Forge Working

Lie working

Instigation

This is the Flurry Moon, the Horning Moon, the moon that is each one Crone and Maiden, the moon of the unspoken depths of winter. This is a time of rest, a time of stasis. The Land-living slumbers in a blanket of flurry. The Lady rests, bash Her roughage on one occasion the daylight of the God. It is a time of stasis, but what's more a time of exchange. Echoing in the white darken of winter, new life stirs trendy restlessness. It is a time of transition, and ever hold transitions been regarded as stuff of power. Not wholeheartedly of what was, nor of what thrust be, but contribution of each one. A place amid places, a time amid times, a Read amid Worlds.
Careful by no single thing, from whence all stuff are attainable. No thing, yet all stuff, for upon the Gearshift of Life form no thing may stand mystified. Like was partakes of what may be, as what may be is fake of what was. All that was, each one the light and the dark, is the ore from which the luck is fake in the eternal fires of the Gods. Hence we someone portray together on this magical night, this night of transition and exchange. Dancers together of the coil repositioning, guy travelers upon the sacred path. Whichever one of us brings to this Bend all of what was in our own lives, all of what makes each one of us the unique folks that we are.

For each one of us is the product of our own past, the product of joy and woe, acquire and misfortune, sore spot and source of pleasure, dark and light. All of this, each one of us brings portray tonight, to lay upon the fabricate of the Gods, the raw theme from which to fabricate what thrust be.

For tonight you yourself are the ore, raw metal and dross infected insistently together, that you bring to the smithy access. The fabricate fire roars, and it is your hand that pumps the bellows. Raw ore melts in the crucible, black dross dropping trendy the very atoms of the metal or strong outmoded in spiraling gas, and it is you yourself who are altered. All that was, all that has gone yet to be, that has finished you what you are today, you thrust roll under your own hand and thrust to reproduction what you thrust become. For this is the focal point of the Aptitude, that your life is a tool of your own forging, for good or for ill. The thump rings versus the anvil, shaping and transforming glowing metal, and it is your arm that swings the thump. Arm and hand, striking with the ability of a craftsman and the power to roll worlds. And it is your thrust that guides them, your sight that forms the final shape. It is up to you.

Guided meditation

As you sit with your eyes blocked, you breathe profoundly, reaching collected incoming and ascend in the traditional ritual of bedrock and centering that is so time-honored and so convenient. Calmly, slowly, the room fades from shout you, and tediously you begin to become wary that you are deskbound with your back versus a abrupt stone. Go along with, you begin to flavor the thread, callous, raw, as callous as the dark amid the stars, yet enigmatically convenient, laced with the scents of brackish and heather. It whispers to you, whispers of times gone by and times yet to come.
Secrets, what's more, it seems to mock, secrets of Land-living and sky, of stuff that worry minuscule for life form man. Indistinguishably, far outmoded, the sea booms grimly versus the rock face front, as it has done to the same extent the beginning of the world.

Lazily, very tediously, you open your eyes. The stone at your back, pasty, shingly, and callous, towers greater you, a frightful, rectangular debar of granite that seems to verve from the Land-living to the stars. As your eyes tediously become habitual to the murk shout you and the glittering firelight, you begin to observe that you are not mystified, that other stones stand with yours on the heath, forming a perfect ring. Specially you, the flamboyant dark sky blazes with stars...with constellations out of the ordinary and academic, yet emotively convenient.

In the multiuse building of the circle burns a huge, furious balefire. A low, blocky stone shape, partial lost older the grimace of the fire, betokens an ancient altar.
Beyond it, private in robe and shadowed cowl, stands a on its own develop, partial seen, partial obfuscate. Creatively the fire from the altar, a single huge monolith, even taller and better-quality frightful than the standing stones of the ring, rears versus the night sky. The leaping, dancing, flames of the balefire cast glittering shadows on both sides of the difficult, dry cause. The huge monolith of the kingstone casts a desire shadow just before the edge of the circle. The hooded develop older the altar seems to be chanting feebly in a system that you cannot more or less understand.

The fire dances moving, convoluted shadows on and about the kingstone. Last a desire crux, you become tediously wary that the shawled develop of an old organism is standing, half-hidden by the dancing firelight, in the shadow of the kingstone.
You thought weakly from the develop a tidbit of unplumbed age, and yet of preternatural sharpness.

The crone speaks no word, makes no sign, yet you thought at once that you hold been summoned. You hoist yourself from the cause, strength protesting from callous and inaction, to seek that certain haul up. But the block out develop of the crone is -- gone. Torpid, you know someplace you older saw her, she cannot hold gone far. One -- two -- three -- five better-quality steps font you trendy the shadow of the kingstone... and your eyes, dazzled by the baelfire's grimace, are at once plunged trendy blackness. Just about by natural, you put out a hand to stroke the ancient stone, in no doubt no better-quality than a sink or two outmoded -- to stroke vitality.
Without an answer off safeguard, you dive blindly send a response to. The frightful, pensive mass of the kingstone seems, unaccountably, to hold nowhere to be found. More willingly, the cause slopes inaudibly scheduled in your feet, and you get the quick aspect not of the open, unembellished state of the heath shout you, but of mineral. It is as if the standing stone had become, somehow, a rod. The thread is gone, not stilled but cut off, and the air is dry, nevertheless, and callous. The force that near the beginning summoned you case and, re lacking conscious volition, you seek it, reckless that doesn't matter what power brought you portray thrust guide your feet.
Pause

The injury of your own median is shattering in your ears, as at the same time as reflected and magnified by the nevertheless obfuscate rod fortifications. Lazily you begin to observe that the murk about you is no longer certain, that a dim, sullen red light glows in the midst of blackness, far in vanguard of you. Torpid you walk up and down, the dim, red light swelling tediously, very tediously, yet to be you. The injury of your median grows louder in your ears, louder and better-quality inflexible, with a highly-flavored, low, re metallic ring to it.
Pause

As the light grows ever so tediously brighter, you become wary of other figures shout you. Upper limit profound, silhouetted versus the tediously promising light, is the shawled, block out develop of the crone. The light grows brighter, and the highly-flavored, firmly, full of beans beat in your ears grows louder. The air is promising hotter, as well. The dry callous of the heath is gone, the length of with the gnaw of brackish and heather. Now the smell in the warming murk is that of gas and of
busy metal.
Pause

The brilliance yet to be you has full-size now, so that you can make out the shape of the rod gossip limned versus the blackness. Good older it, the develop of the crone stands to one enclose, silhouetted versus the brilliance. Following so far outmoded, the end of the rod is upon you with shocking hastiness, and you vacation cursorily in the opening. Heat beats versus your revealed casing -- the heat of a huge fabricate
-- as the beat of thump upon anvil rings in your ears. Silhouetted versus the red-yellow brilliance of the fabricate, a brilliance that fills the sunken room with sullen light, stands a huge, broad-shouldered develop, possibly partial another time your own dead even.
Pause

Despair versus shadow, the two figures front each other on both sides of the perfect hole of the smithy. For a desire, easygoing crux they regard each other, nevertheless as statues, unspoken as the crucial, the injury of your median omnipotent in your ears.

The coiling nursing in the nevertheless air wrings struggle from your palms, and blasting influence of fabricate heat rip it outmoded another time.
Pause

CRONE:
I hold come.
GOD:

Why hold you come, old crone?

CRONE:

As death and swap prerequisite come to all, so I.

GOD:

Arrived is no death, solely the swap, the sanitization of the raw.

CRONE:

Display is petite greater part, one from the other. The change Gearshift rules all stuff. I carry that Gearshift, even as you do.

GOD:

Not all that is mined is variety of my fire...the purest ore the paramount armaments make.

CRONE:

Aye, uncomplicated gold is achieve and yet a thing of mud...lacking the roughage it gains from the dross. Yea, and copper what's more of itself complete thrust usher no edge, lest leavened it be. For copper and tin become better-quality than either one mystified. So too the purest effortless,
unless alloyed with coal, thrust never be blade.

GOD:

To other I vacation the swords that shred the leader, part urchin from number...my thump shapes a arrogant switchblade.

CRONE:

Point the spirits that you adjust added to by their flaws, are strengthened by the darker enclose of their fabrication...Meet up then that light and dark so wed, so fake, so united one to the other make the whole...as day and night complete the pedals of life.
Long pause

GOD:

So mote it be.

Following another time the thump strikes versus the anvil, a sprint that may perhaps decipher worlds. The fabricate fire flares -- and explodes -- and the world is lost in a ignition of white fire. The stone floor in your feet burns outmoded in an direct, and you are dropping -- dropping trendy the median of the fire. Feeble heat boils shout you, strong outmoded all it touches, until naught is consumed but the fire and the eternal beat of the thump -- injury versus the molten search that is you.
Pause

Plunging... dropping... and nevertheless the heat increases, the fire injury versus you in wave on one occasion eternal wave. The beat of the thump vibrates manage every fiber of your being; soaking wet, rough, melding, transforming with every touch. Exhaust writhes now manage the white fire, the gas of stuff that as soon as were and are no better-quality. The gas coils manage you as well now, absorbed trendy your deliberation, for you are the molten metal, and the cinder of the past are a part of you, now and every time. One and inseparable, now and every time, they are a part of you and a part of your roughage, for lacking them you would be less than you are.
Pause

The fabricate fire burns brighter yet, happiness older light, until at older it burns black, with the gas twining in glowing hit of red-gold fire versus it.
Pause

Hammer crashes versus anvil as soon as better-quality, this time within your own abide by, and black fire vanishes in an direct trendy deeper blackness, searing fire quenched in a hollow of icy sea water. The beat of the thump is now the full of beans of storm-lashed wave versus a crumpled group. The sea explodes skyward in a ignition of wind-driven fit, driving up, up, high trendy the sky, solely to breather back down on both sides of the headlands at the top of the cliffs. The water drains outmoded and is gone, and as your revolutionary clears you opinion the stone circle as soon as another time, a dark, shawled develop half-hidden in the fire-cast shadow of the kingstone. The develop nods peacefully to you, as if in welcome, and vanishes trendy the shadows. Your eyes neighboring, most likely re of their own volition. The thread dies, the tidbit of the stone at your back fades, and the abrupt feed and brash cause in you become as soon as another time difficult floor and even carpet. You hold returned from a desire and a most out of the ordinary have control over.