Sacrificial Victim

[Eulalia]

Just before the crash I was thinking of opening a new thread to invite folk to post pictures, stories, video-links on a fantasy-theme close to this girl's heart, and not a long way from that of Crucifixion.

The idea of being selected as the sacrificial victim, led to the altar, stripped and stretched and ready, is one I've found excited ever since I first heard about such things. I've confessed in 'Girly Games' how I used to imagine that happening to me in Church, when the 'body and blood of Christ' were carried up the aisle and handed over to the priest to lay on the altar - I knew it was a very sinful thought, but a lovely one ...

Anyway, for a start I'll re-post a long poem I tried this time last year (I think), it soon got lost because of its obscure title. 'Lughnasadh' (say "lunar saw") is an ancient Irish/ Scottish harvest festival on Aug 1st (midway between solstice and equinox). Those who know anything about such matters will see I've played fast and loose with historical/ anthropological/ archaeological accuracy.

The main figures are Lugh ("loo") a Celtic god, a'Mhaighdean ("a vadjen"), 'the Maiden', whose name is Brigde ("breedja"), a'Cailleach ("a kalyach", with Scots "ch" sound) 'old woman', literally 'the one with the hood', and am Bodach (sounds much as it looks, with Scots "ch") 'old man', lit. 'the one with the prick'

Lughnasadh​

​

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

Women gather
Disconsolate on the dunes.
No dancing this year.
Dark,
Deathly dark.

It’s rare.
Young mothers can’t remember.
Some recall
When Mòrag was a’Mhaighdean.

Big Mòrag,
Mother herself now,
Two fine young sons.

“She giggled all through it!”
a’Cailleach says.

“Did she say that?
Wait till I get the hag!
She didn’t see me
Naked, the knife …’

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

There was another,
A’Cailleach knows,
But never tells –
A slim girl.

The men swore nothing happened,
But from that night
Never came home.

Lived in a cave, they say,
Sang to the seals
Till the great storm –
Still you may hear her.

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

Join the chasing-game –
Who’ll be a’Mhaighdean?

A’Cailleach’s baked the cake,
Each girl shall have some –

Sorcha, laughing,
Long-legged fisher-girls
Eilidh and Eighrigh,
Pale Una, sad Beatha,

Each girl must have some,
Soft and delightful,
But one, burnt and bitter.

Who’ll be a’Mhaighdean?

Don’t tremble,
It’s only a game.

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

“No giggling then –
Real terror,
Real pain,”
Said Mòrag,

“Yet – never told this –
Strange pleasure,
Strange sadness
At the God’s silence.”

On Beinn an Tuirc
The men’s fire’s lit.
Soon am Bodach will come
To fetch you. Your blood’s warm.

Your sisters deck themselves
In beads and ribbons.
You will need none.

Kneel on the rocks alone,
Near you an otter swims
In the warm evening,
You long for the waves.

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

“Brigde!”
They call you.
Am Bodach approaches
With young men in boar-masks.

“Which have you chosen?”
“This, Brigde.”
“She’ll do –

But, woman, a word -
Suppose, just supposing
The God speaks?”

“Come with me,
I’ll tell you.”

A’Chailleach speaks softly.
The boar-men are playing,
Chasing the young girls
Scuttling in the surf.

They catch little Sileas,
Steal her ribbons.
One ties your wrists tight,
The other blindfolds you.

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

“… don’t worry -
This young sow,
She’ll please the boar,
And give good bacon!”

Shiver as she strokes you.

“Take her!”

Led up the long climb
Slipping and stumbling,
Bare feet snag sharp stones,
Breathless, perspiring,
Steep Beinn an Tuirc!

When the ground levels
Sense men around you,
Silent,
Smoke hangs on the still air.

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

Am Bodach starts singing,
First a soft, sad song,
Then louder, a wild chant,
Till, almost screaming,
“Show her to Lugh!”


Swiftly they strip you,
Shirt, shift and short skirt,
Swing you, displayed,
Round the circle of men.

Teasing voice goads him,
“Ailein, don’t you fancy her now?”
“Shut your gob or I’ll kill you!”
He hisses. You walk on,
His honour protected,
Not you.

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

The air is so still now,
You glistening, waiting,
Hear them preparing,
“The grindstone, the flail …”

Smooth stone you’re laid on,
Black night above you,
Am Bodach whines weirdly,
Damp drops touch your breasts.

Stretched on the altar,
Hair thrown behind you,
Legs, as expected,
Forced wide and tied tight -

“She didn’t see me
Naked, the knife…”

Wince as he places
The cold blade on your breasts -
Feel the sharp boar’s tusks
Touching your thighs -

“Real terror,
Real pain…”


Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

Am Bodach falls silent,
Mist spits in the fire,
Below, the sea soughing,
Far off … can you hear?

Am Bodach creeps closer,
His breath feels aflame,
The boar-men are dancing,
Sweat mingles with rain …

What’s that?
On the mountains
Deep rumbles, faint flickers …

Your bare body quivers …
It’s only a game …

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

Brilliant, blinding,
Lightning reveals you!

Death-roar of thunder,
Word of the Boar!

Now must a’Mhaighdean
Be ploughed and sown,
Cut and threshed,
Crushed with the stone,
Burnt, till the raw flesh
Peels from her bones –
So first, let the Boar-God
Make her his own!

At damp dawn, ravens
Relish what Lugh’s left.

 

[messaline]

Wonderful, Eul! I think that I'll do a manipulation with it...It inspires me very much....

 

[ROMAN MASTER2]

super good

 

[Eulalia]

​

 

[RacingRodent]

This little tale is taken from an uncompleted early work of mine called the Revenge Flower. It dealt with a society traumatised by defeat and exile and corrupted by the pursuit of power as a means to revenge. I think this scene is quite powerful but ultimately only you the reader can judge.

Anna's Gift​

The High Convent of the Order of Life was from the outside at least a strikingly beautiful building. Built from lovingly carved blocks of variously coloured marble, light by scores of windows and hundreds of lamps adorned with stained glass that meant at all hours its interior was illuminated a myriad of hues and finally decorated with the idealised images of young and beautiful men and women immortalised in painted statuary it easy to feel you were entering a house of the one true and caring God.

Right now Joharn was waiting in a well-appointed receiving room. A broad window allowed the light to stream in. There was even a fire place for those times of night and winter that it actually got cold. The chairs were soft and inviting, though Joharn continued to stand, and a carafe of white wine and two glasses awaited on a small table should he care to partake. He decided he did not.

The convent sounded with singing and music. The music was eerie and beautiful, the sound of the singing was also beautiful, the words, if you understood the Vampiric tongue were not beautiful at all.

Of themselves the vampires were a dead race. A tool of Vulorian in his war against the Enslaver Gods and their elvish minions they had earned the most fearsome and dread reputation upon both sides of the conflict. Even though they might be considered to have been allies of the forebears of the people that became the Ensar Johan Gottlett was not sure he was unhappy they were gone.

Even though he might benefit from their ancient lore he was not entirely sure he was glad that so much of their knowledge remained. On the other hand as he was leafing through a book of elven anatomy he could deny that it was compelling and fascinating reading. Even the knowledge that the beings that had unwilling contributed to such knowledge had been flayed alive and kept from expiring with brutal magic there was something about knowing exactly how each blood vessel and nerve ganglion worked and how elves differed ever so subtly from humans that kept him turning the pages.

He almost leapt out of his own skin when the door opened. Liv Gwyn entered followed by a young woman in the plain white robe of a novice of the Order of Life. Liv Gwyn smiled charmingly and laying her hands on the shorter girl’s shoulders brought her around to face Joharn.

“General Gottlett I thought I would allow you a chance to meet with our volunteer. Anna Karspeka allow me to introduce General and Council Member Joharn Gottlett.”

“Oh you evil, evil bitch.” Thought Joharn, bad enough he knew what was going to happen he now had to meet the girl it was going to happen to. “My Lady.” He greeted the Novice.

“My Lord.” That was said with a smile and blush, she probably was not used to being addressed as a My Lady. Liv Gwyn smiled even more brilliantly and gently stroked the young woman’s hair.

“Well I shall leave you alone, the ritual requires much preparation and you too really should get to know one another.” The smile she bestowed on them was artfully innocent and then she departed closing the door behind her.

Anna glided over to the small table and the wine. She had a dancer’s movements elegant and controlled. It was such a waste. “A drink My Lord?” She asked.

“Wine won’t agree with me at the moment but you go ahead My Lady and please call me Joharn.” He gestured, at what he was not sure, escape?

“Well then you must call me Anna.” Said the girl smiling brilliantly her eyes sparkling and her long black hair tumbling down the back of her novice’s gown she raised a full glass to her lips and rank slowly but deeply. “They said it would be alright if I drank the wine.”

“Yes I am sure it is,” Agreed Joharn, one could hardly begrudge her that. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen, Eighteen years and two months and bit,” The smile Anna bestowed upon him would have been charming under other circumstances. “You of course are very old.”

“Too old.”

“Oh no Joharn, never too old, our people need you young and strong, you have given so much you have so much to give...” Anna was brimming over with conviction.

“You do realise that you do not have to go through with this? You can still walk away you can still live.” Joharn asked.

“Yes but I choose this, this is my gift to my people, I shall surrender my life and my body but my soul will go to Vulorian.” The girl’s eyes burned brightly with the fire of true belief. Joharn wanted to counter wanted to point out they did not know where human souls went? It was still an open question. Elven souls they knew lingered and reincarnated though given the low birth rate of that kind, some scholars liked to joke they faced a long queue. Orc souls being descended from the same stuff as elves also appeared to reincarnate though the race memory gained was less useful than that found among the elves.

“But you are still young, you could marry or travel or decide to join another order, the Church of Vulorian is bigger than just the Order of Life you know and then there are the secular agencies…” Joharn felt his voice wind down in the face of the girl’s smile, it was almost pitying.

“My life had no meaning, often I wanted to die and then I met Lady Liv Gwyn, she taught me that I could be something, do something, that my urge to depart this world was right and proper and that I could aid my people by giving of my life for another,” Anna spoke with the devoted dedication of the fanatic and Joharn felt tired and cynical just for questioning her.

Yet and yet, “What makes you think your life is less precious to the Ensar than mine?” Asked Joharn.

“Do you wish to end your life?” Anna asked, there was no inflection, no clue as to how she expected him to answer the question.

“Well I have treated it somewhat less than carefully, I have fought battles against elves and their subject humans and dwarves, I have broken orcs and trolls to servitude, I have experimented with explosives and that has led to a few hair raising moments, I have learned to fly wyverns and earned a few broken bones by that and I have studied magic and conversed with Powers that are half mad now and might strip my soul from my flesh of an instant,” Joharn shrugged, “I might be accused of being a little self-destructive.”

“I used to dream of cutting my throat with a knife, just hold it up like this,” She held a finger across her pale skinned neck, “And open it up from ear to ear.”

“Why didn’t you?” Joharn said, shocked in spite of himself, he had seen death hundreds, perhaps thousands of times and never once good, never once pretty and so he asked a question that he did not mean to ask at all before he could regain control of himself.

“Because it would have made my parents sad, this way my parents will be happy, this way they will know my death was to some purpose,” Anna told him with serene confidence.

Joharn regarded her in silence as she smiled at him and calmly drank some of her wine. There was much Joharn wanted to say, he wanted to explain why all of a sudden he had decided something that he had done twice before was wrong, that a ritual that his colleagues on the High Council of the Ensar had approved was perverse. He wanted to but he did not. He told himself it was because duty compelled him but was it that. Was it not perhaps that he enjoyed the perks of power and enjoyed them better with the perks of relative youth, was it not simply that he wanted to go on living?

The nature of the chants and music changed and Anna put down her glass.

“Joharn, My Lord it is time.” She held out her hand, “If you will accompany me, I shall lead you to the Ritual Chamber where the Rite of Life is to be performed.” Joharn knew the way he had been here three times before but he found himself taking the Novice’s hand anyway.

“You can still change your mind you know?” He prodded.

“I could My Lord Joharn but I do not wish to, shall we be going?”

“Lead on My Lady Anna.” He surrendered reluctantly but perhaps he scorned himself not reluctantly enough.

The Chamber was exactly as he remembered it in his nightmares. The evil scrawls and symbols of the Vampires etched on every wall, every column, all the windows and both floor and ceiling in silver leaving only the grim stone altar not covered in the metal.

Women of the Order stood at their ritual stations. Liv Gwyn always preferred to perform her magic in the company of woman where possible though men too would suffice and were admitted to the order. Standing in positions that ritually symbolised various parts of the world and the cosmos were Novices much like Anna and both High and Low Initiates in their much darker robes taking the place of High Priestess as ever stood Liv Gwyn, Her eyes and smile commanding all to her bidding.

The ritual singing took on a new timbre and Anna guided Joharn to his place before approaching the altar and shedding her gown. Then quite naked she lay back upon it and turned her head and smiled at Joharn with joyous fanaticism. Liv Gwyn picked up the ritual knife and then turned to Joharn Gottlett and offered it to him hilt first.

“Some prefer to do their own cutting for the Rite?” She asked with that infernal knowing smile.

“I think I will leave this to you, you are the expert,” Was Joharn’s grim reply. Liv Gwyn appeared quite satisfied with that response; she revelled in her role as the High Priestess of the Rite.

“Let us commence the Rite of Life.” She cried in Vampiric.

A pair of High Initiates glided up to Joharn in that graceful flowing manner of theirs. First his jacket and then his shirt were removed as Liv Gwyn led her acolytes in the intonations of the Ritual. The first cut was made, a gently shallow one low on Anna’s belly just above the hair that marked her mons. Another novice glided up smoothly and dipping her finger in the welling blood anointed Joharn’s head, then his chest and then his arms, inking the marks in the ancient Vampire Tongue with blood she renewed constantly from Anna’s wound.

Anna too raised her voice to the chants and that was probably the thing that chilled Joharn’s heart the most. Again Liv Gwyn offered the knife and again he refused. The High Priestess of the Order of Life moved to stand by Anna’s head, looking lengthways along her body and the altar. Then with a smile she lowered the point of the blade between her victim’s legs and with single stroke drew it back towards her laying Anna open from crotch right up to her neck but unmercifully still alive.

Despite herself Anna screamed in agony before dutifully returning to the chant. There were many cuts and many screams as Liv Gwyn walked counter clockwise around her victim opening her legs and then arms. There was an enormous amount of blood but by an unholy miracle Anna Karspeka remained alive. The point in the Ritual came and with the last of her strength once Liv Gwyn had made the necessary cuts inside of her the dying Novice plucked her own heart from her chest and handed it to her High Priestess. Then at last mercifully her body expired.

A High Initiate came up bearing a silver chalice and Liv Gwyn squeezed the blood into it. Then with magically strengthened fingers she squeezed and crushed the muscular organ until it too flowed as liquid into the silver cup. The chanting rose as in a light plume Anna’s spirit lifted above her corpse and hovered over the altar.

“Now My Lord Joharn, now comes the time, drink of my blood and my substance and honour my gift.” Commanded the ghost as a Liv Gwyn handed him the goblet brimming with the bright red fluid. To his shame he drank and the spirit disappeared to where ever souls go with a happy laugh.

“The Rite is Complete.” Called Liv Gwyn in Vampiric and then switched back to Elendran. “Will you stay while we wash and cleanse the body?”

“Ah no,” Croaked Joharn dropping the cup that was scooped up by a hurrying novice, “I think I am going to be sick.”

“Sister Angela, please escort the General to the Inner Courtyard he needs some air.” Instructed Lady Gwyn to a Low Initiate.

A little while later on Joharn made his way back into the Convent Building, in a hall leading to the Ritual Chamber he found Liv Gwyn talking to a couple who looked to be in their early fifties who were greeting her news with tearful pride.

“We shall of course cleanse and dress Anna’s body for burial. Then you may view her at your leisure. There is no rush her body is now incorruptible should you wish she can be buried here with her sisters in the Order or you can take her home or anywhere you have a family tomb or plot. The Order will be happy to make any arrangements you desire.” Liv Gwyn explained to the bereaved, parents, Joharn guessed. She managed to sound almost caring. She talked to them for a while and then allowed them to go into the Chamber accompanied by a High Initiate.

“You look much better.” Liv Gwyn stood besides Joharn of a sudden, the parents seemed not to notice she had disappeared from their midst, gladly following the Sister Superior. The most damnable thing was that once he had thrown up in the small garden court at the centre of the Convent he did feel much better. In fact he had not realised how old and tired he had been feeling for months prior to this until that moment.

“I am,” Agreed Joharn. The weird thing was not that looking at her Liv Gwyn she was now more vigorous somehow than she had before the ritual but she came across as more friendly more human. There might even have been a hint of colour in her pale cheeks.

“Good. I am glad, I know you will grieve for her but Anna would have been glad too, we need you Joharn Gottlett, all of Ensar needs you.” She reached a hand up to touch his cheek, it felt cool but not unpleasant. “What will you do now?”

“Home first, then I will need to organise, there is much to study, too much I need to learn to do better, I will be very busy I imagine.”

“Well feel free to call on me anytime, for help, advice or just a chat and sympathetic ear.” Liv Gwyn smiled at him and without thinking about it Joharn smiled back.

 

[Eulalia]

yes, it's the kind of scenario I imagine to myself,​

I like the way you explore the man's conflicting feelings,​

a powerful little story​

 

[RacingRodent]

Thanks the rest of the story got over complex and rather away from me but I always felt that was a very powerful moment.

 

[Eulalia]

A lovely sacrificial scene, thanks Hondoboot2

​

 

[Eulalia]

Some lovely sacrificial victims from Hondoboot2:

 

[thehangingtree]

4, 11, 17 are superb but tree feels any would wet Eul's knickers. I really liked 4 because instead of fear she looks none to please being a sacrificial offering...

T

 

[ROMAN MASTER2]

Some lovely sacrificial victims from Hondoboot2:

View attachment 91941 View attachment 91942 View attachment 91943 View attachment 91944 View attachment 91945 View attachment 91946 View attachment 91947 View attachment 91948 View attachment 91949 View attachment 91950
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thats hot

 

[Eulalia]

a new sacrificial scene



she looks untroubled, even happy -
does she not know what's approaching?
or is she glad to be their victim?​

 

[thehangingtree]

"Tree you silly bastard, you didn't have to chain me to the rock" - Eul

t

 

[Eulalia]

but it's sweet of you to do it all the same ​

 

[RacingRodent]

Cetus just better dive deep and fast because once Tree actually gets the invoice for the chain...he'll be wanting it back

 

[thehangingtree]

but it's sweet of you to do it all the same ​

At high tide this rock really does go under... She might claim she wouldn't run but can you trust her???

t

...and besides, her coffee tastes funny when she not shackled and whipped!!!

 

[admihoek]

View attachment 98282

"Tree you silly bastard, you didn't have to chain me to the rock" - Eul

t

but she is every time more cute

 

[henk horkmans]

The Meriah rite was prevalent in the early 19th century among the inhabitants of the hills and jungles in Orissa (belonging pre-dominantly to the Khond group of tribes). The rite involved the sacrifice of 'young human victims for the propitiation of the especial divinity who presided over the fertility of the earth.'

 

[Loinclothslave]

Just before the crash I was thinking of opening a new thread to invite folk to post pictures, stories, video-links on a fantasy-theme close to this girl's heart, and not a long way from that of Crucifixion.

The idea of being selected as the sacrificial victim, led to the altar, stripped and stretched and ready, is one I've found excited ever since I first heard about such things. I've confessed in 'Girly Games' how I used to imagine that happening to me in Church, when the 'body and blood of Christ' were carried up the aisle and handed over to the priest to lay on the altar - I knew it was a very sinful thought, but a lovely one ...

Anyway, for a start I'll re-post a long poem I tried this time last year (I think), it soon got lost because of its obscure title. 'Lughnasadh' (say "lunar saw") is an ancient Irish/ Scottish harvest festival on Aug 1st (midway between solstice and equinox). Those who know anything about such matters will see I've played fast and loose with historical/ anthropological/ archaeological accuracy.

The main figures are Lugh ("loo") a Celtic god, a'Mhaighdean ("a vadjen"), 'the Maiden', whose name is Brigde ("breedja"), a'Cailleach ("a kalyach", with Scots "ch" sound) 'old woman', literally 'the one with the hood', and am Bodach (sounds much as it looks, with Scots "ch") 'old man', lit. 'the one with the prick'

Lughnasadh

​

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

Women gather
Disconsolate on the dunes.
No dancing this year.
Dark,
Deathly dark.

It’s rare.
Young mothers can’t remember.
Some recall
When Mòrag was a’Mhaighdean.

Big Mòrag,
Mother herself now,
Two fine young sons.

“She giggled all through it!”
a’Cailleach says.

“Did she say that?
Wait till I get the hag!
She didn’t see me
Naked, the knife …’

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

There was another,
A’Cailleach knows,
But never tells –
A slim girl.

The men swore nothing happened,
But from that night
Never came home.

Lived in a cave, they say,
Sang to the seals
Till the great storm –
Still you may hear her.

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

Join the chasing-game –
Who’ll be a’Mhaighdean?

A’Cailleach’s baked the cake,
Each girl shall have some –

Sorcha, laughing,
Long-legged fisher-girls
Eilidh and Eighrigh,
Pale Una, sad Beatha,

Each girl must have some,
Soft and delightful,
But one, burnt and bitter.

Who’ll be a’Mhaighdean?

Don’t tremble,
It’s only a game.

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

“No giggling then –
Real terror,
Real pain,”
Said Mòrag,

“Yet – never told this –
Strange pleasure,
Strange sadness
At the God’s silence.”

On Beinn an Tuirc
The men’s fire’s lit.
Soon am Bodach will come
To fetch you. Your blood’s warm.

Your sisters deck themselves
In beads and ribbons.
You will need none.

Kneel on the rocks alone,
Near you an otter swims
In the warm evening,
You long for the waves.

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

“Brigde!”
They call you.
Am Bodach approaches
With young men in boar-masks.

“Which have you chosen?”
“This, Brigde.”
“She’ll do –

But, woman, a word -
Suppose, just supposing
The God speaks?”

“Come with me,
I’ll tell you.”

A’Chailleach speaks softly.
The boar-men are playing,
Chasing the young girls
Scuttling in the surf.

They catch little Sileas,
Steal her ribbons.
One ties your wrists tight,
The other blindfolds you.

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

“… don’t worry -
This young sow,
She’ll please the boar,
And give good bacon!”

Shiver as she strokes you.

“Take her!”

Led up the long climb
Slipping and stumbling,
Bare feet snag sharp stones,
Breathless, perspiring,
Steep Beinn an Tuirc!

When the ground levels
Sense men around you,
Silent,
Smoke hangs on the still air.

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

Am Bodach starts singing,
First a soft, sad song,
Then louder, a wild chant,
Till, almost screaming,
“Show her to Lugh!”


Swiftly they strip you,
Shirt, shift and short skirt,
Swing you, displayed,
Round the circle of men.

Teasing voice goads him,
“Ailein, don’t you fancy her now?”
“Shut your gob or I’ll kill you!”
He hisses. You walk on,
His honour protected,
Not you.

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

The air is so still now,
You glistening, waiting,
Hear them preparing,
“The grindstone, the flail …”

Smooth stone you’re laid on,
Black night above you,
Am Bodach whines weirdly,
Damp drops touch your breasts.

Stretched on the altar,
Hair thrown behind you,
Legs, as expected,
Forced wide and tied tight -

“She didn’t see me
Naked, the knife…”

Wince as he places
The cold blade on your breasts -
Feel the sharp boar’s tusks
Touching your thighs -

“Real terror,
Real pain…”


Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

Am Bodach falls silent,
Mist spits in the fire,
Below, the sea soughing,
Far off … can you hear?

Am Bodach creeps closer,
His breath feels aflame,
The boar-men are dancing,
Sweat mingles with rain …

What’s that?
On the mountains
Deep rumbles, faint flickers …

Your bare body quivers …
It’s only a game …

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

Brilliant, blinding,
Lightning reveals you!

Death-roar of thunder,
Word of the Boar!

Now must a’Mhaighdean
Be ploughed and sown,
Cut and threshed,
Crushed with the stone,
Burnt, till the raw flesh
Peels from her bones –
So first, let the Boar-God
Make her his own!

At damp dawn, ravens
Relish what Lugh’s left.

This really deserves to be resurfaced! Incredible work, definitely our kinky poet laureate, thank you, dearest @Eulalia

 

[cynthia the inocent]

Just before the crash I was thinking of opening a new thread to invite folk to post pictures, stories, video-links on a fantasy-theme close to this girl's heart, and not a long way from that of Crucifixion.

The idea of being selected as the sacrificial victim, led to the altar, stripped and stretched and ready, is one I've found excited ever since I first heard about such things. I've confessed in 'Girly Games' how I used to imagine that happening to me in Church, when the 'body and blood of Christ' were carried up the aisle and handed over to the priest to lay on the altar - I knew it was a very sinful thought, but a lovely one ...

Anyway, for a start I'll re-post a long poem I tried this time last year (I think), it soon got lost because of its obscure title. 'Lughnasadh' (say "lunar saw") is an ancient Irish/ Scottish harvest festival on Aug 1st (midway between solstice and equinox). Those who know anything about such matters will see I've played fast and loose with historical/ anthropological/ archaeological accuracy.

The main figures are Lugh ("loo") a Celtic god, a'Mhaighdean ("a vadjen"), 'the Maiden', whose name is Brigde ("breedja"), a'Cailleach ("a kalyach", with Scots "ch" sound) 'old woman', literally 'the one with the hood', and am Bodach (sounds much as it looks, with Scots "ch") 'old man', lit. 'the one with the prick'

Lughnasadh

​

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

Women gather
Disconsolate on the dunes.
No dancing this year.
Dark,
Deathly dark.

It’s rare.
Young mothers can’t remember.
Some recall
When Mòrag was a’Mhaighdean.

Big Mòrag,
Mother herself now,
Two fine young sons.

“She giggled all through it!”
a’Cailleach says.

“Did she say that?
Wait till I get the hag!
She didn’t see me
Naked, the knife …’

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

There was another,
A’Cailleach knows,
But never tells –
A slim girl.

The men swore nothing happened,
But from that night
Never came home.

Lived in a cave, they say,
Sang to the seals
Till the great storm –
Still you may hear her.

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

Join the chasing-game –
Who’ll be a’Mhaighdean?

A’Cailleach’s baked the cake,
Each girl shall have some –

Sorcha, laughing,
Long-legged fisher-girls
Eilidh and Eighrigh,
Pale Una, sad Beatha,

Each girl must have some,
Soft and delightful,
But one, burnt and bitter.

Who’ll be a’Mhaighdean?

Don’t tremble,
It’s only a game.

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

“No giggling then –
Real terror,
Real pain,”
Said Mòrag,

“Yet – never told this –
Strange pleasure,
Strange sadness
At the God’s silence.”

On Beinn an Tuirc
The men’s fire’s lit.
Soon am Bodach will come
To fetch you. Your blood’s warm.

Your sisters deck themselves
In beads and ribbons.
You will need none.

Kneel on the rocks alone,
Near you an otter swims
In the warm evening,
You long for the waves.

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

“Brigde!”
They call you.
Am Bodach approaches
With young men in boar-masks.

“Which have you chosen?”
“This, Brigde.”
“She’ll do –

But, woman, a word -
Suppose, just supposing
The God speaks?”

“Come with me,
I’ll tell you.”

A’Chailleach speaks softly.
The boar-men are playing,
Chasing the young girls
Scuttling in the surf.

They catch little Sileas,
Steal her ribbons.
One ties your wrists tight,
The other blindfolds you.

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

“… don’t worry -
This young sow,
She’ll please the boar,
And give good bacon!”

Shiver as she strokes you.

“Take her!”

Led up the long climb
Slipping and stumbling,
Bare feet snag sharp stones,
Breathless, perspiring,
Steep Beinn an Tuirc!

When the ground levels
Sense men around you,
Silent,
Smoke hangs on the still air.

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

Am Bodach starts singing,
First a soft, sad song,
Then louder, a wild chant,
Till, almost screaming,
“Show her to Lugh!”


Swiftly they strip you,
Shirt, shift and short skirt,
Swing you, displayed,
Round the circle of men.

Teasing voice goads him,
“Ailein, don’t you fancy her now?”
“Shut your gob or I’ll kill you!”
He hisses. You walk on,
His honour protected,
Not you.

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

The air is so still now,
You glistening, waiting,
Hear them preparing,
“The grindstone, the flail …”

Smooth stone you’re laid on,
Black night above you,
Am Bodach whines weirdly,
Damp drops touch your breasts.

Stretched on the altar,
Hair thrown behind you,
Legs, as expected,
Forced wide and tied tight -

“She didn’t see me
Naked, the knife…”

Wince as he places
The cold blade on your breasts -
Feel the sharp boar’s tusks
Touching your thighs -

“Real terror,
Real pain…”


Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

Am Bodach falls silent,
Mist spits in the fire,
Below, the sea soughing,
Far off … can you hear?

Am Bodach creeps closer,
His breath feels aflame,
The boar-men are dancing,
Sweat mingles with rain …

What’s that?
On the mountains
Deep rumbles, faint flickers …

Your bare body quivers …
It’s only a game …

Only when Moon, the protector of women
Sleeps behind Earth’s dark door,
Only when the greedy sea
Creeps to the top of the shore,
Only when the Boar-God Lugh
Speaks in the thunder-roar,
Then, only then, can men perform
The rite of Lughnasad.

Brilliant, blinding,
Lightning reveals you!

Death-roar of thunder,
Word of the Boar!

Now must a’Mhaighdean
Be ploughed and sown,
Cut and threshed,
Crushed with the stone,
Burnt, till the raw flesh
Peels from her bones –
So first, let the Boar-God
Make her his own!

At damp dawn, ravens
Relish what Lugh’s left.

I admit I didn't understand much of your poem, but I would love to read the story of the maiden taken to the sacrificial altar. We do role play along those lines in my barn. I am sure your story will be marvelous and exciting.