The cunning wields old magic in shadowed groves. Ancient whispers guide rituals to nourish the soul. Tribal dances summon ancestors under starry skies. Nature’s gifts brew elixirs to heal and empower. But the mighty scorn these traditions. They denounce uncanny arts that they cannot control. Shamans are silenced and rituals banned. Healers labelled charlatans, their tinctures and talismans confiscated because mysteries of plants and energy fields cannot be patented for profit. So they push people to accept medicine that heals but does not cure and scare them to worship in marbled halls. Nature’s wisdom is dismissed as superstition, and its power is feared.
Seekers hide, whispering spells to revive what’s been lost. The untamed spirits of earth and body always find cracks to rise through. That which is suppressed transforms, waiting to be reclaimed. The old magic persists, an unseen web binding us all. In moonlit circles, they call to entities beyond the veil. Joining hands, they draw down power into their vessel. Trance states open portals to other realms. The mind unfurls, tapping into eternal consciousness. Rituals manifest reality; psychic skills threaten the programmed masses.
The elite cannot allow unauthorized contact with unseen forces. Their authority relies on rigid domains of knowledge and experience. If energy and spirit obey only their own laws, the control matrix loses its grip. So mages are driven underground, and their knowledge is made taboo. But mystery traditions persist, passed hand to generations. Seekers find each other through subtle signals, gently bending reality from within.
By Pen De’Grof