Through fen and rush they traveled, along the gilded gossomar fields, with that seelie gait and the hunters prance carrying them through jasmine fields and shrouded phantom faerie rings. In the midst of violet glimshower we emerged, where between a throng of ancient redwood the floral host danced their whispered dances and swayed with serpent quietus; midnight fae to be sure. We're coming; our rings emerge, and the wisp o' spectre bleeds through the dream and into the real.

The hour will arrive, when fruits of love and goblets of dreams circulate, and wild effigy's throw back their dreadlocks, unflurrel their wings and let the haunting romance capture that quintessential moment in the glass like balance. This bliss is unreal, truly. Where the veil parts the hidden ones arise, and from their mist filled portals the wake-walking are stolen to a sensual host, bound in lavender, silk, and tongues. Words are an unjust way to describe it. Let us say no more. Control begone, only the feral play here.


(Vibrations to the fae of the emerald coast - the west coast. Beyond that, this is an open forum for all who exist everywhere. Arcadia is earthdeep, and around us all. Bring your seelie and unseelie selves.)

http://tribes.tribe.net/houseofsidhe