The Tattooed Priestess
Born in the flames of our world, the priestess was brought into this age of fear and disorder.
Calm and tranquil. Her body, the permanent hieroglyph, one of many, emblazoned on her soul.
Enchanted. Exhalted. But unknown.
As she rose in the forest, the creatures, the wildlife, the spirits, the ethereal realm walkers followed her, mesmerised.
Walking without fear. She did not care for the king of these lands. She did not care of their God. Knowing she is spirit reborn.
A queen amidst apostles. The carrier of light through the dark swamp of illusion.
“Dare to be” she whispered into the wind. And the wind took her words and spread them like wildfire in the hearts and minds of those who wanted purpose and life. As a reminder to nature, to all of creation, to every living being that they owe themselves the strength to carve out an existence to be proud of.
And as she walked with her pure energy through the forest, stirring up change with her words, her silver hair pulsated, flicking the faces of all who followed. Blinding those who were too far gone. But a darkness remained with her. Coursing her veins.
And as she grew with the forest, the roots themselves were drawn to her for nourishment, for she was part of the sanctity of the ancients. And with each age passing, she fought the darkness time and time again, each meander through the tributary of battle leaving a scar. Leaving a tattoo. They were her pain and her armour. Each tattoo carrying weight. Wisdom. A show of strength, and of weakness.
A lesson to her kin that the passage into nirvana is fraught with turmoil. A lesson that only by embracing that which is within can you overcome that which is without. Because yes. That which is without, is without.
Anger without centre. Rage without serenity. Hurt without reason.
It is Aramaiyyah’s calling to carry these messages with her, as high priestess of the forest realm, to teach all she knows to all those she knows. Her body the holy scriptures sung in the hymns of the druids. Blessed to be blessed. Blessed to be cursed to live and hear all of humanities fate and watch it unfold and play out in hieroglyphs that adorn her body. Tattoos of days past when Osiris ruled the underworld, when Freya bestowed upon the world her seidr magic, when the Valkyries rode on their winged horses and took the mighty fallen to Valhalla.
Only tattooed, does the priestess reignite the creative spark that has been lost in this world. Her tattoos, her battles, her being, light the embers of creation and teach us that life, and meaning, and energy, and imagination is all around us. It pervades, it endures.
“In creation, we make the tools we need” she cites as the trees of the ancient elders wrap around her and protect her from the cold blows of mankind’s never ending wars. She draws on creation, from the spider, from the butterflies, from the moths, to ink her body with languages once forgotten. Languages that tell of peaceful times, and of warmongery, and of anarchy, and of justice. Each inking different, each unique, each finite in its duration but infinite in its teachings.
With time she has grown weary, but the fires in which she was born still ignite her soul and illuminate her tattoos. The hieroglyphs of black paint sparkling with magic. For those who approach her forest with open eyes and strength of heart shall receive her guidance, shall channel into her wisdom, and feel the mages of eternity coursing their blood. They shall feel the power of her markings.
The will to protect will be strong. The will to bring justice. The will to uphold peace. The will of the forest. To be at one with the river and to see the leaves fall. To see the cycle of birth and death and rejoice in it.
There has always been a pattern to her tattoos, that each apostle observes on their own. Each pattern, each lesson distinct and intimate and specific. A magic just for them. And as they dance to their patterns, they make patterns of their own that adorn their own bodies.
And when Aramaiyyah looks down on them and sees their joy and understanding and acceptance of creation, she sees beauty in the tapestry that is singing from their souls. Their tattoos. An orchestra of infinite patterns. Always emulating, with childlike dreams of copying their mother. But see, emulation IS creation, IS life, IS magic.
In trying to be, you are being.
“You are defined by what you choose to become, not by what you’ve been” so be free my angels and fly your own destinies with this forest as your home.
The priestess has fought her battles with the armies of darkness, and has slipped in and out of earthly realms to call on her aides. She has wandered through the shadows and observed silently the fascist doctrines that guide those who only seek power to be powerful.
But the ages have caught up with her and a darkness remains. Coursing her veins. And she slips back into the shadows whispering wisdom and enlightenment when her apostles are in need. Sending forth her creatures, her birds, her wildlings with signs and messages that only those true of heart can decipher. She balances through the darkness with her fibres of light. Her knowledge has seeped through the roots of the forest and pulsed through all of existence to shield and protect her apostles. So they are untouchable as they fly. And with the forest with them, they stealthily spread the voice of rebellion and justice and anarchy.
The tattooed priestess, queen of the forest, is magic and creation and life and journey. She is an energy of experience guiding us all, if we only remember to seek her out.
