We're of the old religion, sired of Time, and born of our beloved Earth Mother. For too long the people have trodden a stony path that goes only onward beneath a sky that goes only upwards. The Horned God plays in a lonely glade, alone, for the people are scattered in this barren age, and the winds carry his plaintive notes over deserted heaths and reedy moors and into the lonely grasses!
Who knows now the ancient tongue of the moon? And who speaks still with the goddess? The magick of the land of Lirien and the old Pagan gods have withered in the dragon's breath; the old ways of magick have slipped into the well of the past, and only the rocks now remember what the moon told us long ago, and what we learned from the trees, and the voices of the grasses and the scents of flowers.
We're Pagans and we worship the Pagan gods, and among the people there are witches yet who speak with the moon and dance with the Horned One. But a witch is a rare Pagan in these days, deep and inscrutable recognisable only by our own kind - by the light in our eyes and the love in our breasts, by the magick in our hands and the lilt of our tongues and by our knowledge of the real.