Monster Feed
At the witching hour and while a keen cold breeze draws open the night sky to envelop the scene in the silver beatific light of heavenly origin, the elders and their novices walk in procession to the loch, shed their robes and immerse themselves into the silent miasma of waters covered under the oily drapery of the celestial vault's reflection. They swim towards the middle, devotion seals their mouth, their hearts beat strong. There they create a wide circle, treading water. Eyes shut, the soul sinks deep to the outer regions of its bedding to walk over vulnerable spot in the fabric of space-time that their pale bodies in relentless motions have confined and aroused as towards the center rhythmic dykes of rolling waves ringed with white horses frothing in effervescent display of joy and glory. Mental capabilities little understood sweep over the breach between one world to the other realm. Labouring, exciting, moulding and honing and finally conjuring a creature seemingly