Firstday; Day 1 of 60; Of the Trefolkian Month of Stara; 1626 ODT (Official Date Time). Who calls? I am here. She sat up so quickly that she alarmed the family of badgers. In a blur of blacks and whites they scattered. It was dark in the hollow. Her blue eyes smarted as she followed a beam of sunlight to the entrance. Certain she had heard a voice she was momentarily puzzled. Only a pointed little face quizzed her, framed in drifting motes of dust.

Though it was strange she supposed it was to be expected. Other priestesses had reported bizarre experiences on their vision quests, though none of them had ever spent the night under a tree with a family of badgers. She felt honoured that these creatures had welcomed her into their home, and kept her warm. It had been an unusually cold night. Uncurling lithely, her creamy skin scratched over crushed leaves and hay that puffed with notes of pine and earth. She sneezed. She thought the noise would scare away the badger, but he simply crooned at her, encouraging her to roll onto her knees and crawl upwards. Squirming through the tight opening she was grateful the earth that scoured her breasts and belly was soft and moist.

Standing upright Ayr of Whispers brushed sand and twigs from her skin, removed some leaves that had indelicately lodged between her buttocks and with splayed fingers cleared at least the worst knots from her long blonde hair. All around her the forest abounded with the symphony of life. Each call seemed as a Laudlifting to the goddess Athiera, to whom this garden belonged. Breaths of cherry blossoms and peach, the dark rich soil under her soles and the caress of the breeze inspired her arms to the sky in a stretch. It was the morning of the fourth day, and her vision quest was completed. Whilst she had had no vision, she was not disappointed. It was often taught that the vision may occur some time after the quest, perhaps even in a dream; and such spontaneous revelations were more often than not highly auspicious. The faint smell of old smoke tickled her nose, and beckoned through the brush.

Bowing under a plant with great fluted leaves, mindful of a family of snails, she crawled through a narrow opening and entered the clearing where she had made her campsite. She squatted over the shallow pit and urinated into the ashes and then covered it with stones and sand. There was no danger of smouldering now. With soft lush grass as her mat she spent a long while in exercise. The athanas combined breathing with pose and movement and were the daily practice of all serving the goddess. When she was finished, and drenched in sweat, with a lifted spirit she washed in the cool tributary nearby, saying her morning prayers, thanking the goddess for keeping her warm last night, but somehow she did not seem able to concentrate, as if there was something nagging at her mind beyond her inner sight. It was the sensation of having left something important undone, unresolved; like leaving a bottle uncorked after making wine; or the vestiges of a bad dream, the meaning of which escapes the dreamer, leaving them with a nagging gut. Had she truly extinguished the fire? Dismissing the feeling to a lack of mindfulness she returned to her meditation, kneeling in the mud with the water gurgling about her, caressing her flower.

She felt so deeply blessed and enriched for this experience that it was appropriate she perform the Second Rite in gratitude. Flexing her feet so her toes gripped the sand she scooped water into her palms and lifting them she asked the goddess? blessing for the day, to let the blessing fill the water, and shower her with favour. Then, with a gentle but well-practiced movement she inverted her hands onto her head. The water was cold and tingly as it met her scalp, but was warm down her back, over her chin, neck and breasts. In that moment a gentle breeze danced through the trees, pulling her skin into tiny bumps and with an exultant breath she realized this could only be a sign from the goddess. Her prayer had been heard! Exhilarated that she had well-nigh heard the goddess? voice with her own ears on the end of her quest of solitude, the young priestess decided it was of great importance to give thanks and so she focussed her enthusiasm into her meditation. She relaxed deeply for some moments, concentrating on her breathing until she felt attuned to the rhythm of the island. Then, at one with the concerto around her, her hands rose up along her flat belly, circled her breasts as if they were sacred chalices, and glided across the skin to where the peaks of her desire begged for caress.

Her body rose and fell in a slow cadence with her breath, and the music around her, until her hands skated downwards, alighted on the rise of her altar, and began a sensual massage. Water lapped her legs as sliding skin sent sibilants up her spine and between her teeth; sighs of surrender undulated with flexing thighs and rolling eyes. Probing desire, shuddered insistence, mewling lips coaxed her bloom, beckoning the sweet nectar from within - how fitting that it would become one with this blessed stream. Silky spasms, quivering thighs, a note of surrender; she wanted to fall forwards, but not yet . The moment was close, that sweet tumbling moment, but she delayed, surrender dancing ferociously between mind and fingers, the pressure in her building like a storm. Each sonorous pant seemed to tense the ecstasy within her, winding it tighter and tighter like a spring.