Very soon the Moon is fully risen and the shafts of silver cover her body and radiate around her.
She cries out, in the ancient tongue of the Lands of Lirian, that she is ready to greet her Goddess, whose name she summons by the name she knows, and it rings around her thrice, like the secret chiming of bells. The air is still and expectant.
She slowly stands and takes the cup, this sacred chalice, now filled with water, later wine, and walks around the little room sprinkling as she goes.
A soft, melodious chant is rising, rising from her as she quickens her pace, deosil, deosil, leaving trails of moonlight glowing in a circle all around her.
She feels the force field, an almost imperceptible swishing that grows to a hum.
When it is constant she stops, moves back to her table, proclaiming it altar.
