Thursday, August 12, 2010

Happy Birthday Lugh!

Ok, so I don't know shit about Lugh, except that I read a fiction story about him once a long time ago that was more than likely 99% bullshit. I don't know what Lugnasad is all about, nor do I know how to spell it. You heathens are celebrating something, and if you're anything like us Christians, it's probably his birthday or some shit.

So, Happy Birthday Lugh!

In honor of your birthday (or whatever) I'm taking your Crane Curse quoted by VVF and updating it the way I think you meant it. The language you used is beautiful, and I understand it's a rhetoric-chant type of magic that probably loses something in translation, but I thought it was beautiful, and awesome, and didn't make much sense the way it was, so accept this gift as my attempt to show the world how freaking cool you really are. No one curses like you cursed. Amen.

Spirits of the Land, Hear me! This utterly devastated, war-scarred ruin, stained with the blood of our brothers who fell in battle is the site where our enemies broke us, shattered us, and turned our home to rubble. They shall be utterly destroyed by the heavenly hosts! Come now eldritch fae, come now spirit warriors, come now warriors of fate! Bind our enemies! Their warriors are gathered, and one company cowers in fear, another sits paralyzed listening to you gather, they are petrified in fear, they are tormented in heart and mind, they are crushed with dread. Our strength is multiplied 9 times, and we roar in strength and power! Hurrah and Woe! Leftward, my beautiful warriors! The powerful magic of storm and earth brought up by our wizards shall sustain us. My curse shall drive them until they are defeated. I face my land laid waste by fire, I see it with death’s very form stamped into all things, and without fear I curse them, for from the death they sought to deal us we are reborn. With all the Sidhe, and Ogma, I swear, by the powers of the sky, the earth and the sea, by the sun and moon and stars.  Come now my band of warriors, my spirit army host like a sea, a boiling sea of golden mists, born now to crash upon them upon a field of battle. Their death is the song of battle! Havoc is the song I sing!