Child of the Night

She is a child of the night, blanketed by the darkness and lit by the eerie glow of the quarter moon. Her skin glows faintly in the creeping blackness, her form is still; silent, waiting. Her pale eyes smolder in the dusk and fog, perceiving shapes and forms, pathways, destinations and intents. She is at home in the dun silence, padding down hidden trails; every step halting and sure. She sees with blindness; perceiving faint whiffs of air, noting slight eddies of scents as they tangle through the air. She discerns faint nuances of thought, swirls in the heady, erotic, intoxicating dance of ideas – geneses begetting geneses. Hers is a gnosis roughly earned.

The darkness is her only friend, the trackless paths her highway and despondent hope her reality.

She resonates with heroic anti-heroes, ingloriously bastard misfits, the tortured souls who fight to fight for good and lose. Whose motives are never pure, whose means are always suspect, who find themselves drawn to the muck, to the murk, to the dirt of life. Who seek to do good, to be noble, to pursue justice, but who cannot for want of sound breeding. She is outcast.

She is compelled by the eyes of the owl, the night-hunting omen of death; she is awed by the intelligent savagery of the wolf-pack; she is comforted by the mournful sadness of the raven and excited by the vicious fury of the winged raptors. She is a huntress, a night-walker, a nightmare to demons.

She is paradoxically most certain in the midst of doubt’s calm and most anxiously doubtful in the heady, tumultuous sea of certitude. Questions haunt her steps; enigmas dog her paths. Her way is paradox. She lives to death and dies to life. Mystery is her only constant.

The darkness is her only friend, the trackless paths her highway and despondent hope her reality.

She is sceadugenga.

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