image by Econita
"I hear you Mother A thousand men falling at your feet In a bloodied heap of prophecy Churning into the very Earth Staining it Red..." - War Cry for the Morrigan
Anger is at the roots. It burns and bubbles there, wrathful, terrible and necessary, daring to break the chains of apathetic thinking. It is the combustive element that lights a spark amongst the gunpowder, until all the rotten foundations are burning, breaking under their outdated weight, and with a snap of reckoning, change is ushered in: the whole prison comes tumbling down. Beyond the Morrigans' anger there is only ashes; remnants of what once was that did not serve and so met its end. Here she extends a soot-stained hand inviting you to mark your face ready for battle, to grit your teeth through the thin veneer of the extinct that lines them, to cry out for justice and change, to howl and gnash in defiance.
We live in a world where it is fashionable to be well liked, beautiful in your softness, appeasing and compliant. Simply smile, and carry on. Don't make waves. Speak softly and flash your flesh. Make them like you. But the Morrigan was never one for babydoll lashes and platitudes.
She is the overstretched jaw screaming for bloody justice, mouth tearing at the cheeks beyond the level of comfort, her teeth bared wide, sharp and menacing.
Muscular and limber, ready to crush skulls, or a phantom displaying all the discomforts of Death, like a veil stretched over a rotten corpse. All depending on Her mood, of course, She never was one for standing still, or fulfilling expectation. Describing her aesthetic is like grabbing at water.
Her anger is deep and dangerous, shifting the narrative of entire worlds with a countenance designed for dread... your comfort level is not required. You grow in pain. Morrigan trucks in blood, and pain, and death, and prophecy.
You cannot live in anger, not always, because you become senseless and blind, but without it, you become a cold shell of yourself, disastrous in your neglect of self. Laying down to die, because all the fight has drained. And The Morrigan guards your death, tailor picked by Her bloody hand, knowing ahead of time where and when you will fall. It belongs to Her, and inviting otherwise incites a simmering rage. To court such emptiness, to give up the ghost, to forget everything that should matter... it is not acceptable.
And so She stands crooked on one left limb, screeching insults to get a rise, to torment you into action, any action, as long as you move. And you will move. Trust and believe.
image by inextremiss