Spices fell unto the lit candles, crackling and flaming, sparkling embers spewing from the fire and into the air; they danced about as he leaned back onto his heel, drawing from his belt parchment and a knife, gleaming and glinting, the light of the candles dancing on the cold metal. He lifted the two before himself, channeling all his energy into the objects. Lowly, he whispered those words of power, "Guðir..." He hissed, the flames rising, the light growing ever brighter beyond his eyelids, "Gefðu mér styrk!" Slowly, his tone rose as he drew his arms to the sides, bringing them down and flaring them up, higher, higher, the flames rising and rising, smoke billowing and filling the room, "Að ég megi kasta þessum helgisiði!" He finally yelled out, the candles burning like little bonfires, before he suddenly cut his arms down, his knife whistling through the air as the lights were snuffed, the room growing silent, before, with a flick of his wrists, the flames crackled back to life. He opened his eyes, quietly panting. He felt his energy lowered, just acting on beginning the ritual having drawn so much strength from his body, and yet he had to continue, unfurling the scroll and lowering it to the floor, placing it in the middle of the candles. Again he cast the spices into the candles, roaring and crackling, embers searing his skin and his cloak, and yet he pressed forward, rising upward and putting his free hand out before him, palm upward. He traced the flat cool metal of the blade up his arm, the sharp edge gliding over his clothes, before finally reaching his hand. He grit his teeth as he called out again, "Taktu þetta, fórn mína, ó andar!"

He bore his hand down harder yet on the blade and dragged it out from his grasp, a stinging pain immediately spreading up his arm as blood began to spill from his wounds, running over his palm and dripping to the floor, splattering onto the paper. The fires rose yet again, a faint glowing rising from above the candles, "Taktu þetta, blóð mitt, að ég megi heiðra þig og setja vilja minn yfir þig!" Again the flames roared, taller did they grow as more blood splattered to the floor below, beginning to find their force pulled toward the seal on the paper as a ring of light began to show itself above the flames, growing ever more as he dragged the blade across his fingers. He drew the blade out from his hand, flinging his blood across the room, grunting in pain before setting the blade back into its place, "Hlustaðu á mig andar! Lestu beiðni mína! Ég skipa því!" Beginning to drag the blade across his palm, the floating ring finally forming, symbols glowing into place before his eyes, sparkling with determined fervor. He gave one final gutteral yell, pushing all his spiritual energy out into the symbol beyond him, allowing the knife to lower to his side, his hand still suspended and bleeding over the ground as he found himself panting and huffing. He stared down at the sigil, glowing, suspended over the parchment and the flames, smoke billowing about it and throughout the room; a clear success, after all his studies, after all his work, at last... he'd done it...

At long last I've wrapped up my Halloween piece, and I'm very glad to have it complete! Occult and ritualistic themes, to me, were always one of the cornerstones not only of all Hallow's eve, but indeed of all the autumnal months. For some it's pumpkin spice, and for others it's slashers, but for me, it's a dark ritual under a moonlit night, with incense lowly burning, and hushed words of power. I feel very happy with how this ritual piece came out, and had a lot of fun doing some writing for it, giving the piece some context. I hope it's enjoyed, and I hope that you all have an incredible Halloween!

Oidhche Shamhna sona dhut! Seo agaibh òran spùtach airson an tachartais!

Slàinte!