Shadows form shapes and figures, nightmares and echoes of both his past, and her own. Death, blood, insanity, the destruction of cities, the loss of a child, of a loved one, of family, the plague of fear and betrayal, all of it pierces his mind like a million daggers, searing the images into his brain and forcing him to relive the horrors. He lets out a scream, clawing feebly at his temples as the cloud of Shadow bursts into Neo’la’s physical form once more. Her hands teem with the power of the Void, and she grasps at his collar, yanking him up to his knees.

“Tell me what you see, Arcanist,” She says, her words distorted by the dark magic that clings to her. “How desperate are you to undo your own vices?”

He lets out another shout as he feels his own memories pulled from the dark corners of his mind. Kalana, his adopted daughter, floats into his vision, and he recalls her smile, her studies and her work, and how valiantly she fought against the Legion as they poured into their beautiful city. His work as an Arcanist, the other nightborne who supported him in the Terrace of Enlightenment. His work had made leaps and bounds, and the memory of his despair and fall from such a title awakens anew, the pain of failure seizing Veros tenfold in the crevices of his chest. His research melts away, Kalana’s withered features burn into his vision, and the destruction from the demons, both of present, and of the Ancients present themselves vividly. But, as the visages of demons and slaughter flood in, he realizes, these memories were some of which that had been long gone, long forgotten. His mother, his father, faces he thought he could never recall again, were suddenly fresh in his mind, painted with blood from the war, painted with fear and regret.

Yet somehow, these nightmares, these visions, they did more than just frighten and torment him.

They woke him up.

Veros snaps his eyes open, his runes flowing brilliantly with power. He yanks her hands off of him, the visages disappearing from his mind. For the first time in thousands of years, he felt he could see clearly, see beyond just his strife. The pain molded and sculpted him into the man he became, and though he had abandoned his past accomplishments, he had the opportunity now to fight for it back. To fight and prevent such violence and despair. As he plunges his hands into the floor, ripping at the burning hot mana the overflows from his body, feeling the power of not just the ley lines, but the roots of Azerite nearby pour into his fingertips, Neo’la grins, her scythe held up in anticipation.

“An’ratha an’tal!”

Magic crackles through his body, the runes on his cheeks only barely serving to hold him together enough to not outwardly explode with the spell. Shockwaves of arcane emit through the arcanist, a dome of arcane lightning forming around him before detonating into a massive array of cyan and violet. The High Priest found herself thrown backwards by the spell, sound waves crashing through the forest, the trees bending at the force of the explosion. Veros’ own armor could hardly handle the power he emitted, and had become shredded with the force. The zealots, previously passively watching the duel, swoop into the scene, rushing to the High Priest and forming barriers of pure Light around the arcanist.

Boom.

Veros collapses to his knees, his vision blurred from the use of such an excessive spell. He felt coils of Light wrap around him to restrain him, and only vaguely register’s Neo’la’s command to the zealots. The barriers drop, and she approaches him, holding onto the arm of a zealot for assistance to walk. The ends of her robes were damaged and singed, and Veros caught a glimpse of a destroyed prosthetic leg dangling underneath. Yet despite the destruction, Neo’la appeared calm, hosting no anger, hosting no resentment.

“I severely underestimated you, Veros,” Neo’la says, her voice strained and out of breath. She places a hand on her chest, and bows. “Never did I anticipate this kind of fire from someone like you.”

Veros groans, sitting back against a tree behind him. The zealots drop the chains of Light that had restrained him per Sunblade’s silent command, and as his runes begin to settle to their normal glow, he laughs wearily. “I assume that’s a compliment, my Lady?”

Neo’la snickers, waving to the zealots to help him up. “Given the complexity of my research here, Veros, I cannot allow you to extract Azerite from here,” She says, watching as Veros’ face wilts at that. “It is dangerous, and this area is unstable.”

Veros allows the priests to hoist him up, and he breathes easy as streams of Light flood into his body, rejuvenating him. “Then this ruckus was for naught and in vain. I apologize for wasting your time.”

Neo’la smirks. “I’m not leaving you empty handed, Veros. This duel… has shown me something… admirable.”

She calls out to someone behind her, and a troll, sporting a fiery red mohawk steps forth, nodding to the High Priest. He retrieves a deep maroon satchel, and she nods to Veros. The troll extends it to the nightborne, who takes it curiously into his hands.

“We have likely called attention to this area of the forest with our… scuffle…” Neo’la says, wiping blood from her split lip. “I will deal with whoever comes. You need to leave now, before they see you here. As I stated earlier, we will not speak of this encounter. We never saw each other here.”

Veros stares at her, glancing to the satchel with bewilderment. “I… Well, um… What’s -- What do I do with th--”

“That --” Neo’la points to the bag with her chin. “-- is your ticket to research. Do not open it until you’re in a secure place. Inside, you’ll find where to locate Azerite. Do not return to Feralas until we know this place has no Void influence. I will not risk anyone falling to madness here for greed.” She smiles, bowing her head. “You should practice that spell again, try to avoid nearly fainting from it. It could do you good.”

Veros blinks, at a complete loss for words, but chuckles heartily, bowing deeply and humbly to the High Priest. “I will make use of this, High Priest, you have my gratitude.”

The priests clean the area, sweeping away evidence of the chaos as much as they could. As Veros steps through a portal back to his home, he peaks through the bag, his eyes landing on a map that told him exactly where to go next.

Northrend.

[tipsycad147]

Origin of Friday 13

Superstition was reported in several cultures dating back to before Christ. Number 13 has been misunderstood for a long time. In some cultures it may have been considered lucky number. There is no evidence that 13 was considered unlucky by ancient cultures. On the contrary, many peoples considered it a sacred number. For the Egyptians, life was composed of 12 different stages for the human being to reach the 13th, which was eternal life. Thus the number 13 was assimilated with death, but not with a negative connotation, but as a glorious transformation. This connection with death remained and was distorted by other cultures that harboured the fear of death and did not see it as present in the destiny of any life. Some historians blame Christians' distrust of Fridays in general opposition to pagan religions. Friday received its name in English in honour of Frigga, the Nordic goddess of love and sex. This strong female figure, according to historians, posed a threat to male-dominated Christianity. To counter her influence, the Christian church characterised her as a witch, defaming the day that honoured her. This characterisation may also have played a role in the fear of number 13. It was said that Frigg would join a witch convention, usually a group of 12, totalling 13. A similar Christian tradition considers the 13 cursed to mean the gathering of 12 witches. and the devil.

The ancient calendar represented the lunar calendar, having 13 months of 28 days. But this number was completely denied by the priests of the early patriarchal religions for representing the feminine in prehistoric cultures, as it reflected the menstrual cycle of women. It was then changed by Pope Gregory XIII to 12 months, preventing further worship of the woman as sacred. Evidence that early cultures revered the 13 can be seen from various archaeological remains, such as the Venus de Laussel, a 27,000-year-old statuette found in France, which holds a crescent-shaped horn in its hands. with 13 chamfers. There are stories also traced back to Norse mythology. In the first of these, it is said that there was a banquet and 12 gods were invited. Loki, the spirit of evil and discord, appeared without being called and fought a fight that ended with the death of Balder, the gods' favourite. There are also those who believe that inviting 13 people to dinner is a disgrace simply because the table sets are usually made up of 12 glasses, 12 cutlery and 12 plates. According to another version, the goddess of love and beauty was Friga (which gave rise to frigadag, Friday). When the Nordic and German tribes converted to Christianity, Friga was transformed into a witch. In revenge, she started meeting every Friday with 11 other witches and the demon, the 13 kept pleading with humans. From Scandinavia superstition spread throughout Europe.

Regarding Friday, many cultures consider it a bad day: Some researchers report that the great flood came on Friday. Christ's death took place on a Friday known as Good Friday. English seamen do not like to set sail on Friday. In Christianity, an event of bad luck is reported on Friday, October 13, 1307, when the Order of the Templars was declared illegal by King Philip IV of France. Its members were simultaneously arrested throughout the country and some tortured and later executed for heresy. Another possibility for this belief lies in the fact that Jesus Christ was probably killed on Friday the 13th, as the Passover is celebrated on the 14th of the month of Nissan in the Hebrew calendar. It is also recalled that at the Last Supper thirteen people were seated at the table, two of them, Jesus and Judas Iscariot, then died by tragic deaths, Jesus by crucifixion and Judas probably by suicide. The number 13 used to be considered a connection with God, hence the number of members present at the Last Supper.

Note also that in Tarot card number 13 represents Death, even by a possible association with the Hebrew letters.Practical scholars interpret the letter as a sign of changing views, ways of living, and profound inner and outer transformations. Even when referring to physical death in the religious conception, it does not represent an end in itself, after all ancient peoples saw death as transmutation, a passage to another world or plane of existence, usually with an evolutionary connotation. For this reason, the traditions of western magic suggest the number of 13 participants in rituals.

In Spain and Greece, the number is also seen as a bad omen, but the day of the week they consider bad is Tuesday.For them, Tuesday is the day of the week dedicated to Mars, Roman god of war, and to the blood and violence that gave him the name of red planet. Friday and 13, together or apart, in fact, can do nothing. They themselves have no power. They are harmless. The power lies in those who believe they have power. Power, for better or for worse, is that it believes that they can create, generate, or do good or evil. So if anyone believes that Friday 13 is unlucky or unlucky, they will connect with their existing vibrational field, contaminating themselves with all the anguish, fear and terror stored there, drawing to themselves some of the "bad" energy. "that is there, which can cause something" bad "in your life. It is not, therefore, Friday the 13th that brings bad luck, but the superstitious who will pick you up every Friday the 13th, with your thoughts, your fear, your own anguish and lack of confidence. Creating misrepresented images of how things really are is very easy, especially if it is to dominate the people who are in ignorance. Now, teaching the people to think and to progress is the hard thing. I don't know if my opinion is worth anything to you, but Being a Priestess, I say: Friday the 13th is an ordinary day like any other, because I can be walking quietly on a Saturday 14th and, due to my lack of attention, I can fall, sprain your ankle or break your foot. What's up? Who will I blame? On Saturday 14, why was it after Friday 13? The problem is that there are so many people who adhere to the popular saying "no creo en las brujas, but hay, las hay", that whenever a Friday comes 13, the atmosphere gets heavier, due to the emanations of people who, "just in case," they stay connected, looking for "signs" of bad luck, trying to get past the cursed day unscathed. And then it seems that superstition has some foundation. SOURCE: VIVIANE TEMPLE

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