#vessel consecration

[itswilliamleonard]

sana completes the launch ritual

[windvexer]

Ritual Gestation and Birth: A relatively low-spoons method (at least I think so) of creating powerful* servitors, enchantments, etc

*Powerful as compared to other techniques that work worse.

A common spellcasting method is to immediately deploy the spell once the casting is complete. In fact, deployment is often a part of the casting ritual in and of itself.

A different option is to keep the spell vessel in a state of magical gestation over a period of days or weeks, so that it slowly matures, gains strength, and solidifies, until it's born into this world, ushered by your hands.

This method is opposed to one where huge amounts of energy need to be raised at once. It's not a technique I'm able to manage in a sustainable way, and I find the results to be a little too... jittery.

If you are a witch who must not, or may not, raise lots of energy at once, this technique may be more manageable. It involves supervising a pot of spell, a bit like a simmering pot of stew, but overall I find it to be less of a draining process. Perhaps other people will find the same.

I believe that creating a magical seed (or embryo, if you like), and tying it to a physical object - such as a candle, crystal, piece of jewelry, charm bag, poppet, and so on - is in and of itself a powerful act of magic. This is why a candle can be enchanted, immediately burned, and still result in miraculous effects.

However, I also believe that giving the seed time to magically gestate can produce deeply powerful, effective, and long-lasting (or perhaps better to say, permanent) results. This isn't the same as completing a casting and letting the enchantment sit until you're ready to use it - it's an active process of nurturing.

Instead of immediately sending a spell to go out and work, sending it to a gestation phase is an easy change. If our spellcasting methodologies are anything alike, all you've got to do (in crude terms) is to swap out your targeting/release portion of the spell with an introduction to the magical womb, or egg, or embryonic sack, (&etc), within which the spell will grow and gain strength.

Examples:

If you direct energy as you raise it, instead of chanting, focusing, writing, or affirming that the spell goes to the target as you raise the energy, instead C/F/W/A that the spell goes into the gestational vessel.

If you gather energy and imprint/program it before you deploy it, send it to the gestational vessel instead of the target.

If you fully enchant a spell vessel (such as enchanting a candle, or creating a poppet), after the spellcasting is complete, instruct the new spell to rest and grow strong within the gestational vessel, until it's time to be fully born.

After the spell is cast, and you have magically moved the spell into its gestation phase, the spell components should be placed securely within the gestational vessel and tended to until they're ready to be born.

The "gestational vessel" is a physical object - in Traditional Witchcraft, this is most suitably the cauldron. But the gestational vessel only needs to meet a few qualifications, regardless of its ability to make campfire stews:

The gestational vessel must have a secure lid, even a makeshift lid, which blocks out the light.

It must be large enough to completely hold the physical components of the spell which it gestates.

It must be able to be stored without disruption, where no unqualified persons may accidentally remove the lid or disturb it.

Additionally:

Moving the vessel doesn't seem to typically disrupt what's growing inside. It can be taken down from a shelf, etc.; as long as the lid isn't opened without due cause.

I do not personally consecrate gestational vessels to that special purpose. I tend to use multi-use vessel which I'll use for other things later.

When the spell is inside of the magical egg (tired of saying gestation), it becomes your job to tend to it by providing energy. This can take many forms, and is an intuitive process.

Feeding the spell can be done in any manner which you usually recharge objects, or provide offerings to spirits. The line is blurred here, I think.

Feed the spell more of what you fed it in order to create it; that is, more of the same energy you raised, more of the same emotion you spent, and so on.

If preferred, feed the spell food, candle, and incense offerings. A general offering of "white light," or another creative energy, also does well here.

Intuition may advise that different foods are wanted by the spell at different times. Do with that as you please.

Those able to "tune in" to the energies of their spells and environment may find it to be very easy to keep track of the embryonic spell's hunger. Otherwise, follow a simple schedule.

I usually do not find that spells need to be fed every day, and when they require feeding, I do not find that they respond to huge amounts of energy or offerings.

Feeding about every three days is a safer bet for me.

I notice that an excess of provided energy just seems to pool up and go to waste.

A feeding may be as simple as placing a bit of your dinner next to the gestation vessel along with an offering charm, or if you're able to, lighting a single tea light.

Persons interested in psychism may have an excellent time noting the energetic change in the spell as the gestation develops.

The lid may be carefully opened to peek inside, especially if normally helpful intuition fails without peeking in; but treat the vessel gently, as if a tiny embryonic baby chicken is inside. Be quiet and gentle, and avoid disrupting the lid unless you really need to.

Ahead of time, before you even cast the spell, you should have decided how long you're going to gestate it for. Three days, or a full moon cycle, or dark to full moon, are a good bet; so is one week if you're doing a planetary thing. I find that even a shorter gestation period provides delightful results compared to doing none at all.

Intuition may advise that the spell is ready to be born early, or would like to stay a little longer.

If intuition is not your ally in these matters, follow the schedule you've set. All will be well.

The appointed time has arrived - the spell is to be born! (Celestial enthusiasts may be wise the the idea of birthing their spell at a special hour, day, or election).

Frankly, popping off the vessel lid, saying, "your time of rest is done, you are now at full power, go now and begin your duties" will perfectly suffice.

But better can be achieved.

If possible, consider employing a birthing ritual. Here are ideas, in no particular order:

Symbols of a gateway or passageway are very good, even something as simple as two stones or two candles to mark a 'gate'.

Using an actual doorway, especially moving from indoors to outdoors (or vice-versa, depending on the nature of your spell).

Using a hag stone to represent pulling the spell from the faerie world into our physical one; the reverse process of how such a stone is often employed.

Using a family tradition, or religious or cultural tradition, to celebrate the birth of a new baby; even if this tradition is only symbolically simulated through key points ("I am the grandpa of this family, and as the grandpa, I announce the new baby's name!")

Doing something celebratory and evocative, like that Lion King scene where Rafiki holds up baby Simba, etc.

In general, the spell should be removed from the gestation pot in a ritualistic way, glistening with the gravity of ushering new life into this world.

The spell may be carefully taken from the vessel and passed through a doorway or liminal space; symbolically drawn through a hag stone or other physically impassable space; held up to greet the first light of the day, or the light of a certain moon phase; be passed over a fire; or any number of ritualistic acts to denote movement into a new phase of life.

At this time, you should magically assert that the spell is born, and ready to do its task.

Of course, you do more. And in these matters, I find that more is better.

A christening ceremony, or a baptism, is most excellently employed to further empower this new life to be a living being in our world, capable of great influence and change - as we all imagine our children will be.

A bit of anointing oil, a touch of holy water, a formal naming ceremony ("I name you, My Paycheck is Cleared. Your name is My Paycheck is Cleared."), whatever you like - especially include a small gift to the spell (perhaps a few coins to set it on the right path in life), or - I suppose this post has gotten long enough. You can perhaps imagine what more could be done.

When all is said and done, employ the spell; light it if it's a candle, whisper things to it if it's a poppet, hang it up if it's supposed to be hung up, and so on.

Do mind that such things, having being born into this world and given real life, do not tend to quit it so quickly as only bornless energies that are diffused just as they were raised; like waves, forming and dissipating.

Things with birthdays and names and birthday presents and baptisms and godparents tend to feel as if this world is theirs, too.

I am generally not very much of a "be careful" sort of poster, but for this sort of technique, I'd recommend being careful. It really does work fantastically, and that's the problem.

Feed the spell with your blood at the moment of conception, and at the moment of birth, for something extra delightful.

[hoseoksluna]

THE FUN DAY, pt. I. | kth ft. pjm

pairing: idol!military!boyfriend!taehyung x f. reader (ft. best friend!jimin)

genre: fluff, angst — the sad kind

word count: 4.8k

summary: you've prepared a fun day for your boyfriend's military vacation. thank god he's here, right?

pin: f. / playlist: fun / taglist: join / discord: join

warnings: suggestive but not described themes of sex and alcohol consumption.

note: i'm so EXCITED to bring you this fic that i can't wait until tomorrow to post this. everyone welcome TAEHYUNG and JIMIN to the hoseoksluna universe. i have to tell you a secret. taehyung was my first bias when i first became army. taehyungie was the first one to save me from the bunch—literally to resurrect me because in him i found all the things i used to love and fell out of. jazz, poetry, the aesthetics and arts. it is an honor to write about him and i think i will write another taehyung fic next week. if you have any ideas, drop them in my ask box and i will use them for inspiration. this fic is dedicated to my baby ruru @tkslovechild, my tatlim @jjk7k, and the beautiful anon that asked me for a tae fic while i was already working on this one. i love you all so much. enjoy this beautiful piece. <3 mwah.

𓂃 ౨ৎ .

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone enough to truly consecrate the hour. I am much too small in this world, yet not small enough to be to you just object and thing, dark and smart. I want my free will and want it accompanying the path which leads to action; and want during times that beg questions, where something is up, to be among those in the know, or else be alone.

I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection, never be blind or too old to uphold your weighty wavering reflection. I want to unfold. Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent; for there I would be dishonest, untrue. I want my conscience to be true before you; want to describe myself like a picture I observed for a long time, one close up, like a new word I learned and embraced, like the everday jug, like my mother's face, like a ship that carried me along through the deadliest storm.

𓂃 ౨ৎ . — I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone by Rainer Maria Rilke

It was your love language, to dress up like your boyfriend. 

Dress pants, shirts and jackets. Linen, silk, leather. Pointed heels or oxford shoes. Grays, browns, beiges and whites. It was something that made you happy—and it was something that represented a vessel, made of unbreakable porcelain, for your love that you carried for Taehyung. 

He’s sitting in the corner of your bedroom, on a wooden stool he specifically placed at such a picturesque place. With the ivory curtains drifting along the nape of his neck, sheer enough to expose the small vase of tulips that stoop in a private longing for his touch. He fondles them often to preoccupy his mind when you take your usual long showers and he waits for the fashion shows you give him. He’s the one who says yes or no. These shoes, love. Look, they’re just like mine. And right at this moment, the wine-yellow petals are caught between his slender fingers when you come out and he doesn’t let go of them—because you’re not holding up the outfit for the day as you always are. 

For the fun day as you’ve called it. 

You’re dressed in it. Low-waisted gray dress pants with a little, tight, white shirt. Black stilettos, black shoulder purse. Your trench coat is waiting for you in the hall, hung up and lonely, but other than that you’re matching him fully. It feels as though you’re fading into him, becoming a singular being that has his DNA and his beauty, and when he beams up at you, boxy smile on full show, spine straight and tall on the stool, long fingers gripping its rim, Taehyung, with his gray suit and a white shirt, somehow validates that feeling. 

Somehow, in that peculiar Taehyung way of his. 

He extends his hands towards you, asking for your closeness. There’s a mist of murkiness that envelops him, with the saddened clouds beyond the window, standing in the place of the sun. It moves through you, this image of him reaching for you in this landscape, and you think he deserves to be painted like this. With black charcoal and a little bit of soft carmine to eternalize the blush of his cheeks—the only trace of color in the sketchbook. Your hands don’t know the art of drawing, but your heart does and while you take those necessary steps towards him, you feel the scratches of that dark pencil over that grainy flesh. 

His palms find your curves and you consider it unbelievable, the fact he’s still so big, despite the size of the stool and the height of your heels. No matter how much taller you grow, he’ll always be that tower that protects you from the blazing heat of the sun. 

He’s the epitome of autumn. No longer a boy, but a man, whose lungs are perfumed by apples, leaves, cinnamon, pumpkin spice and the slight iciness of the seasonal wind. Whose eyes witnessed the growth of your form since you were a little girl with two long braids. 

Childhood best friends turned to lovers, favored by the hanging, twinkling stars. 

You always saw him the most in autumn. Chasing you down during festivities that your mom couldn’t not be a part of, grabbing a hold of one of your braided pigtails with his already long fingers, then tickling you until you gave up. Ever so easy to catch because of the length of your hair. You knew, even as a little girl, that he was not just a part of your life, but your life itself. More than a companion, more than a friend. You dreamed about having his babies and that dream would come to life through your imagination whenever he would chase you down, years later, in the grand halls of the east wing of his grandiose family home, where nobody ever comes, just to steal a kiss or two. It was the moment you realized that you were no longer kids, even though you acted as such, but that you desired little legs to follow you in the fun of it all. 

And that kiss changed every autumn from that year on.

Stolen glances, the blush of cheeks, quivering fingers that no longer grabbed your braids. Not until many autumns later. You gave him your everything, every bit of your newly-bloomed femininity, your dream of having his babies and he folded it into the vinyls of his favorite jazz music that he would play every night whenever he needed inspiration or whenever he simply needed you. 

Newly. Not just yet as adults and no longer as kids. Somewhere in between. 

And then the duties of adulthood came. The natural process of drifting apart settled between your bodies and you no longer played in the stage between. Taehyung, the saxophone-playing jazz singer, moving foreign bodies into his personal, heart-sung rhythm. Not yours, never yours for a long time. You, working a day job that never paid enough, not for the dresses you yearned to wear at those clubs he would play at. 

But what you didn’t know was that drifting apart meant coming together eventually. 

He might have become your Turnip Head, silent and distant, but you were Sophie—and you found him. You found him while looking for something, or someone for the lack of better words, and he helped you. Over a cup of coffee he didn’t drink, at a jazz bar you always wanted to come to. Your date was a hit and miss and the guy never came, and your Turnip Head didn’t help you find your Howl. 

He helped you find himself. And from that moment on, you never drifted apart again. 

Who would’ve thought that seeking a relationship that did not resemble your dream nor your childhood would make you find him all over again. 

In autumn, too. 

Taehyung paid for your dresses, your female suits, paid for your drinks. Kissed you underneath those dimmed, brown lights before he went off to play songs that moved your body at last. Dancing alone to his songs was your dream come true until he set down his saxophone and joined you. Let his band mates play his favorite Etta James song as he took your hand and drifted upon the dance floor with you. Those who danced before this song sat down, let you have this opportunity for yourself, and Taehyung kissed you, after a long time, after many autumns had passed, right then and there. 

And both of you realized that you could never drift apart again. You could only drift together. 

You moved in together. He bought you tulips of every possible hue every week. Played you his new songs for you on the saxophone. Took you to art galleries. Took you sightseeing, sometimes alone with you, sometimes with Jimin joining you. Shared your dream about having babies with you and talked about it all the time. Tried it out, seized it many times, though the outcome both of you desired never came. Had a beautiful life with you until…

Until he thinned out into his Turnip Head form and skipped away to fulfill his country duties. 

But he’s here. Oh, he’s here. Buff and big, apples, cinnamon and pumpkin spice. Brown eyes that carry the memory of your growth, hands that clutch your hips and that hold the silky memory of your still long braids. Hands that edge around your slightly, barely puffy tummy and that don’t know that you are with a concoction of a small him and you, a divine magical realism, a dream that came true without his knowledge right after the last hours of his military vacation were up and he had to go back to serve the country. 

The reason behind this fun day. 

The day of his second vacation, the day you tell him. 

“You look just like me,” he breathes, the width of his smile never lessening, hands skipping over the space between your hips and your arms and grabbing your hands. It gets to you still, the way his eyes never look up at you, the way they never have, and you feel so sweetly small. Even more so when Taehyung stands to his feet and slides his suit jacket over your shoulders. You become even smaller, a fawn taken care of. A pregnant fawn. “And now you are me.” 

Oh, he doesn’t know just how much. Not yet. 

He sits back down and gently pushes you to take a step back. On wavering feet, like that freshly-born fawn, you waver on your feet, but Taehyung keeps you stable, leaning forward to make sure you’ve caught your balance. A wisp of his dark hair falls over his eye that he, at last, flicks up at you. And the sensation from it, it is nothing that you ever felt before. 

It is a step forward. 

It’s something that tells you: go ahead. 

You planned to tell him at the jazz bar where he kissed you for the first time as an adult and made you his. But now, now it feels more than right, amidst this strange newness that you don’t think you’ll ever experience again. 

You open your mouth, brace yourself, but Taehyung is faster. Ringing fills your ears, the atmosphere around you feels gooey—as if you’re walking through a limbo. 

“Jimin will meet us at the park.” 

Oh, yes. Walk in the park, a warm drink to go, then the jazz bar. Jimin is having his military break as well, about to sing in Taehyung’s honor, you already knew this, knew he would join you, but being in the presence of your boyfriend, the detail slipped out. 

The newness leaves. Taehyung straightens. Towers over you. The normalcy flattens over the chemistry between you and him, the atmosphere lessening to feathery lightness and when you move your arms to give back his jacket, your arms feel as though they’re not your own. 

Your smile falls. 

Jazz bar it is. 

“We should go,” you prompt, turning around, having all the balance in the world as you go fetch your purse and reapply your red lipstick. 

Taehyung watches you in the mirror, his boxy grin on eternal display, warming your heart. You think about how you can’t wait until his baby witnesses that smile for the first time—and wonder if God is molding, at this very hour, the same one upon their little face. It brings tears to your eyes, ones that you quickly blink away, and instead you focus on lining your lips with the tip of the lipstick with utmost precision. 

In your vast collection of lip liners, you don’t have a red one. Truth be told, you always feared this vibrant color. It represented a stigma you never liked—that only promiscuous women wear that color, but to you it was never that. 

It was a color that meant you lose your girlhood, your childhood upon wearing. 

And now, it is a color that announces the next era of your life: adulthood, but different, painted with motherly instincts that are of these vibrant hues. Womanhood. No longer fearful, but brave. 

Right. 

You want your baby to connect this color to you and know that you made it. You waited your whole life for their father and gave it to him in one of the autumns as a child. Without knowing, without realizing. 

That color is a legacy. 

As if he could hear your thoughts, Taehyung kisses the back of your head, halting your motions. Wraps his arms around you as he props his chin on the place he kissed—and right here, right now, you’re looking at a family portrait in the mirror. 

A living, breathing one. With lifting chests in tandem, growing smiles and a growing baby in your womb. 

Magical realism in full effect. 

And then Taehyung is off to fetch your trench coat, holding it up for your arms to slip inside its sleeves. Grabs your hand and revels in the autumn weather outside, boxy smile never faltering. Sings in the car on the way to the park, makes eye contact as he mouths the lyrics—kiss me once and kiss me twice, then kiss me once again, it’s been a long, long time—because he could never sing over that part. It’s too precious to his heart for him to do so. 

The wind accompanies you and grabs your other hand as you walk down the pathway lined with half-barren trees and a still pond. Taehyung hums the Bing Crosby song that seems to be playing on loop within his mind and it is the only greenery that spreads around through his husky voice. All else—the pond, the trees and the last of their leaves that dance around you, the shrubberies and the clouds up above—are smeared with sullen blues and grays, to which Taehyung is everlastingly immune. 

Jimin is standing by an antique coffee stand, dressed to the nines in an outfit he most definitely must be cold in. Black dress pants with a jacket that stuns you. A matching Hussar one, with golden braiding. A military piece of clothing from another time. You think it suits the fun day quite delightfully, but not as much as it suits him. The golden detail goes hand in hand with his golden hair and you think he needs his picture taken. 

“Jimin!” you call out, making his confused little face turn in your direction, and he swivels his body to face you altogether. He holds two cups of coffee in both of his hands, one for him and one for you. You melt at that and look up at Taehyung to see his boxy smile ever so frozen and beautiful, pointed at his best friend. 

When you reach him, he hugs you. His cold skin stings you and you quickly warm him up with rubbing motions against his back. Scrunch your brows in puzzlement when he doesn’t hug Taehyung nor even look at him. 

But all is swept away when Jimin exclaims in discomfort and takes a rapid sip of his boiling drink. 

“Jimin, where’s your coat?” you ask him in pity, watching him shake and moan in pain once he burns his tongue. He uses the cup to warm up both of his hands. 

“I didn’t think Paris would be so cold in October,” he explains in a hushed, livid tone, drawing the rim of the paper cup back to his lips as if he didn’t learn his lesson. Typical Jimin. “But this outfit is for Taehyung anyways, so I’ll survive.” 

He talks of him but he doesn’t look at him. Makes heart eyes at the misting coffee, instead. Like Taehyung isn’t here at all. 

Strange. 

You shake off the thought. 

“Go stand by the pond before you freeze. I want to take a picture of you,” you say, softly, pulling your phone out of your purse. Glancing up, you expect Jimin to be ready with his pose, but he’s looking at you as if you said the most outrageous thing in the world. Eyes wide, mouth downturned in horror. You laugh and place a hand on his arm. “Go, Jimin. This is a special day and special days ask for special pictures.” 

Jimin sighs and nods, despite the fact he doesn’t really look like he wants to do it. 

“Fine, but I’m keeping the coffee in my hand.” 

Your tender laughter prolongs. “Fair enough. Go pose with your little heat pack.” 

Gazing out at the pond, Taehyung is already standing there. With his brown coat over his gray suit, he coalesces with the autumnal scenery and you think he belongs there. That a statue should be made of him right where his feet are planted, for people to remember and appreciate his beauty. You snap a few pictures of him before Jimin makes his way towards the stone bannister and stops right in front of Taehyung, who towers over him. Jimin lifts his cup and smiles a little tight smile, the mist from his coffee eclipsing over him like a soft fog. Switching to portrait mode, Taehyung is gone by the time your screen clears out and shows Jimin by his lonesome self, setting his coffee cup down on the bannister and turning around for some dramatic, aesthetic shots. Taehyung laughs in your ear, catches your slipping purse and places it back on your shoulder, and what he says next gives your life a whole new meaning. 

“Jimin is cute, but he’s strong and sane enough to protect you while I’m gone.”

You pivot back, piercing your sight right through him, not believing those words were just flung out of him like that. Taehyung never mentioned you having a protector while being in the military and even the whole concept of it confuses you even deeper as Jimin is serving as well. He might not be in the special forces like your boyfriend is, but he’s serving nonetheless. The systems are the same, no matter the department. 

Before you can ask him what he meant by that, the sing-song tone of Jimin’s voice reaches you. He calls out your name with a bit of alarm. 

“What’s wrong?” 

You gaze back and meet his eyes in full motion—he’s already taking long steps towards you and grabbing your arm, taking your confusion to another level.  

“What happened?” he asks, his pupils thin dots that ripple through your skin with stiff, panicky electroshocks. You glance back at Taehyung to discover that he’s not standing behind you at all, but behind Jimin, clutching his shoulder. 

You blink. “Nothing.” 

Jimin lets go of your arm and inhales the autumnal air. The pond, suddenly, heaves. 

“Let’s go somewhere warm,” Jimin suggests and you agree with him with a nod of your head. Pinpricks of iciness kisses your fingertips, despite the fact you’re still holding your own cup of coffee that Jimin bought you. 

A strange feeling seizes you. 

The jazz bar is an embrace of snug heat that embraces your womb first before greeting the rest of your body. You can’t help but to touch your baby, say to her in your heart: this is your Daddy’s most favorite place in the whole wide world. And the feeling is so surreal that it washes away the strange sensation that clung to you so heavily. 

You’re the first customers to come. Jimin sighs in absolute relief and he’s standing in the middle of the dance floor, frozen in time, as he lets the warmth of the place defrost his bones. Your cup of coffee was long finished and discharged; Jimin’s drank his in long sips that took seconds to finish, too, and the whole ordeal was so funny to you that it’s given you a sense of lightness that you needed. 

Taehyung hasn’t spoken a word since you left your apartment. 

He sits at the bar stool like he sat in your shared bedroom. One leg propped on the footrest while the other is relaxed on the floor, one hand folded on the apex of his thigh, the other drumming on the bar while the band he doesn’t know is rehearsing their instruments. You take a seat right beside him and feel like the parents you’re about to become. Sophisticated, classical, sublime. 

The pretentious kind, but in a good way. 

That thought makes you smile softly until the bartender asks you if you’d like anything. You politely decline her, even though you’d love a glass of wine with the daddy to be beside you. You can’t drink, not for many months to come. You wait for her to ask Taehyung the same question, but she doesn’t even lift her eyes to his direction. She wipes down the wood of the bar and leaps away. 

Nobody fucking asks Taehyung anything. 

Amidst a hearty guitar strumming solo, Jimin notices the furrow of your brows, the downturned pout of your mouth that opens to ask Taehyung about the strangeness that keeps occurring today. But before you get the words out, Jimin calls out your name into the microphone, the vowels made sweet by the sound of his princely voice. He stands with the band behind his back, his Hussar jacket exquisitely fitting the dimmed background. He holds out his hand for you, a poignant glint perched on top of his irises, and he flattens his puffy, pink lips. 

“Don’t be sad. Tonight is for Taehyung and all sadness is prohibited,” he says with his feigned announcer articulations, the corners of his mouth rounding in a similar manner to yours, in sympathy. “We will have to kindly ask you to leave if you proceed in your sadness. Please, join me here.” 

You roll your eyes, but the smile gracing your features couldn’t be erased even with the force of the whole wide world. You stand to your feet and paddle your way to him, the heels of your stilettos clicking on the worn parquets. Jimin gives you a soft grin and places his microphone down, meeting you halfway on the dance floor and taking your hand. 

It is when he begins to sing, just for you, that you perceive that the instrumental song the guitarist played is one, which is contained in one of Taehyung’s vinyls. The ones he would play in the darkest of nights and sing the lyrics to your bare body. Tears prick your waterline when Jimin guides you into a gentle slow dance while maintaining the tones of the song with utmost perfection. 

And Taehyung is carried in every languid motion and in every vocal cord that is strained upon this hour in his honor. 

I’m in the mood for love, simply because you’re near me…

You gaze back at Taehyung, who sits still and smiles his boxy smile. Frozen and beautiful, but unbreathing. 

Still and unbreathing. 

Frozen. 

You halt your movements. 

Jimin stops the dance, ends the song with a deep hum that pulses through you along with the notion that something isn’t right, but very, very wrong. 

“I wish Taehyung were here,” Jimin says with a deep sigh, holding both of your hands, and an uncanny, perplexing feeling constricts your throat. 

Your breath shivers, vision blurry. “But he is here.” 

Jimin lets go of your hands and you lament his touch. You need to be touched because you feel yourself shrinking into a fawn most vulnerable that doesn’t know what’s real anymore. A fawn just born, pathetically ignorant of the world and of her loved ones.

“I know, but I wish he were here for real.” 

A cold sweat drips down your spine, paralyzing you. Your constricted throat dries up like a well and you can’t swallow. You can’t think, you can’t blink—your lungs can’t lift to inhale any air and they mirror Taehyung’s still ones, unbreathing. 

It is a surprise to you, the question that flows out of you. 

“Jimin, who is sitting at the bar?” 

A wrinkle forms between his brows as he sweeps his gaze over all those bar stools and doesn’t linger at the occupied space that you know is there. A perturbing energy thuds in his eyes once he returns them to yours, and that alarming potency in him rises once again. 

“Who do you see there?” he asks, carefully, leaving his mouth parted as he anticipates your answer. 

You peer back behind you and don’t find any bar stools occupied. Not single one. 

No Taehyung, smiling his boxy smile. 

No Taehyung behind Jimin. 

No Taehyung behind you. 

A sob rumbles out of you in unison with your realization that you were, indeed, very wrong. You catch your sob, covering your mouth with your fingers as your tears spurt down onto your cheeks. 

And then the memories arrive, the reality.

But Jimin ceases their flow with the warmth of his even more careful question. 

“Did you see him at the park, too?” 

You can only nod, but you can’t look at him. You stare at nothing in particular and it seems that what Jimin has ceased, he allows to stream through the pond of your thoughts, accompanied by his vocalized truth. 

“Taehyung isn’t here. He should’ve been here with us, but he had to go to North Korea. There was a conflict, remember? You know this.” 

Taehyung’s apologetic text message appears before your eyes. The letter that came first before his phone call, where he explained to you that he can’t have his vacation and visit you because he has to go and save his country. The real, known reason between the pair of you and Jimin behind this fun day. To honor Taehyung for what he’s doing. The day you wanted to share, as well, that you were pregnant. 

The aloneness has gotten to you, helped by your blessed state. Confused your mind to the point that you imagined him here when he’s not here at all. 

Jimin calls your name and you glance at him. Perhaps he can see the truth dawning on you by the way pity twists his features. He caresses your arm and leaves his hand there, his heat locking in the realization. 

“What has happened to you?” 

Another onrush of tears clouds your vision. Your spine bends. And you can’t. 

You can’t not tell him. You can’t keep it in. 

“I’m pregnant.” 

Jimin’s eyes widen and it merely takes him a second to envelop you in his embrace. He coos your name, rubs your back, a whimper resonates in his chest against yours as he holds back his tears. The music falls into nothingness—and nothing is said for a time that appears to be as long as the season of autumn. 

And then, somehow, you’re outside of the jazz club, sitting on Jimin’s Hussar jacket that he put down on the cold ground for you beside him. And the silence continues until it doesn’t. 

“Does he know?” he asks, and you feel his irises gliding across the side of your face that you cannot turn. 

It’s you who’s frozen this time. 

Still and unbreathing. 

With no smiling Taehyung at your hip. 

“I wanted to tell him tonight,” you say, quietly, with your hands helplessly in your lap. “On the day of his vacation that he looked forward to.” 

Jimin sighs, the sound full of that terrible pity. “How far along are you?” 

It’s a question that brings life to your numb hands and you take them to your belly. 

“Three months.” 

A beat of silence. 

You fondle your growing baby. Jimin seems to be watching you, considering his following words, but you fear to move your eyes. Lift them in expectation to see Taehyung only to meet the half-barren trees and the leaves on the ground that have absurdly regained their vivid colors. 

Lift them to look at Jimin and meet the outcome of your autumn-long aloneness. 

“He’ll be back in a month and I’ll talk to the Sergeant and offer my own vacation. I’ll give it up so you can see him and tell him.” 

A sob lodges itself in your throat and you tilt to the side, leaning your head on Jimin’s shoulder. He, in response, leans his against yours. 

“I don’t think your Sergeant will even hear you out,” you say, humorlessly, your personal pain still prickling the flesh of your heart. 

But then Taehyung’s words wash over you. 

Jimin is cute, but he’s strong and sane enough to protect you while I’m gone.

Jimin, Taehyung’s best friend, who’s been there for him through thick and thin, long before you came into the picture. Jimin, who stuck by your side when sightseeing, and took your pictures. Who devoured dinners with you and drank a whole bottle of liquor with you when Taehyung abstained. 

Jimin, your best friend, too. 

“Will you be here for me while he’s gone?” you ask, the sob in your throat enlarging, preventing you from speaking, but you push through. “So I won't get delusional again?” 

Jimin takes your hand in his, squeezing it firmly in your lap, his thumb brushing over your little, half-swollen belly. 

“It’s the least I can do. Let’s get you home.” 

And he does. 

He calls a cab. Walks with you up the stairs, lingers at the door, watches you take off your heels—watches the comprehension of this day being anything but fun take form on your face and posture, and he hugs you. Reassures you that he will be here the whole week until his vacation is over, and even long after that. 

And you nod. Thank him. Turn your head away when he clicks the door shut behind him. Walk over to the window and stifle your tears when you see him head over to the liquor store in front of your apartment and leave with a bottle of spirits hanging from his fingertips. 

And the tears rush out, despite your efforts, when your gaze cascades down onto the windowsill and onto the vase, where white wine-doused tulips stooped in yearning for Taehyung’s touch a few hours ago. 

They aren’t stooping. They’re flaccid, dead and withered. Like the fun day you prepared.

Because Taehyung hasn’t bought any newly blooming tulips in a long while. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @jjk7k , @tkslovechild , @euphoricmyth , @cinmmongirl , @ririkookiemonster , @perfectiondazesworld , @https-mei , @bangtansonyeondanue , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl , @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk , @parkinglot-nights

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved

BACK to masterlist | read part two

[literaryvein-reblogs]

10 More Words Related to Medieval Art & Architecture

to include in your poem/story

1. Monstrance: A vessel created to display the consecrated Host, the body of Christ. They were first created in response to the Feast of Corpus Christ established in 1263 that enabled the faithful to see and venerate the consecrated Host on a crescent moon-shaped mount. Monstrances were used in liturgical processions, especially on feast days, and were also placed on the altar.

2. Ogee Arch or Ogive: An arch with a pointed apex, formed by the intersection of two S curves usually confined to decoration and not used in arcade arches. Ogee arches were used only in the late Gothic period.

3. Pediment: A triangular space above a window or entrance. Originally, the triangular space was formed by the end of a gable roof and later was used decoratively.

4. Quatrefoil: An ornamental form which has four lobes or foils. It may resemble a four-petaled flower.

5. Refectory: Dining room in a monastery.

Refectory at Mont-Saint-Michael, France

6. Scriptorium: Area in a monastery where books and documents were written, copied, and illuminated.

7. Trefoil: An ornamental form which has three lobes or foils.

8. Trumeau Figure: Statue decorating a trumeau (i.e., vertical architectural member between the leaves of a doorway. Trumenus were often highly decorated). Usually this was a human figure, usually a religious personage.

9. Tympanum (plural, tympana): The semicircular area enclosed by the arch above the lintel of an arched entranceway. This area is often decorated with sculpture in the Romanesque and Gothic periods.

10. West End: The area of the church opposite the east end. The west end usually functions as the main entrance to the church. When one enters a church from the west end, the left side is the north side, and the right is the south side.

If these writing notes helped with your poem/story, please tag me. Or leave a link in the replies. I'd love to read them!

Words Related to Medieval Art & Architecture (pt. 1)

[lilianasgrimoire]

Herbs & Correspondences G-L

Galangal Root - Also called Lo John the Conqueror or Lo John. Carry into legal proceedings to help win. Money, gambling and hex breaking.  Also aids luck and psychic development. Element Fire. 

Garlic - Magical uses include speed, health and endurance, also protection, exorcism and purification. Use also to promote your inner strength.  Element Fire. 

Gentian - Increases spell power. Good luck and works well in love & romance spells. Element Fire. 

Ginger - Increases magic power. Success, love, money and power.  Element Fire. 

Ginseng - Promotes love, beauty, healing and lust.  Element Fire. 

Hawthorn Wood- Associated with Beltane. Magical uses include chastity, fertility, fairy magic, fishing magic, and rebirth.  Success in career, work, and employment. Use it to work with the fae. Used in weddings and handfasting's to increase fertility. Element Water.  Hawthorne Berries aid chastity. Hope, protection and happiness. Element Fire.  

Hearts Ease - Also called Violet.  It helps to mend a broken heart. Aids rebirth, peace, wishes and luck.  Calms the nerves and promotes peace and tranquility. Element Water.  

Hemlock - Use to paralyze a situation and a funeral herb. Highly Toxic.  Element Water.   

Henbane - Dried leaves are used in the consecration of ceremonial vessels. Used in love sachets and charms to gain the love of the person desired. Highly Toxic. Element Water.  

Hibiscus - Attracting love and lust.  Use in divination. Associated with lunar magic.  Element Water. 

High John - (The Conqueror) An "all purpose" herb.  Use it for strength, confidence, conquering any situation.  Good luck, prosperity and protection. Element Fire.   

Holly Hock - Protecting, all Fairy magic, abundance, personal growth and aids passing. Related to Lammas. Element Earth. 

Horehound - Protective against evil doings. Helps with mental clarity during ritual; stimulates creativity/inspiration; balances personal energies and healing.  Element Earth.  

Horsetail - Use for strength and resolve. Protection, cleansing and clearing unwanted emotions.  Element Earth. 

Hyssop - Used for purification.  Banishing, protection and healing.  Element Fire. 

Irish Moss - Used for luck. Ideal for gamblers!  Attracts money and customers for self-employed. Offers protection. Element Water 

Ivy - Protection, healing and fertility.  Use for love and hang at handfasting's.  Element Fire. 

Jasmine - The herb of attraction.  Helps prophetic dreaming, money and love. Element Water. 

Juniper - See Cedar berries.  

Lady's Mantle - Aphrodisiac and transmutation. Use in love spells and those of fertility.  Increases magic power in spells and connects with fairy lore. Element Water. 

Laurel- See Bay leaf. 

Lavender - Magical uses include healing, sleep and peace. It also promotes chastity and love. Increases longevity of life, tranquility and happiness.  Element Air. 

Lemon Balm - Also called Melissa. Love, success and healing.  Aids psychic/spiritual development. Supports mental health disorders and compassion. Element Water.     

Lemon Grass - Psychic cleansing and opening.  Use in lust potions and when using Dragon Magic.  Element Air.  

Licorice Root - Love, lust, and fidelity. Also attracts passion. Element Water. 

Lilac - Wisdom, memory, good luck and spiritual aid.  Element Water. 

Linden Flower - Wisdom, justice, love and protection. Element Air. 

Lime Tree Leaf - Healing, calm and love.  Aids strength and tranquility.  Element Air. 

Little John - See Galangal root. 

Lungwort - Use in air magic or as an offering to the Gods of air.  Offers safe travel when flying. Element Air.  

[lunar-witches]

🍁🔮 10 Autumn Witchy Practices🌙🍂

1. 🌕 Harvest Moon Rites 🌾

Under the luminescent embrace of the Harvest Moon, unveil rituals of abundance, manifestation, and profound connection. Ignite candles, consecrate your sacred space, and let the moon's ethereal glow infuse your spells with celestial might.

2. 🎃 The Magic of the Pumpkin 🎃

Beyond their pumpkin spice allure, pumpkins hold an enchanting power. Carve intricate sigils, transform them into altars, or concoct elixirs infused with their mystical essence. These gourds harbor the key to banishing negativity and inviting prosperity.

3. 🌿 Herbal Alchemy 🍂

Autumn bestows a trove of botanical treasures, each brimming with magical potency. Sage purifies, rosemary shields, and cinnamon invokes warmth and abundance. Mix these sacred herbs to craft your own elixirs and brews, weaving your intentions into existence.

4. 🍂 Communion with the Woods 🌲

Step into the ancient embrace of the forest, where whispers of forgotten wisdom linger. Wander among the trees, meditate beneath their boughs, or collect leaves to attune yourself to the Earth's ancient heartbeat.

5. 🕯️ The Enchantment of Candle Magic ✨

Autumn's chill beckons the flicker of candles, a gateway to the supernatural. Harness the essence of colors and scents to amplify your spells. Pink for love, purple for wisdom—light the way to your desires and witness their manifestation.

6. 🍎 Divination with Apples 🍏

Beyond the bobbing game lies an age-old divination practice. Inscribe your queries upon apple peels, release them into a vessel of water, and interpret the apple's message as it floats toward your answer. It's like conversing with the spirits themselves.

7. 🌙 Moonwater's Mystique 🌊

Capture the moon's ethereal energy with the creation of moonwater. Leave a vessel under the moonlight to charge, and use this elixir for cleansing and empowering your magical tools. It's the alchemical elixir that bridges the realms.

8. 🍁 Tarot of the Autumn Leaves 🍂

Trade your tarot deck for the wisdom of autumn's multicolored leaves. Attribute meanings to each leaf type and let the breeze guide your selection. Mother Nature herself shall unfurl the secrets of your destiny.

9. 🎶 The Enchanted Melody 🎶

Compose a bewitching playlist that resonates with your inner mystic. Whether it's the haunting melodies of Loreena McKennitt, the ethereal ballads of Donovan, or the timeless harmonies of Fleetwood Mac, let the music inspire your enchantments, guiding your spirits as you dance beneath the moonlight.

10. 🧹 The Broomstick's Esoteric Purpose 🧹

While soaring on broomsticks remains the stuff of legend, your broom holds symbolic significance. Use it to cleanse your sacred space, banish negativity, and usher in blessings and abundance. It's the earthly bridge to the astral realms.

My Ko-Fi

[beatingdrumspouringwine]

Personal Dionysian Ritual

This is the ritual form I use for my Sunday worship (or, in this case, first-day-of-Anthesteria worship). I think this may hit closer to Catholic or Christian formats than historic Greek pagan ritual formats, at least if the book Hellenic Polytheism - Household Worship is to be believed. But this format is just a bit easier on me in terms of supplies, time, and ability to keep it semi-covert. I don't have the ability to light fires in my current space, but when I do, I usually include a prayer to Hestia at the beginning and end.

Dionysian Ritual (for Sundays) (Usually) (It's not set in stone)

Approach the altar or worship space. With you, there must be:

A bowl or other vessel filled with water (can be small).

Optionally, you may have:

Wine

Barley

Sea salt

Divination tools (I prefer tarot, or Sappho/Homeromanteions when I can get my hands on it).

A candle or other source of heat/light/incense (smells, basically)

Place the bowl of water either in front of your statue of Dionysos, or, if no statue is available, in a central spot in your space of worship. The wine and extra supplies may be placed anywhere else. Begin:

Orphic Hymn to Dionysos (Apostolos N. Athanassakis translation) I call upon loud-roaring and reveling Dionysos, primeval, two-natured, Thrice-born, Bacchic Lord, savage, ineffable, two-horned and two-shaped. Ivy-covered, bull-faced, warlike, howling, pure, You take raw flesh, You have triennial feasts, wrapped in foliage, decked in grape clusters. Resourceful Eubouleus, immortal God sired by Zeus when He mated with Persephone in unspeakable union, Harken to my voice, O blessed one, and with your fair-girdled nurses, Breathe on me in spirit of perfect kindness.

After the Orphic hymn, consecrate the bowl of water to make khernips. You may add salt if desired.

Dionysian Khernips Prayer (In between each verse of the Khernips Prayer, I move from just having the bowl on the altar, to holding the sides of the bowl, to holding the bowl up for the last verse.)

After the Khernips Prayer, I pray to Hagios as I actually ritually wash myself with the newly made khernips.

Hagios (For every verse of Hagios, I start with washing my face, then move to washing my hands, and finally sprinkle khernips on my feet, especially if I'm planning on dancing. This isn't actual washing, but more like lightly splashing water on the different parts of me that I wash.)

After Hagios, if there is wine, then I consecrate that, which I'll link my prayer for below. If there isn't, then I libate clean water (will be writing a prayer for that at some point soon), and move on to the next part of the ritual.

Wine Consecration to Dionysos (From the part where I say "This is the gift that..." through to "on the slopes of Mount Kithairon", I raise the wine towards my statue Dionysos as though toasting Him, which is inspired by art showing Maenads serving Dionysos wine.)

After the wine consecration, I pour out a libation of wine to Dionysos while praying my prayer to Dionysos Theoinos:

Theoinos

After the prayer to Theoinos, whatever happens next is up to you. If I'm doing any divination, I'll say a prayer to Dionysos Mantis before going ahead with it. Otherwise, I may dance, or talk about my day, or simply do prayer after prayer after prayer until I've kind of exhausted my talking point. Since most of my rituals are done at night, however, the consistent part is frequently the end, which is my second prayer to Dionysos Nyktelios:

Nyktelios II

And there you have it! I definitely finished this a bit later than I was planning, but that's okay - I got it out, and that's all that matters! I hope everyone has a good night and a beautiful Anthesteria, and that this was helpful to some degree :)

[revelisms]

Back with another Magic Ministry AU story, heavily inspired by a rabbit hole on the Basilica Cistern. I've been working on this one for a while, and it's a bit on the longer side, but I really like where it's ended up.

As a sidenote — I thought this...might be the final push to get Terzo out of my system, because this ended up becoming one big messy character study of him (and how much he needs a hug). But, uh. Time will tell on that, I guess 🥸

light ascending

7k words | Rating: T | Terzo & Sister of Sin OC (Mariella) | OC-centric | CWs: Ritual magic, dark imagery, blood, language, doomed fate, grief, hurt/comfort. Also on AO3

The underground cleansing chamber hangs with a chill putrid as death. The fires do little to aid it, no matter their enchantments. In these halls lay the veins of a howling, primordial creature, devoid of life and devouring—and the cold is only one marker of the souls lost within its jowls. 

In one corner of the chamber, Sister Diana, High Priestess of the new Order, stands by a candlelit table. Her fingers dance delicately over shelves upon shelves of consecrated oils, stored here in preservation from any tarnishing by the sun.

"He's particular about his anointments," she is saying, twisting the seal free from one decanter. "Even more so, of their properties."

Not far behind, Sister Mariella, priestess-in-training, stands with hands clasped, her fair hair loose about her shoulders. Per tradition, she wears the plain black of their ritual robes: no paints, no gloves, no shoes: only a trace of sage-smoke on her silks and rosemary on her fingertips.

"Because of the Sight," she thinks aloud, "right?"

Diana turns over her shoulder. Her cropped fringe frames her face in a dark curtain; beneath it, a glimmer of hazel. "In some ways, yes." A smile plays at her mouth. "Not all."

The Sight is just one vessel of their Highest's magic, if the most sacred—powers granted only to the half-human, half-demon, half-Realm infinite. 

Some claimed that those in the papal line were descendants of Lucifer, himself, marked with the light of the Fallen. Others, that they were just unlucky children, sewn into the tapestry of a puppeteer's scheme.

She'd seen the Cardinal—Papa-elect now, formally, as of last Tuesday—enough times to think he was neither. 

Some unnamed thing between them, maybe.

Diana's hands clink through a set of pipettes. Vials are drawn and deposited: mixtures of amber, mugwort, chrism. Mariella's attention stays fixed over her shoulder, dutifully attentive. 

"It takes years to temper," their High Priestess continues. "For any variant, it could take a lifetime. But, where premonitions are concerned, the upper clergy are...I'm not sure if hesitant is the right word." 

As if any words were right for those black-robed bloodhounds beneath Sister's claws.

Mariella sneers. "Tight-assed?"

A chuckle rings bell-like off the walls. "Close."

"Does the variant matter, really?" Mariella wonders. "Even with Papa Secondo's ascension, they were asking questions."

Diana's fingers clatter through a wooden drawer, pulling out a jar of dried pine leaves. "The past is a clearer path, to most. What we could call the future is...contested, in the Order." She crushes one sprig between her fingers. The scent of a sweet forest snaps over her breath. "I've gathered that Bishop Alessandro thinks of it as inevitability. Cardinal Luca has always held the thought that it should serve as a guide; a mould to confirm to." She pauses, glances wryly back at her. "Monsignor Emeritus would call that dangerous thinking." 

Primo would call most things that, these days.

It's been years now since he retired to Ordained Lead of the Philosophical Doctrine—and, as such, overseer of the ritual proceedings. He'd held the title of Papa Emeritus when Mariella first met him, and he'd had the most foreboding presence she'd ever felt: a wraith louring on the Ministry's front steps, his paints jagged as shattered glass, to greet her in all her rain-drenched, luggage-toting misery.

(Ah—you are a blessing to an old man's eyes, Sister. I am pleased to see you have found your way to us. My priestess has told me much of you. He'd turned on his heel, fanning a gnarled hand. Come, come—we have spezzatino going in the kitchens. A room is already prepared for you.)

He was gentler than she expected, but that gentleness cloaked a cynicism that was unyielding as a steel bar. 

He had plenty to say about the flippancies of the new Order. Plenty more to say about the younger faces in the line of his succession—and the third-youngest, with his grandiose visions of reformation, most of all.

"To walk paths unseen is to walk blind in a tunnel," Diana murmurs, and Mariella can hear Primo's inflection in the words, "latching to any light we may find." Glass tinks beneath her fingers. "But that light is not always the surface."

There's a litany of meanings laced between that: that their Order isn't always as it seems; the handed paths, not as distinct as the texts deem them; their Exalted, themselves, not the broken horses they claim to be.

That unknowingness is perhaps the only Truth they have. Their own lowly Sight into what is inherently unseen.

But curiosity has often gotten the best of her.

"How do you know the difference?" Mariella hushes.

Diana turns. Her strong features are softened by the candlelight, sympathetic. "You don't." She lays a warm touch against her temple. "But that is not your burden to bear." 

Mariella worries over her thumb.

With Secondo's own purification, it couldn't have seemed farther from the truth. He was impatient, eager—her own knowledge and magic, one means to a rapid end. The papal seat had been his birthright; the rites, a rancid detour. But he'd been kind, despite his impatience. Forgiving as he could be, for her nervousness.

Diana's thumb smooths over her cheek. "You'll do fine, dearest," she continues. "Remember—you are a conduit. Nothing more."

Swallowing, brow pinched, Mariella nods.

The final stages of their work move quickly: decanters squeaked, vials sealed, a parting slew of advice before the flurry of their steps fall still. 

"Keep the Veil tight about you—you know what will happen, if you don't."

"Right."

"And hold your ground. These halls can be...restless, at such an hour."

"So long as the All-Father isn't sleep-walking in his slippers."

"Mari, be serious."

Mariella's smile blooms, impish, and softens. "I know," she says. "I'm just..."

Green-gold eyes linger over her, steady in their understanding. She reaches down, folds her cool hand within her own. "Have patience," she whispers. "I know it's hard, being so close to the ceremony. But you have nothing to prove, now, right? It's just for formality's sake."

Mariella can't help the bubble of frustration. Her mind locks back on Secondo's stony frown, soaked in a pool of magic ocean-green and effervescent: on the taste of the Past gnawing at her blood.

"And theirs," she says thinly.

For weeks, she's endured a sea of gossip leading up to this ritual. Her peers were convinced that she'd walk away from this with her heart half-eaten, or her sensibility in shreds, wrapped like a ring around their Exalted's finger.

The third heir, notably, was not his brother—not at all, where his coyness was concerned.

Diana battles with her words. "With the Cardinal...I know the other siblings have their, well." Her brows twitch towards her hairline. "Opinions."

That he was a revolutionary, with sermons sharp as a blade, who carried an unsettling edge of authority even the upper clergy, superstitions be damned, dreaded to go toe-to-toe with.

(And, in the same breath, that he was an egregious flirt, and a fool: one who seemed fond of waving at tradition—and any concept of a schedule—from the farthest reaches of the pews.)

Diana plucks the thought from her, clean as a doctor snapping off a leech.

"But," she continues, a touch exasperatedly, "give him grace." Her words falter, stiffen. "Our Order isn't always a kind one," she reminds her, "but we are tasked to carry it out, all the same. So is the Way."

There's a purpose there, beyond any concept of walled rooms and machined profits. One that, for better or worse, has claimed her.

A Veil of magic and tight-controlled chaos, guiding as moonlight and punishing as a forest fire.

So is their role in this blood-bittered, spell-stained sanctuary.

"So is the Way," Mariella echoes.

Diana smiles. Their eyes cling to each other: a final blessing, silent and still, before the cavern of these halls swallow them whole. Then, she slides her hand back to her side.

"Unblessed be with you, Sister."

And, like a shadow, she's gone.

Their Cardinal's reputation, predictably, precedes him. 

It takes an age for Brother Marco, glasses flashing, the scent of rosewater still etched into his robes, to scurry down the North Stairwell and announce that the second cleansing had been completed.

Patience seems all but a foreign concept to Mariella, now—but, willfully, she finds it.

"Thank you, Brother. Will he be able to find his way down?"

"I believe so."

"Then let him know that I am ready for him."

"Certainly."

Marco's footsteps scuff hurriedly back down the hallway and up the crooked stone stairs, happy to avoid any moment in these chambers more than necessary.

Alone again, Mariella fidgets. 

In her hands sit the triplet of vials, fitted into a wooden case to carry. Only candlelight stands to greet her. The walls are threaded with shadows and staccato-bursts of orange flame, damp-dry air mingling off the stones. 

The Ministry's underbelly is unnerving as a crypt. In every web of its grouting lies an ancientness even the scholars of Olde struggle to define. The fires hiss like living things. The archways breathe like the mouth of a giant. In the maze of its passages, magic pulses like blood in a clotted vein.

It takes her a moment to steady herself, remember the route. Her feet carry her in silent strides: two lefts, two rights, one left ducked through a narrow passage, and another, before the corridor opens into the final vestibule of a man-made cave. 

Here, immense as a hall of kings, sits the cistern: one of several thresholds to the Realm beyond. 

Prisms of stone arches stand like golems in the dark, all bearing the reddish gleam of an enchanted flame. At their feet, a pool of water little deeper than a hand trickles from the roots of the mountain's springs. It covers the entire expanse of the cistern floor like a sheet of black-blooded glass. Farther towards the center of the room sits a basin, deep enough to stand at one's waist, where already Diana has placed the initial items for the purification: the Book of Rites, unlit black candles, shards of selenite and quartz.

Thumbs pinched, Mariella makes a mental tally.

In the cleansing chamber, she'd laid out his vestments with the usual care. Thumbed through the unholy texts and spoken her own tithes for using so sacred a place. Asked Lilith's blessing for this final rite, final step into the Path.

Now, she can only wait.

The flames stutter to stillness, and breathe again. Ghosts seem to fade and appear at every turn. 

After so many minutes, the lights have played enough tricks on her—so she pays no mind to the silhouette that hovers just within the vestibule's archway. One that, for not the first time, has a face. 

This one is more severe at the edges: near-feline in its angularity. A face tousled by dark hair, dead-socketed with a white eye.

Mariella nearly jumps out of her skin. "Cardinal. Saints—you're quiet as a cat."

A crescent of teeth blinks back at her. "Eh—sorry, sorry," burrs a low voice. "Habit of mine, it seems."

"Not the first time you've scared the shit out of someone, then?" 

"You talk about shit, Sister? In here?" His grin slants fully at one side. "Blasphemous."

As if a near half-hour delay wasn't blasphemous enough.

One wrist flicks laxly through the dim. "I am late, yes, I know," he prattles on. "Apologies. All the fastings and feastings and washings and rewashings—it is extensive, no? One big glorified bath, they should call these things."

"At least a bit relaxing, I hope?" 

A huff comes before he dislodges from whatever muck has kept him in place. "A pinch. Pinprick, perhaps." He saunters more than walks: heel-toed lazings that draw him, head tilted, into the light. "Though, I don't suppose I would call it relaxing," he grumbles. "My definition of pampering, Sister, means wine and, ah...quite a few other attentions. Chocolates, also—chocolates are good, no?"

She lifts her brows, bemused. "I suppose," she says. "More a fan of panna cotta, myself."

"Feh. Hardly luxurious enough."

The banter only lasts so long. His eyes have strayed to the waters—and hers have turned to scrutiny. 

He's appeared to follow the required conduct, closely enough: the weathered lines of his face bare of any paint, the dark varnish so often chipped on his nails scrubbed clean. He, similarly to her, wears no shoes, no overcoat, none of his usual layers of black upon black upon black—only the white sheen of the Order's purification vestments, embroidered ornately with purple and gold. 

The colors will soon become his, as other colors had ordained his brothers before him.

Colors for penance, absolution, humility.

For sacrifice.

"Tomorrow is a big day for you," Mariella says, after a pause.

Terzo's eyes stutter back to her. "Ah—you must remind me, mh?" Dimples crease in deep-set hooks around his mouth. "Another day and a half of ceremonialness. Satan, I will be decrepit by the time they are finished."

"It's that bad?"

"Darling." He cocks his head on his neck, sharp-browed in silent emphasis. "Have you any idea long the Ascensions last?" 

Mariella can't help the smile that starts. "I can imagine."

"Heh, you can imagine. Forget decrepit—they'll have me in the crypt."

Another shake of his head has thrown his fringe loose. Idly, he thumbs it back. 

Her eyes follow the motion, the looseness of his hands. They're uncharacteristically ringless, now, gloved only in contrasts: dainty wrists smelted to a laborer's forearms, sewn with hair so black it shadows his skin; delicate fingers stained with nicotine, more fit for toolboxes than piano keys.

In another life, he may have been a tall, striking thing, built with slender bones and dancers' limbs to match the grace he carries himself with. But he isn't. Femininity lays strewn about him like carnage from a battlefield, at war with a ruggedness that is all hard edges and soft-stubborn grit. An orchid in full, spiteful bloom, spearing the cracks of an industrial waste.

From all that she's heard, for all his vanity, he doesn't like the way he looks. Never has.

Mariella, like many, has always found it beautiful. 

"Well," she continues, "it's only another day—and it will be over before you know it." He's linked his hands behind his back. She can smell the remnants of the imbued rosewater on his skin, close as he's come sidling and slow-footed to stand with her. "And this will be over before you know it, too." She swallows. "And then you'll be Papa."

Something unearthly fizzles between them: demon-magick that is his own, demon-magick that isn't; the marker of his father's blood, and of the ghouls even the hours of past rites have not been able to wash free from him. 

In his silence is a heaviness. A muted sort of finality.

After a breath, thumb jittering, Terzo hums. "Yes," he agrees. The word sits on the air like a stone. "Seems I will." His soon-to-be title muddles off his lips, venom-sweet and splintered with shrapnel: "Papa Emeritus the Third, they'll call me. Fitting—Third for the third. Suppose it would be a head-scratcher to have the second title go to the first one, and vicey-versa—the old bastard was a goddamn creative with the names, eh?" 

Mariella watches him sway on his heels. "Very...traditional."

"Traditional," he parrots, curling his lip. "Psh. If the All-Father was a manuscript, you'd need archival shitting gloves to turn the pages." 

"High honors to put him in the archives, all things considered."

He squints at her, teasing the start of a smirk. The slightly crooked points of his canines peek over his lip. "Suppose it is, mh?" 

There must be hidden irony in that, something deeper than the surface-level quips Mariella can dissect from him—but she hardly has the chance to think it through. His eyes have popped back to boyish awkwardness: the smirk licked clean, pulled flat again.

"Sorry. I realize I never..." His fingers flutter at his wrist. "You are, ah, Maria, yes? No. Marcella—"

"Mariella."

"Mariella. Yes, yes—it's a thing with the names, sometimes. They just, eh..." His hand dances to an odd gesture. "Poof. You know?"

A smile twitches at her mouth. "Mari is fine, Cardinal."

"Is it? Well, then—much easier for this old brain." He links his hands behind his back again. "And this...Cardinal this, Cardinal that—these formalities are not needed here. Terzo is fine, Sister." He pauses. "Mari."

"Alright." Mariella pauses too, smiles softer. "Terzo."

"Yes, good. Alright." 

His eyes skirt back to the grand arches domed around them, linger unsteadily on the cistern that ebbs beyond the vestibule's edge.

It sews reason back to her—and pulls at an anxious thread.

There are so many steps needed to be completed. Reports she will need to provide. Countless hours of sleep that will inevitably catch up with her, once she slumps back into the dormitories at such a frightful hour. 

All to fulfill the precedents laid down by their Highest—and by Sister, higher still, above him.

To fulfill the birthright of a man peering at her through a shock of black hair, with eyes unmatching: a green flame turned muddy in the red, a white moon smattered with a blood-kissed edge.

"Saints, I'm rambling," realizes Terzo, dryly. "How long have I been rambling?"

"Oh—no, I—it's alright."

He swats the air again. "No no no—you have a job to do, and I am making it wretchedly difficult for you to do it. I will shut up. I'll try. Promise."

The steamroll of his words washes over her like a torrent.

"It's...alright to be nervous," she reasons.

He forces a laugh, little more than a breath. "My brothers were not nervous about this, I assure you."

"Well—you're not your brothers."

She means it as a reassurance—the straight-lined sort she, once, had needed—but he must take the words like a screw to the gut, quick as his brow twitches, as the music in his hands welds still.

"Oh," Mariella flounders again. Her face burns. "I—no, I meant—it's okay if you are, is all."

"Yes, yes, I..." Terzo puts on a small grin, half-genuine. "Forgive me, if the thought makes me, ah...astute, this evening—the old goat has given me enough lectures on my preparedness for this, is all, and it is—has been a...long day, like I...anyways." He rocks back on his heels again, turned away. "Anyways."

Silence weighs between them, unbearable.

Mariella clears her throat. "It's, um...it's only my second time doing this," she admits. Her heel hushes over the stones: the first step towards the vestibule's edge.

"Is it? That must mean Dino was your first—Saints forbid." Terzo puffs out a low snicker. "You are still alive, it seems." He's moved as though to pat a hand on her shoulder, but thinks better of it. In the ritual acts, only she is allowed to touch him. "That, eh—that is a good sign, no?" 

Mariella gives him a playful grimace. "One can hope."

His lashes crinkle at the edges: a lopsided grin that loosens.

Reason seems to crawl back to him, too. With it, the gauze of regality, distraction that had been hanging off his shoulders slips, seemingly just out of reach from his fidgeting fingers.

No Cardinal, no Emeritus, no Papa-elect.

Just a stray without a leash, eyeing the waters before him like a cruel hand waiting to fall.

Whatever he sees in this Path must call to him. Terrify and compel him, in turns. 

He is not at peace with it, now—but he will be.

He has to be, to enter this place.

Beneath the vestibule, the cistern trickles in a silent stream, mirrored with flamelight and red-soaked stone.

"I...don't think I ever caught it," Terzo murmurs. At her feet, his reflection slides beside her own. "What drew you here."

Not, why you chose to come here. Not, why you wanted to.

Few had crossed the wards of this Ministry's grounds of their own volition. The lure of this place held a strange magic of its own. In the seat of its teeth, one's will became its own will; one's path, its own path.

"Sister Diana has mentioned snippets, of course," he continues, "but..."

His eyes lift towards her. Mariella pits her fingers against the carrier.

"Our family worked in art," she explains, "I was surrounded by it, my whole life. I've always had an interest—the occult, especially."

He furrows his brows, intrigued. "Creating it, you mean?"

"No," she laughs. "I'm not an artist, by any means. Dealing it. Mother started a collective in the sixties."

"Ah."

She continues, "There was always an expectation my brother and I would take over the business, and we...I...wanted to see it through." The memory of that chases through her, sweet and acrid as vinegar. "Chained me to a desk, for years," she mumbles. "Even with that, it was never enough."

"For you?"

A frown steeples between her brows. "For her." She shrugs, her words muted. "Maybe for me."

She can feel his eyes lingering on her cheek like a brand. Stubbornly, she keeps her own at her feet.

"She got sick a few years ago. Federico—my brother—wanted out of the business, and it just...I don't know. It changed so much." She pauses, chewing on her lip. "Not having her there to...prove to myself that I could do it—that it was worth it." She can't tamp down the chuckle, bitter as it comes. "It's so strange. You want someone out of your life, for so long—but once they're gone, you realize how much of a crater they left. What a void you have to fill, yourself."

For a long moment, he says nothing. His fingertips pitter at his palm.

"So the magic filled that void, eh?" he mutters.

Mariella smiles. "In some ways."

"Not all?"

"No, not all."

Another pause simmers through him, pensive and puzzling. "I imagine there was a...special quality to it. Working between the artists and the curators and the collectors, I mean. Navigating it." He quirks a brow. "Not much different from the Order, eh?"

Only now, the product is not the artwork their congregation produces—but the needs of their congregation, itself. 

Blessings and charms, incantations and spells, all weaved across their waiting hands like feed to a starved flock. A beacon for souls yearning for a light to guide them, from mountains high to valleys low.

Or, in his case: a silk-robed pinnacle to a cavernous pit.

"No," Mariella says again, "it's not."

He hums.

He's come to stand a touch off-kilter from her, staring down at his robes. In an odd, soft-graveled way, he tries to give the reassurance he's staved his hands from.

"It's all just words and waltzes, these things." His eyes tip cattishly over his shoulder. "You will do exceptional, Mari. You know it, yes?"

She does. 

She must.

"I know."

His smile hangs a touch more genuine at the corners. "Good." Gradually, his hand unfolds from his back: waves to the flickering arches before them. "Well, then?"

It's all the permission she needs.

The water envelops her steps with pinpricks of sensation, slow-slipped and glittering. It calls to her, sings to her: a vessel of endless possibility.

This is her Path. Her purpose. Her home.

Behind her, soon to be, her liege.  

She can hear his footsteps trailing the shadow of her own, his vestments a silken hiss off the water's edge. As it had for his predecessor before him, the cistern hums in its greeting: a millennia of lifetimes past stirred to welcome the presence of the Unholy, of its Keeper.

Hellfire bathes them with red. It sets an eerie glow to his undead eye, blistered in white and gold. For a breath, it's hard to remember that he is human, at all: that the light hasn't stained his skin in blood, taloned his nails with black, twisted his robes to wings claw-tipped and leather-thin.

At the basin, she pauses. He falls still with her—staring down, down at the ebbing coil of waters they come to stand beside.

His throat ripples. He sets his jaw, the dark lines of his lashes lifting. Mariella holds his stare like a rabbit eyeing a wolf from the weeds; like a cub before a lion.

"You've greeted me, in the Olde Way," she says quietly, "and, by Lilith's blessing, will be Renamed. Do you accept it?"

Terzo takes in a breath, nods. "Yes."

"To be the Gate's ward, now and forevermore, until you are called?"

"Yes," he says again.

"To be bound to your summoned, and your summoned only, until they are reclaimed?"

There's a forced calmness to his face, though she can sense the frustration beneath it: proof of battles she has not been privy to, and may never be. "Yes."

"Then we will begin."

First are the black candles—twin flames lit to represent the handed paths. She sets them on the footholds of the two pillars closest, crafting the symbolic Gate between realms, and speaks a low incantation. Then comes the oils, their vials a cold sting against her hands. Each mixture is strategically placed: drops of mugwort to his slow-lifted palms, a thumb-kiss of amber to each temple, the Chrism dotted at the crown of his head.

She can smell his magic, this close: awakened, shivering, unbound: the ashen smoke of a snuffed flame and the sweet tang of clove, spiked with a metallic edge. It has grown stronger since his Exaltation; ignited. It leaves her head heavy, her hands sluggish. There is Future on his breath, and Death in his eye. Beneath his robes, inked across the branches of his heartlines, a glimmer of snapdragon pink.

She fights to ground herself, for a moment. Her palm lays slow, slow upon his breast: feels the power in him straining at the seams.

"Astraeus—Nyx—Perun. These names have adorned you, before. With your Awakening, they will adorn you, again."

He is so warm, always—they all always are—but with the loss of the Veil, he is burning brighter still. Mariella swallows, fighting to keep her aura about her. Her own blessing seeps like mist beneath her hand. 

"Our Lightbringer," she whispers on, trapped in red-green and blood-smattered white. "Our Morning Star."

Terzo's eyes skim between hers.

He is nothing human, now, not with magic so ancient in his veins—as ancient as this place, and the markings of its wards: as wild and cosmic and suffocating. 

Oh, but he feels young. Heartbreakingly young, for the smallest instant.

A child and a Devil and a man, his heart half-beating in his hands.

"Do you accept it?"

Her Cardinal, her Papa-to-be, her Path does not smile, does not look away—not like he had before, in every babbled distraction leading up to this. And, in it, she knows—regardless of whatever his Sight may show him—that he will succeed: that the cause of this Ministry will reach heights never-before seen beneath his hand, and lay the groundwork for even greater heights in his absence.

Mariella does not shy away from his stare, though the spellwork within it threatens to pierce her through. "...Do you accept it?" she whispers, again.

Terzo blinks: green and white and human. His chest swells a slow breath beneath his vestments, ebbs into a silent sigh. "Yes."

The last confirmation. The final rite.

She smiles. "Then only the Realm waits for you."

He looks at her as though he is both lamb and executioner: waiting to be led to slaughter, and to drop the knife.

Her hand hovers before her, a silent offering. 

Slowly, skin soft-roughened and molten, he takes it.

The basin pools around her steps. Her robes tangle stubbornly at her knees as the chill needles through her, slicking the silks to her waist. He follows her unsteadily, his fingers tight through hers.

She can sense the weight of the anointments on him; the wavering of his presence. Half-here, half-wandering, half-living.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

He clicks his tongue. "Alright as I can be."

"Not too torturous, is it?"

"The cold, or the medical proceedings?" Terzo's mouth slants at one side, a wicked glint striking briefly back into his eyes. "I jest, I jest—an image of composure you are, truly. You'll be leading the ceremonies in no time, yes?"

His humor is a flat shield to the tightness in his lungs. His hand swallows hers, hard enough to sting.

"Yes, you'll be fine," he's mumbling on. His eyes are unseeing. Clove and bloodmetal itches in her throat. "You'll be fine."

"Terzo," Mariella warns.

He snaps his eyes shut. Squeezes them. "Sorry." Slowly, stiff as a marionette, his fingers pry their way free from hers. "Sorry, I'm fine." He sighs, blinking. "It's the, eh...it is always like this. It'll pass. Not your fault, darling."

She shouldn't prod, not now. 

But her heart hammers, blisters, bleeds. 

She can't be sure if it's her own.

"What do you...see?" she whispers.

Terzo's eyes flick to hers. His mouth pinches at the corners. "Nothing. Nothing to worry about."

She hesitates. Diana's cautions float across her conscience: the Veil fraying at the seams, close to his own being as this. But, gingerly, her hand lifts from the water, finds his cheek. 

"Any path is Nothing. And any path is All," she says. "I know you know that. You can see it." His eyes fall unsteadily on hers, and Mariella waits, her fingertips skimmed over his skin—worn beyond his age, but soft, still. "You can see that," she says again, "can't you?"

The dark line of his lashes twitch, a beeswing flutter.

Lilith's own, that look must have been the same as hers, all those years ago. The same hope, same hate, same boneless relief.

"You see me," she continues, softly, "don't you?"

His breath mingles with her own, light as a prayer. "Yes."

There's no desire in the way she leans to meet him; no surface-level adoration or simmering need in the touch of her brow to his. Her other hand raises, cups a wet touch over his cheek.

"You'll do fine," she says firmly. "You will."

His brows wrinkle to a knot against her own. He fights with a smile; lets it sag like a stone. "For as long as they'll have me," he mutters.

The inference tears her heart to her feet.

"Don't say that," hisses Mariella—and he's not supposed to touch her, but, at long last, he does: a sunspot warmth of fingertips at her neck, thumbing shaky and half-minded beneath her ear.

A sigh quivers against her lips. "Sorry." The waters are so frigid, but he's warm as a flame in her arms, burning deep as Hell itself. "Sorry, I—"

She shushes him. Holds him—as tightly as she needed to be held that day the call from the hospital came; as tight as she can, for the smallest moment.

Hell below, he feels so small to her now.

Stifled.

His throat hitches against her cheek—but he holds his ground; holds her, hands rough but gentle as he can manage, lost in the sweet tangle of her hair.

"You'll do fine," Mariella whispers again.

There is Future in his touch, and demon-magick in his blood, and hope as much as fear, as wrath, as love.

"I know," he whispers back.

He will. 

He must.

Slowly, they untangle—and though there is still a hand at his cheek, one of his own turning to keep it there, there is nothing more to be said, now. Nothing more to be done.

His Path blazes before him, inevitable.

In her own power, the mould.

"Ready?" she hushes.

Jaw tight, Terzo closes his eyes, nods again.

Her hands slide to his chest, to the back of his head. A cradle and a coffin in one. 

Mariella clears her throat, continuing: "In this final Act, I release you from the realm of the living; I bind you with the realm beyond. In this, you will emerge the Eternal. In this, the Way is sealed."

His magic is fizzling. The cistern is singing. Beneath her hand, tendrils of lilac-fuchsia glisten and glow.

"Unholy be thy name: Revered be thy power." Her palm splays firmer into his sternum. "May you be blessed in the way of the covenant, now and evermore." Terzo takes in a breath, lurched quickly beneath her fingers. The water laps across his shoulders, spills across her wrists. "By his grace, be it commanded." And, in a drowning hush, consumes him.

Unreality pricks at her skin. 

For a heartbeat—fire beneath her palms, and beauty, and nothingness—there are countless paths gnawing at the edges of her consciousness: but she knows, with certainty, there is one—and it is all and nothing and everything, it is Diana and Mother and Primo and herself, dead and alive and dead again, and this man-demon-spirit all omniscient in the tide, and she can't breathe, the Veil spilling like silk from her being, can't separate herself from it—

But she must. 

She must—

Only stillness surrounds her: lightless as the heavens, silent enough to hear a teardrop fall.

She is emptied in it.

She is him, and he is her.

The edges of her magic are wrangled: wrenched back, back around her, tight as a wire—and the tether snaps. Blisters with the breaking of his own body from the basin. 

Together, they breathe as one, a slow-sucked gasp that heaves out thin and clean. 

The light is blinding. There's blood in his eyes.

Mariella, trembling back into her bones, clasps her hands and bows her head low, muttering a deluge of thanks for all that was given and all that remains; a prayer for his strength and sanctity; a cleansing whisper of her own.

His soul is still peeling free from hers. His magic still scalding her hands. 

She won't dare open her eyes again—not yet. What she may find could hardly be called human, in such a state.

But he is—a human with purified waters slicked off the the dark mop of his hair, off the strong bones of his features, off the glimmering silk of his vestments; a man with one eye gleaming moonbeam-white and Hell fading in his veins and breath beastlike in his chest.

"Unblessed be," Mariella whispers. "It is done. It is done."

A hand has come to lay upon her head, heavy and molten. The nails are pointed. The Olde Tongue fangs coarsely off his teeth, commanding the Realm's hold to free her. 

The essence of his magic flees from her bones like a stripped sheet. Air staggers into her lungs, wet and spluttering.

"Sister," Terzo says sharply—and he is as he was: his brow furrowed in worry, human and whole, his palm braced at her temple. "Sister, are—? Mariella—"

"It's alright," she rasps, lacing her fingers through his sleeve. She has to take another breath to steady herself, blinking slow. "It's okay."

His lungs swell beneath his robes. His eyes cut swiftly between hers, denying it still—but, gradually, his shoulders loosen. "Alright." He traces a lock of her hair behind her ear, half-minded. "You are sure?" he presses, anyway. 

"Yes, it—Diana warned me. It's happened before. I let the Veil fall too loose—"

"No, no—you did wonderful. You were clear. You were right there," he says, thumbing her jaw. The shivers are still coursing through him; settling down, now. After a pause: "It is, eh...it is all finished, then?"

Until the tomorrow's ceremonies: the formal ascension, with its blood-marks and dressings, where his body will be kneeled before a black altar and crowned.

But, for tonight, at least—

"It's done," Mariella says again.

The relief washes through him like rainfall: melts the nervousness off his face like sun-warmed snow.

She can smell the exhaustion that ebbs into him; taste the flurried comedown of his spellwork, ashen and bloodied and bright. But it buzzes, burns still.

"Good," whispers Terzo. Twitch-smiled, weary, he drags a hand through his fringe. "Well, eh," he grouses. "Let's get out of this mess then, mh? Freezing my goddamned balls off, in here."

All Cardinal, all Emeritus again.

Primo's office is lit only by moonlight and the glow of a hearth, crackling and warm before him. He's known for a nocturnal mind, and for working by near-vampiric conditions; at such a late hour, the sight hardly comes as a surprise.

Folded behind his desk, his pale hair drawn back, his eyes linger on her, beady as a hawk's. "Well?"

Her last sight of Terzo had come at the threshold of the Ministry's kitchens. He'd insisted on a post-ritual raid—another supposed habit proven true—and, in mutual silence, she'd warmed her hands on a cup of black tea while he wrangled together an unceremonious take on a negroni, orange slices and all, in an old coffee mug. He'd slipped a package of biscoff in her pocket and a cigarette from his own. Around a snap of violet flame at his palm and a final sip of her tea, they'd given their partings.

"If you...need anything at all," Mariella had hushed, "you can—"

"I know." His mouth had wavered at a smile. "Thank you."

Part of her had wanted to lay a hand on his arm. Say something else, anything, to not just leave it at that. And, were it a different night—or if she was a different sibling—he may have slid the invitation over, for her.

But the warmth of his body had shifted, ever since he dragged himself out of those waters, reclothed himself in a thrush of black. Cold and closed as a cage.

The man she'd held was in the cracks of it; boxed away, now, to make room for another, still sketching the edges of itself in his skin. But, in its chrysalis, she saw bitterness—in his distance, the fanged thing their clergy so seemed to loathe—and, on some hare-boned instinct, found herself leaving first.

"Goodnight, Papa." 

She'd said it reflexively, already knee-deep in the coming customs of propriety. 

Over a pop of blue smoke, hissed lightly through his teeth, he'd looked away. The tobacco was the same that stained the air in Sister Imperator's office: woody, cheap, earthen.

"Not yet," he'd rumbled. His lips twitched around the cigarette. "Tomorrow." His stare had haunted her steps, seeing and unseeing. The smoked husk of his breath had chased her off the walls. "Night, Sister."

Now, as ordered, she's returned the required items to Primo's care. With it, a report.

"The proper precautions were taken," she says. "All in all, it went as predicted."

Primo ticks a thin brow. She can feel the cold claw of his Sight in her, rummaging through her mind like clothes on a shelf. "And how was the offering received?"

Mariella swallows, thinking back to the Realm's magic, the spellwork beneath her hands. "No changes from the previous purification."

Idly, Primo glances at a set of a files on his desk; skims one sheet a touch higher. For a moment, he stews in his thoughts. Then, clean as a dagger: "Is he confident?"

Her eyes snap up. His own, silver-blue and white, meander to meet them.

"Yes," she says steadily.

He squints at her. Winter frost in her lungs, winter eyes piercing her through. But, eventually, she is freed from it.

"Very well," he mulls. He gathers up the sheets, settles them into a clean stack. "Then I will see you bright and early, my dear. Another long day ahead of us." 

Mariella nods, pinches her nails into her hands, and moves to stand from her seat.

Before she reaches the door, he speaks again.

"Mariella." She glances back at him, hunched like a strange, battish thing over his desk, his bony hands folded. He studies her like a portrait littered with fine details: one of many in a precious collection. His mouth makes an odd twist. "You did well," he lands on, eventually.

"Sir...?"

A smile blinks, cool and plain. "It is not an easy Sight to bear. There is a certain strength required to carry it. More, perhaps, to guide it."

The admission weighs strangely on her. Picks at her.

He unfolds his hands, weaves them again, before reorienting on his work. "Sleep well, Sister."

Slowly, Mariella turns back to the door. The handle stings beneath her palm. "Goodnight, Monsignor."

The morning's gossip will claim that Primo stalked the gardens that night, winged as a beast. That an apparition trailed his steps, feline-footed and hazed with blue. That their Papa-to-be was seen crawling out of the ghouls' chambers at dawn, reeking of celestial bodies and muddied magic.

Mariella won't give it any mind. She's learned enough now to take such chatter with a grain of salt.

All that will matter will be her hand on the chapel door, Diana's light a calming grace beside her: bathed in the sun's glow, freshly robed, carved in black and white; the two of them, and a sea of others, there to greet the sanctity of their Beholder.

Her skull-paints will match the adornments of his own. The black leather of her gloves, a mirror to the claw-tipped pair that will gloss across his knuckles. He will wear vestments dark as ink, adorned with Death's imagery, lined with a purple fit for kings—and at her side, he'll pinch a soft touch at her wrist. Flash a smile.

Back in his bones, in full.

Glittering and golden.

"Hello, Papa."

His lashes will crinkle at the edges. "Enchantée, darling," he'll purl. "I mean, eh—Sister. Marcie, right? No. Marnie—"

"Mari."

"Mari, aye. Right, right, right."

Still Cardinal, still Emeritus, always.

[goddess-redemption]

The Rite of Submission: A Male Initiate's Rebirth into the Cult of the Goddess

The air is thickened with incense, curling in the dim candlelight like veils of ancient mystery. Within the sacred temple chamber, twelve robed priestesses are seen standing in a perfect circle, their faces concealed by shadowed hoods. Each candle is held delicately, casting a soft glow over the silent figure kneeling in their center—a man, trembling slightly, is bowed before the altar of the Goddess. Here, he is seen not merely as a man but as a vessel of humble devotion, prepared to undergo the profound, irreversible transformation.

A low, resonant chant is begun by the priestesses, their voices blending into a single harmonic hum that is made to reverberate through the temple. Their invocation is both a song and a spell, intended as a siren call to the Great Goddess herself, to descend and witness this rare offering. Months of prayer, meditation, and surrender have prepared the man, leaving him ready to relinquish all remnants of his old life. This night, he is to be stripped of all that he was and reborn.

"Great Goddess, Infinite and Unknowable,Thou art invoked under this sacred moon.Behold this vessel, this humble one, Who offers his very soul to thy eternal night."

The chant is grown louder, each syllable filling the room with a feverish energy, the candles flickering in response. The weight of the words is felt by the man as though they are drumming into his heart, filling him with a mixture of awe and fear. Tonight, he ceases to be the person he has known. He is being remade, molded, and utterly devoted.

As the final chant fades, a step forward is taken by the lead priestess, her gaze penetrating and powerful. An ornate staff, carved with symbols decipherable only by the initiated, is raised and pointed toward the kneeling man.

“Is all falsehood renounced by you, seeker? Is all pride abandoned, and the identity of your past relinquished?”

Her voice rings out, firm and unwavering, echoing off the temple walls.

“It is,”

is whispered by the man, his voice shaking with the weight of his vow.

“It must be spoken louder,”

she commands.

“It is!”

he replies, louder now, his voice echoing in the silence that follows.

With measured steps, the priestess is seen approaching him, holding an intricately carved dagger—held not as a weapon, but as a symbol of severance from his former life.

“This vow is yours to repeat: I vow to live as a servant of the Great Goddess, shedding my pride and self to be reborn in her shadow.”

Each phrase is repeated by the man with solemnity, his voice steadying as the vows grow more intense, more binding. As he speaks, each priestess in turn places a hand upon his bowed head, anointing him with oil and blessing him with whispered words in an ancient tongue.

The Prostration of Surrender

A gesture is made by the High Priestess for him to lie prostrate, his face pressed to the cold stone floor, his entire form displayed in absolute surrender. The priestesses encircle him, their incantations murmured as one sprinkles consecrated oil over his hair, while another places a ribbon, symbolizing purity and submission, around his wrist. The weight of their presence is felt, the energy of the room thickening as they acknowledge his offering of humility.

This moment becomes his final act of submission before the Great Mother, symbolically surrendering all earthly pride and ego. He feels himself dissolving; his ambitions, past triumphs, and former identity seem to melt away. The shadows loom over him, and he is consumed into the temple’s sacred darkness.

The Ritual of Emasculation

With deliberate grace, the High Priestess is seen stepping forward, her hands raised to the heavens. With a single motion, her sisters are called, and together, they begin to strip him of any symbols of his past life—a ring, a pendant, and finally, his clothes, until he stands vulnerable and exposed. In their hands, these trappings are no longer seen as mere objects but as symbols of his old identity, his worldly pride.

One of the priestesses intones,

“You now stand as a blank slate, cleansed of all that you were. Behold, you die before us, stripped bare to be reborn, naked and humble before the Goddess herself.”

These objects are cast into a ceremonial bowl, where they are set aflame. The flames leap high, the temple illuminated in a fierce, otherworldly glow. His ritual death has been brought forth, his final severance from the self he had once been. The smell of burning incense and the crackling of flames fills the room as he stands, now a living sacrifice in the Goddess’s honor.

The Rebirth and Renaming

After a long silence, the priestesses move in unison, each lifting a hand to him as if beckoning him back to life. He is drawn up by the lead priestess, who gently raises his chin, her gaze penetrating and final.

“By the grace of the Great Mother, you have been reborn. No longer are you the man who entered these sacred walls,”

She proclaims.

“Henceforth, you bear the name [New Name], servant of the Goddess. You are hers alone, bound by soul and spirit.”

A thumb dipped in a vial of scented oil is used by her to mark his forehead with the symbol of the Goddess, sealing his new identity. The other priestesses do the same, blessings murmured in a language sounding as ancient as the stars. With each touch, his new name and purpose sink deeper into his being.

The Final Chant and Closing Benediction

To seal the ritual, the priestesses gather around him in a close circle, their voices lifting in a final, triumphant hymn to the Goddess. Each note fills the chamber, a glorious paean seeming to echo through eternity itself. The man—now [New Name], a vessel of complete devotion—feels divine energy surge through him as he is encased in their song.

"Goddess of Night, Goddess of Light, Behold your servant, reborn tonight. May he serve, may he kneel, May he honor thy eternal might."

As the last notes fade, silence falls over the room. Heads are bowed by the priestesses, a gesture of respect to the reborn initiate. A small pendant is placed around his neck, a token of the Goddess to remind him of his vows. With the ritual complete, he rises to his feet, his heart pounding with awe and surrender.

From this night forward, the man is no longer the person he had been. He is now [New Name], eternally bound to the service of the Great Mother, stripped of ego, devoted and reborn in sacred humility.

[ginandoldlace]

The gold Ampulla is used to hold the consecrated oil with which a sovereign is anointed during the coronation ceremony. It is cast in the form of an eagle with outspread wings. The head of the eagle is removable, and there is an opening in the beak for pouring the oil.

The design is based on an earlier, smaller vessel, which was based on a fourteenth-century legend: the Virgin Mary is said to have appeared to St Thomas Becket and presented him with a golden eagle and a vial of oil for anointing future kings of England. Oil from the Ampulla is poured onto the twelfth-century Anointing Spoon at the most sacred moment of the coronation. The gesture of anointing, when the Archbishop touches holy oil onto the head, breast and hands of the sovereign, dates back to the Old Testament Book of Kings, where the anointing of Solomon as King is described.

[kurithedweeb]

This is an elaboration of my answer about clothing culture in DoS (this one) on veiling within priesthood for @tsunami1022! There’s some context and the original commented question in the post, but my answer is too long to put in the comments so here it is. I myself am not religious or studying religion so don’t expect this to match up with any actual religion, this is just what I imagine for Ru’aun. We’re gonna talk specifically about veiling in the Church of the Matron Irene.

The act of covering their face is a way to elevate the veiled closer to the goddess. You don’t look upon a holy power without consequences, so being veiled is a disciple’s way of giving themselves a layer of protection and being able to look and be closer to the goddess. There’s different levels to it. I mentioned that devotees cover their eyes, members of the church cover the lower half of the face and the High Priest’s entire face is covered.

The covering of the eyes allows you to look up to the goddess. To see her and study her. It allows her to look back at you and take notice that you don’t have to shy away, so when you pray she may hear you above the din of the masses. Still, you may look at her, but you won’t see her clearly. She’s a vision to interpret, shapes to read like shadow puppets. The mask over the eyes is the only veil that may be removed outside of worship. It’s something you wear to church and for your prayers at dawn and dusk, and most people remove it when going about their daily lives but scholars and prayermen (staff of the church and those housed on church grounds) only remove it when washing or sleeping.

Covering the mouth allows your words to mingle with the words of the goddess. Outside the church, your word is taken as her message, you are the middleman between the divine and the mortal. Only the most dedicated to her teachings can interpret the Matron for the masses, those who have followed their entire lives and intend to follow until their deaths, the priests and nuns. These veils are never taken off, not even to eat and drink, and can be stripped from the veiled by the High Priest or local Lord if they act against Irene’s teachings. You cannot be seen without it, and the dorms on church grounds are all single rooms so you can wash and sleep without breaking this rule.

The High Priest is considered a vassal of Irene, a vessel if she wished it. He may speak to her and she may speak to him. He is the closest to divinity a person can get. To look upon his true face is seen as equal to looking upon the true face of Irene. She speaks through him. He doesn’t interpret anything, she and he are there together, his words are hers as far as anyone is concerned. He has several veils that suit different ceremonies and these can be exchanged for or worn together with different masks to show tone because you can’t read his expression. He may only remove the veil in the most intimate moments of his life: the embrace of a lover, the moment he is married, the death of a family member, the birth of his child, and as part of the ceremony to pass on the mantle of High Priest.

Aside from the different roles the different forms of veiling take, there’s also universal meanings. Veiling in real-world religions has a number of meanings: it’s seen as a symbol of holiness, purity, modesty, protection and mystery, and it can also be a connection between the veiled and their God. In Christianity, which I believe is what the canon church of Irene is based on, objects and people are sometimes veiled because they have a certain dignity and close relation to holy power—this includes the hands of the priest since they’re consecrated, the veil of a bride, and the habits of nuns who are supposed to consider themselves married to God. For the Church of the Matron, another important symbol is unity. 

When you devote yourself to the Matron, your veil becomes your new face, so much so that some disciples who have been best friends for a decade can’t recognize each other without their veils. You are the closest mortals have come to Irene’s divinity, your name and face are sacred things now that belong to her, and you are no longer an individual. You are an extension of her power. You are now a shard of the whole of the Church of the Matron; you too are just a touch holy.

Anyway, the veils are shields from divinity on both sides! It’s a huge scandal within the church (keep it hush-hush from the public for the public image) for a veil to be relinquished or stripped from a wearer.

[hazyaltcare]

A devotional/prayer style poem for a Goddess of Vengeance, something to recite as a prayer or to invoke the spirit.

o goddess, o goddess, we invoke your power, let this prayer be a vessel for your consecration. may you hear our plea- may you right the wrongs- may your divine might strike true! o vengeance, o vengeance, o blessing and curse, bestow us reprisal through our supplication. may you hear our plea- may you right the wrongs- may your divine might strike true! o great force of nature, o justice so fair, guide our bodies and souls towards vindication. may you hear our plea- may you right the wrongs- may your divine might strike true!

(This is quite a long invocation, but you can certainly cut it up into its constituent parts as needed.)

Mod Vintage (Tn)

[windvexer]

Spirit Vessel Theory & Practical DIY (Traditional Witchcraft Flavored)

(Written in response to an Anon whom I think is probably involved in spirit conjure community, which is where conjurers put spirits inside of a vessel for you and ship them to you. Anon requested to know tips on how to transfer a spirit to a new vessel)

✨big heckin UPG ALERT ahead for the ENTIRE POST✨

In this post, a spirit vessel is any object, including a container filled with objects, which serves as a spirit's physical foothold into our present reality.

Three Varieties of Spirit Vessels: Telephone, Body, House

Please note the particular absence of trap or prison: there is no need for any practitioner to trap or seal a spirit inside of a vessel. This is what we do to unwanted spirits to relocate them to a second location, and it's not how we treat our friends.

My categorization of spirit vessels relates to how the spirit is intended to engage with the vessel.

Telephone Vessel: This is the kind I've most commonly seen and heard of in the conjure community. The spirit lives/exists Elsewhere, but the practitioner has given them a link of communication to this physical object.

The practitioner then works over the object to "call" the spirit and ask it to arrive in their location, or visit it Elsewhere, or just talk while they are in separate locations.

In my opinion, the "telephone" vessel is the least impactful type for the purposes of allowing spirits into our lives, but it's great at what it does: serving as a telephone line. However, as I hope this post will go on to show, it's also the easiest to make because the vessel requires the least amount of preparation and care.

Body Vessel: This is when the spirit vessel is meant to be the body of the spirit as it dwells on Earth. When a vessel is consecrated and dedicated to a spirit, it's understood to be the spirit itself. The form that the vessel takes influences the spirit's ability to work in our reality.

Body vessels may end up looking like little figurine versions of the spirit in question, but they can also be containers specially prepared with decorations and objects heavily linked to the spirit's essence.

Direct examples in witchcraft and folk magic include house and kitchen dollies that are meant to help lighten the load of chores or stop food from burning. Such dolls may be equipped with little brooms, multiple hands, and so forth, to assist with chores.

Another example of a body vessel is the Decaying River God. To create this vessel, I made a deal with the river and then embodied a spirit into this intuitively crafted form. Now, that physical object has become the sacred body of a spirit.

Just as the kitchen doll may be given a broom to assist with sweeping, a spirit's body may be equipped with tools to grant them additional influence and abilities in our world. A related example in witchcraft is to put the feet of small, scurrying Earthen animals (such as a rat or mole) into charm bags, so that the spell can scamper to its destination.

Just because the spirit has a body vessel does not mean they are permanently bound inside of that vessel. Accidentally breaking or losing the vessel isn't like harming the spirit (although obviously it's to be avoided).

Spirits which were born Elsewhere are perhaps more likely to come and go from body vessels, but even beings born with the creation of their body may still leave that physical space and return to it as desired.

House Vessel: This is the same thing as a spirit house or shrine, just a step to the left. We might equip the body vessel with objects that grant the spirit additional powers and capabilities, but in the house vessel, I tend to organize things to be a pleasant and enjoyable respite for the spirit, almost like a custom bedroom.

There may be no object or representation that's intended to be the body of the spirit at all. Nonetheless, the space is still one where the spirit may be fully invited and present, and gives them a strong foothold in our world.

The only real difference I draw between a house vessel and a shrine or spirit house is the intent. A shrine may be to venerate, and a spirit house may be a kind act of providing shelter. But the house vessel's intent is to create a space that makes it easier for a spirit to fully Show Up to our present reality.

Which Variety is Best?

This depends on your needs. For the purposes of witchcraft, spirits are often best given bodies that reflect their nature and empower them to carry out your purpose. I also hold this to be true for spells and any other variety of guy.

Spirits whom we're getting to know, but aren't quite sure of yet, may be best limited to "telephone" status.

House vessels - I haven't got a lot to say, except bringing up the point of them.

You can have multiple telephone lines and house vessels, yet intuition advises that really only one Body should do for the average spirit.

Vessels Themselves Can Suck So It's Worthwhile to Put Some Thought Into It

I believe that the more a spirit vessel is the embodiment of the spirit themselves, the easier it is for the spirit to use that vessel to interact with us and our present reality.

An extreme example can help demonstrate this point.

Imagine you've gotten to know a water spirit. A mermaid, let's say, from an ocean world of pure, opalescent waters, where coral reefs are cities and pet jellyfish are decorated with pearls.

Imagine that the vessel for this mermaid is a jar painted red and decorated with symbols of fire, then further charged with fiery energy. Within the jar is rusty nails, polluted water from the side of the highway, and a heaping spoonful of chili flakes.

I would hazard a guess that you couldn't even agree to get that mermaid to use such a vessel as a telephone line, much less use it as their physical body.

It's not that the spirit is snooty - it's that you're asking him to come into contact with things that irritate and burn him. Not only would it require a huge amount of energy to overcome these differences, but the vessel would nonetheless cause him discomfort.

Intuition may even advise that a simple bowl of water would create a vastly improved "house" vessel for this spirit.

But if it's true that a vessel can be incompatible with a spirit, then it's reasonable to assume that a vessel can be made more and more compatible with a spirit, until it is highly compatible and therefore very easy for the spirit to link to it and use it.

To really improve our mermaid vessel, we might embroider the outside of a bag with a representation of a coral reef, place jellyfish charms and imitation pearls inside of it, and often soak the entire bag in cool, pure water.

This may be the perfect vessel for our mermaid, but totally unsuitable to the pollution monster, who wants to live inside of the rusty nails jar.

This is the primary reason why I find simple unmodified single-object vessels to be not that great. (Examples of this would be, a crystal ring or antique object purchased and used without modifying it to the tastes of the spirit)

While a spirit may select such an object from a lineup and request it's use as a vessel, that doesn't mean that it's going to be an effective vessel.

Especially combined with beliefs in witchcraft about the magical impact of modifying vessels to encapsulate the power of a spell or spirit,

I believe that an unmodified object for use as a spirit vessel is like casting a candle spell with a plain candle to which no herbs or energies are added, and all you do is imprint your raw intent and light the candle.

It'll maybe work, but not nearly as well as it could.

Therefore I believe the form of the vessel matters beyond whether or not the spirit personally likes it, and extends into the realm of sorcerous technique - spirit manifestation is affected depending on if the spirit vessel is made well or made poorly, and especially how much it is physically personalized to the spirit.

Creation of a Useful Vessel

In all cases: Modify the object(s) of the vessel as much as possible to reflect the nature and known qualities of the spirit. As much as possible, work with the spirit to choose modifications, or, work with known lore or with the assistance of spirit workers or diviners.

In the case where a single object (such as a stone) must be used:

Tie the object up in a net where each knot represents a foothold for the spirit to cling on to, or, where each knot ties up a bundle of energy of the sort of thing the spirit likes. (Can be then worn as necklace)

Paint or carve the object, even in a hidden area.

Add additional decorations and embellishments to reflect either the nature of the spirit, or to represent useful tools that the spirit can use to access the object.

Carve out the middle and add bits of paper (with name and permissions written on), and stuff with relevant herbs.

Sight-unseen, I wouldn't recommend single object vessels if you can't heavily/permanently modify them.

In the case where a container vessel (such as a bag, box, or bottle) may be used:

Decorate the exterior, and if space permits the interior, of the container to best reflect an environment enjoyable to the spirit. Consider various techniques: painting, embroidery, carving, burning, and so forth.

Selectively include objects which reflect the spirit's nature, including dried plants, stones, feathers, seeds, bones, and various objects from nature; also charms, trinkets, and tokens (factory-made is fine); also prayers or poems, or drawings or artwork, all of these things symbolic of the spirit and attempting to demonstrate its nature and totality

Include a written sigil or signature of the spirit, and it's name or known names, and epithets. Often best done in fancy magical ink if any is on hand. (I use Sharpies; no need to over-think it)

Charms, amulets, plants, prepared powders or oils, or otherwise, for the purpose of facilitating spirit manifestation and ease of travel between worlds; examples may include specially prepared threads to symbolize links and roads, special spirit-calling powder, magnets to "draw towards," symbols of the Crossroads or of safe and easy travel, and so forth.

In the case where the spirit is likened to an earthly animal, bones or preserved body parts are a very good addition.

In the case where the vessel is itself in the form of a body, such as a figurine or doll:

Hand-craft or heavily modify the creation to represent the vibes as much as possible

Dress, accessorize, ornament, and decorate the figure to represent the spirit or it's known attributes and purposes.

As handicrafters known more about their trade than I do, I don't want to over-comment. Make them a little body. Yes.

Inviting the Spirit to Utilize the Vessel

Unfortunately I will decline to try and provide a specific step-by-step ritual, mostly because I work more intuitively and don't actually have one written up.

But I'll do my best to explain how you can go about it, and some things to consider.

Basically, you'll want to conceptualize four steps:

Final magical preparations

Consecration

Dedication

Invitation

I'll try to explain the reasoning behind including these things, and of course, you'll want to modify or change all of them according to your preferences and needs.

In all cases: Use your magic to make the vessel lovely and filled with spiritual virtues that resonate deeply with the nature of the spirit. This is necessarily vague; a troubleshooting primer for energy work is beyond the scope of this post.

The timing of this work is very well done on special days where the spirit-roads are open, on full moons, or on Mondays.

In cases where the spirit already has a vessel and you want to give them a new one, there is no difference in operation. Make profane and reclaim the old vessel afterwords according to your desires.

Fill the vessel with two types of energy: The first being dense caloric energies from foods, especially oil, nuts, seeds, eggs, and fatty meat. This can be done by placing a food offering next to the vessel and dedicating the food to the spirit.

The second being ethereal and subtle energies, such as produced from blessed incense or energy work. This can be done by blessing and offering incense as you normally do, or channeling your personal energy into the vessel.

Consecrate the vessel: Perform any charm or ritual in your practice which delineates an object as being sacred and separate from the everyday, and turns the object into a Spirit Vessel. (Add'l details below)

Dedicate the vessel: Perform any charm or ritual in your practice which functions to formally gift-give an object to a god or a spirit.

Sometimes, a consecration and a dedication are done in the same ritual, especially when a god is concerned. E.g., "Witchfather, by your name this wand is made holy (consecration). I give this wand to you; it is yours, and when I use it, your hand guides it (dedication)."

The most simplest format of this is something like, "by [the powers I believe allow me to make thing sacred], I make this object sacred [and perhaps I sprinkle some saltwater or whatever formula I believe is necessary to help me make things sacred]. This object is now the vessel for a spirit. Now, it is a Spirit Vessel."

The above being the idea of a consecration; the dedication then being something like,

"[Spirit Name], I invite you into my world and my life. I give you Permission to dwell in this Spirit Vessel and make it your body and your home. I give you Permission to walk in this world through the conduit of this Spirit Vessel. It belongs to you, it is you."

(The above dedication perhaps also revealing something about why "telephone lines" may be a safer bet, the dedication for those being something like, "[Spirit Name], I invite you to observe this vessel and place your fingerprint upon it, so that when I work over it I call out to you, and you can hear me easily no matter how far apart we are.")

Anyway, put some real thought into exactly how much you want this spirit to manifest in your life, because spirit experiences - even when desired and invited - can be very intense and scary, especially if up to that point your experiences with spirits has been limited.

Invite the spirit into the vessel: If not included in your dedication, also formally invite the spirit.

"[Spirit Name], I've prepared this special Vessel for you, and given it to you. I have prepared the way with earthly and aethereal energies, so you may be well-fed and have the power to move within our world. [That's the offering bit innit]. Come now at this time and here in this place, and claim this Vessel as your own."

Etc., something like that.

At this time, the ritual is over with and you can commune with the spirit as desired or close the ritual down in your normal techniques.

Again, if there is an additional/old spirit vessel you no longer want to use, try talking with the spirit about what to do with it; but you can just let it "run dry" and then carefully undo the magic on it. After that, do with it as you please.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Naomi Kritzer's "Liberty's Daughter"

Tomorrow (November 22), I'll be joined by Vass Bednar at the Toronto Metro Reference Library for a talk about my new novel, The Lost Cause, a preapocalyptic tale of hope in the climate emergency.

There's so much sf about "competent men" running their families with entrepreneurial zeal, clarity of vision and a firm confident hand. But there's precious little fiction about how much being raised by a Heinlein dad would suuuck. But it would, and in Naomi Kritzer's Liberty's Daughter, we get a peek inside the nightmare:

https://fairwoodpress.com/store/p148/LIBERTY%27S_DAUGHTER.html

Beck Garrison is a seasteader, living on a floating platform built by libertarian cranks to get away from big government, taxes, and the idea that people owe each other care and consideration. Various kinds of market trufans have built their own fiefdoms: there's a sin city, a biotech free-for-all, a lawless Mad Max zone, and so on.

Beck's father, Paul, is some kind of local functionary. He's wealthy and respected, both a power-broker and a power in his own right. He pays for Beck to get private tutoring (no public schools – no public anything) and if she needs bailing out from some kind of sticky situation, he's got her on his account with Alpha Dogs, the toughest mercenaries on the sea (no police, either). An armed society is a polite society, after all.

Beck has a job, naturally (there ain't no such thing as a free lunch). She's a finder: for all that the steaders worship commerce as a sacrament consecrated to the holy Invisible Hand, there's not a lot of retail at sea. California – the nearest onshore neighbor – has lots of pesky taxes, and besides, it's a long ways off. Besides, space is at a premium on the stead, so people don't have attics and basements to fill with excess consumer junk.

Instead, when a steader needs something – a shoelace, a fashion accessory, or any other creature comfort – they hire a finder like Beck to clamber around between the decks of the aircraft carriers, scows, yachts and other vessels comprising the stead. It's a good way for Beck to earn spending money, and she's a natural at it. After all, she's been a steader since she was four, when her mother died in a drunk driving accident and her father took her to sea.

The story opens with a finding job. Beck wants a pair of sparkly shoes for her client, and the woman who owns them is an indentured servant whose sister has gone missing. Find the sister, get the shoes.

Indentured servant? Yeah, of course. Freedom of contract is the one freedom from which all the others flow, so you can sell yourself into bond labor. Hell, maybe you can earn enough to buy a share in the stead and become a co-owner/citizen.

This is the setup for Beck's adventure, which sees her liberating bond slaves tricked into fatal work details, getting involved in reality TV production, meeting illegal IWW organizers, and becoming embroiled in a pandemic that threatens the lives of all the steaders. It's a coming of age novel, told with the same straightforward, spunky zeal of Heinlein's juvies, but from the perspective of the daughter, not the dad.

Kritzer makes it clear that growing up under the thumb of a TANSTAAFL-worshipping, self-regarding, wealthy autocrat who worships selfishness as the necessary precondition for market clearing would be a goddamned nightmare. She also thinks through some of the important implications of life in one of these offshore libertarian archipelagos, like the fact that the wealthy residents would be overwhelming drawn from the ranks of corporate criminals and tax-cheats, and the underclass would be bail-skipping proles ensnared in the War on Drugs.

But Liberty's Daughter isn't a hymn to big government. Most of the steaders are escaping the US government, a state whose authoritarian and cruel proclivities are well-documented. Kritzer uses the labor dispute at the core of the novel to reveal market authoritarianism – the coercive power that hunger and poverty transfers from the have-nots to the haves. Think of Anatole France's wry observation that "the law, in its majestic equality, equally forbids the rich as well as the poor to sleep under bridges, to beg in the streets, and to steal bread."

If you're familiar with Kritzer's work, you won't be surprised to learn that she tells a zippy, fast moving tale that smuggles in sharp observations about the cleavage lines between solidarity and selfishness. Her story "So Much Cooking" – published years before the pandemic – captured life under lockdown with eerie prescience:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/04/17/pack-of-knaves/#so-much-cooking

More recently, her "Better Living Through Algorithms" is a dazzling display of knifework that'll cut you a dozen times before you even notice that you're bleeding:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/02/wunderkammer/#jubillee

If you habitually read Kritzer's short fiction, Liberty's Daughter might be familiar to you, as it is adapted from a series of stories that originally ran in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Kritzer's YA debut, Catfishing on the CatNet, was also adapted from a short story, "Cat Pictures Please," which won the Hugo Award in 2016:

https://boingboing.net/2019/11/19/setec-astronomy-kitteh.html

"Libertarian exit" – buying a country, or an archipelago, or just a luxury bunker – has been in the air lately. It's a major element of my new novel, The Lost Cause, which came out this month – anarchocapitalist wreckers try to sabotage the Green New Deal from the seastead they've moored to the tallest point in the drowned Grand Caymans and declared to be a sovereign nation:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865939/the-lost-cause

Kritzer is great at catching that zeitgeist. Seasteading is part of a long, bitter dream of a certain kind of selfish person to escape society, a tale told in lurid and fascinating detail in Raymond Craib's 2022 history Adventure Capitalism:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/14/this-way-to-the-egress/#terra-nullius

There's a longstanding joke to the effect that you can shut down any discussion of the merits of a libertarian exit by asking three questions about the brave new world:

Whether you can sell your organs;

Whether you can sell yourself into slavery; and

Whether there is any age of consent.

Kritzer tackles the first two, but tacks around the third. Instead, by giving us a young adult protagonist who has been raised in a rusting libertopia, she finds a decidedly less incendiary way to think about the role of autonomy in adolescents, and thus generates far more light than heat.

The result is a cracking read with a sting in its tail.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/21/podkaynes-dad-was-a-dick/#age-of-consent

[a-word-a-day-for-writers]

𝐀𝐦𝐩𝐮𝐥

1. A small bottle or flask; a phial.

2. esp. A vessel for holding consecrated oil, or for other sacred uses. (In this sense ampulla is now commonly used.)

[arcane-abomination]

I talked about how channeling Eldritch energy and earthly energy through the same tools can sometimes make the energy flow difficult to work with. Why is that? Well, the short answer is this; Eldritch energy comes from other places in the universe and/or other dimensions. Sometimes it’s makeup is far too different from our earthly energy to work with it within the same tool. (This isn’t always the case but 8/10 times it usually is) It would be like lighting a fire inside a bowl of water…it just won’t happen. In order to work with Fire and Water in harmony, you need to put them in their own unique vessels. This sounds simple enough but it can get complicated when introducing things like the grimoire and sigils into the mix.

In this post I’m gonna talk about some of the ways you can more easily use these conflicting energies to create harmony in your craft. Please check out my ELDRITCH CONSECRATION RITUAL as well for further reading as this post will NOT be going over any actual spellwork.

⚜️ The Grimoire ⚜️

Now, just from reading the introduction, you might be thinking, “well now I need a whole separate grimoire for my Eldritch work.” Well I’m here to tell you that no, you do not. As long as you know how to consecrate things properly. You see, when most people concentrate their book they do it as a whole, but with Eldritch energy you need to enchant specific sections or pages separately.

It can definitely be a little tedious to go through each page and concentrate them one by one or section by section. But, in the end it’s definitely worth it. I like to do mine as a create the pages so it’s not to demanding.

🌹Page Sharing🌹

This can be achieved by simply redefining how we concentrate. Instead of doing page by page. One could do paragraph by paragraph. Or even symbol by symbol. It would be like having both a fire vessel and a water vessel side by side on the same altar, within the same circle. That way all the energy is separated yet can still work in tandem with each other.

Another fun trick is to write something and concentrate it one way, then take a whole knew writing utensil and go over the same lines. Consecrating those new strokes with the other energy. Since the inks are differently charges all the magic is still there in the form of individual vessels but it’s appears as if it’s only one.

⚜️ Sigils ⚜️

Sigils can be a great way to call on energy, but how can Eldritch energy share a sigil with earthly energy? Well for starters the same method of overlaying energies can be used as stated above. But you can also consecrate different strokes of the sigils as well. Again, I realize this is tedious but well worth it.

Likewise, whole pages of in-depth Sigil grids, seals, and talismans can be done this way. Every symbol, every line, every piece, can have its own consecration.

⚜️Potions ⚜️

I feel like this one should be easy enough to grasp on your own but I will talk about it any way just in case, there’s an off chance somebody doesn’t know. Charming individual ingredients to mix into the potion as their own vessels will sold the “energy mixing” issue for this one.

⚜️ Closing ⚜️

I hope this helps to give you some ideas. It’s definitely not as difficult as some people think, more so just tedious. But as I’ve said several times now, it’s well worth it in the end