@txliabites
August had put some distance between himself and the main festivities, there was a method of observing the sabbat that his book of ceremonies had brought forward, and while August had his own rites in Imbolc, there was more he could to turn the wheel than baking traditional foods and singing the praise of the coming spring. The darkness of winter would fall, and August had prepared a sacrifice to insure that, for him, the spring would continue to provide.
It was not for any coven or aspiration outside of his own, but truthfully, he cared little if he was discovered now. The book of ceremonies whispered to him now, calling on his perceptions of magic as he chanted about a runic circle, at the center lay an empty alter as he looked to the woods, waiting for the sacrifice to appear. A test of his commitment. Slowly, a white figure could be seen moving through the wood, a lamb, lost in the forest. From the book of ceremonies he whispered in an old tongue, an incantation drawn of falling rocks and empty air. Like the hush of a serpent as it withdrew, ready to strike. He whispered, come hither, little one.
He smiled as he felt the approach of another, August wondered if fate had led her to happen upon him now. He could be relieved, at least it was not a witch. From the dark, his hazel eyes glinted in Talia’s direction as he attempted perceive her figure through the shadows of the night. “Have you not heard? You should never interrupt a witch during ceremony.”