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coinandcandle · 2 years

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The Morrigan Deity Guide

This is a re-do in the "deity deep dive" format of my original Morrigan post!

Who is The Morrigan?

The Morrigan is the ancient Irish Triple, or tripartite, of war and death, but she is also goddess of sovereignty, the land, and prophecy.

The name Morrigan, or Morrigu, is the anglicized version of the Gaelic name Mór-Ríoghain, which means "Great Queen" in modern Irish.

The old name has been linked to the proto-indo-european word Mór (terror) and Ríoghain could relate to the Latin word Regina (queen). (Wiktionary)

It’s debated whether she is one deity with three aspects or if these three aspects are sisters that create a triple goddess.

If they are sisters, their names are likely Macha, Nemain, and The Morrigan, their collective title being The Morrigu or The Morrigna. (The spelling of these will differ throughout your research if you choose to do your own after this post)

Their names could also be Macha, Nemain, and Badb, though the name “Badb” may have been a title for spirits/gods who wrought havoc on the battlefields and incited terror in the opposing side. (See “The Ancient Irish Goddess of War” in references for more info).

Other names involved with these sisters are Anand and Fea.

It’s not unlikely that The Morrigan’s identity would change between the many different groups in Ireland throughout time.

Parents and Siblings

Her mother is Ernmas, father is unknown.

Siblings have included Ériu, Banba, and Fódla, who make up the triple goddess of spirit and sovereignty of Ireland.

As well as Gnim, Coscar, Fiacha, and Ollom, as her brothers.

Lovers or Partners

The Dagda, with whom her relationship is of great importance for the Irish holiday Samhain.

In some iterations of her lore the Morrigan falls for Irish Hero Cú Chulainn but her feelings are not returned.

Children

Mechi, who has three hearts that each contain a serpent.

Epithets

The Goddess of Death

Morrígu

The Morrighan

The Great Queen

Phantom Queen

Badb-Catha

Nightmare Queen

The Washer at the Ford

Notes

Due to the many myths and legends surrounding The Morrigan and she is also associated with the Fae and the Banshee—a creature that generally takes on the form of an old woman who wails in mourning to announce the coming death of someone in the family.

The Morrigan is most notoriously a shape shifter and deity of magic.

In modern day paganism and witchcraft, some choose to worship The Morrigan as one deity with the sisters as aspects, others choose to worship her as a triple goddess consisting of three sisters. Neither of these can be said to be entirely right or wrong and vary from person to person, even from an academic point of view.

Though there are similar beings throughout Celtic mythology, The Morrigan is unique to Irish mythology.

Stories that prominently feature the Morrígan include Táin Bó Cúailgne (The Cattle Raid of Cooley), Cath Maige Tuired (The First and Second Battles of Moytura), and Lebor Gabála Érenn (The Book of the Taking of Ireland). (Mythopedia)

Fulacht na Mór Ríoghna (Cooking Pit of the Morrígan) in County Tipperary, and two hills in County Meath known as Da Cích na Morrígna (Two Breasts of the Morrígan) are both locations in Ireland linked to The Morrigan.

Modern Deity Work

Correspondences

Disclaimer - Many of these are not traditional or historic correspondences nor do they need to be. However, any correspondence that can be considered traditional will be marked with a (T).

Rocks/Stone/Crystals

Obsidian

Onyx

Silver

Carnelian

Deep green, black and red stones/crystals

Herbs/Plants

Dragon’s Blood

Apples

Nightshade

Roses

Cedar

Cloves

Mugwort

Belladonna

Juniper

Animals

Crow (T)

Eel (T)

Cow (T)

Horse (T)

Wolf (T)

Raven

Symbols

Triple spiral

Crow

Offerings

Blood (be careful with this please!!)

Wine or Mead

The stones and herbs listed above

Imagery of the animals or symbols listed above

Food that you’ve made or a portion of your meal

Jewelry

Art made of her or inspired by her

Coins

Honey

Dark chocolate

Candles and/or wax melts; incense

Meat

Milk

Note: If you’d like your offering to be a bit more traditional, try burying it or sending it down a stream, but only if it is safe for the environment if you do so!

Acts of Devotion

Exercise/Work out (especially if it's challenging!)

Activism

Read/write poetry for her

Research her

Celebrate Samhain

Take up a competitive sport or activity

Standing up for yourself

Keep in mind that these are only some ideas for offerings and correspondences! Items and activities that connect you to her in a more personal way are just as good, and often better, than those you find on the internet. As with any relationship, feel it out, ask questions, and be attentive and receptive!

References and Further Reading

The Morrigan - World History Encyclopedia

The Ancient Irish Goddess of War by WM Hennessey (via Sacred-Texts)

The Morrigan - Druidry.org

The Book of the Great Queen by Morpheus Ravenna

The Morrigan - Mythopedia (Mythopedia also has a bunch of references and further reading of their own that I suggest you look at if you’d like to do your own research!)

#the morrigan #deity deep dive #irish goddess #paganism #deity work #deity guide #witchcraft #grimoire #witchblr

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merymoonbeam · 9 months

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The Morrigan

In this post I'm gonna talk about how Mor is going to be the High Queen.

So let's start.

The Morrígan or Mórrígan, also known as Morrígu, is a figure from Irish mythology. The name is Mór-Ríoghain in Modern Irish, and it has been translated as "great queen" or "phantom queen".

her name already goes as phantom queen or great queen.

In myths it is talked about Morrigan is described as a trio of individuals, all sisters.

The Morrígan is often described as a trio of individuals, all sisters, called "the three Morrígna". In mythology membership of the triad is given as Badb, Macha, and the Morrigan, who may be named Anand It is believed that these were all names for the same goddess. In modern sources Nemain may also be named as one of the three Morrigan along with Badb, Macha, although her inclusion is unclear The three Morrígna are also named as sisters of the three land goddesses Ériu, Banba, and Fódla. The Morrígan is described as the envious wife of The Dagda and a shape-shifting goddess, while Badb and Nemain are said to be the wives of Neit. She is associated with the banshee of later folklore.

So I went to look at those names. Macha is what we are going to focus on.

Macha was a sovereignty goddess of ancient Ireland associated with the province of Ulster, particularly the sites of Navan Fort (Eamhain Mhacha) and Armagh (Ard Mhacha), which are named after her. Several figures called Macha appear in Irish mythology and folklore, all believed to derive from the same goddess. She is said to be one of three sisters known as 'the three Morrígna'. Like other sovereignty goddesses, Macha is associated with the land, fertility, kingship, war and horses.

Macha is connected with horses. So is Mor. In acofas. The bridge book between the og trilogy and the new books.

And as Mor galloped over the snowy hills, her mare, Ellia, a solid, warm weight beneath her, she remembered why. Early-morning mist hung between the bumps and hollows of the sprawling estate. Her estate. Athelwood. She’d bought it three hundred years ago for the quiet. Had kept it for the horses.

also side not Athel means : noble; nobleman, hero...her estate is called Athelwoold.

Another thing about Macha is that she is the only high queen of Ireland.

Macha Mong Ruad ("red hair"), daughter of Áed Rúad ("red fire" or "fire lord" – a name of the Dagda), was, according to medieval legend and historical tradition, the only queen in the List of High Kings of Ireland.

and lastly...King of Hybern's words.

She froze. Stopped a foot from the throne. Her knife clattered to the floor. The king rose. “What a mighty queen you are,” he breathed. And Mor backed away. Step by step. “What a prize,” the king said, that black gaze devouring her.

this post is dedicated to @seerelain ✨

#the morrigan #high but make it queen #fuck patriarchy #mor is the next barbie #Prythian OUT #Barbie land IN #acotar theories #acotar #high king #high queen #Mor

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dairedara · 1 year

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The Morrígan

“Thou hast no power against me," said Cúchulainn. "I have power indeed," said the woman; "it is at the guarding of thy death that I am; and I shall be," said she. The Cattle-Raid of Regamna, from the Yellow Book of Lecan

The Morrígan is depicted in the Irish cycles as a member of the Tuatha Dé Danann, the wife* of the Dagda, and a goddess ruling over the spheres of fate, death, war, and land. She is often associated with ravens, crows, and heifers, whose forms she takes.

Name & Epithets: Morrígan, Morrígu, Mórrígan (Middle Irish— “Great Queen”), Mór-Ríoghain (Modern Irish)

Role as a Goddess of War

The Morrígan is seen in the Cycles as bringing victory in war, or foretelling death in battle. In the Cath Mage Tuired, which describes how the Tuatha Dé Danann overthrew the tyrannical Fomorians, she proclaims the victory of the gods over their enemy and foretells the end of the world. In the Ulster Cycle, she is the sometimes-patron, sometimes-enemy of the hero Cúchulainn, whose death she prophesies after he offends her, and then reminded of his fate by taking the form of an old woman washing his bloodied clothes in a creek.

Role as a Sovereignty Goddess

Sovereignty goddesses in Irish tradition represent the land itself, and thus marriage to one creates a legitimate rule or guardianship over that land. In Early Medieval Ireland (and perhaps before), a king’s coronation would include a symbolic marriage to the land, thereby granting himself power and legitimacy. The Morrígan is one such sovereignty goddess, or at least perceived as one by the 12th Century, as the Book of Invasions names her the sister of Ériu, Banba, and Fódla, personifications of Ireland married to each of her three kings.

Role as a Triplicate Goddess

The Morrígan is inconsistently referred to as one of three or a combination of three figures. In the Mythological cycle, she is named as the sister of Badb (’crow’), a war goddess, and Macha, a land goddess. Together, they are called the three Morrígna. Macha is also the name of several other figures, and Badb appears barely distinguishable from the Morrígan. Whatever the case, the names appear less like the archetypal ‘Maiden, Mother, Crone’, and more like simply different aspects of the goddess given different titles, as is common in Irish religion.

*Marriage with the Dagda

The fact of her “marriage” with the Dagda is contentious but well-supported by the texts we have access to. One of her best-known stories from the Cath Mage Tuired is the Dagda’s pact with her before the battle against the Formorians. This part of the text is often mistranslated as the Dagda meeting her [for the first time] at a certain point in the year, when really a perhaps more accurate translation would be “On this day [near Samhain] the Dagda met her yearly.” Additionally, the “union” described between her and the Dagda does not appear to be purely sexual. The word used, ‘oentaith’ is difficult to translate but probably also refers to a general agreement/pact [dil.ie/33541], not unlike a modern marriage. Additionally, as a king of the Tuatha Dé Danann, a ceremonial marriage to a sovereignty and agricultural goddess such as the Morrígan would be appropriate for the Dagda and make sense to an early Irish audience.

My UPG with the Morrígan

Recommended reading + Sources

Cath Mage Tuired [Translation] [Original]

Book of Invasions

The Cattle-Raid of Regamna

#morrigan #na morrigna #the morrigan #gaelic polytheism #irish polytheism #morrigan goddess #paganblr #celtic reconstructionism #morrigan deity

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bakedbakermom · 7 months

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Stained

Chapter 6: Subterranean // start at the beginning

tagging @today-in-fic @ao3feed-msr

subterranean adjective 1. beneath the ground 2. hidden; secret --- Before she can move forward, Scully must first look back.

She is weightless light dancing through the clouds; she is a floating mote on an endless ocean; she is cradled in a bower of roots buried deep within the warm, dark earth. She is in all of these places, and nowhere, at once.

She is not alone; she is with a woman, or she is with three, or she is with every woman who has ever been or will be. The woman is barely more than a girl, rose-blooming and doe-eyed in the fullness of her youth; she is a mother, soft-eyed and soft-armed font of life; she is a crone, withered and stooped, the milky-eyed abyss. She is Scully’s mother, her sister, her daughter. She is all of these things in turns and at once.

Scully knows this with all the surety of a dreamer, who can hold wonder and nonsense in either hand and see no difference.

They touch her face with one hand, three, a thousand—spotted with age, plump with the last dreams of baby fat, roughened palms that smell of milk and bread. They stroke her cheek as a mother would, thumbing away the bright and shining tears spilling from her eyes. In their touch she feels peace, forgiveness, the promise of a place lush and quiet where she can lay down and let go.

“We see you,” they say in a chorus of voices, in one voice and in the silence beneath the world. “We see you both.”

Scully’s memories flash before her like a shuffling deck of cards, like a thumb rifling through a book. Laughing in a cemetery as rain pelted down around them. Drums and fire and a swinging axe, and his fingers brushing her hair away from her face. Superstars of the Superbowl. A hospital, a revolver, his hand trembling as the barrel moves toward her like a dark eye. The hallway with a sting in her neck and the barest brush of his lush bottom lip against hers before darkness closed in.

These and so many more, pouring through her like a torrent, like a firestorm, her soul laid bare before the Morrígna who watch with a loving and sorrowful gaze on their ever-shifting face.

And then a brick wall slamming into her, a locked box where her memories should be. The Morrígna frown, their hands patting the air or the water or the surface of the darkness. “You are incomplete,” they say, confusion in every voice, infinite brows knitting above infinite eyes. “What comes next must be faced with no lies, no secrets. The flame must be pure if it is to burn the darkness away.”

Scully wants to tell them no, wants to beg them to leave the lid and the locks and the chains where they are. She doesn’t want to see what’s inside.

But already she is falling, hands clawing toward the surface as she is sucked down into the darkness, and then—

Silver starlight trickled through the trees. The scent of wet grass hung in the air like a memory or a promise and the night breeze tasted of wilting flowers, the sweet and cloying lushness of decay. A hush lay over the cemetery, heavy and deep as six feet of damp earth.

A hush broken only by the sounds of an old and familiar argument.

“What the hell are we even doing out here Mulder?” Scully asked, though it was mostly rhetorical. She knew he wouldn’t really listen; he never did. She just needed to hear something more than the bone-dry whisper of the wind in the trees and the deep silence of the dead. “It’s two in the morning, the coffee ran out an hour ago, and neither of us has slept in two days. Can we just give it up for the night, go back to the motel, and get some sleep?”

“Not a chance, Scully,” he said from his perch atop a particularly massive gravestone. It was a family plot, with the earliest death dating back over two hundred years to the town’s founding; the most recent was only a few days ago, a boy named Edward Butters who was three months shy of his twentieth birthday. His mother and father’s names had already been inscribed, birth dates carved in stone but blank spaces where their deaths would someday go; how sad, she thought, for a parent to bury their child. She thought of her own daughter’s grave, just a few hours’ drive to the south, and wondered if she might find time to lay flowers on it before they left California.

Mulder spit a sunflower seed shell into the freshly turned earth, where funeral footprints were still clearly visible; the flowers beside the stone had barely begun to wilt. “Anyway,” he continued, oblivious to her train of thought, “we’re not hunting. We’re waiting. I have it on good authority that this young man is going to rise from his grave.”

“Mulder, your ‘good authority’ is a nineteen year old girl who thinks she’s a witch, that you met in a chatroom called Myth or Myth-staken: the Truth about the Supernatural World. I autopsied that boy myself; believe me when I say if he wasn’t dead when I started, he absolutely was by the time I finished.”

“See that’s the thing about this town—the dead don’t always stay that way.”

Scully dug her knuckles into her orbital sockets, fighting back a yawn and a migraine. The young man in the grave at her feet was just the latest in a string of what Mulder claimed were vampire slayings and she insisted were the work of a serial killer: a young man would be found dead and drained of blood, and then on the night of his funeral, his grave would be robbed and the body of his lover left in his place, covered in gray ash, her own heart clasped in her lifeless hands. What became of the men, no one was yet sure, but here they were on a stakeout—no pun intended—hoping to find out.

The cycle had repeated four times already, with the death of Edward Butters marking the beginning of the fifth. The males had all died in the same way: a cluster of puncture wounds to the neck—something the local coroner had listed as “neck rupture”—through which nearly all of their blood had been removed. Moderate amounts of blood had been found inside the victims’ mouths and stomachs, suggesting it had been ingested close to time of death. The blood matched the saliva found around the puncture wounds, but had not been connected to any suspects yet.

The female victims, on the other hand, had met a variety of more brutal ends. Scully shuddered, recalling the crime scene photographs and autopsy reports that Mulder’s little cadre of internet friends had sent, projected three feet tall on the screen back in their basement office as he enthused all over her about the potentiality of a vampire serial killer. All suffered various degrees of brutalization; two had broken arms, one a fractured collarbone. Bite marks had been found on all of them, but never in the same places: thigh, arm, torso, throat, breasts—all had been bitten in one or more of the victims, but always different patterns, different teeth impressions, often but not exclusively accompanied by clusters of deep punctures.

The saliva around the bite marks was a match to each woman’s partner, and their hearts had all been carved from their chests with the same blade, possibly while they were still alive.

Both Mulder and Scully agreed there had to be two killers working together, but that was where the agreement ended; Scully thought they had to be taking samples from the dead boys to use in the murder of the girlfriends, whereas Mulder thought the second killer in each case was the dead boy in question.

“And the dust found on the female victims?” she had asked.

“That’s what happens when a vampire is staked through the heart.”

Scully could only roll her eyes so hard before worrying they would fall right out of her head—no matter what her knowledge of anatomy might insist. “So your theory ,” she’d said, clenching her fists to keep from making sarcastic air quotes, “is that there is a vampire out there somewhere changing these young men—”

“Siring,” he corrected. “New vampires are ‘sired’ or ‘turned.’”

“Of course they are. So there is a vampire siring these men, siccing them on their own girlfriends, and then staking them when the deed is done?”

“See, Scully,” he’d said, grabbing their plane tickets off the desk and his jacket from its hook on the door, “it’s like we share a mind.”

Yeah , she thought, looking around the dark and silent cemetery, and I have custody of it six days a week . She kicked mud off her shoes and began to pace around the grave site, trying to work some blood into her chilled limbs. She had wanted to stay in the car, but the cemetery was so expansive that they hadn’t been able to park anywhere with a view of this particular grave. She longed for a fresh thermos of coffee, the blanket she had started packing for long nights like these, the trashy novel she’d picked up in the airport and had only barely gotten to start.

She stepped a few paces away, studying the names of Edward Butters’ neighbors. The headstones stretched in all directions, row after row, until they disappeared into the mist. So many graves for such a small town . And this was just one of dozens of graveyards nearby. A chill ran down her spine. “Mulder, shouldn’t guarding the grave of a potential vampire who could rise any minute be the responsibility of your precious Slayer and her friends? They’re the ones who called us in on this, after all.”

No response.

“Mulder?” she called, heart lurching painfully in her chest. Her hand moved to the holster at her back and she crept back toward the grave, crouching to keep her head below the level of the gravestones as best she could. She drew her gun as she came around the front of the large stone, hoping that she would startle him, hoping he would tease her for getting spooked, hoping they could share a laugh and then leave together.

But Mulder was nowhere to be seen.

Scully clutched her weapon tightly with one hand, reaching down to touch the damp soil with the other. The grave itself was still intact, but skid marks marred the mounded earth as if from a brief struggle, and then two deep lines from something being dragged. She eyed the woods in the distance, the open ground between here and there, wondering how a man of Mulder’s size could have been subdued and moved so quickly and quietly. I was only a few yards away.

She had no warning; one moment she was crouched on a fresh grave and the next she was on her back, head ringing like a gong. Her vision swam as she tried to aim her gun, but it was knocked from her hands. Something—no, some one— pressed their weight into her chest and she gasped for breath. A hand closed around her throat, impossibly strong, and though she thrashed and tried to roll her attacker, they cut off her air with ruthless efficiency; her vision turned black at the edges, her struggles weakened, and then the darkness came flooding in.

—

Pain. That was the first thing Scully knew when she came back to herself, a throbbing ache throughout her body and a bright, clear agony behind her eyes. The overwhelming waves of it almost pushed her out of consciousness again, but she forced herself to breathe, slowly, in and out, checking in with herself piece by piece. Her fingers and toes wiggled without tingling; nothing seemed broken or dislocated; and though she tasted blood in her mouth, and the pounding in the back of her head was a sure sign she had a concussion, she was surprised to find herself otherwise intact.

Unfortunately, she was also bound quite tightly, ankles together and wrists behind her back in what felt like metal shackles.

Experimentally, she cracked open one eye. Even the dim light speared like a hot needle into her brain, and the world swam; her stomach revolted violently, and she might have collapsed if she wasn’t already on the ground.

“Oh look, it’s waking up,” cooed a soft, feminine voice. “Look, foxy, it stirs.”

Scully fought through the pain and nausea and forced her eyes open again, glancing quickly around the dark, damp cavern before landing on the sickening tableau at its center.

A creature—there was no other word to describe it—held Mulder on his knees like a spider wrapped around a fly, its legs twined around him from behind and pinning him against itself. It was dressed in tatters of what might once have been a lovely dress, maybe even a bridal gown, but now the beads were dull and the fabric gray with age, stained with what could only be blood—both the bright red splashes of fresh and the brown, flaking remnants of old. It had one clawed hand clenched in his hair, holding him in place. Its other hand held both of his wrists behind his back.

Mulder’s shirt was dark and clinging to his chest; it took Scully a moment to realize it was soaked with his blood. The creature had punctured his neck and was lapping tenderly at the little fountain of crimson. Not punctured , Scully realized as its face caught the dim light from the candles scattered around the space. Bitten . The thing turned its yellow eyes to her, beneath a monstrous brow of bumps and ridges, and smiled, revealing teeth sharp and long and smeared with blood. Scully felt a deep chill settle into her very bones.

She was staring at a vampire.

Her limbs began to tremble, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The pounding in her head doubled and redoubled until bright colors exploded across her vision like fireworks. She felt herself slipping into hysteria.

Then Mulder moaned, a weak and tiny noise in the darkness. His eyes were open but rolling wildly inside his head. The sound hit her like a splash of cold water. It washed away the mindless terror, leaving her with a more familiar, focused kind of fear. Survive now, scream endlessly later , she told herself.

“Mulder!” she called, or tried to. Her voice was barely more than a painful rasp, and she wondered distantly if her larynx was bruised. “Mulder,” she tried again, clearer this time, “can you hear me?”

“Scully?” he finally answered, woozily. His swimming eyes focused on her for a brief moment before sliding away again. He sounded drunk, and his skin was so pale. How long had she been unconscious? How long had that thing been feeding on him?

“He’s a tasty little foxy,” the vampire mused, licking languidly from his collarbone to his ear, like a child with an enormous ice cream cone. It hummed in satisfaction as it swallowed. “I just couldn’t resist taking a little taste before the party. But don’t worry, there’s still plenty of fun to be had.”

Its laugh was the rattle of bones in the pit, the rustle of a coiling snake, the rasp of stone against a blade. Scully’s heart thundered in her chest, the pressure of it setting off more bursts of color in her vision. The claw in Mulder’s hair tightened, wrenching his head to one side until his neck strained nearly to the breaking point, exposing the long, golden line of his throat; the artery there throbbed beneath the skin, skittering with fear like a trapped animal. His eyes found hers again, wide and wild and pleading.

The vampire reared back like a cobra, then buried its fangs in his throat.

Blood gushed around its mouth, spilling in thick rivulets down Mulder’s shirt. His spine arched and he thrashed in its grip until she thought he would snap his neck, but the vampire didn’t seem to notice. Strange, primitive sounds of fear came from his mouth, a whimpering counterpoint to the vampire’s slurping moans of pleasure. It held him until his struggles weakened and he sagged in its grasp, his head rolling on his red-stained neck like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

All Scully could do was watch, straining against her cuffs until she bruised and bled against the edges of them, crying out his name in helpless fury as the light drained from his eyes.

When Mulder was limp and glassy-eyed, the vampire lifted its own wrist to its mouth and bit down; thick, black blood trickled from the wound. It held the blood out to him like a gift, and he turned away with a weak sound of protest. “Don’t be rude, little foxy,” it chided, pulling his head backwards and jamming a cruel finger into his mouth to pry open his lips. “Lettie’s got a treat for you.”

Blood dripped into his protesting mouth, and the thing that called itself Lettie pinched his nose shut until he was forced to swallow.

The vampire released him and he sagged bonelessly to the floor. He gave one last, weak cry of, “Scully,” and then lay horribly, finally still.

She screamed and struggled toward him as best she could with her arms and legs bound, inch by agonizing inch. The rough stone scraped skin off her cheek, her knuckles, her knees; it tore at her clothing, and somewhere along the way she lost a shoe.

“Poor little pet,” the vampire crooned, watching her struggle with a mocking pout. Its voice rubbed against the inside of her skin like sandpaper. “I know it hurts.”

She was just a few feet away from his body when Lettie stepped into her path and leaned down close to her, the sickly sweet scent of blood and death clinging to it like a perfume. She cringed away, but it didn’t attack; it simply grabbed her chin in its vice grip until she had no choice but to meet its glowing, golden eyes. “It’s going to hurt so, so much more when he wakes up.”

It let go, almost dismissively, and left the cavern in a swish of tattered cloth.

Finally Scully wriggled her way across the cold, damp stone to where her partner lay. “Mulder?” she said in a trembling voice. “Mulder, please. Wake up.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she nudged him with her hip. He didn’t move. She managed to sit up, then rested her head on his chest, praying to hear a heartbeat.

She was met with only silence.

Not one but TWO major character deaths in one fic!? Yes, I am a deeply terrible person. You're welcome. Picture me kicking my feet, blushing and twirling my hair as I read your comments.

#stained #my writing #my fanfic #crossover #txt #the x files #btvs #buffy the vampire slayer #fox mulder #dana scully #buffy summers #willow rosenberg #tara maclay #xander harris #rupert giles #spike btvs #anya jenkins

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toskarin · 1 year

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my favourite under-utilised irish figures are definitely the three morrígna (the variation on the morrígan where, instead of one figure, it's actually three different sisters)

like the morrígan herself is not under-utilised, but there's a lot of room for playfulness in the way that the morrígna exist

there's just something inherently cool about mythological figures having multiple regional names that get interpreted into separate-yet-connected entities

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mecthology · 10 months

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The Morrígan from Irish mythology.

The Morrígan encourages warriors to do brave deeds, strikes fear into their enemies, and is portrayed washing the bloodstained clothes of those fated to die. She is most frequently seen as a goddess of battle and war and has also been seen as a manifestation of the earth- and sovereignty-goddess, chiefly representing the goddess's role as guardian of the territory and its people.

The Morrígan is often described as a trio of individuals, all sisters, called "the three Morrígna". In mythology, membership of the triad is given as Badb, Macha, and the Morrigan, who may be named Anand. It is believed that these were all names for the same goddess.

However, the Morrígan can also appear alone, and her name is sometimes used interchangeably with Badb. The Morrígan is mainly associated with war and fate, and is often interpreted as a "war goddess". She is said to derive pleasure from mustered hosts. Her role often involves premonitions of a particular warrior's violent death, suggesting a link with the banshee of later folklore.

Her role was to not only be a symbol of imminent death but also to influence the outcome of war. Most often, she did this by appearing as a crow flying overhead and would either inspire fear or courage in the hearts of the warriors. There are also a few rare accounts where she would join in the battle itself as a warrior and show her favouritism in a more direct manner.

Follow @mecthology for more myths and lore.

DM for pic credit or removal.

Source: Wiki.

#mecthology #mythology #supernatural #wow #creepy #mitoloji #myth #legends #morrigan #irish #gaelic #war #death #goddess

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paracawsal · 1 month

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🙏🌞 for the pagan ask game :D

🙏 - Which pantheon(s) do you actively worship?

The Tuatha Dé Dannan, sometimes I work with other 'Celtic' deities and have on occasion been referred to/had to work with other deities like Bast and Eris for specific things.

🌞 - Which deity(ies) are you closest to/do you worship the most often?

The Morrígan. Deity (ies) is absolutely correct with Her - I work with her currently as Badb, Macha and An (The) Morrígan, and also as group -like multiple people in one (?) being- as Na Morrígna. And my understanding of Her/Them is constantly shifting, just as she does. Nemain used to be included in the three, but again, my understanding of them has changed. Currently, I work with The Morrigan in her singular form most frequently. Clear as mud, I know lol.

#pagan asks #aah thanks for the ask!

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x-starlight-mystic-x · 2 years

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Morrigan

The Morrígan or Mórrígan, also known as Morrígu, is a figure from Irish mythology. The name is Mór-Ríoghain in Modern Irish, and it has been translated as "great queen" or "phantom queen".

The Morrígan is mainly associated with war and fate, especially with foretelling doom, death or victory in battle. In this role she often appears as a crow, the badb. She incites warriors to battle and can help bring about victory over their enemies. The Morrígan encourages warriors to do brave deeds, strikes fear into their enemies, and is portrayed washing the bloodstained clothes of those fated to die. She is most frequently seen as a goddess of battle and war and has also been seen as a manifestation of the earth- and sovereignty-goddess, chiefly representing the goddess's role as guardian of the territory and its people.

The Morrígan is often described as a trio of individuals, all sisters, called "the three Morrígna". Membership of the triad varies; sometimes it is given as Badb, Macha and Nemain while elsewhere it is given as Badb, Macha and Anand (the latter is given as another name for the Morrígan). It is believed that these were all names for the same goddess. The three Morrígna are also named as sisters of the three land goddesses Ériu, Banba and Fódla. The Morrígan is described as the envious wife of The Dagda and a shape-shifting goddess, while Badb and Nemain are said to be the wives of Neit. She is associated with the banshee of later folklore.

#me #mine #my research #deities

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w-o-r-d-s--f-a-i-l · 3 years

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Badb (MUSE)

Sexual orientation: Lesbian

Gender: Cis Woman

Faceclaim: Rhea Ripley

Badb is one of three Irish war goddesses who make up an imposing trio of sisters known as The Three Morrígna. Badb is by far the most imposing of her sisters as well as the most brutal among them, known well for scaring off opposing troops sometimes before the battle even begins and is in many cases, attributed to be the goddess of brutality. She is also oftentimes seen as an omen of carnage, specifically when she visits in her crow form and releases a banshee-like battle cry. As a harbinger of doom, she takes up many forms, her favored being an ugly old woman and a crow, unassuming forms yet that that can instill fear deeply into the hearts of mortals. As a war goddess, she frequently participates in battles and takes great pleasure in slaughtering and striking fear into opponents who look her way.

She is quick to anger and prone to violence in contrast to her sisters, who while terrifying in their own rights are much less so than Badb. As cold and cruel as she can seem, she does have a soft spot for her friends and sisters who she will defend with everything she is. In modern times she is very active in the Riot Grrrl scene of Ireland and Northern Ireland and often attends riots to give her side favorable outcomes while fighting for causes she believes in. She’s loud and crass, frankly not giving a shit about how others see her.

#musies #muse: badb #badb #celtic mythology #badb Celtic mythology #irish mythology #the morrigan #the Morrígna #the three Morrígna #mythology rp #mythology

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morrigan-mortis · 5 years

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Morrighan is my mentor. I called out for her to help me fight my battles. For now, she is guiding me through my healing of a five-year-long chronic illness battle. Since accepting her and allowing her to show me the way through my dreams, I have been able to find the answers to my problems and slowly heal myself.

I owe her so much.

If she has helped you or you follow her [or her triple goddess form] please like this post so that I can follow you as well. I’d love to hear how she has come to you.

#the morrighan #morrigu #celtic deity #celtic relgion #ancient goddess #goddess #the three goddesses #triple goddess #the three Morrígna #Badb Macha and Nemain #badb #macha #nemain

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forfeda-project · 3 years

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NA MORRÍGNA

One of the most enigmatic characters in all of Irish literature is the Morrígan. Alternatively described as a goddess, a trio of goddesses, a collective of battle spirits, and even a gloss for the Greek Furies, the Morrígan was known as a prophetess and a shapeshifter, appearing frequently in the form of a scald-crow. When appearing as a trio of sisters, the three Morrígna are most commonly named as Morrígu, Badb, and Macha, although other names such as Fea, Anand, or Nemain are given in other sources. The name "Morrígan" itself may even have been seen as a title rather than a proper name, which was assumed by different figures at different times. One of the Morrígan's most notable appearances is in the Táin Bó Regamna (the Cattle-Raid of Regamna), a prequel story to the better known Táin Bó Cuailgne. In the tale, the hero Cú Chulainn has an encounter with a strange, red-haired woman, whose presence is preceded by a terrible cry from the North. The woman, driving a chariot with a one-legged horse and accompanied by a man and a cow, tells Cú Chulainn that she is a satirist, and gives him a cryptic poem before transforming - chariot and all - into a black bird on a branch. Now recognizing the woman as the Morrígan, Cú Chulainn says he would have handled things very differently, had he known it was her. In response, the Morrígan tells him that misfortune would have resulted either way. Cú Chulainn insists that she has no power over him, to which she replies "I have power indeed; it is at the the guarding of thy death that I am, and I shall be," fortelling of Cú Chulainn's tragic fate, and the role she would play in bringing it about.

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sonicskullsalt · 2 years

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Forget what I said about the witch from Hänsel und Gretel. I just looked up Morrigan on wikipedia:

The Morrígan or Mórrígan, also known as Morrígu, is a figure from Irish mythology. The name is Mór-Ríoghain in Modern Irish, and it has been translated as "great queen" or "phantom queen".

The Morrígan is mainly associated with war and fate, especially with foretelling doom, death, or victory in battle. In this role she often appears as a crow, the badb.[1] She incites warriors to battle and can help bring about victory over their enemies. The Morrígan encourages warriors to do brave deeds, strikes fear into their enemies, and is portrayed washing the bloodstained clothes of those fated to die.[2][3] She is most frequently seen as a goddess of battle and war and has also been seen as a manifestation of the earth- and sovereignty-goddess,[4][5] chiefly representing the goddess's role as guardian of the territory and its people.[6][7]

The Morrígan is often described as a trio of individuals, all sisters, called "the three Morrígna".[4][8][9] Membership of the triad varies; sometimes it is given as Badb, Macha, and Nemain[10] while elsewhere it is given as Badb, Macha, and Anand (the latter is given as another name for the Morrígan).[11] It is believed that these were all names for the same goddess.[4][12] The three Morrígna are also named as sisters of the three land goddesses Ériu, Banba, and Fódla. The Morrígan is described as the envious wife of The Dagda and a shape-shifting goddess,[13] while Badb and Nemain are said to be the wives of Neit.[4] She is associated with the banshee of later folklore.[4]

#critical role #cr spoilers #c3e17 #bell's hells #fearne calloway

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bakedbakermom · 7 months

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Stained

Chapter 5: Sacrifice // start at the beginning

tagging @today-in-fic @ao3feed-msr

sacrifice verb 1. to give up for a greater cause 2. to kill in order to propitiate a deity -- So that something dead may be reborn into life.

They performed the ritual, fittingly, in an abandoned graveyard chapel, a crumbling holy place among the dead where weather-worn angels watched the proceedings with their eternally weeping eyes. Willow and Tara placed braziers at the compass points and filled them with herbs of cleansing and banishment; their smoke wafted out through the holes where the ceiling had fallen in, vanishing quickly in the moonless sky. Scully winced when they drew a chalk pentacle on the floor around the altar; she felt an involuntary twinge of sympathy for the nuns of her childhood, for how deeply scandalized they would have been to see this casual blasphemy, to witness her being a part of it.

They chanted as they worked, a lilting song in many languages, somewhere between summoning, a plea, and a lullaby. Scully recognized enough from church hymns in Latin and Greek to understand the refrains, “Mothers have mercy,” and “grant us your peace,” but the rest swirled around her in a blur. The air thickened with the weight of their words, growing hazy and shimmering like a heat mirage.

“The idea,” Giles had explained the night before, “is to summon the spirits of three holy women. The spell calls them saints, and invokes some early Christian iconography, but it’s more likely that these are some of the more ancient female spirits of great power that appeared in pre-Roman pagan rites of the area.”

“Christmas trees, birthdays, female empowerment spirits—is there anything those guys didn’t steal?” Anya grumbled, rummaging through the drawers in the magic shop for herbs. She had built a pile of dried and fresh greenery on the table, and the air smelled like a mix of hospital and florist: sweet and earthy, but with the tingling, medicinal promise of healing. She passed each bundle to Xander, who bound them with braids of white ribbons.

“The spell sometimes refers to them as one, sometimes as three,” Giles continued, undeterred by the interruption. “If I’m right, and I usually am, we’re to invoke the aspects of the Morrígna, a triple goddess of the Tuatha Dé representing birth, life, and death.”

Mulder nodded. “So that something dead may be reborn into life.” He sat next to Scully, looking over the pages that Giles had translated into English while she had been cajoling a rather austere nun named Mary Clarence into surrendering nearly a gallon of holy water—and also conspiring with the slayer. He bumped her knee with his and gave her a reassuring smile. “Presto, change-o, I’ll be a real boy again.”

“Precisely. We sanctify the air with herbs and summon the spirit in her three forms with an appropriate sacrifice: Buffy’s blood for the birth aspect, as she is the protector of the innocent; a heart burning with flame, for the life aspect—”

“Almost done with that, by the way,” said Tara, who was mixing a foul-smelling and brilliantly green potion in a cauldron the size of a sugar bowl. She handled it with the reverence usually afforded to grenades and precious relics; in a way, it was both. “Just need some gold flakes and ground rat-snake scales.”

“Top shelf, third drawer over, and then the scales should be in the teeny jar next to the chicken feet,” Willow said as she breezed through the door, carrying a small bundle wrapped in butcher paper. Her pale skin had a slight greenish cast, and there was a speck of blood on her sleeve, but she looked otherwise fine as she stopped to kiss Tara on the cheek before stepping into the back room, to place a stolen human heart in the fridge as casually as if she had just picked up milk at the corner store. Scully made a mental note to never, ever get on the witch’s bad side.

“Right, yes, and then of course, for the death aspect, the dust of the vampire who sired you.”

“You’re welcome for that, you know,” said Spike, who watched the preparations from the corner with a carefully manicured disinterest. “Hate going down to that part of the underground. Even the creepers get the creeps down there.”

“Yes, Spike, thank you again for enduring the terrifying ordeal of taking a walk and wielding a dustpan.” Buffy rolled her eyes and picked up the jar he had returned with, turning it this way and that in the light. The matte gray dust inside shifted sluggishly, almost grudgingly, as if it was too dead to even bother obeying the laws of gravity. “Perhaps you’d like to be next in line for canning? I’m sure there’s a dingy shelf somewhere where we could forget about you until you started growing mold.”

Spike shoved away from the wall and stalked toward the door. “Oh do piss off. Forgive a guy for doing you a favor.” He stopped to put a hand on Scully’s shoulder. “Best of luck, Red.”

He leaned down to whisper something in Mulder’s ear, then vanished into the night. Scully lifted an eyebrow at him, but Mulder only smiled and shook his head.

Now Scully turned to him, studying his profile as he watched the two witches painting a great looping symbol in the center of the pentagram. With no moon in the sky, the only light in the space came from the circle of candles on the floor; it flickered over his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, the edges of his brow and chin. He saw her staring and cocked his head in silent question.

“Just wondering what Spike said to you last night.”

He reached down and took her hand, twining their fingers together and then pressing a soft kiss against her skin. He gave a gentle pull and she moved into him, smooth as a dance, and he tucked a loose strand of crimson hair behind her ear; his fingers lingered on the smooth curve of her jaw. “He told me… He told me to be worthy of you.” He huffed a small laugh and glanced away; if he’d been alive, he would have been blushing. “Underneath all that leather and sneering, he’s kind of a sentimental guy.”

Scully smiled at him through the tears stinging her eyes. After going over the plan a half dozen times at the Magic Box, they had returned to the motel and abandoned all pretense of separate rooms; neither of them spoke as she curled up beside him in the small, rumpled bed. She had watched him for hours as he slept—with no pulse and no breath, he might have been carved from stone, and she studied him like a piece of fine art, committing each detail to memory.

She spent the day in his arms. She spent the day saying goodbye.

She arched up onto her toes and he met her halfway, touching their foreheads together. “You are worthy,” she told him, the words twisting like a knife in her heart. “You always were.”

“Scully, I—”

“Guys?” Buffy called, gently, from inside the circle. “It’s time.”

“After,” she whispered, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. She had to swallow past the lump in her throat to get the word out. “Tell me after.” Because if you tell me now, I’ll never be able to go through with it.

Hand in hand, they stepped into the circle.

Willow closed it behind them, touching her fingertip with the blade of a knife and letting a single drop fall onto the chalk line; immediately it began to glow with a gentle, pulsing light, white and cold and pure as the stars. A chime rang through the air. The flames in the candles dropped low, as if the air had been pulled from the space, and then began to pulse in time to the rhythm of the summoning song.

Only Mulder, Scully, and Buffy stood inside the ring of candles and starlight. The others paced outside, continuing the lyrical chant. Their voices came through muffled and distorted, the words blurring into a hum; the rippling in the air took on the same cadence as the chant, and Scully realized with a start that she could feel it in her chest. It beat alongside her heart.

Mulder pulled off his shirt and stood before the altar; he had already been anointed with holy water, leaving looping symbols burned into the flesh of his torso like he had done a poor job applying sunscreen. Scully had painted them on herself, carefully following the illustrations from the journal, as Mulder had ground his teeth and bitten back his moans of pain. His back arched off the table, tendons bulging in his neck, the wood beneath his hands screeching like a living thing as he gripped the table’s edges. She apologized with her eyes and her hands with each stroke, smoothing his hair and squeezing his hand when the pain became overwhelming. “Keep going,” he would hiss between clenched teeth, over and over, until his stomach and chest and the tops of his arms were red and raw with whorls and loops and symbols in a language all but lost to time.

He dipped his finger in the jar of his sire’s ashes and traced them over the symbols on his stomach, hands steady despite the revulsion twisting his face. “Badb, crow and crone,” Mulder intoned, using the words Willow and Giles had taught him. “Red-mouthed, white-eyed, accept my offering: dust beyond death, end of the endless.”

The thrum in the circle quickened, and she felt it in the soles of her feet like the footsteps of some great beast—distant, unseen, but approaching steadily. It rumbled through her ribs, her heart speeding to match its tempo. She glanced around; no one else seemed affected by it, and she swallowed hard to center herself. She felt the magic brushing against her skin, circling her like a curious cat. She willed herself to relax, to open up to it. I’m here, she told it. I’m ready.

Mulder picked up the ritual knife from the altar; it gleamed in the strange light like an oil slick. Buffy held out her arm and he cut her just where Scully had told him to, the thickest part of her forearm, where it would bleed well but heal quickly. “But in the movies they always cut their palms,” Buffy had protested, but Scully told her that was half dramatic effect and half for the easy concealment of a packet of fake blood.

“Macha, maiden of the flood,” he chanted, “daughter of the waters clear and new, accept my offering: the blood of the protector, she who keeps the innocent from harm.”

He traced Buffy’s blood over the marks on his shoulders and upper arms, as if drawing armor over himself. The pulse beneath Scully’s feet and in her chest ramped up again, and she couldn’t tell if it was her frantic heart driving the beat or the spell pushing her heart into overdrive. She could hardly hear over the rush of it, hardly breathe past its thundering beneath her sternum. Light from the circle began to bleed into her skin, pulsing in time, as if the moon had left the sky to throb beneath her skin.

She reached for the heart Willow had harvested, lying in a bowl of green potion flickering with emerald flame. She half expected it to lurch to life in her hands, to be caught in the same roaring storm of magic rattling her own heart inside her body like a caged animal desperate to escape. But it just lay there, because it was not this heart the magic required.

Buffy was already binding the wound on her arm, and gave Scully the barest of nods. She moved closer in slow and deliberate steps, smooth and silent as a jungle cat.

Scully tried to still her trembling as she held the heart before Mulder’s blade.

“And to Danu, mother of mothers, the great and phantom queen.” He lifted the knife with both hands, casting rainbows of throbbing light through the circle. The chanting outside reached a fever pitch. “I offer you a heart burning with flame. May the life inside it pass into me, may its flame banish the darkness inside my heart, may I be restored and reborn to myself.”

His blade flashed toward the heart, and time slowed to a crawl; Scully saw everything unfolding in slow motion, helpless to stop it, unwilling to even try.

Buffy stepped fluidly between them, her hands wrapping around Mulder’s with an inescapable strength. The confusion in his eyes morphed into horrified understanding as she twisted, redirecting the arc of the knife.

This was the part of the ritual none of them had understood, the meaning behind the burning heart—drawn on yellowed pages by the hand of a man long dead, the tear mark smudging its edge speaking volumes untold by the texts itself. Had it been his wife, husband, lover? Whose heart had he inked there, wreathed in the flames that had transformed him back into a living man, only to find that he had no one left to share that life with? She hoped, whoever it was, they had gone willingly to the knife, as she did; she hoped the flame in their heart had burned brightly enough to outshine the fear.

The light in her skin leapt toward the blade like a strand of lightning, pulsing down the length of it, up his arms, and then spiraling through the symbols toward the center of his chest. For just a few panicked beats of her galloping heart she felt his pulsing alongside hers, beating in both bodies and in the light that bound them.

Mulder tried to wrench the blade away, but Buffy had both Slayer strength and the cruel, implacable mistress of momentum on her side. He caught Scully’s eye at the last moment, pleading and terrified. She tried to tell him I’m sorry . She tried to say Forgive me . She tried to beg him to live, to carry on, to take this sacrifice she was giving him and make something true and beautiful out of it. She tried to say those last three words they had never spoken. The tears that fell from her eyes glowed like pearls.

And then the Slayer slammed the knife into her chest.

A/N: Not me cackling as I write this, torturing characters and readers alike. Don't get discouraged; we're only halfway there!

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