Our name is Legion. Ave Diana et Lucifero, i genitori nostra.
We are many. We, the Little Folk--sorcerers, whores, queers, the poor, rebels, the abject. The witches. We, who are hidden among the people. We are awake.
Witches, rise up!
Let us become like our Faery King, the Devil, and raise the horns and don the cloak, the mantle of the Wild. We know the Turnskin Spell, it is writ upon the backs of our eyelids and carved upon our bones. Let us come as Liberator and Fire-bearer, the Piper at the Gates of Dawn.
We are the Wild, the poison medicine growing up through the cracks in the asphalt.
We are one with the Dead.
We are called Mad by those who would subjugate us.
We are Poets, all of us.
Our tongues are our swords, and we will whisper goblin-dart and trollshot to them. We will pray to their Ancestors and be heard. We will never cease to be the Wild's Voice. Where there is a witch there is no rest for the ignorant.
Our Sight pierces all lies. We follow Truth's torch even if it leads us to a deeper darkness within the Darkness. Carry a knife in your hair. Our watchwords are: discern and resist.
Via Nocturna we tread the crooked, twilit road, the blackthorn at our side. On whisps of wind we shall steal into their palaces and make a feast from the Tyrants' cupboard. Their cattle will give no milk, their monoculture fields barren, their oil wells run dry, their stocks plummeting at morning bell. Their plenty is reaped from the sweat of our backs and sown of our suffering. Nightmares follow in our wake as they wallow in their comfy beds. Some will not see the dawn.
Our gleaming scales--the very same as the Old Serpent--protect us now and in all these works. The mask and the cowl are our benefit and shield. None of our names will protect us, so let us wear mirrors instead and give up our names to the Winds.
We will root out reeking oppression and pay out the highest price to buy liberation from the chain. We have already given our hearts to the Fire and they have become coal-black. We have nothing to lose.
We will not restrain our Love for the people or Land, for only the guiding hand of Love shall tame our task. Our tears fill seventy times seventy jars.
We will play midwife to Justice, Truth and She is not blind. We will gladly accept the titles of scorn and malice that the State will heap upon us. Love and Hate are two horns on the same Goat.
The Secret Rose blooms beneath the moon where we hold our night revels. Our dance is one of divine frenzy and we shall tear at them with tooth and nail, claw and talon. We will taste blood and be drunk upon it.
And to all tyrants, oppressive State regimes, and their agents: Choosing not to believe in the Devil won't protect you from us.
