All parts of the Master are sweet and good.
Rituals are messy events, and the old-time Sabbat—that Grand Master of rituals—preeminently so.
So the morning after, the priestess goes down to the grove to wash off the altar.
Really, you might as well put up a sign: The God of the Witches Sat Here. In the center of the altar, two shapely white ovoids. Directly in front of them, two more, but smaller, and red.
Around these, coursed down from his body, a wash of red: liquid ocher, though it still looks like blood.
Welcome to the rite that remakes (in small) the People, and (in large) the World.
The priestess smiles. Here before her, imprinted on the altar-top, is written (for those who have eyes to see) the entire rite in microcosm, perhaps the entire Craft.
A surprising amount of witchery comes down to clean-up. Lovingly, she begins to lave away the signs of the night before.