The Wild Hunt
On the back of a silver-lit Moon, in the dead autumnal night, the scent of burning leaves and the crisp cleanliness of an electrified sky fill lungs and nose alike. The wind whips through the pine needles, bringing the baleful Ecstasy of hounds and the thundering of hoofs.
It’s here they take their first glimpse in the heavens: a woman, buxom and beautiful, rides naked-–save a white, hooded cloak—upon a stallion so black that obsidian declares heresy, charging across the sky, leading a stormfront of clouds. Surrounding her, wild hounds rip apart the heavens, blood-rain dripping from their claws. As above, so below—in the hearts of men, of women, and those between, a storm of passion erupts from the conjunction of where fear meets elation—the places where angels fear to tread.
For the Godly, her arrival is heralded, not as the second coming, but spoken in hushed whispers and morality tales of evil being taken. That word, evil—once scrawled in dead tongues and carved into ancient hearts that thump in modernity’s chest still—meant nothing more than ‘other.’ They cower in their homes, behind shuddered windows and locked doors. Here, they hope—in vain—to be beyond her reach. No one is safe because her call is not an external one, her grasp not on the Flesh, but upon their Spirit. Everyone feels it in their hearts—the grab of her long nailed hands around the very sinews of their soul. Beckoning, they feel a call to return to a less civilized expression of self—a call to become primal. Even if they are untouched this night, their lives are forever changed.
For the rest, there’s magnetism, an invisible draw pulling them by neck and by bound wrists, toward her outstretched hand.
Their hearts pound, blood-flame coursing in veins ignites them with terror and passion. Compelled by Desire itself, they step toward this devil in all but name, not by conscious desire, but by their own feet’s will, stealing them from their instinct to run away.
Some come with eager abandon, captivated in heart and body by her presence. As the Huntress descends the heavens, her steed’s hooves strike the ground, setting flaming prints into the dry grass and dirt. They kneel, bending themselves to her Will, finding satisfaction in their own Surrender.
Others seek to parley. Once challenged, they must show their cunning to be given any boon. Those who demonstrate their worth may ride alongside, always following the naked rider of the storm into eternity.
Some still choose to engage in the hunt as prey. Freezing before bolting, they entice the Huntress to give chase, charging and running them down. These, she relishes—her claim on them is total and complete. She comes to Know these best for the Huntress deeply studies her prey, learns to think as they do, and, in her acts, thanks them in the most visceral union of Bliss—Devoured in Eternity by her Supernatural Hunger.
The Huntress rides with thunder and Flame, the ground shattering beneath her steed’s hooves. None may stand untouched—the Hunt is fire that strips the False and bares the True. The Timid falter, but the Brave pass through the blaze, their courage and desire raising them high. Step into the Wild Hunt and be remade.
Mark yourself as mine.
Offer your Flesh, surrender your Spirit.
Become my Prey in this Wild Hunt.
