August 24, 2006

"… Connecting once more with the clan of Yoruba Gods, I make my way down to their home, a sanctuary in the forests a short flight south of the realms of Vahalla. Here I shall collect the blade we made compact on half a year previous in the realms of Estrella …"

Realms of Afara

Connecting once more with the clan of Yoruba Gods, I make my way down to their home, a sanctuary in the forests a short flight south of the realms of Vahalla. Here I shall collect the blade we made compact on half a year previous in the realms of Estrella.

It is here my ally reveals himself as an aspect of Ogun, as he shows me the vastness of his inner workshop, the sculpture and song of the metal, the fire and the wind.

Arriving straight out of the realms of Valhalla and what is called the”Pennsic War” on the surface plane, Afara occurs for me as a place deep in the wildelands. Thick with the energy of the Warrior and the Seer.

It is one of the few times that I have lost photos on the Quest.

Who is to say why? Perhaps it was simply the will of those Gods. The wards they had set around themselves, the fires and permissions of the forge. I only know that I appreciate that which stayed, that which honoured the moment in the trek deeper into the Mythica, where I came to witness the real magical World.

The energies of the Masculine are deeply strong as I make my way to their realm.  There, I encounter Old Gods, beings embodying the harder edges of what it means to be hunters and gatherers.  Like The Gorilla King, they are creatures of potency, of primal energies far removed from the modern world.

Forging Talon

Here, deep in the realms of the Warrior, the promise of a sacred blade is fulfilled, with the metalsmith taking us to the edges of the mountains, to a vein of coal that lay within his territories.

I see it then, in the shimmering moonlight, the colors of the surface world burned away by the blinding heat. The visage of the bladesmith changes from that of a muscular caucasian man with grey hair to that of an african, the firelight flickering across his glistening skin, and I see he is more than this – more than these passing colors and personalities, more than the shape of his mortal form. He is MAKING itself, each strike of his hammer the spark of a new universe in a forge of endless time.

The realms of the Mythica unfold, and I see past the outer shape of the swordmaster, the skin of the surface world peeling away to reveal a robust African God, the master of forging and creation – Ogun.

The act of the forging was a thing of deep ritual. Old magic. Warrior magic. The place where metal meets blood and the Gifts and Challenges of it’s wielding.

He thanked me then, for bringing peace to their Home. Such was a deep compliment from a fierce King, and I bowed in response, taking my new-wrought blade with me.