#round cypress demon

[cryptid-quest]

Cryptid of the Day: Round Cypress Demon

Description: Legend has it that in northwestern Seminole County, Florida there lives demons/witches who reside in the darkness of a cypress head called Round Cypress. The demon is said to take the form of a bobtailed panther, who terrorized the region in the early 1950s.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Zach Despart at Texas Tribune:

BEAUMONT — Texas House Speaker Dade Phelan, the top electoral target for a far-right faction of Republicans intent on controlling the Legislature, emerged victorious Tuesday over a well-funded challenger endorsed by Donald Trump and his allies.

Phelan defeated former Orange County Republican Party chairman David Covey, who also had the backing of Lt. Gov. Dan Patrick, Attorney General Ken Paxton and former Texas Republican Party Chairman Matt Rinaldi. In doing so, he avoided the ignominious fate of becoming the first House speaker to lose a primary in 52 years. With all precincts reporting, Phelan was up 366 votes — within the margin that Covey can call for a recount. Covey, however, conceded in a speech to supporters at his election night party in Orange shortly after 9:30 p.m. Phelan, 48, who has seen his popularity plummet among Republicans since he backed the impeachment of Paxton on corruption and bribery charges exactly one year and one day ago, was defiant in his victory speech at JW’s Patio in Beaumont. “I will be your state rep for HD 21 and I will be your speaker for the Texas House in 2025,” Phelan said to a raucous crowd of more than 100 supporters. “This was a true grassroots effort — not the fake grassroots.”

Covey, a 34-year-old first-time candidate, not only forced Phelan into a runoff in March but secured more votes than the two-term House speaker. That outcome shocked many in the district, as Phelan was previously reelected four times without Republican opposition and hails from one of the most prominent families in Beaumont. Candidates for the Texas Legislature who trail after the first round rarely win their runoffs. Phelan carried the unique advantage of being a statewide leader with a prolific roster of political donors. Through May 20, his campaign reported spending $3.8 million on the runoff, more than double Covey’s $1.6 million. Their combined hauls amounted to what was almost certainly the most expensive state House race in Texas history. It was also an ugly contest — Phelan accused Covey of running on “lies and deceit” — where the candidates attacked each other in a flood of mailers and television advertisements.

[...] Phelan’s win is a major blow to the party’s ultraconservative faction that is led ideologically by Patrick and Paxton and financed by megadonors like West Texas oil magnate Tim Dunn. It is a group that rejects compromise and bipartisanship, demonizing Democrats and the Republicans willing to work with them. This ascendant wing has supplanted the party’s traditional focus on taxes and regulations with highly divisive social issues like transgender rights and book bans. In defeat, that group did not go quietly. Covey called Phelan an "Austin swamp creature" who only secured reelection through the support of Democrats, which he said was a "brazen act of betrayal." Paxton, an early endorser of Covey who had campaigned for the challenger as late as Tuesday afternoon, echoed the claim. The attorney general, who had vowed revenge against Phelan for supporting his impeachment, said the speaker had "blatantly stolen an election from the hard-working people of his district" by courting Democrats. Paxton said Republicans should move to closed primaries — a priority of the far right — and he issued a warning to members of the House.

[...] But whether Phelan can hold on to the speaker’s gavel is unclear. One of his own committee chairmen, Republican Rep. Tom Oliverson of Cypress, declared his candidacy for speaker in March. But no members have publicly endorsed Oliverson, and while his reelection was in doubt, Phelan was able to keep the rest of his caucus from open rebellion. [...] Attacked by his enemies as a RINO, Phelan was also widely considered more conservative than his predecessors, Phelan secured passage of the state’s near-total ban on abortion, permitless carry of handguns and several first-in-the-nation border security bills. Phelan was easily reelected speaker in January 2023 with all Democrats and almost all Republicans in support; conservative rumblings of dissatisfaction amounted to a paltry three votes for another candidate. And he batted away far-right criticism of the House’s longstanding practice of appointing Democratic committee chairs, appointing them to lead eight of 34 committees.

Texas House Speaker Dade Phelan (R) staves off MAGA wing/Farris Wilks/Tim Dunn-funded candidate David Covey to narrowly keep his seat and his Speakership gavel.

[44gamez]

Railbreak's Ballistic Bloodshed Wreaks Arcade Havoc Today on Xbox Series X|S

Good day, Survivors! I’m Evan Wolbach, co-founder of Lifeless Drop Studios. We’re elated to let you know all about Railbreak, our aggressively enjoyable on-rails arcade shooter, launching in the present day on Xbox Collection X|S!  Since we final shared particulars with you, our first Unreal Engine 5 sport has expanded in each method!

A “Scream” You’ll Return to Once more and Once more

We perceive that replayability is crucial in an arcade sport, which is why we’re stoked to share how Railbreak is about to ship continuous leisure! We requested ourselves how we may create a brand new and compelling expertise for each veterans and newcomers to arcade on-rails shooters, and our reply is the unpredictable ‘Glitch’ gameplay modifier system. Whereas enjoying by any of the six acts awaiting you in Railbreak’s fully-voiced, campy story, you’ll encounter unusual ‘Glitches’ that flip the sport on its head.  Your shotgun would possibly begin firing icy blasts, zombies might not be vulnerable to dismemberment, and…throwing a grenade might provoke a dangerous roulette?! The brand new Glitch Gauntlet mode freshens up each spherical of Railbreak with randomized enemies and fixed randomized ‘Glitches’ to deal with. It might be the primary rogue-like mode ever featured in an on-rails shooter.

Zany, Over-the-Prime Firearms Provide the Edge in Battle

It’s essential that the armaments in any capturing sport really feel full of life and satisfying to make use of, so we’ve upgraded Railbreak’s weapons with spicy elemental attributes. Ship zombies flying with explosive rounds, put out hearth and freeze enemies of their tracks with icy blasts, construct up {an electrical} pressure to make your foes pop, and extra. In Story mode, you'll be able to swap between completely different weapons scattered in every act, however in different modes like Rating Assault, you play as certainly one of eight numerous unlockable characters, every with their very own distinctive loadouts, making every spherical really feel novel.

Numerous Particular Contaminated Creatures Will Preserve you in your Toes

In fact, it will be boring to defeat the identical few forms of enemies time and again. With Railbreak, we’ve taken care to incorporate all kinds of various zombies. The highlights of those are our particular contaminated abominations. These beasts every have distinctive assaults and attributes that pressure you to be swift with the set off button. The gargantuan Slab towers over you and offers out large harm, the demonic Fetch strives to burn you to a crisp with its mighty laser assault, and Gluttons will even puke smelly acid onto you if you happen to allow them to get too shut. There are a complete of six various kinds of these enemies, and quicker and extra aggressive ‘Glitched’ variants function brutal boss encounters. Suppose you’ve mastered the artwork of slaughter? Check out the brand new Boss Rush mode, and see if you happen to can survive a parade of Railbreak’s largest nasties in Cypress Ridge’s filthy sewers.

Slay the Manner You Need to with a Multitude of Choices, Difficulties, and Modes

We’ve designed Railbreak to be a blast irrespective of the way you play! Soar into motion alone or with a pal with elective co-op assist. Be taught the ropes on the accessible Assisted issue, or lunge head-first right into a depraved problem on Off the Rails issue. Break the fourth wall with an entertaining arcade Story, or slot in some fast motion with the endless Onslaught mode or our particular Shoutout Shootout mode.  Different useful options embrace native rating monitoring, a beefy settings menu, and an in-depth Learn how to Play guide. Are you able to survive a protracted and bloody night time and stay to combat one other day?  Take up the problem in Railbreak, launching in the present day for Xbox Collection X|S. Go away a deliciously bloody mess in your wake or die making an attempt!

Railbreak

Lifeless Drop Studios LLC ☆☆☆☆☆ 9 ★★★★★ $19.99 It is Saturday night time in Cypress Ridge which suggests town is in ruins, hordes of flesh consuming undead are on the prowl, and you've got the arcade all to your self! Seize your controller, choose your survivor, and blast your solution to security as town burns round you on this on-rails survival horror shooter. Oh, and do not forget to deliver a pal for zombie fodder, er, we imply multiplayer expertise! Railbreak melds a traditional on-rails arcade expertise with the innovative Unreal Engine 5. On this prelude to Outbreak: Shades of Horror, you will get a chance to see the sights and sounds of Cypress Ridge and get chomped on by a zombie or 4! Face town alone, or deliver a pal together with elective 2-player co-op supported throughout your entire sport That includes a large forged of survivors every with their very own loadouts and traits, you will discover loads of replayability on this absurd take of a survival horror sport in a survival horror sport. A full story mode expertise awaits throughout six eventualities. Bonus modes embrace Rating Assault, and the countless Onslaught Mode that retains ratcheting up the problem till the undead lastly seal your destiny. Crack open your piggy financial institution, snag a fizzy soda, and make a journey again to the 1990’s arcade. Source link Read the full article

[ask-the-owl-house-squad]

"...it's okay if you don't believe me yet. Just...be careful. People do not take criticism or questioning of the Coven System well. Also...maybe cover your ears. Just in case. That way if a scout does catch you, they'll think you're just another witch." Ghost summoned a cloak and pack of temporary sigil tattoos, dropping them into Cypress's lap. "Given your age...a temporary tattoo might be a good idea, too. Or else they might think you're a Wild Witch and throw you in the Conformatorium. But if you see another human, a tall witch in a red dress with silver hair and/or a small bipedal demon with dark fur and an exposed skull, then you're safe to reveal yourself. That's Eda the Owl Lady, her apprentice and her...roommate, I think? I dunno, he seems young. Maybe he's her son. Anyway! Eda's not a fan of the Emperor. She'll keep you safe from him."

Cypress blinked as the cloak and temporary tattoos materialized into thin air. They ran their hand over the items and quietly noted the faint cold draft that wafted from them, similarly to the earlier map and seed that they were given. Once or twice the draft could be just a coincidence, but now it's happened again. It didn't last long, however, and the items eventually warmed up.

"An exposed skull? That sounds interesting, though a bit dangerous. What if the skull cracks? It sounds cool, though. And... a witch in a red dress and silver hair? She sounds pretty. I'll also keep a lookout for that other human!" They smiled gratefully and slipped outside of the crevice once they noticed that the rain had slowed to a stop. They stretched out and slipped the cloak on so that it covered a majority of their body. They also pulled the hood over their head to hide their round ears.

Lastly, they pulled up their cloak's sleeve to apply a sigil tattoo. They chose the Plant Coven sigil since they always did like plants. They pulled the sleeve down and spun around excitedly. "How do I look?"

"Well, if the Titan spared the Owl Lady, then surely that means something? Like... if being a Wild Witch was truly as bad as the Emperor makes it out to be, and given the fact he says he can talk to the Titan, then surely the Titan wouldn't have spared the Owl Lady?" Cypress cocked their head to the side with curiosity beaming in their eyes. "And if someone doesn't survive the training, then that training shouldn't even be in place. It's not natural selection, it's not fair, and it's not on the individual if they die or not. The training is just shit if that's the case!"

There was a pause.

"Also, if all of you are ghosts who were killed one way or another, I'm going to assume you, in particular, tried to get into the Emperor's Coven with how your viewpoint is. If that's the case, then you probably died during the training. And if that's the case, you're a hypocrite."

[hermitdrabbles56]

Oh what?? Blanket nest and snacks for me??

*Burrows into blanket nest and emerges eating a cookie*

Once upon a time my three cats and I lived in a swampland renting out the back room of a friend’s house. My cats were indoor-outdoor cats and so anytime the weather was nice and I was home, I would leave the door open so the cats could come and go as they pleased. Now I don’t know if you’ve ever lived in or been to a tropical or subtropical region like the Deep South, but one thing you ought to know is that swamplands are absolutely brimming with a wide variety of life.

There’s a neon pink crepe myrtle trees, cypresses that despite being evergreens they lose their needles in the fall, ferns galore, fig trees, palms and palmetto trees, every variety of waterfowl imaginable from huge black swans to ordinary mallard ducklings. All year round, something is blooming: magnolia “tulip trees” in the winter, wisteria vines smell heavenly but they spend their lives slowly consuming even the largest of sweetgum trees, the lowly dandelion, the stately rose, the deadly azalea… The bugs are bigger and weirder than any bug you’ve ever seen before from hammerhead worms to giant dragonflies, and there are all manner of cat-prey-sized critters.

My cats have caught a great variety of critters. Tiny lizard and blue-tailed skinks were the most common. Sometimes they’d only bring home the blue tails, twitching and wriggling in their teeth. My one girl, Star (a Himalayan) brought home a baby finch. I tried to save it, but it was already dead. The next day, Star caught and ate the mom. Periodically I’d find dead mice or voles on the floor who’d met a tragic end.

Sometimes Star and her bonded mate Jack (a black domestic shorthair) would team up to catch things, especially squirrels. They once caught a squirrel, brought it inside the open door and into the bathroom still alive and squeaking. I managed to get Jack off the squirrel and the squirrel escaped outside and up a tree. Another time, the pair caught and killed two squirrels in one day. Now Jack and Star only like things while they’re still alive and moving and once they die, they get bored. But my third cat, Whisper (my beautiful idiot (ragdoll?)) she rarely caught things herself, but she was very willing to eat the things the other cats caught. That day she ate both of the squirrels, everything except the tails and one specific internal organ that was white in color and looked like a flattened Brazil nut. That night, even though she’d eaten both squirrels, she still ate dinner but then she slept for a very long time after.

 The scariest things they’d bring home were wolf spiders (everyday I’d come home from work and there’d be a couple dead in the bathtub), cicadas (those things are demon spawn—so loud and huge and terrifying), and snakes. Yes, you read that right, snakes. I don’t know what kind they were, but they were thankfully not venomous (you can tell by the shape of the head). The snakes were always small, no thicker than my pinky and a foot and a half long, but they’re superfast. Do you know how difficult it is to wrangle three cats away from a small unidentified snake crawling at light speed between the furniture? It is quite hard, I assure you, quite hard. But in the end, I always got the snakes out and no one got bitten.

The End.

Thank you for picking out a story. I hope you don’t mind, it’s kinda long. I love telling stories and I have lots of crazy stories to tell. If you would like, I have the time and energy for one more story, I think. Anything else you’d like to hear?

~ 🌲

I love long stories!! This was wonderful your cats sound like absolutely darling little gremlins.

Is there a specific story you'd really like to tell?

[bigoltrashpile]

S/o grew up in a very strict household and was taught “sex = bad.” Fast forward to the present and demon skeleton and s/o just had their first time together (s/o’s first time ever) and the s/o is just AMAZED. They’re like “that was awesome! I didn’t know anything could feel like that! I can’t believe I used to think that was shameful! You’re really good at it, you must be the best! Can we do it again?”

This is honestly adorable

Demon Mafiatale Sans (Sulfur): Even though he finds it adorable that you reacted like that, he still feels bad that your parents taught you that sex was something to be ashamed of.  It’s just something people do with their bodies, if it’s not hurting anyone, what’s the harm?  However, he’ll ignore that for now, smile, and say that if you want a second round, who is he to argue?

Demon Mafiatale Papyrus (Cypress): He actually gets really happy that you think he’s “the best.”  He is pretty great, thank you!!  However, you are also very great!!!  He tells you as such, and gives you kisses all over your face to make you laugh.  Of course you can do it again, if you’re up for it!

Demon Mafiaswap Sans (Lepos): He laughs and grins at you.  “WHY YES, THANK YOU, I HAVE BEEN TOLD I AM VERY TALENTED!”  He’s pretty sad that you were taught that sex was something wrong, and he wants to change that mindset.  However, you need rest, especially after a night with him.  Maybe another day!

Demon Mafiaswap Papyrus (Raven): He actually gets pretty flustered.  That’s really sweet of you to say, honey, but he’s really just...fine.  Poor baby boi with his low self esteem will probably try to convince you to try someone else, they’re probably much better than him.

Demon Mafiafell Sans (Grimm): He laughs, finding you absolutely adorable!  You’re just so cute and pure, he can’t wait to corrupt you!  Doll, if you think that was good, just you wait~

Demon Mafiafell Papyrus (Nox): Naturally, he gets very cocky at your praise.  Of course he’s the best, he’s the best at everything!!  However, he doesn’t take up your offer just yet.  He knows that sex with him can be...tiring, so he wants to at least let you rest a bit before you try to go again.

Demon Mafiaswapfell Sans (Kronos): At first, he’s furious that your family would try to manipulate you and your choices like that.  You should be free to do what you choose, with who you choose!  Once he calms down a little, he explains that, of course you can do this again, as much as you want!  First, you need to drink some water, though, and get some rest.

Demon Mafiaswapfell Papyrus (Cerberus): Like Raven, he gets pretty flustered.  That’s super sweet of you, you’re so adorable!  He’ll happily do this again with you, any time you want!  Just you wait, he’ll introduce you to so many fun things, he can hardly wait!

[dhiabori]

BLOODBLOSSOM ―

here’s another drabble (okay, i lie, it’s 3k) featuring julien! this time the other relevant characters are tatian, the leader of the revolution/anti-royalist faction, and jelena, an arms dealer and sadist.

CONTENT WARNINGS ― graphic depictions of whipping; tying up; panic attacks; self-destructive behaviours

TAGLIST ― @doveotions

“Jelena, I assure you, it’s unnecessary. And foolish.” Tatian sighs; controlling Jelena is like putting a steak in front of a starving dog and telling it not to bite. 

No. It’s like collaring a wolf and expecting it to drop its prey at your feet; there’s nothing tame in her eyes, in her body, leaning against the windowframe. Everything from the scars on her neck to the dagger dangling mindlessly between her fingers says predator, predator, predator, an insistent thrumming in the back of Tatian’s mind. 

If she’s a predator, an idle thought asks, who’s her prey?

Glancing up from toying with her dagger, she gives Tatian a sharp smile. He knows her teeth had been filed in prison, that all Nyrish convicts did it, but— he also remembers seeing those canines stained with blood. “The people would beg to differ.”

The people. The people whose houses she’s razed to the ground, whose sons and sisters and friends she’s punished, toyed with, a vengeful demon. 

Tatian takes a step forward, meeting Jelena’s eyes. Keeping his voice smooth; dissent is a distraction, a threat, a loss of momentum. Affording her time he doesn’t have is out of the question.

“The people can differ all they want. Julien is my property, and I won’t allow you to play with him.” He can’t help glancing back at Julien, kneeling at Camille’s feet; the picture of devoted obedience. It’s almost pathetic, how eager he is to demean himself for a scrap of affection — almost, but he still looks more a crowned prince branded and humiliated, leash resting casually in Camille’s lap, than Tatian has ever looked in the mirror. 

All Jelena does is shrug, and even that’s a calculated movement, tense with the kind of power he’s only seen in a caged panther. The kind that says, come too close and you won’t live to repent it. “ Tell me, what do you care about more?” Tossing her dagger up, she catches it by the blade. Show off. “Your property, or the loyalty of the people outside?”

“It’s which,” Tatian says, taking another step, slowly circling her. Letting his hand run over the lacquered chest, not deigning to look her in the eye. “Which do I care about more. And don’t pretend to speak for the people.”

“Oh, but they want it. You know they do.”

“They might, but the people have a nasty little habit of regretting their choices. Their desires.”

“And you know all about that, don’t you?” 

“What?” It’s all Tatian can get out, but he sees it now, the corner he’s backed himself into. He’s taken this wolf in, fed her, collared her, forgotten it isn’t the collar that keeps her at his heel, it’s the meat. Forgotten that wolves don’t care what’s theirs or what’s his -- all she knows is hunger, and if he won’t feed her, he’ll become her next meal.

Jelena peels herself away from the windowsill, stepping towards him. Slow and deliberate, spinning her dagger between her fingers as she walks so it catches the light in a biting flash. This close, he has to look up to her, has to smell the sulfur and brimstone on her breath.

“Do you regret hiring me?” The words are spoken, but the dagger gives them their edge, wandering carelessly through air. A little closer to Tatian’s face than any employee of his should ever bring their weapon. “Because the way I see it, you need me. You need me to put swords in your men’s hands, bows on their backs.”

“You need me.” Even as the words leave his mouth, cracking under the effort of keeping his voice steady, Tatian knows they’re not true. He isn’t her only buyer.

Glancing over at Camille, all he gets is a pointed stare, a silent rebuke. Not here, not yet. 

Jelena laughs, almost a snarl. “Do I? Because I thought I could easily take my business elsewhere. The only thing keeping me playing by your rules is what you can offer me. Your money -- and your pet.”

She looks over to Julien, hungry hungry hungry. More than that, victorious; Tatian wants to scream in frustration, wishes he had a dagger of his own to claw out her glinting eyes, but there’s nothing he can do.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he says, voice taut, “Because if you break my property, I can assure you the consequences will be severe.”

All he gets in return is a derisive snort as Jelena strides over to Julien, snatching the lead from Camille’s lap. He does nothing to stop her, only shrugs, removing his hand from where it has been tangled in Julien’s thick, brown curls. 

Wrapping the lead around her hand, Jelena jerks Julien to his feet, sending him stumbling a little. “Get up, Your Grace. Your people want to see you.”

Tatian half-wishes Julien would scream, struggle, fight for his life like a deer -- but all he does is freeze like one, a single desperately apprehensive glance before his face softens into resignation and he nods.

With that, she begins to stride out, pausing as she pushes the tent flap aside to say to Tatian: “I can assure you, medvedezdha, you’ll get your pet back.”

Hearing her footsteps recede, Tatian releases a sigh, that turns into a frustrated half-scream.

“Shit,” he hisses, feeling his breath begin to hitch and race, he should’ve seen that coming, should’ve done something. Shouldn’t have seen her without a guard, now he’s lost control, and he’s spiralling, falling, slipping the maw of the past rushing up to swallow him -- 

He rounds on Camille, because it’s the only thing he can do, and he has to do something, or his skin might split from the itch that rages beneath it, the mounting frustration. 

“Why did you let her?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because she wouldn’t hesitate to slit my throat with that dagger?” He can only be grateful that Camille’s words still have a bite to them, that he doesn’t stand -- if he did, it would mean Tatian was slipping again, drifting further from the careful reality he’s constructed.

Tatian sighs, trying to steady himself. “Saints, I should’ve stopped her. She’s out of control.”

Sighing, Camille twists a curl of hair around his finger. “She is, but she has the upper hand now. She must be anticipating a reprisal.”

“Or she thinks she can get away with it,” Tatian returns, glancing towards the tent flap. Knowing she’s taken Julien out there, when he can hardly manage the walk from the castle to the makeshift meeting room -- and he shouldn’t care for Julien, he knows that, but all the same he can feel the affection sinking its roots into his chest, winding its thorny branches around his heart.

His instinct is to run from it. Run from the wolf, then lay your traps -- it’s always been the de Carachelles way, the reason why they survived when the de Carcassonie fell. Yet something in him rebels at the idea. Something in him baulks at leaving Julien to suffer, at letting Jelena break his toy without a witness; it all culminates in a breathless realisation.

“I caused this. I should watch.” 

Not waiting for Camille’s response, Tatian pushes out of the tent, surfacing like a drowned man coming up for air. Only the fetid afternoon heat does nothing to relieve him, only clogs his lungs with more doubts as he hurries past the soldiers. What if she kills him? What if the people aren’t on her side? He can’t decide which is more dangerous, only that he has to see for himself. That maybe Julien de Vere is more trouble than he’s worth.

The camp passes in a blur of canvas and familiar, grimy faces as he rushes to the edge, to the sound of a murmuring crowd. They’ve come from every nearby village, drawn in by Laetitia and the promise of food; now the stand, jostling, in a semicircle. Whispers ripple through them like the chittering of birds, all eyes directed to a single, gnarled cypress tree.

Forcing himself to turn his gaze to the tree, Tatian feels his breath catch in his throat.

Julien. She’s tied him to the tree, forcing his cheek into the rough embrace of its bark, face turned towards Tatian. Oh, please let there be anger. Bitterness, fear. Anything would be better than what he can read in Julien’s wide, doe-brown eyes: acceptance.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Jelena’s voice cuts into Tatian’s horror, broken-glass sharp. Only half as sharp as the whip that dangles from her hand as she circles the tree like some demented kind of ringmaster. “You asked, you shall receive. The Crowned Prince, for your entertainment.”

She cracks the whip at Julien’s feet, forcing him to shy away against the tree. Its bark grates against his skin, leaving raw scrapes.

“So.” The whip snaps out again across dusty ground, rearing back, a rattlesnake in its fury. Tatian flinches. “How many lashes?”

Fluttering nervously, the crowd mutters amongst itself. Two hundred or so glittering eyes, nattering beaks, all eyeing Julien with a kind of beady apprehension, the kind that makes Tatian feel sick. You brought this on yourselves, he wants to shout, you fucking decide. You asked for this, didn’t you?

He should be asking for it, too. His mother would. His sister would, she’d be the one with the whip in her hand, breaking the figurehead of the de Veres as they’ve broken her. He should be baying for Julien’s blood, but Tatian finds he can’t. Every time he tries, he chokes on the blossoming of care that’s grown in his chest, caging the hissing, scratching thing with its thorns.

At last, a man steps apart from the crowd. Swallows, then speaks, eyes still fixed on Julien.

“Twenty-five,” he murmurs, and when Jelena glares at him, he says it louder. “Twenty-five lashes.”

Again, uncomfortable whispers flit through the crowd. Jelena only nods, stepping back as if to begin -- but she pauses, lowering the whip.

Tatian hopes for a reprieve. Knows it won’t come, but hopes anyway, watching her approach Julien.

“Someone should really cut off all this hair,” is all she says, almost casual as she gathers Julien’s curls, pushing them to the side. Exposing his back, unblemished except for a scattering of moles. “It’s just impractical.”

His stomach twists at the irony, remembering running his fingers through those same curls. All Tatian can remember thinking is they’re so soft. 

Jelena steps back again, more deliberate. Brings back the whip, then -- 

It snaps down like a thundercrack, and Julien flinches, the muscles in his back taut and straining as his shoulders stiffen. When it falls, there’s a welt, a stark red line picked out in horrible contrast to his dark, brown skin, making Tatian’s stomach twist.

Someone in the crowd calls out, one.

Before Julien can even catch his breath, the whip comes down again, again, breaking his skin. Blood wells up along the line as his chest heaves with desperate gasps; red blood, jewel-blood, petal-blood that Tatian wants to wipe away, but he can’t, he’s rooted to the spot with mute horror. As if whatever was growing in his chest has sunk its roots into the ground, not finding enough sustenance in his body.

The crowd keeps crowing: two, three. Still, Julien doesn’t scream. 

Four and five pass in a sickening blur, only the crack of the whip indicating any blows have fallen. Shuddering from the impact, Julien whimpers -- still not quite a scream, but his knees are beginning to give way, the tree his only support. Even that is hardly a mercy, the rough bark rubbing his skin raw every time he flinches further into its embrace.

Grinning, Jelena recoils for another lash, toying with her helpless prey. The whip snaps back, biting into a fresh welt. 

Six. 

Julien screams, bloody and desperate. Tatian thinks he feels the pain too; a gasp wells up in his throat, a bud about to blossom and fill his mouth with bloodstained petals. It feels like someone has pulled the world from under him, leaving him reeling, bile rising in his throat. 

Coward. Coward, he thinks, as the whip cracks again and Julien’s screams mingle with the crowd’s counting.

Seven. Eight. Nine. Julien’s knees have buckled, and he slides down the tree, leaving a smattering of blood from the scrapes on his face and chest. None of that compares, though, to the mess Jelena has made of his back, of his composure: his breath comes in choppy, strained gasps, tears trickling down his cheeks to mingle with fever-sweat.

By the time number ten comes, all he can do is sag against the tree, head dropping in defeat. Tatian wants to tell Jelena to stop, wants to collar and chain her again, but he knows he can’t. He can’t, unless he wants to offer himself as a sacrifice to her ravening jaws. All he can do is watch and choke on the agony of seeing Julien sob, knowing it’s his fault, his fault.

He finds his mind drifting to his mother’s garden, her beloved rose bushes. How beautiful they are, how much careful cultivation they require. Compared to them, the straggling thing in his chest that cries out, aching to hold Julien, is withered and shriveled, but it still aches.

Eleven, twelve, thirteen. Tatian doesn’t even want to watch anymore, doesn’t want to hear Julien scream, then cough, then gasp for breath. He hardly notices the crowd quietening, no longer crowing the numbers. Only staring, hollow and nervous.

Jelena steps back, admiring her shuddering, suffering masterpiece. Her work is enshrined on the heaving canvas of Julien’s back, blood welling up like pigment and trickling down from a multitude of welts. She’s reduced him to a pathetic, cowering thing, and it’s so wrong, so fucking jarring to see him humiliated and broken, stripped of his regal dignity. 

The whip, her paintbrush, twitches lazily in her hand; for a moment, Tatian can’t understand why she’s stopped.

“Sigolène?” Only then does Tatian glance round and see Jelena’s lieutenant, watching sullenly. “My arm’s tired.” 

“I--” Sigolène looks like she’s about to say something else, stepping forward like an antelope approaching a lion. Unsure whether she’s prey or partner. 

“Five lashes.” Is all Jelena says, shoving the whip into Sigolène’s hand. 

She looks like she’s about to object -- Tatian’s seen her scars, the luxury of a shared bathhouse, knows how many lashes the army gives for insubordination. But Sigolène simply swallows and nods.

Her lashes come thick and fast, cracks like fireworks exploding behind Tatian’s eyes; there isn’t room for Julien to scream between them, visceral noises of pain tumbling over one another on their way out. Even without the crowd, Tatian counts: fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Blood, running in rivulets down Julien’s back, damning, damning red. 

When she’s done, Julien is left gasping for breath once more. His hair, so carefully tucked away, has come loose, splashing down his back in a cascade. Matted with blood from his wounds. 

For a moment, Sigolène freezes just like Tatian. Stares at what she’s done in, the whip sliding from her hand as her chest heaves, rise-fall, rise-fall.

Then she runs. 

Tatian wishes he has the right to run; wishes he could be anywhere else, but his legs are still wooden, still rooted to the spot. All he can do is watch as Jelena picks up the whip again, tossing her Nyrish jacket aside. Beneath it, her scarred arms are taut with power.

As she draws back the whip again, Tatian realises his own breath is lurching in his chest. He can’t breathe, can’t even control his own body, and he feels himself teetering on the edge, feels the abyss calling to him. The itch curling through his body, unable to be chased away, even as he digs his fingers into his wrist, scratching, desperate.

He’s lost control. Of her, of everything, of Julien -- even of his future. It hinges on victory, and Jelena can tear that victory apart on a whim, if she thinks chaos would taste better.

Twenty. Julien chokes on his own scream; Tatian feels an agonising blossoming in his chest. Pity. Concern. 

Twenty one. The crowd are staring, all staring, beady button eyes and sun-browned skin and they’re human but they’re allowing this. He’s allowing this.

Twenty two. Panting, Jelena draws back again. Stop stop stop stop -- he can’t stop it, he isn’t in control, he can’t breathe -- 

Twenty three.

Twenty four.

One last time, the whip falls, a crack that snaps through the air, cleaving the crowd’s silence into murmurs of -- relief? Pity? All Tatian feels is dizzy and sick, eyes fixed on the stained-glass destruction of Julien’s back. Some of the welts are almost concealed by a blossoming of blood, more leaking from the wounds as his shoulders heave, struggling to suck in a breath that isn’t a scream or a cough. Wherever there isn’t blood, his back is slick with sweat, the salt inevitably dribbling into the cuts to create a cocktail of agony. 

But it’s over. Jelena bows for the crowd, brushing her own sweaty hair out of her eyes -- Tatian’s hit by the realisation that her sweat comes from the exertion, the clammy afternoon she picked to display her masterpiece.

His one consolation is that there’s no applause, only that frightened, fervent murmuring. Shame, that’s what it is. Shame they have no right to, because they asked for this, they fed the wolf. Yet he has no right to it either; he was the one to bring the wolf into his house, to offer it a place by the fire, to leash it.

Slinging her jacket over her shoulder, Jelena strides away, with all the satiation of triumph. Only -- she throws a glance back at Tatian, a smile filled with too-many, too-sharp teeth, sending a shiver twisting down his spine.

At least he’s no longer rooted to the spot; at least he can move, feel like he’s doing something as he rushes to Julien’s side. 

“Julien?” Kneeling, Tatian’s heart is in his mouth as he fumbles for his dagger, clumsily trying to saw through the rope that binds Julien to the tree. He casts a quick glance at the crowd, but they haven’t noticed. They’re too busy fleeing, flitting away like starlings, unable to face the destruction they’ve caused. Cowards. “Julien, look at me--”

And he does. Of course he does, because it’s an order, an opportunity to make Tatian happy. He looks up with those melting eyes, even as his breath hitches desperately, even as he sags against the tree.

“Did I--” Julien can barely get the words out without coughing, pain written all over his scraped face. Voice laden with pathetic hope. “Did I do well?”

Tatian’s stomach drops, thorny vines of affection tightening around his heart. He knows, but knowing and seeing are two different things, separated by this kind of visceral pity. 

No-one should be praised for what Julien just went through -- but Tatian doesn’t have the courage to withhold the words.

“Yes, you did,” he murmurs, almost reaching out to run his hand through Julien’s hair. Stopping short when he remembers Jelena. “You did, and it’s over now.” 

Slumping down even more, Julien finally slides off his knees with a gasp of relief, a hoarse thank you. 

There’s a soldier lurking nearby, practically squirming with discomfort; Tatian motions her over, knowing he doesn’t have the time or the luxury to comfort Julien anymore. 

“Get him back to our tent and give him some water,” he says, giving his words a deliberate edge. “And don’t break him any more. He’s a valuable asset.”

The soldier nods, slinging Julien’s arm over her shoulder and pulling him to his feet. As usual, he doesn’t put up a fight, only follows like a lamb wherever he’s led. 

Only once they’re gone does Tatian let himself glance down at his hands. They’re shaking, the itch raging beneath his skin, forcing him to claw at his arms. Now it hits him harder than ever, how much danger he’s in, the corner Jelena’s backed him into: if it wasn’t clear enough already, his fucking cowardice has proven how he can’t control her.

She can afford to let the wolf free now, knowing he has to keep feeding it. Probably betting on him not having the courage to punish her.

Lurching to his feet, Tatian begins walking back to the tent. Back to Camille -- but he hardly feels able to face him now, knowing Camille would’ve been able to stand it. Camille isn’t afraid of wolves, would’ve known how to properly muzzle Jelena.

The inevitable realisation stabs him all over again, a knife in the gut.

Jelena has to go.

[tyrannoninja]

Excerpt from “Priestess of the Lost Colony”

The following is an excerpted chapter from my upcoming novel Priestess of the Lost Colony. More information about the book can be found on my official website.

No torches burned inside the tunnel beneath the temple of Mut. Only the brazier Bek carried behind her drove back the blackness, and it was dimming with every passing second. Itawaret occasionally paused to search the floor for branches that she could toss into the brazier, but found nothing but cold and damp stone.  

Finally, they reached a rectangular outline of light at the tunnel’s end. By the mercy of fate, the pair had not stumbled into any booby-traps, nor run into any dead ends branching off from the main passage. While dark, the journey was not as perilous as Itaweret had feared…

Hopefully, it would stay that way.

“How do you know this doesn’t lead to a trap?” Bek asked.

“Think about it. Why would Mut lead us into a trap? Don’t you trust her enough, brother?”

“Assuming that was Mut speaking to us. What if it was that Achaean demon she talked about, that Athena?”

Itaweret fought hard within herself to ignore him, and the possibility he raised. It was a valid point, if she were honest with herself, but it seemed unlikely that an Achaean deity like Athena could penetrate the sanctum of Mut. At least she hoped so. And hope was all they had left.

Itawaret walked up to the rectangle of light and pressed her shoulder against the surface, feeling the same cool stone texture as the tunnel’s walls. She pushed all her strength onto the door, groaning from exertion and the exhausting day, until it fell forward with a hard thud and crumbled outside.

A flood of daylight blinded her. Once her eyes readjusted from the subterranean darkness, she found herself on the summit of a grassy hill that sloped into a gravelly beach beside the sea. The setting sun gilded the crests of the waves, but the colors of the sky graded ominously, from dark red to black. Itaweret wrinkled her nose from the smell of smoke and burnt flesh.

Behind the hill, the city in which she had lived her entire life bloomed into a colossal inferno of flame. The fires that roared on rooftops, together with thick black rivers of smoke, obscured any sight of the carnage that, she realized, must have clogged and already begun to rot over the streets. Still, she could make out a stream of people being herded out through the city gate, prodded along by Mycenaeans in their bronze suits.

They were her fellow citizens of Per-Pehu. Her people, friends and neighbors, reduced to human livestock in one evening.

“How dare they!” Bek shook his fist while watching what she watched, quaking with rage. “We’ve got to do something!”

“We will, brother. We wouldn’t be out here if we weren’t going to do something about it. But we cannot fight now. Come on!”

She took his hand. They descended the hill to a dirt path that meandered northeastward. The cover of the olive and cypress trees alongside it, together with shadows that grew darker with each passing minute, would conceal them from any prowling Mycenaeans.

She hoped.

Less than two hours later, the scarlet heavens faded into blackness almost as pure as that within the tunnel. Now their only light was the half-moon and dusting of tiny stars around it, giving off a faint white glow reflected upon the vegetation and stones. Itaweret huddled close to Bek as they hiked up the path through the foothills, pausing only to pick up sticks to feed the fire in the brazier. If there was one thing to praise the wilderness for, it was an abundance of cheap firewood.

They ascended higher into the hills, climbing until the open, scrubby landscape of the low plains gave way to oak and pine forests that girdled the mountains. They climbed over fallen logs and boulders strewn about with increasing density. If walking uphill had not already worn away at the strength in their legs, maneuvering around these obstacles in the terrain taxed their muscles to aching even more.

Underneath the soft fragrance of the pines, Itaweret’s nostrils flared, capturing another odor, more rancid and unpleasant. She traced the scent to the gleaming, red-spattered bones of a lamb, flies buzzing around the few scraps of meat that clung to it. She had seen cattle and goats sacrificed to the gods in the temple complex at Per-Pehu, but never witnessed their gory remains in a state like this. The sight almost shoved her last meal from her stomach into her throat.

“How could this have died?” she asked.

Bek crouched over the bones and ran his finger over one of five parallel scars raked across the ribcage. He pointed to a weathered impression in the nearby earth, broader than a human hand, with claw marks sticking out before each of its five toes.

“I would have guessed a lion, but cats in general don’t leave prints like this,” Bek said. “Normally they retract their claws, so they wouldn’t show like they do here.”

“Could it be a dog?” Itaweret asked. “Or a jackal? Or one of those gray monsters the Achaeans call wolves?”

Bek shook his head. “Much, much too big for any of those. Truth be told, I have no idea. It must be a kind of monster we’ve never seen in our lives.”

Back home, everyone inside Per-Pehu’s walls had heard travelers’ stories of the beasts that roamed the wilds beyond the colony. Some spoke of cannibalistic men with singular eyes or the heads of bulls, giant swamp-dwelling serpents, or fire-breathing creatures that were part goat, part lion, and part snake. Itaweret had always considered the descriptions too ridiculous to be real. More frightening were the accounts of hulking beasts with dog-like faces and claws like knives, giant cats with dagger-long fangs, and ill-tempered elephants covered in shaggy hair. Those stories sounded almost truthful.

Itaweret wrung her hands around Mut’s scepter, shivering with a dread colder than the nocturnal air itself. “Do you know whether it could be nearby?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Bek said. “The tracks are a little worn. It could have left here hours or even a day ago.”

Two glowing specks of yellow blinked behind a nearby patch of bushes. Leaves rustled and branches snapped as the specks drifted towards them. The furry outline of a thick, stocky body gleamed from the brazier’s firelight. The creature’s snout was long like a dog’s, but its ears were smaller and more rounded. As it panted and grunted, it exuded the same stink of decayed flesh as the sheep carcass.

Itaweret took a step back from the lumbering animal. “What do they call things like that?”

“A bear, I believe,” Bek whispered. “Stand your ground. That could scare him off.”

Itaweret forced herself to stay put and waved the scepter of Mut like a warrior’s staff as Bek shook the brazier back and forth at the beast. Rearing ten feet into the air on its hind feet, the bear curled its lips back, exposing pointed canines. It uncorked a menacing roar while brandishing clawed forepaws.

With a single swat, the bear knocked Itaweret’s scepter out of her hands. She jumped to grab it, but the bear seized the scepter in its mouth and tossed it into the darkness. It swiped at her bosom, raking through her linen cloth and skin with its claws. Sharp pain swept through her chest as she collapsed to the ground.

Bek thrust his brazier again, the heated ash landing on the bear’s backside. Now aggravated, the the bear turned away from Itaweret, roared, and charged him. The bear’s attack on Bek gave her enough time to crawl over and retrieve her scepter. Just as the bear was about to punch the brazier out of Bek’s grasp, she chucked the scepter into its shoulder.

Her blow distracted the beast for another second. Then it swung around and barreled towards her again. She had no another weapon to beat it aside.

Another roar followed.

All the children of Kemet could recognize that deep feline roar. Along with it appeared a pair of yellow eyes, set in a bright tawny form. The feline sprang from the blackness and landed on the bear. The two creatures rolled in the dirt in a chaotic melee of biting and slashing.

The battle ended with the crackle of bone. The bear fell limp, a river of blood gushing from its neck, and more blood spilling from slashing cuts all over its body. The bear’s slayer stood over it, roaring with a savage exultation.

Itawaret and Bek looked upon the largest lion they had ever seen, one with a thick dark mane and faint leopard-like spots on its flanks. She had heard stories of giant spotted lions roaming the countries north of the Great Green Sea, but according to those same stories, they’d died out. Was this the very last, or did it have a whole pride behind it? If the latter, would they be seeking dinner?

Itaweret could only hope the bear’s big and meaty carcass would take their mind off she and Bek.

Then, a voice, a proud voice: “That’s a good boy, Xiphos!”

A young Achaean man in a simple wool tunic walked toward them, carrying a wooden shepherd’s crook. He stroked the lion’s mane as if it were a tame dog, while the big cat gorged itself on the dead bear. Much to Itaweret’s surprise, the lion tolerated the boy’s touch, rather than fending him off like any truly wild animal.

Itawaret brushed droplets of blood off her clothing and jewelry. “Xiphos? Is he your pet or something?”

“My father brought him in when he was a cub,” the Achaean youth said. “No need to fear him, my lady. He’s as gentle as a puppy unless you piss him off. Are you folks all right? It’s not every day we have black people come to these parts.”

“Why do you call us ‘black’ people?” Bek asked. “Our people are various shades of brown, some of us darker than others. If we are ‘black’, would that make you, what, ‘white’?”

The Achaean chuckled. “No use arguing over what we call each other. Trust me, I’ve heard far nastier names for your kind of people. Name’s Philos. And you two?”

Itaweret did not want to know those “nastier” names. “I am Itaweret, High Priestess of Mut from Per-Pehu. And this is my brother Bek, son of the Great Chief Mahu.”

“Aye, so you’re from the colony over the hills.” Philos looked up and down Itaweret’s body, his eyes following her contours in much the same gazing way as Scylax of Mycenae. “And, by Aphrodite, are you fine to look at, scratches and all! Nice curves, especially.”

Itaweret shook her head and grumbled. Achaean or Kemetian, white or black, men were all the same. Though she had to admit, the muscular young Achaean, with his flowing long black hair, wasn’t a wholly unattractive specimen.

“Anyway, either of you wouldn’t have seen a little ewe around these parts, would you?” Philos asked.

“We saw a sheep’s skeleton,” Bek replied. “We think the bear ate it sometime back.”

“Hades be damned, then! Xiphos and I have been looking for her the past couple of days. At least she was only one ewe. So, what are you two Kemetians doing out here?”

“In case you haven’t heard, Per-Pehu has been brutally sacked by King Scylax of Mycenae,” Itaweret said. “Our goddess Mut has sent us a quest northeast, one that will lead to Scylax’s defeat. We hope it does, anyway. She told us that we would find our answer in the first village over the mountains.”

Philos scratched his hair. “By Zeus, that’s my village! I don’t know why we’d know how to beat the king of Mycenae, out of all people in the world. But, if your goddess says so, I ought to help you the best I can.”

“How far is your village, anyway?”

“A few more hills to the east. But we ought to rest here for the night. Xiphos doesn’t like being dragged away from his meals, and I think we’re all damned tired anyway.”

Bek yawned. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

Itaweret nodded. Almost every muscle burned from straining, even beyond her wounds from the bear’s attack. Her stomach groaned with hunger. Once the lion filled himself, she wouldn’t mind cooking leftovers of the bear over a fire lit by Bek’s brazier. Never before had she eaten bear meat, but food was food in uncivilized places.

She looked up at the treeline, and caught the flicker of little eyes. They weren’t the yellow eyes of a bear, lion or other predator, but silver-gray eyes… familiar eyes.

She blinked. The eyes were gone.

[loubuggins]

Paint

A BBRae one-shot inspired by THIS piece drawn by @kiome-yasha. Check it out before or after you read! Reblogs always appreciated! 

The buzzing of the cicadas drifted through the rainforest and faded away into the background. The birdsongs that played endlessly through the day and night offered an unusual comfort to his surroundings. The silence was an enemy out here. With every step he took, the water splashed around his bare legs. The frogs croaked and jumped out of his way while the fish swam quickly past his feet. As he waded through the murky pond, he kept an eye out for any unwelcome guests to come stalking from their latest snack. Though he supposed it was he who was the stranger here, after all, it had been too long since he had ever called this place his home.

He trekked slowly through the mud, being careful to balance the crimson paint that swirled in the large, hand-carved bowl in his hands. As he traveled deeper into the swamp, his pointed ears twitched at a new sound that mixed with the natural tune of the forest. It was a pleasant addition, one that was faint was easily recognizable. It began in a blend of the animal’s chorus, but as he followed the sound it became the most distinct. A low, gentle humming of a wordless song that made his heart swell and his legs pick up speed as he carried himself with a restored purpose. He focused on the whimsical song until he came into sight of the one who sang it.

She sat beneath an old water willow, her back leaning against its trunk and her legs saddling its largest root. The violet strands of her hair were dis-even and abruptly cut, but they still curled at the ends and framed her circular face. She had her face tilted downward as her gaze looked over her swollen belly. Her arms were wrapped protectively around her womb and her fingers traced her pink stretch marks. Her toes were dipped lazily into the cool water as she drew small circles with her feet. It was a tranquil sight to behold, one that made him take pause and soak in, hopefully committing every detail of this moment into a memory.

But his presence was quickly detected as she caught sight of him through the corner of her eye. She turned her attention to him completely and offered him a small smile as he returned to her.

“Is that the last one?” She asked him as she looked to the bowl in his hands.

He nodded but included a, “sure is,” in his reply before he sat the bowl beside two others at the end of the root. She lifted her feet out of the water and bent her knees so that she feet rested on the bark of the tree and so that he could take a seat in front of her. When he sat down, she took one leg and draped it over his lap.

“Good, now you can stay.”

He laughed at her statement and at her silly antics as he noticed she had effectively trapped him in between her legs. Normally, this position would garner a much different reaction from him, but these were different circumstances.

“I was only gone a moment you know.” He explained to her as he slowly ran his hand up the bottom of her calf and stopped at her thigh. The intimate action sent her body aflame with goosebumps and a blush working its way up her cheeks.

“Felt like ages to us.” She insisted as her gaze dropped back down to her round stomach.

An amused grin pulled at the corner of his lips. “Well then, I’m sorry for keeping you two waiting.” He apologized, then leaned down to press a loving kiss above her belly button.  

Her small smile widened ever so slightly as she regarded him with amusement and affection pooling in her deep purple eyes. “You’ll have to make it up to us.”

Slowly, he lifted his lips off her tight, but soft skin and his dark emerald eyes met her gaze. His smirk matching her own. “Oh is that so?” His voice rising in a teasing fashion.

“Mhm...and you know exactly what we want too.” She said with knowing smile as she tried to lean in closer to him, but her extended belly stopped her halfway.

Gar nodded his head as he slid his hands down her legs, his touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Leaning her head back against the trunk of the old cypress tree, she watched him move with bated breath and she chewed on her bottom lip as she tried to stifle her anticipation. The tips of his claws grazed her porcelain skin as he came to the curve of her swollen right ankle. Then his bare, calloused fingers wrapped firmly around her awaiting foot, one hand on the base of her ankle and the other on the top of her arch. Without breaking eye contact with her, he tenderly kneaded the swollen flesh, digging deep into the muscles.

Raven’s eyes slid to the back of her head and a long, audible moan escaped past her lips. “Oh, sweet Azar that feels so good.”   

Gar grinned to himself, pride swelling his chest as he continued his massage on her foot. He loved to pamper his angel beauty any chance he could, especially as she carried their child all the way out to this unforgiven terrain. With this being her first pregnancy, and with an actual demon child no less, they had been airing on the side of caution for the past six months; but on the brink of the third trimester, he had been given a notice he could not ignore. Dick had been the one to tell him. He had explained over their video chat the details of threat rising right in the heart of the African tribe he had once in his life called home. The people of this land, his people, were in grave danger and he knew he had to be the one to go in and investigate. Dick had tried to convince him to stay, to send in a younger, less tied-down Titan, but he refused. Much in the same way his wife has refused to stay behind as he went on this perilous adventure.

Raven knew the African heat would be brutal and the forest marsh would be merciless on her aching back. She knew that going to a place where the nearest hospital was a two-day drive while being seven months pregnant would put her and the baby in jeopardy in a place that was already hiding in danger’s shadow. But nothing could keep her from being at her husband’s side, now more than ever. Not only did she depend on him to help her through the pregnancy, but she also knew he needed her for his own emotional support.

They have known each other for nearly six years now, and despite their closeness, she still did not fully understand all that he went through in his past. She had known that this small slice of the African Congo had been where he spent his earliest days. She knew that he had grown close to the native people here and that the king of the tribal nation had taken favor of him. So when he told her of the trouble brewing in his old home, she knew this mission would strike some emotional cords for him.

What she had not expected was to be welcomed into the tribe like a queen greeting her subjects. From the moment Gar was recognized by the warriors that had met them at the border of their land, she was given respectful bows and high praises. When the warriors escorted them to the main village, the woman working the weaves and cooking fires looked up to her with awe. Their children stopped their playing and rushed to catch glimpses of her and her husband past the royal guard. Music had played in their honor as they were led to the largest hut at the center of the village. When they finally met the aging chieftain, he had greeted Gar as he was welcoming a son. For Gar had failed to mention one very important detail - the man was their prince.

And that’s when she realized the people of this tribe were treating her like their princess. A group of women helped her bathe and gave her a set of traditional tribal clothing. They all understood her English, but only one spoke it fluently. She was young, about Raven’s age, and revealed herself to be the chief’s daughter. She translated what the older women were saying, mostly praises regarding her beauty and her pregnancy. They gossiped about the people of the village, giving her a rundown of the happenings and relationships of people she had no inkling of, but she nodded along respectfully. Somehow during the conversation, they had brought up a special tradition meant to be between two lovers. That a newly married couple was sent deeper into the forest to give each other new body markings that would be unique to their future family. Raven’s first thought was that they did not have time to participate in such ceremonial events, but the prospect of being alone with Gar had made the suggestion all the more tempting. Only a day into staying here and she already craved the peace and quiet she normally had back home.

Not that she was not grateful to the kindness of the tribe, but she was not accustomed to having so many people pamper her at once. She also had become used to having Gar’s presence looming over her most of the day. Since she told him she was pregnant, he had been a constant presence around her. His overprotectiveness had been bothersome at first, but now it had come to be appreciated and not having him where she could see him made her agitated.

When they were finally reunited, the daughter recommended the ceremony to the chief, who quickly agreed to the idea. Gar had been hesitant at first, much like her. They had both traveled a great deal and were both mentally and physically drained for the day, but the look Raven gave him told him she had an alternative interest for going out for the evening. Not being one to question that look, Gar had graciously accepted the offer.

“So is this why you wanted to come all the way out here? For a foot rub?” He teased her as he continued to massage her swollen feet.

She scoffed at the false accusation and adjusted herself on the oversized tree root. “No of course not.” She insisted, but paused before she added, “This is just a bonus.”

A hardy laugh rumbled in his chest. “So what, you genuinely wanted me to put paint all over you?”

His words had been phrased as a skeptical question, but the pregnant woman narrowed her eyes as they glistened with lust. Though her mouth was in a mischievous smirk.

“No,” she began, her voice lowered and slow. “I want to put paint all over you.”

Shamelessly, she let her gaze devour his midsection. His bare chest exposing every curly jade hair and every chiseled muscle. She looked all the way down to the lone loincloth that covered the part of him she longed for most at this moment. Gar squirmed under her hungry stare, and he could not tell if he was flattered or scared at the way she ogled his body like a starving jungle cat.

“Careful Mama, this isn’t the place for that kind of look.”

He had stopped massaging her feet and opted instead to rub wide circles over her pregnant belly. The gesture acting as an unspoken reminder of her current condition. Much to her frustration and disappointment, she knew he was probably right. A tree in the middle of a swamp was not exactly an ideal place to make love and being with child only complicated matters more. She could wait until they returned to the village and enjoy the luxury of a bed, but she was not sure just how comfortable a mattress stuffed with hay could be. Besides, she doubted the tent they were to share would be soundproof. So really, this was as good a spot as any, now that she thought about it.

Foreigning an innocent smile, she offered this time to simply apply the paint. To which Gar had agreed by handing her a bowl of liquid as dark as a midnight sky. Wordlessly, she dipped her pointer and index finger into the thick, gooey paint and swirled them around in slow circles. Gar watched her which a quirked eyebrow as she rose her fingers out of the bowl and held them there for a moment. The paint rained down into the pool of obsidian black and she waited until it waned into a steady dripping before she lowered her fingers back into the cold liquid. This time, she lifted her fingers back up, but only to her first knuckles. Then she slid them back into the dark pool. She repeated the action several times, each one faster than the last. The changeling watched her with wide eyes and mouth agape.

Once she decided to stop, she let the paint drizzle off her fingers one last time, then brought them over to his chest. She pressed into the firm muscle of his top-left ab and traced the small indent of his rib. Black paint smeared his minty-green skin in her wake. We movements were deliberate as she took her time with each sensual touch. She added painted streaks above each of his abs and as she traveled further down, he shivered under her hand. Then she sat up and took his arms and added paint in each crook. When she finished, she moved on to his cheeks and his pointed nose, leaving smaller lines over all of his facial features. She paused for a moment to admire her work, but squinted and chewed her bottom lip in deep thought. Gar sat there silently as she contemplated her next move. Finally settling on what was missing, she used her free hand to bring his face closer to her’s, then used her paint-covered fingers to add small black dots over his dark freckles.

She was close enough that he could feel her hot breath warm his face. Her vanilla scent carried in the air and washed over his senses, sending blood rushing to both his cheeks and his groin. Once her task was complete, she gently pushed him back and added dots to his arms and his rib cage.

“Now your legs.” Her demand was met with a suspicious glance, but he complied nonetheless. She dropped her own legs so that he could lift one up and drape it over the log, awaiting her careful touch. She started with his ankle, adding little lines and dots on the top on his leg. But then she began moving upwards, slowly and patiently climbing his leg until she came to the royal purple material of his loincloth.

Her hand snuck past the thick clothing and ran up his thigh. She could hear the rumbling in his chest as her hand came closer to his most sensitive spot. She looked him dead in the eyes, her face playing off innocence as she brushed the tips of her fingers over the base of his cock. Her icy touch made him spring into life. His hands gripped the tree and his claws dug into the bark. His jaw clenched and air hissed between his fangs. His head shot upward, along with the head of the very appendage Raven toyed with under his clothes.

She finally dropped her innocent facade in favor of eyeing him curiously, trying to judge if she would get away with her actions or not. He definitely did not look pleased, but when he made no move to stop her, she assumed it meant he wanted to be pleased. So she slid her hand out from under the cloth and reapplied some paint to her fingers.

“Other leg.” She stated simply and he replied with only a gruff as he dropped the first one and slug over the second. She repeated the same steps and when she came back to the top of his leg, once again she slid her hand under the animal hide. This time she was bolder and took him completely in her hand. She stroked him as he both growl and moaned in pleasure. She felt her hand dampen with what she knew was not the paint and that’s when she decided to reach a stopping point. She slid her hand up to his shaft one last time, before quickly pulling her hand away.

His face tightened in anger and he growled at her, but she remained unfazed. Instead, she sat the bowl of black paint down and picked up another bowl that was beside it.

She gave him a devilish smirk. “Now, for the yellow.” Was all she said as she went back over his body again.

[booksfullofwriting]

Letters to an Artist

dearest vincent,

I was thinking of sunflowers today.

I was watching the sun kiss a daisy and thought

aren't all flowers, in their own way, sunflowers?

you lived a dark life, vincent,

up there in your own head

haunted by demons hiding in plain sight,

hiding not at all.

yet somehow

you managed to see sunflowers too.

maybe not every day -

maybe some days it was bitter, cold, snowing, lonely

maybe cypress shadows crept toward you in the night

maybe some days your thoughts were prisoners, chained,

trudging round and round and round...

but some days you saw sunflowers.

if only your tortured heart

had let you feel the joyful warmth of sunlight

longer than a few hours, days.

vincent, I was thinking of sunflowers today

and I - I don't know how else to say it -

and I missed you.

[bookshelfmichaelnanonano]

day 4 - hecate’s hairbrush

as through the lonely wood i roamed

i heard a sad and mournful moan

it chilled me through my heart and bone:

“ᴏ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄᴀɴ ғɪɴᴅ ᴍʏ ʜᴀɪʀʙʀᴜsʜ”

i stopped beside an elder yew

an owl cried too-whit too-woo

i sat astride and wondered who

could be searching for a hairbrush

i didn’t have to linger late

for as if through an unseen gate

a figure came, a samite wraith

crying “ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ sᴇᴇɴ ᴍʏ ʜᴀɪʀʙʀᴜsʜ?”

“o stranger, no,” i did reply

“though much in undergrowth does lie,

“i confess that never caught my eye

“did your missing hairbrush.”

the figure wailed. a chill began.

tickling my back with death’s cold hand.

a cold fog spread across the land

for want of this lost hairbrush.

“ᴡᴏᴇ, ᴡᴏᴇ, ᴡᴏᴇ” the figure wailed.

“ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴍɪɴᴇ ғᴏᴇs, ᴛʜᴇʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘʀᴇᴠᴀɪʟᴇᴅ.

"ғᴏʀ ᴀʟʟ ᴍʏ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ғᴀɪʟᴇᴅ

“ᴛᴏ ғɪɴᴅ ᴍʏ ᴍɪssɪɴɢ ʜᴀɪʀʙʀᴜsʜ.”

(i must admit, i wished to go

and leave this figure wailing so

for the night was dark, and bleak, and cold

and i cared little for this hairbrush).

but better manners, in the end

won out. “pray, tell me friend,

"shall we retrace your steps again,

“seeking your lost hairbrush?”

the figure stopped. as did the moon.

a different voice began to croon.

“ᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇʟʏ ᴏɴᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ɢʀᴀɴᴛ ᴀ ʙᴏᴏɴ

“ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴍᴇ sᴇᴇᴋ ᴏᴜʀ ʜᴀɪʀʙʀᴜsʜ?”

“I would,” said i, and they led on. 

through places where the darkness yawned,

through hell’s least seemly garden lawn

all to find this hairbrush.

i saw things i wish i’d forget

though years have passed, i haven’t yet

forgotten all the demons we met

on the road to find the hairbrush.

things which pranced and gibbered loud

things gathering neath a fleshy shroud

things scuttling round us like a crowd

(i nearly forgot the hairbrush)

the figure led me ever forth

unerring, ever on a course

and even my poor, spooked horse

hastened to find the hairbrush.

as we passed a cypress tree

i saw a gleam of filigree

and there, un-mistakably

was my companion’s hairbrush.

the queerest brush i’d ever seen

tripartite, splitting at a seam

three heads for my nighttime queen?

who owns this most-odd hairbrush?

the figure then threw back her hood

and by her lamp i saw her good

her three grins lit the gloomy wood:

“ᴘʀᴀɪsᴇ ᴍᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ’ᴠᴇ ғᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴍʏ ʜᴀɪʀʙʀᴜsʜ!”

now when i ride by cold lamplight

i say a prayer and feel no fright

remembering oft that fateful night

i found Hecate’s Hairbrush!

[cryptid-quest]

Cryptid of the Day: Round Cypress Demon

Description: Legend has it that in northwestern Seminole County, Florida there lives demons/witches who reside in the darkness of a cypress head called Round Cypress. The demon is said to take the form of a bobtailed panther, who terrorized the region in the early 1950s.

[starekitty-writes-things]

WIP-IT WEDNESDAY

Technically this is more of a very brief character study for Detective John Hellburn, aka the protag for Eldritch Noir Story. In this scene a younger police officer is asked to escort the detective to Ashe Town, a less-travelled part of New York

Not sure if I'll use this as part of the final story but I'm putting this out anyway

It was no secret that one of the biggest cities in America was virtually polluted with spiritual energies and entities. From homeless demons and business-savvy witches, to angry ghosts roaming the abandoned housing complexes, Charleston had seen them all.

Or so he thought.

Everything in Ashe Town was grey. Perhaps it shouldn't have surprised Charleston, but compared to the busy lights and technicolor skies of the big city, this place was monochromatic no thanks to the perpetual fall of ash from the sky. The scene reminded him somewhat of his grandmother's vintage television set, and the nights when he and his cousins used to watch old VHS movies on that set. Even as the car cruised along the main street, Charleston could swear he had just entered a black-and-white creature feature, complete with specks flickering in the air (not unlike the tiny corruptions in old films) and the meagre amount of afternoon sun that managed to seep through the thick ashen clouds. Not to mention the residents...

He felt a tap on his shoulder. "You still with me, kid?"

Charleston grumbled under his breath. "I'm only two years younger than you, detective. And I'm fine, thanks for asking."

Hellburn raised a quizzical eyebrow, leaning back on his passenger seat. "Just checking in on you, is all. In this town, you have to keep your eyes on the road."

"Hard not to... Feels like I'm driving through an arsonist's wet dream, for Christ sakes. Has this place always looked like this?"

The detective gestured vaguely, directing Charleston toward a left turn. Charleston obliged, sighing mostly for the fact that the detective has been so quiet since they arrived here. He wondered why Hellburn was so nonchalant about Ashe Town, when everything he had seen so far was taken straight out of a horror movie...

A temple - Charleston believed it had to be a temple, because he had never seen a church like this before - loomed over and practically dominated this side of the residential street, like a blackened sentinel sitting amongst gravestones and ancient grey cypress trees. Standing in the front yard, as if they had been waiting the whole time, was a.... figure, though 'human' was a generous description. It stood nearly 7 feet tall, wearing dark robes and a tangle of metallic beads round its thin neck, barely covering a pale shawl hanging off its shoulders. Its complexion was not unlike the dying embers of a fire, all charred blackness and smoke and flickering red-orange lights perpetually curling what was left of the 'flesh'. Its gaunt face harbored a wispy beard that moved like smoke, a rectangular black headdress that shrouded the back and sides of its head, and sunken eyes of burning coal.

In its skeletal hands it held, of all things, a large plastic bag of Chinese take-out meals. The figure shifted the plastic bag and waved at the car with the awkward friendliness of a neighborly uncle.

"We're here," said Hellburn, grinning as he waved back amicably. "Just pull up by the trees, there's a garage we can use."

Charleston recoiled in his seat, braking suddenly as his head whipped round to stare wide-eyed at his partner. "John, what the hell is that-?"

"Hey! Be nice," snapped Hellburn. "The Rabbi's been waiting half an hour for us to arrive. Plus, he's got food. You don't turn down free food."

"That's Rabbi Westman? But he's a-"

"What did I just say, Charles? Be. Nice." Hellburn coaxed the officer toward a covered drive by the side of the synagogue, waving at the burning Rabbi as the car slowly went by.

"Besides," he added softly, "there aren't many places that accept the Burning Ones. I should know, I'm related to them."

Make of that what you will. John's relatives may be scary, but they're decent folk

If it isn't immediately clear, Ashe Town is the home of fire and ash-based entities. In the case of Rabbi Westman, he's an elder posthuman infused with powerful spirit fire, the result of surviving a catastrophic magical firestorm that affected thousands

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

13th July >> Mass Readings (Europe, Africa, New Zealand, Australia & Canada)   for Friday of the Fourteenth Week in Ordinary Time or Saint Henry. Friday of the Fourteenth Week in Ordinary Time

(Liturgical Colour: Green) First Reading Hosea 14:2-10

A call to conversion and promise of safety The Lord says this: Israel, come back to the Lord your God; your iniquity was the cause of your downfall. Provide yourself with words and come back to the Lord. Say to him, ‘Take all iniquity away so that we may have happiness again and offer you our words of praise. Assyria cannot save us, we will not ride horses any more, or say, “Our God!” to what our own hands have made, for you are the one in whom orphans find compassion.’ – I will heal their disloyalty, I will love them with all my heart, for my anger has turned from them. I will fall like dew on Israel. He shall bloom like the lily, and thrust out roots like the poplar, his shoots will spread far; he will have the beauty of the olive and the fragrance of Lebanon. They will come back to live in my shade; they will grow corn that flourishes, they will cultivate vines as renowned as the wine of Helbon. What has Ephraim to do with idols any more when it is I who hear his prayer and care for him? I am like a cypress ever green, all your fruitfulness comes from me. Let the wise man understand these words. Let the intelligent man grasp their meaning. For the ways of the Lord are straight, and virtuous men walk in them, but sinners stumble. The Word of the Lord R/ Thanks be to God. Responsorial Psalm Psalm 50(51):3-4,8-9,12-14,17 R/ My mouth shall declare your praise. Have mercy on me, God, in your kindness.    In your compassion blot out my offence. O wash me more and more from my guilt    and cleanse me from my sin. R/ My mouth shall declare your praise. Indeed you love truth in the heart;    then in the secret of my heart teach me wisdom. O purify me, then I shall be clean;    O wash me, I shall be whiter than snow. R/ My mouth shall declare your praise. A pure heart create for me, O God,    put a steadfast spirit within me. Do not cast me away from your presence,    nor deprive me of your holy spirit. R/ My mouth shall declare your praise. Give me again the joy of your help;    with a spirit of fervour sustain me, O Lord, open my lips    and my mouth shall declare your praise. R/ My mouth shall declare your praise. Gospel Acclamation 1 Peter 1:25 Alleluia, alleluia! The word of the Lord remains for ever: What is this word? It is the Good News that has been brought to you. Alleluia! Or: John 16:13,14:26 Alleluia, alleluia! When the Spirit of truth comes he will lead you to the complete truth, and he will remind you of all I have said to you. Alleluia! Gospel Matthew 10:16-23

The Spirit of your Father will be speaking in you Jesus instructed the Twelve as follows: ‘Remember, I am sending you out like sheep among wolves; so be cunning as serpents and yet as harmless as doves.    ‘Beware of men: they will hand you over to sanhedrins and scourge you in their synagogues. You will be dragged before governors and kings for my sake, to bear witness before them and the pagans. But when they hand you over, do not worry about how to speak or what to say; what you are to say will be given to you when the time comes; because it is not you who will be speaking; the Spirit of your Father will be speaking in you. ‘Brother will betray brother to death, and the father his child; children will rise against their parents and have them put to death. You will be hated by all men on account of my name; but the man who stands firm to the end will be saved. If they persecute you in one town, take refuge in the next; and if they persecute you in that, take refuge in another. I tell you solemnly, you will not have gone the round of the towns of Israel before the Son of Man comes.’ The Gospel of the Lord R/ Praise to you Lord Jesus Christ. —————————

Saint Henry

(Liturgical Colour: White) First Reading Micah 6:6-8

The Lord asks only this: to act justly, to love tenderly, to walk humbly ‘With what gift shall I come into the Lord’s presence    and bow down before God on high? Shall I come with holocausts,    with calves one year old? Will he be pleased with rams by the thousand,    with libations of oil in torrents? Must I give my first-born for what I have done wrong,    the fruit of my body for my own sin?’ – What is good has been explained to you, man;    this is what the Lord asks of you: only this, to act justly,    to love tenderly    and to walk humbly with your God. The Word of the Lord R/ Thanks be to God. Responsorial Psalm Psalm 1:1-4,6 R/ His delight is the law of the Lord. or R/ Happy the man who has placed his trust in the Lord. or R/ The just will flourish like the palm-tree in the courts of our God. Happy indeed is the man    who follows not the counsel of the wicked; nor lingers in the way of sinners    nor sits in the company of scorners, but whose delight is the law of the Lord    and who ponders his law day and night. R/ His delight is the law of the Lord. or R/ Happy the man who has placed his trust in the Lord. or R/ The just will flourish like the palm-tree in the courts of our God. He is like a tree that is planted    beside the flowing waters, that yields its fruit in due season    and whose leaves shall never fade;    and all that he does shall prosper. R/ His delight is the law of the Lord. or R/ Happy the man who has placed his trust in the Lord. or R/ The just will flourish like the palm-tree in the courts of our God. Not so are the wicked, not so! For they like winnowed chaff    shall be driven away by the wind: for the Lord guards the way of the just    but the way of the wicked leads to doom. R/ His delight is the law of the Lord. or R/ Happy the man who has placed his trust in the Lord. or R/ The just will flourish like the palm-tree in the courts of our God. Gospel Acclamation John 14:23 Alleluia, alleluia! If anyone loves me he will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we shall come to him. Alleluia! Gospel Matthew 7:21-27

The wise man built his house on a rock Jesus said to his disciples: ‘It is not those who say to me, “Lord, Lord,” who will enter the kingdom of heaven, but the person who does the will of my Father in heaven. When the day comes many will say to me, “Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name, cast out demons in your name, work many miracles in your name?” Then I shall tell them to their faces: I have never known you; away from me, you evil men!    ‘Therefore, everyone who listens to these words of mine and acts on them will be like a sensible man who built his house on rock. Rain came down, floods rose, gales blew and hurled themselves against that house, and it did not fall: it was founded on rock. But everyone who listens to these words of mine and does not act on them will be like a stupid man who built his house on sand. Rain came down, floods rose, gales blew and struck that house, and it fell; and what a fall it had!’ The Gospel of the Lord R/ Praise to you Lord Jesus Christ.

[theblackbook666-blog]

The Black Book Text 7: THE IMPLEMENTS OF THE BLACK ARTS OF SATANISM

Here - before we enter into the Workings of the Infernal - it is important to consider what Ritual Tools and Magickal Implements will be needed for the carrying out of such Infernal Operations. The most important of all of the Implements utilized in the practices of this Manuscript is the Satanic Pentacle, for it is the core centre of the Ritual Sanctum, the power centre which harnesses, releases and directs the Infernal Demonic currents and emotive forces raised in the Satanic practices. The Pentacle should be round and made of wood which is painted black, the Inverted Pentagram or Inverted Cross upon it should be painted in red. The Initiate must also procure a suitable Chalice/Goblet/Grail for use in containing the Infernal Wine of Communion, this tool is also symbolic of the Black Womb of Lilith and is Her power source on the Altar as the Pentacle is Satan's power centre. Obviously an Altar Cloth shall be required, this must be black in colour and may have the symbol of the Inverted Pentragram or Inverted Cross upon it in either white but preferably red. Candle Holders shall be required - at least three for the Altar - and others for illumination candles around the Working area, wall sconces are often better than candle holder for illumination however as they cast light down on the proceedings without ever reflecting too much in objects needed to be kept clear such as Scyring Implements. On the subject of Scrying Implements, the Initiate should also procure tools for this kind of practice such as the Crystal Ball, Scrying Bowl, Black Mirror, Obsidian Sphere etc . . . the Black Mirror is an imperative item in the Ritual Implements to carry out the Rites and Practices of The Black Book for other reasons than Scrying ~ it is also used in Workings of Evocation, Invocation and Necromancy. An Oil Burner or Incense Holder should be obtained depending on whether your prefer the burning of Incense or Natural Oils in your Rituals ~ if it is Incense you choose then it should be either an Incense Stick Holder or a Burner to use with burning the Incense directly on charcoal. Oils and Incense such as Camphor, Sandalwood, Tobacco, Sulpher, Bistort, Thyme, Yew and Cypress are all suitable for burning in Satanic Rites. A number of Small Bowls will also be useful (some wooden, some metal) a larger Metal Bowl will be a necessity in certain Workings. The Initiate will also want to begin a store of Crystals for use in Workings the most potent ones being Apache Tear, Black Tourmaline, Hematite, Onyx and Clear Quartz. These will particularly be useful in the Workings of Demonic Alchemy and another item needed for these practices shall be small Wooden Discs to create Demonic Markers. A Candle Snuffer must also be acquired for the extinguishing of candles (candles should never be blown out in Ritual) and the Initiate will also require a Blank Leaved Book to copy by hand the contents of The Black Book into, this becoming their personal Grimoire. A Pendulum will also be needed formed from a crystal suspended from a chain (the crystal should be either of Black Tourmaline or Clear Quartz), this will be used in various Infernal Workings. Also required for a number of Workings shall be Parchment paper or Parchment card (preferably both), these will be needed for the forming of Oaths, Pacts, Talismans and Sigils. The final three implements that the Initiate should acquire are Small Wooden Boxes, Small Black Drawstring Pouches and various sized Stoppered Jars, the uses of these shall become evident throughout the texts of The Black Book.

FatherBoullan(c)copyright2017

[awitchisawitchisawitch]

Demon Banishing

According to legends of the people of Cypress, mischievous demons called kalikandjari arrive on Christmas Day and scheme and play pranks on people. Today is the day they depart, it is said.

In honor of this legend, it seems like a good day to do a good heavy clearing of the home in order to prevent any such little nasties from moving in, or perhaps to usher a few out. A good round of dragon’s blood incense, followed by frankincense and myrrh will do nicely. Walk through the home counterclockwise with the burning incense, and perhaps follow it up with some loud noises by ringing bells or banging pots and pans.

In many cultures, this is traditional practice this time of year for banishing malevolent and stale energies. Some cultures also leave an offering outside and away from the home to lure mischievous spirits away from the dwelling.