For Scorpio, you, who grasp at the heart of mystery with celestial pincers, the heavens cast a shadow longer than the dread of unfathomable existence. The Moon, pale as the face of a forgotten cadaver, penetrates beyond the reaches of starlit infinity in your eighth house, giving birth to a sense of unease, a disquiet in your dreams, like that of crypt-dwellers stirring under a stygian moon. The scent of impending doom hovers near, a chilling perfume crafted from the mists of ancient beings.

Your planet, Pluto, is wreathed in the veil of unknowing, signifying the heavy pull of the shadow lands on your spirit. Encounters will feel spectral, ghostly remnants of what was or what may come, filling your psyche with an uncanny dread, the essence of old tales meant to curdle the blood in your veins. So readers of celestial bodies speak amid shuffling papers and whispers: Walk with caution, o’Scorpio, let your path be lit with the wisdom of past supernovae, trace your fate line with the fortitude of cosmic mariners, for the stars themselves murmur in tongues of turmoil and trepidation. Beware the veiled silhouette in your midheaven, as you navigate the ephemeral edge of the arcane, and the known.