Welcome to Arcadia Sex, Magik and Religion The Collected Articles on Sex Religion and Magik by Morgan Hawke Arcadia is the home of Pan. Sex was once sacred - the celebration of life - to the Neolithic and later Celtic peoples. Sex was the first holy ritual, where orgasm brought you to Heaven and Death was the only thing that would bring you closer. "When a well-packaged web of lies has been sold gradually to the masses over generations, the truth will seem utterly preposterous and its speaker a raving lunatic." - Dresden James - The dying sun’s edge touched the rim of the world. From the top of the Sacred Mount the myriad sorrowful ululating voices of the priestess called out to him. It was time. The virile young man strode powerfully and purposefully, his naked muscles rippling. Confidently he processed up the sacred mount to the cave opening in the hillside. A crown of stag’s antlers graced his clear brow, taming his long golden hair. Torchlight glistened and reflected on his freshly oiled skin. His belly and heart glowed with warmth from the King’s Mead. Fully hard and rampant, he throbbed to serve the Great Goddess. The maiden's muscular arms with their white scars from knife and sword practice are bare. The sleek snowy horsehair of her cloak shimmers in the light of the dying sun and under the torches set at the top of the path where she waits. The velvety suede underside of her cloak brushes against her flushed skin. Beneath her cloak, she wears nothing but the red flags of her budding womanhood streaking her thighs. Drums thunder from the woods. It is time. She runs, fleet as a mare, her long unbound mane flying out behind her in the wind. Joy and terror both course through her blood. Down the winding path into the forest to the Magic House where the ritual will be performed, she runs. Somewhere in modern Japan... She is terrified. Her wide lavender eyes are dilated to impossible blackness. Her full, cherry lips part on a scream that refuses to emerge. Her bosom heaves with her panting, panicked breaths. Her full, firm breasts strain against the buttons, threatening to burst from her short-sleeved, white school-uniform blouse. She takes a single step down the stairs, her shoe tapping lightly on the linoleum. Her pleated skirt flips, showing a long line of thigh. She pauses, biting her lower lip and a single tear streaks down her cheek. A delicate hand swipes away the tear then tucks a flowing lock of her impossibly long, lilac-colored hair behind her ear. She stops her descent, frozen halfway down the dark stairwell. She can just make out the outline of the steel school doors to the basement gymnasium. The dark windows on the double doors seem like eyes closed in sleep; waiting for her to awaken them.

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