Rouns of Draiocht – Announcement

It is with great pleasure that, I am announcing a new phase in Druwydry, gifted to our Tradition from a long-surviving, aural magick tradition which is still being practised by a few extended pagan families within certain rural locals of the British Isles, areas where the original inhabitants —now termed Celts but originally termed Britons by the Romans — were forced into hiding or exile during the Roman invasion of Britain circa 43 AD.

We now give you a black book comprised of old ways and nouveau practices. Not constructed from the late 20th century “re-constructionist witchcraft and druidry”, but instead a genuine pagan grimoire.

You can get a sneak peak of it here (Download), but the full copy can only be found in the physical book. Which you can purchase from the link below.

Purchase the full version HERE!!

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The Reflected Revealed – One Ritual of Shamanic and Necromantic Channeling

Find a location where the bones of an animal have been buried and arrange several medium-sized stones in a henge to resemble the symbol of the A:O. Once night has fallen, place two candles on the left and right side of the A:O symbol, using lanterns to protect the candles from the wind if necessary.

Beginning at the top of the symbol, walk widdershins around the stones while using the shaker, ensuring the rhythm of the shaking is akin to a heartbeat. One rotation translates to one reverse revolution of the Earth around the Sun, so walk around the stones until the number of revolutions reaches the year in which the animal perished. If you do not possess that knowledge, cease when it feels right, ending where you began.

Walk through the centre of the stones, turn around and kneel in front of the bottom of the A:O symbol. Focus on the area where the bones are situated and visualise the essence outline of the animal rising from its resting place, its luminescent colour corresponding to the emotion it felt at the moment of its passing. Allow yourself to become a nexion for the spirit of the animal: roar, scream, yelp, whimper. Be honest about what you feel from the animal and channel it into wondrous expression, permitting it to change you, shift you, into the animal.

Before long, exhaustion will take root. You will collapse to the floor and be presented with the option to close your eyes and engage the visions that come, or enjoy the chthonic emptiness of the night sky above.

Addendum: Crafting the Shaker

For the construction of the shaker the following ingredients and equipment are required: 1 fabric pouch, 2 small glass vials (with corks), 3 small pieces of quartz, seeds, blood-infused salt or soil and several tiny stones.

Begin by filling the pouch with some salt. Add the tiny stones to the glass vials, fill them a quarter of the way, seal them, and then add them – plus the rest of the ingredients – to the pouch. Make sure the contents of the pouch have enough room to clash, lest an underwhelming sound be generated upon shaking.

Penultimately, fasten several bone fragments to a length of string and tie it around the pouch about an inch below the top, proceeding to seal the top of the pouch with hot wax. Lastly, attach the sigil or symbol relevant to the working(s) that the shaker will be used for by drawing the sigil/symbol on a small piece of parchment and sealing it against the pouch with hot wax.

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Redemption by Moonlight – Guest Article by Theodore R.

A sweltering summer evening was taking its toll on a middle-aged writer as he conducted his craft. Having been a member of various occult organisations, he had obtained connections and paranatural abilities that allowed him to lead a relatively comfortable life; that was until the local liberal council realised that his area was a little too affluent and decided to relocate voluntarily unemployed benefit dependents of a foul nature in an attempt to commit reverse gentrification.

The well-mannered and hardworking residents on Christopher’s street were suddenly surrounded by families of a significantly lower breed of person. What was once a quiet, friendly street had turned into a volatile and vulgar space within days: beer cans littered on the floor; the smell of marijuana from open windows at lunch time; and excessive shouting, indicative of inherited poor parenting, echoed through the street at all hours.

Christopher stood up from his chair to open a window. Within seconds, the vulgar tone and culturally-appropriated ebonic vocabulary of one of the families next door could be heard.

“Goodness me. What a vile lot”, he thought to himself. “They should have never made thrashing illegal in schools… and…”

The landline rang, interrupting his escalation. He picked up the phone to be greeted by the gentle tones of Mrs Henderson.

“Hello? Hello, dear? Have you heard the noise again?”

Mrs Henderson was a 70 year-old grandmother who had sadly been widowed, and then forgotten by her daughter. The sweet old lady would often call Christopher when she had a problem that she couldn’t resolve.

“Yes, I have. It’s very hard not to. Is it upsetting you?”, he replied.

“It’s not pleasant but I grew up with several brothers. What is frightening me though is those boys from number 41—always throwing things in my garden and ruining my flowers they are. Do you think I should say something next time?”

Without thinking Christopher responded.

“Definitely. They’re just kids at the end of the day. I’m sure if you put your foot down they’ll stop.”

“But what if they get violent with me? I’ve seen those stories on the news about that sort of thing, you know. I couldn’t possibly defend myself if it came to that.

Christopher’s inflated bravado made itself known as he confidently and unrealistically stated that he would always be around if she needed help. This reassured Mrs Henderson because Christopher was a fairly well built and tall man in his 50s.

The two talked about the socio-political climate in England before bidding each other good-day and returning to their respective lives.

For the remainder of the night, Christopher worked his Remington typewriter to its full mechanical potential in an effort to complete his latest manuscript on the importance of synergy in magickal praxis.

The next morning, as Christopher was leaving his area to attend a lecture at the university in the city, several police cars were parked at the side of the road. This was normal, an everyday occurrence on Conrad Drive since the riffraff moved in. The house that was always having guests coming and going at all hours of the night had once again been raided and its occupants arrested.

“Morning, constable”, Christopher said to one of the florescent praetorians as he passed by.

The constable nodded and responded in kind.

After a day of lecturing young and rightfully exhausted minds on Scythian culture, Christopher met up with an old friend for a pint at a nearby public house.

“Afternoon. A pint of Guinness and a…John Smiths, please”, Christopher requested after squinting at the fading chalk on the blackboard above the bar.

“Coming right up, mate”, the young barman responded.

Christopher watched as the stout began to fill the embossed glass, and then again as the bitter reached the rim of the second glass.

“There you are. Four-seventy, please.”

Christopher handed over the change and made his way back to the oak-wood table where his friend Rupert was sitting.

“Here we are, Rupert.”

“Ah, cracking! I’ve been waiting all day for one of these”, Rupert revealed, wasting no time in taking a sip from the cold beverage.

Christopher took a sip also.

“What’s new with you then?”

“Nothing much, old boy; keeping the wife and little terrors happy, honing my serve—you know how it is.”

“Is retirement really that boring?”
Rupert slapped his head. “Good god, yes. There’s nothing to do except lounge about, and you know that’s never been my idea of fun.”

“I’m glad I’m still employed in that case. Although I imagine it’s nice having time to think about that which would otherwise pass by our thoughts.”

“Are you being philosophical again, Chris?”

“Possibly. Don’t you ever think about how and why things are the way they are?”

“Of course I do, but I don’t give too much thought to the things I can’t change, even if I loathe them.”

“But you can change them, Rupert. You can change them through intention and frenzy.”

Rupert sighed and shook his head. “You know I’ve never believed in that magical nonsense of yours, but for some reason you always find a way to work it into almost every conversation we have and try to convert my thinking.”

“Well, because it works”, Christopher whispered in a sinister yet whimsical tone.

After wiping a tear of hilarity from his eye. Rupert spoke once more.

“Anyway. Regardless of if it works or not, there is no substitute for rolling your sleeves up and wrapping your hands around the neck of the problem.”

“I think we may have found common ground after all these years, my friend”, Christopher uttered before finishing the foamy dregs of his pint.

Christopher said farewell after two more pints and started to walk home. He looked at his watch.

“Damn. 9pm already? Where did the time go?”

As he walked onto his street he could see the teenagers from number 41 being belligerent outside Mrs Henderson’s house and decided to walk over. The hoodies stopped what they were doing and fronted Christopher.

“Fack off, grandad, yeah!”, one of the boys shouted.

“Go home and leave Mrs Henderson alone. You’re frightening her”, Christopher said calmly.

“It’s a free country, bruv. Why should we?”, one of the other boys retorted.

Christopher could sense the growing volatility and decided to try and intimidate them in customary passive adult fashion.

“I won’t tell you again. Go home or you’ll be in big trouble.”

The spawns of “Thatcher’s Britain” laughed, cursing him but nevertheless moving away from Mrs Henderson’s house. Christopher turned around and continued to walk towards his house.

“See? All it takes is a little confidence and–”

Before he could finish the sentence in his head a sudden pain occurred at the back of his head. Christopher clutched the affected area as blood poured through his fingers. He had been “glassed”. A second bottle smashed on his head, cutting the fingers he was using to protect his head wound. He fell to the floor, making out blurry shapes and fading voices as they surrounded him and closed in.

“Whatcha’ gunna’ do now, dickhead?!”

“You just got fucked up; ya’ get me blud!”

Suddenly, an old and familiar voiced emerged amidst the obscenities.

“Pack that in, you horrible lot! Go home to your parents and leave that poor man alone! I’ve called the police so you better listen to me.”

It was Mrs Henderson. She had called the police after seeing the boys follow Christopher and left her house to confront them. Flashing blue lights illuminated houses around the corner and sirens filled the air.

“Shit. Fuckin’ do one”, one of the boys shouted. “We’ll hide out at mine. My dad’ll vouch for us, trust.”

“Ya’ better watch out, granny. Just watch!”

The police arrived on the scene and began questioning Mrs Henderson while an ambulance was called for Christopher and he was taken to the emergency room.

“Would you mind coming with me to the house where you said the suspects lived?”, the eldest constable requested of Mrs Henderson.

Mrs Henderson nodded. They marched over to number 41 and the constable pounded on the door. A short and skinny man with bloodshot eyes answered.

“Yeah, what can I do for ya’?”

“Sorry to bother you, sir but we have a witness that puts your boys at the scene of a crime.”

The boys started to peak through the curtains.

“That’s them! That’s them right there!”, Mrs Henderson erupted, pointing at them.

“W—what? That’s bullshit. My boys wunt do nuffin’ like that!”

The constable frowned. “Well I still have to question them. May I come in?”

The man shrugged. “Yeah…course, course, yeah.”

Mrs Henderson returned to her residence and waited for an update. Twenty minutes had passed before the police knocked on her door.

“We’ve spoken to the boys and unfortunately we have no further evidence to act on until Mr Hawcroft tells his side of the story.”

The colour drained from Mrs Henderson’s cheeks while constable continued.

“At this stage it’s your word against theirs, and of course we have the original witness phone report which will help if the case goes to court. We will be continuing our investigation after we speak with Mr Hawcroft, and should his story match yours we will be pressing charges.”

“What if they come back when you’ve gone?”, she uttered quietly.

“We’ll park across the street and watch your house for a while. They won’t try anything while we’re here.”

The constables left the home of Mrs Henderson and returned to their car where they observed the street for the next hour. Mrs Henderson retired to bed and quickly fell asleep due to exhaustion. The night – at least for now – was quiet.

A month after the incident, a letter arrived in Mrs Henderson’s post. It was from the local constabulary. She sat down and prepared herself before opening it. Reading each line with confidence that justice would be delivered. But when she reached the penultimate line she started to cry.

“Unfortunately, it is not in the community’s best interest to prosecute. We are sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused and would like to refer you to our victim helpline which can be reached on…”

Mrs Henderson screwed up the letter and tossed it in the bin, cursing the justice system in the process. She then peaked out of the window and saw the boys from number 41 outside her house again. They boys noticed and began taunting her.

“See? The feds don’t give a shit ‘bout you or your boyfriend!”

They continued on in a similar manner until the emotional abuse came to an end with the sending of a brick through Mrs Henderson’s window. She was petrified and alone, not knowing the limitations of her oppressors. The only thing she could bring her shaking body to do at that moment was huddle in a corner.

Christopher was released from the hospital the next morning. The police never did show to interview him. The case was passed from constable to constable and inevitably communication broke down.

The hospital was quite a distance from Christopher’s home but he decided to walk the distance regardless, picking up some Turkish Delight for Mrs Henderson along the way. He made his way cheerfully through the streets and reached Conrad Drive, where he spotted an ambulance and a police car parked outside Mrs Henderson’s residence. Fearing the worst, he broke into a jog which quickly upgraded to a sprint, only to be held back by two constables upon reaching the front gate of the house.

“What’s happened?! W—w—what’s going on?! Someone tell me right now!”, he screamed at the top of his loud but trembling voice.

Before long, his questions were answered via the cruelty of observation. Christopher trembled as two medical technicians carried out a figure cloaked in a white sheet. The Detective Inspector investigating the scene followed them out and approached Christopher, noticing his anguish.

“D.I. Harper. I’m sorry. I know its clear as day on your face but I have to ask: did you know the deceased?”

Christopher answered the Detective Inspector’s question and told her everything that had happened between them and the teenagers from number 41. D.I. Harper grew increasingly frustrated upon hearing about the events that led up to the tragic death of Mrs Henderson. He assured Christopher that he would personally pursue the case and find a way to prove that the boys were responsible. However, Christopher had lost faith in the system after hearing Mrs Henderson continuously assure him that the police would interview him about what happened, but of course, they never did a follow up. D.I. Harper’s words were nothing more than procedure in Christopher’s eyes, despite them being genuine and “from the heart”, as they say. He had already decided that he would place a death hex on the boys when he returned home, and he did just that.

Days and nights passed without the hex showing any proof that it was working. But during this period, an Acausal Object (AO) was attracted to the hate and violent thoughts Christopher was having at the time. The AO began haunting him as a test, but he didn’t care. He displayed no fear and didn’t attempt to rationalise the irrational. This showed the AO that he had already begun his “crossing of the abyss”; and so it provided him with the ancient linguistic tools to understand it, revealing its name forthwith: Noctulius.

Many suns set and rose as Noctulian gnosis was channeled into Christopher; and then, one fateful night saw him become. Christopher was so consumed by hate that he had forgotten the reason behind it; that is until – by the opening of a window – he was reminded.

The disembodied voice of Noctulius growled in his ear.

“Remember what your bitter friend said—remember well, Acolyte.”

Christopher hurried to his bathroom and approached the mirror, leaning into it, as if he was pre-cognitively analysing something. He stared into his new eyes and strode to his kitchen. Reaching up, he retrieved a claw hammer from the top of one of the cupboards. He marched towards his front door and grabbed his black pea coat. The front door of his house flung open, setting off the alarm. Christopher stormed over to number 41 and banged on the door, concealing the hammer in his sleeve.

The father of the boys could be heard shouting from within.

“Ere’, lads. That toff is outside. Come watch me knock ‘im out!”

Inside, his boys rushed halfway down the stairs and took a seat as their father opened the door.

“Let’s fuckin’ ave–”

Christopher charged into the door before the father could finish his threat, knocking him to the floor with a thud. Christopher dropped his knee into the father’s sternum as he brought the flat end of the hammer down on the bridge of the father’s nose with resounding crack. The father shrieked and clutched his nose but Christopher kept wailing on the same spot, breaking the father’s fingers in the process. One of the boys decided to try and save his father by grabbing Christopher, but he just shook the boy off and reaped him into a wall, splitting the back of his head open. The rest of the teenagers ran upstairs while he returned the father to continue his relentless onslaught. It was clear that Christopher held the father responsible for the behaviour of his children, while at the same time acknowledging that they were still culpable and thus deserving of punishment.

Soon after, he stopped his onslaught and climbed up from the ground to be greeted by words of Noctulius.

“You see now, don’t you? True magick is transmutation of the physical. You’ve been heated to your melting point, undergone calcination, separation, and now…coagulation.”

Christopher rushed up the stairs to the room where the boys were hiding with a lycan-like agility, but as he pounced into the room, an unexpected sight stopped him short. Within the room, in the corner, was a woman cowering—the mother. She was covered in bruises, cuts and burns. Christopher realised that she was a victim of abuse but did not know who was responsible, so he ordered the boys to sit next to her and observed her reaction to them. It did not take him long to conclude that they were all responsible for their mother’s suffering and set about lining them up against the back wall. The mother pleaded with Christopher, explaining that they were only doing it because they were scared of their father. Christopher refused to listen.

“They chose to torture you. They could have stood up to their father, to his authority, just like they did with me, yet they did not. They chose to torment and abuse Mrs Henderson, to scare her to such an extent that she felt like the only way to escape their cruelty was to take her own life. They chose…all of it, and now—now they have to face the consequences of their actions.”

The eldest boy leaped forward. “We’re sorry, okay? We’re fuckin’ sorry, man! We won’t do nuffin’ like this again, swear down!”

“Get back in line!”, Christopher barked.

He approached the first boy, steadied his aim, and hit him as hard as he could in the face with the bottom of his palm. The boy’s body crumpled to the floor. Then Christopher approached the second and did the same again; followed by the third; and finally, the fourth. He approached the mother next and crouched beside her, looking deeply into her eyes and employing a type of neurolinguistic programming.

“You gave them life, nurtured them. You are partly responsible for their actions. It is your turn to accept responsibility for your part in this tragedy.”

He handed her the blood-soaked hammer adorned with pieces of her husband’s skin and hair, slowly withdrew into one of the dark corners of the room, and observed as she harrowingly took her children back out of the world.

Reemerging shortly after the ordeal, Christopher walked over to the mother one final time.

“Now you have a choice to make. You can endure your burden, your…renewed sense of personal responsibility; allowing yourself to be strengthened by it….in time, or you can walk over to that window, and throw yourself out of it. Which is it to be?”

And with that, Christopher plodded down the stairs and towards the front door, passing the absolved mass of meat, formally known as the father, on the way. He closed the door of the residence, crossed the street, and disappeared into the early morning mist to the sound of encroaching sirens, and the tenacious alarm of his now vacant residence…

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Circulation – The Art of Raising, Releasing and Harnessing Fòrsa Beatha

Prefatory Note on Cleansing:
Before each Circulation a cleansing must take place. Nature is perpetually cleansing itself and so too must the Bawrn cleanse, lest they introduce ‘impurities’ into Nature and negatively impact the nexions they will be opening. The two recommendations for cleansing are: (1) smudging with white sage; and (2) bathing in salt water.


Circulation I

Stand barefoot upon natural ground and assume the Wuji posture (Qi Gong). Turn your palms face-up and bring your hands together with the finger tips of the left hand roughly half an inch from the right hand, as if holding a bowl in both hands. Raise the shape to the heart area while inhaling and then invert the shape, bringing it down to your naval while exhaling.

Repeat this as many times as desired but a minimal of five repetitions is advised. Finish with positioning your back against the floor and meditating on the earth’s energy.


Circulation II

Take a knee and place both hands face down in a body of clear, shallow water, ensuring the thumbs are touching; fingers are spread. Slowly rotate the hands inwards until the forefingers connect to form the shape of a triangle and bring the other fingers together. Finally, push the thumbs inward so that the shape resembles the head of an arrow, then reverse the movements until you return to the first position. As you perform the movements, visualise a red opening up underwater in the space between the hands.

When you are ready to conclude the Circulation, hold your breath, place your left or right palm over the rend and visualise the water penetrating your palm, entering your veins and spreading through your body. When the breath can no longer be held, slowly exhale.


Circulation III

Build a small fire, or light a candle, and gradually bring both hands together – palms facing inwards – around the flame and then contract them, as if massaging the flame between them.  Begin as close to the flame as possible without causing pain, following your own heat tolerance by making the space between the hands larger if necessary. The temperature should remain warm on the hands, not hot or cold.

After however many repetitions you feel are required, withdraw the hands and take a step back. Focus on the flame, try to predict its movements as it dances atop. Before long, you will find that your predictions are becoming more accurate…


Circulation IV

Locate a hill, mountain top, bay – anywhere in which the wind can manifest at its strongest, and take a seat or knee not too far from the edge. Focus on the horizon until the wind can be clearly heard then close your eyes and begin the reverse breathing technique (Taoism) to enter a meditative state. Open your eyes once entranced, reach on hand above your head and slowly clench the hand into a fist when the wind is at its strongest, keeping it clenched until the wind eases, then slowly unclenching it into an open palm again.

Repeat this five times and rise to your feet with your arms outstretched as the wind begins to pick up again. Embrace the tempestuous energy of the wind; let it rattle you; move you, in body, mind and spirit. Stand for as long as you are able. Once the power temporarily subsides, fall to your knees. When the wind returns again in full force, explode to your feet and meet its strength a final time, enduring and absorbing its energy until it flows back into a gentle state.


Circulation V

Participate in sexual union with the express purpose of raising, releasing and harnessing the tremendous occulted power of the female orgasm. While on the precipice of climax the partners should visualise a purple light shooting and pulsing upwards from the vagina toward the third eye of the female, then further visualise ♀︎ – through lock eyes –  appearing within the irises of the climaxing female in florescent purple before flickering to ♃.


(1) Circulation is the name given to the occult ability of raising, releasing and harnessing fòrsa beatha.

(2) Circulations can be performed as frequently or infrequently as desired, but proficiency in the art can only be achieved through repetition, discipline and the further independent study of energy work.

(3) Circulation V is not restricted to a heterosexual encounter and will likely produce a stronger result through its sapphic alternative. However, due to the female orgasm being a cardinal aspect of this Circulation, uranic unions will yield no results.

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An Inherited Apprehension of Time

As we grow as beings we are nurtured by our own presuppositions of time. We lead ourselves to define time linearly and sneer at any possibility of an instantaneous connexion between the past, present and future. It is only when we commune with some-thing outside of our mundane perceptions, through events that occur away from ticking clocks and encoded routine, that we begin to consider that time is but a measurement of processes, a measurement created  by us and its purpose defined by us. So much faith is placed in the way we process the measurement of time, yet we often perceive our spatio temporal existence to be proceeding at a different pace than the analogue and electronic tools we have designed to measure it may suggest.

The foundations of our casual existence consist of three dimensions of space and one dimension of lineal time; these dimensions are not separate but relative to one another, functioning as coordinates through which beings navigate and perceive their own experience. But at the border of our ability to intuit and correlate the inexplicable emanations of Nature and the cosmos, lineal time fades away, and we attain an ancient vantage; one where we witness past, present and future as one simultaneous, holistic happening in which our temporal actions suddenly have eternal meaning and consequence.

Therefore, [our] lineal time unfolds to reveal a non-lineal, physical dimension through which aeons can be navigated, interacted with, and altered (regardless of a being’s temporal position in causal space-time) using causal and numinous “coordinates”. It is in the wake of this found- again apprehension that the four seasons: wheel of seasons, lunar phases, and other astronomical events replace our previous measurement of processes (lineal time) and become known as alchemical seasons, during which Ga Wath Am and Binan Ath are presenced, allowing us to intuit the internal/external cycles of that which Nature and the cosmos birthed, as well as influence the physis of that which possesses being (during alchemical seasons) should we elect to.

-Theo Hiraeth

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The Currents of Wyrd

Wyrd is an odd word, it looks like “word” and sounds like “weird”. Yet… Wyrd is the underlying fabric of the Nine Worlds and one of the central concepts of Druwydry. The rudimentary definition is something like “the course of events” or ” The Cosmic Fates”. A more intuitive understanding might be “what is to come”. In Druwydry, Wyrd represents the powerful currents of influence that control how events unfold in linear time. It is possible to displace the flow of Wyrd that is revealed through a specific alignment of The Mastery and Deed.

A Self-Centric Eye (the Master I)

Every Western institution over the past 100 years has been designed to manufacture “sleepers” that obey. This happens because the Magians and Puritans idealize putting others above ourselves. This is a monumental err. Literally putting the cart before the horse and then putting full cup blinkers on it. Selflessness benefits none in the long term and only benefits opportunistically in the short term.

Deep down, everyone knows this is true. Self-centrism is extremely frowned upon, yet everyone practices it and dresses it up in the disguise of selflessness. By becoming self-centric, you begin to pay attention and become sensitive to what impacts you directly. Developing a deeper understanding of what influences you and in what way. Without that understanding you are a vessel adrift without anchor or sail undoubtedly heading towards the rapids and rocks. Torn and shredded pieces are destined to settle into the river bed, somewhere downstream.

A correction is in order. It is necessary to embrace self as priority and in this begin the seeding of essence. What grows from the seeds? An authentic understanding of who you are, where you are, what you like, and what motivates you. This is the fundamental basis of self-remembering. Creating awareness simultaneously of what is known and the knower. Awareness of the deed and the doer.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

We are taught the results of being self-centric is devastating and destructive. Somehow it is corrosive to our collective relationships. Self-centrism is falsely construed as selfishness. In accordance, it is thought that it creates no contribution to the “greater society at large”. Yet a survey of the landscape tells a different story.

The wretched who care only about themselves seem to live forever. The ruthless businessman gets richer and more powerful. The self-obsessed athlete becomes the best in his game. The politician rises in his influence and reach. In a very real sense Satan is King of this World. The nature of this world is adversarial and the road to hell is always paved with good intentions

Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy, Pride. All said to be deadly Sins. However in a controlled and deliberate use, we are led to the path of freedom and prosperity. Lust leads to the fulfillment of sexual needs. Gluttony brings forth a fullness of living. Envy creates motivation and drive to improve your station. Pride brings a focus to constantly refine and develop the self. Greed to financial fulfillment. Wrath to justice. Sloth to emancipation from fruitless labor.

Perilously Traverse the Currents of Wyrd

We live in a dangerous world. Everything is surely trying to kill us, even Destiny herself. Nythra will not be denied. Yet under the Moonlight, there’s a winding staircase that leads to the blue room of Mars. It is here in The Dark Pools that we can divine the Currents of Wyrd. Given we have the foresight, that is the occult abilities to; chart our course along the ebbs and flows of the Great River as it’s rushing.

We can apprehend Cosmic Emanation, as we see the spring forming the Dark Pool. It begins to stream outwardly. The stream eventually feeding into the Great River. I close this entry with a quote from Magister Hagur. May your Travels be by your revealed Wyrd.

“Shugara, highly developed intellectually and greatly motivated achieves objectivity wherever he is found, bringing about the deep sinister intent. The Dark God is influenced by the planets Moon and Mars, responding to their attraction, ever ready to transmit its energies to all those contemplating the Tree of Wyrd as a way of sinister living, and this means:

(1) Endeavouring to arrive at an absolute sinister motive.

(2) The ability to enter in the silence of the chaotic mind to realise the sinister way.

(3) Remembering at all time the strict self-disciplined life, which
does not mean that life is undone of sensual perception, on the contrary it does stir up a well-balanced dark life.

(4) Using self-control facing the unknown.

(5) Not to scatter innate sinister forces vainly, but focus them to a particular sinister goal. “ – Hagur

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Nochtadh Cosmaí

The Sinister Creed

Satan in particular and the Dark Gods in general are a means to self-fulfillment and self-

Only by journeying through the darkness within us and without can we attain self-divinity and
thus fulfil the potentiality of our existence.

Our rites, ceremonies and practices are all life-affirming, and show us the ecstasy of existence
and the self-overcoming of the true Adept.

We are feared because we defy and seek to know and thus understand. We rejoice in living: in all
its pleasures but most particularly in its possibilities. We thus extend the frontiers of evolution
while others sleep or cry.

We detest all that enervates and would rather die than submit to anyone or anything – this pride is
the pride of Satan, and Satan is a symbol of our defiance and a sign of our life-enhancing energy.
Others see our way of living and our way of dying and are afraid.

When we hate we hate openly and with arrogance, and when we love, we love with a passion to
match this arrogance: always mindful never to love anyone so much that we cannot see them die,
for death is a natural changing of energies.

We prepare – through our magick and our ways of living – for the Age of Fire (the Aeon of the
Dark Gods) which is to come, when we elitist few shall reach out toward the stars and the galaxies and the new challenges they will bring.

Our way is difficult and dangerous and is for the few who can truly defy the matrix of illusions of ‘good’ and ‘evil’ – that stifle the potentiality of our being.

What does not kill us, makes us stronger.

Codex Saerus – The Order of Nine Angles

As the world around us violently changes, I am reminded of the lobster in the boiling pot. The rich have become nothing but richer, and the poor are only poorer. The masses are so caught up in the little manufactured achievements bestowed upon them. So blinded; so stupid. Men are so emasculated and women are no longer truly venerated. Gender has become something only identified with, and is no longer celebrated or even taboo. One might think to themselves “what strides of social equality have been achieved”, but to me that begs the question; what did it cost us?

I am a person who rarely apologizes, but if any of what I am saying offends you; I am truly sorry. You see, I harbor no phobias in this topic and if it should sound as such; well tough shit, all you will get is an apology from me for it. I am all about becoming who you truly are. If this means you are something other than the once “societal standard”; by all means embrace it. Keep in mind though, I am of the old school of thought; where we do not peek over our neighbor’s fences. So when I speak on these matters, understand that I am not coming from a place of bigoted mind. The only reason, I have chosen to bring this up is, because I believe we are being robbed of something essential and this demonstrates it adequately.

What I mean is this, when I was a small child, life hit me with a series of unfortunate events. I was first stricken sick as an infant. That left me with a massive hearing loss. A short time later, my father passed away in an accident. This left my mother extremely poor and emotionally in despair. She was pregnant at the time of his passing. I went through more than several years of abuse at the hands of my step-family. Mental, physical, and sexual; its like Prego “it’s in there”. By the time I hit the ages of 11-13, my somewhat shy and self-conscious demeanor had culminated into a seemingly magnetic target for bullying. This is the part of the story, where someone should have come to my rescue, and it isn’t. No hero came, no one stuck up for me. The school didn’t care, the police gave even less of a shit.

What transpired instead was a cosmic test of mettle. You see I was born determined. Each event listed I overcame; I rose above it. By the age of 14, I knew who I truly was and nothing was going to hold me down. None of the disadvantages I inherited, would make me take a knee. I had taken on the mantra of, “Why? Because fuck you, that’s why!”. I am my own champion. A warrior within my own rite! The bullies, I bullied them. The abuse I suffered, I let it be the kindling of my internal fire. The deafness, you would have no idea it is there if I did not say so.

Understand this now, I AM NOT SPECIAL! There is nothing about me beyond my defiance and determination that made it possible to overcome. Which is what finally brings me to the impetus and thrust of this entry. “Only by journeying through the darkness within us and without can we attain self-divinity and thus fulfil the potentiality of our existence.” The Sinister Creed gives us 9 points with a singular energy, the thrust to defy and overcome.

It used to be that people of different sexual orientations had to undergo a very personal quest of self-discovery and self-empowerment. So I think, those that did so will understand where I am coming from with this. It should not just be handed to you. You will miss out on everything that truly gives self power and strength. Sure there are those that will succumb and fail, not all are worthy of truly living (in my views, not all are worthy of life). Each must pass the tests of living to be worthy of doing so. Those we coddle, we do them no service. We may love them, but we must be willing to watch them die. This is the Law of Nature, it always has been. This is a cosmic revelation, yet has been no kept secret.

So in that, what do I mean by cosmic revelation? When we look into nature what we see is constantly repeating patterns. Fractals if you will. What happens on a microscopic level, seems to also happen on larger and larger scales. The Law of Nature is no different. In the same way, that a seedling planted on the shadyside of a tree has to struggle and overcome to survive; so must we endure to survive.

With all of the solar storm activity in the news lately, it should also be apparent that the same condition exists on that level. There is in fact, a delicate balance struck in nature. Some of which we can see and comprehend, the rest though the pattern remains elusive.

To be continued…


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The Forge of Doubt

The current trend in Western culture is one that raises up individuality and uniqueness. It seems like everyone is chasing attractiveness and status. There are millions and millions of would-be social influencers. As stand alone statements or even when considering them together as a whole concept, these are things that should be applauded and encouraged. Yet, I can’t help but make note of the lack of consistency and the obvious facades.

A close friend of mine, regularly points to this phenomenon and scowls at it. He’s right to do so. The only flaw that I can find in his analysis, isn’t really an argument against his disgust. You see, I agree with him that the internet is where people go to pretend to be anyone they want. The flaw is that he has limited the scope of his judgement too narrowly. Turns out people are fraudulent by-in-large.

This is not to say, that there aren’t genuine people. I think some genuine people can at times, find themselves being disingenuous. This isn’t really any shocking new observation. However, this is a form of corruption. A corruption that seems to seep deeper and deeper into the collective consciousness. It is not anything new or novel that this “fakeness” is prevalent in the masses. We’ve simply added a few new layers on top of it.

When I consider this in contrast, I’m not surprised to find this rampantly existing, even in self-professed satanists. The internet removes a layer of accountability. Accountability is an idea that has long been eroding and rotting. Anton LaVey was writing about it in the 60’s. Accountability is often framed to be “an owning of your wrong doing”, but that doesn’t really seem to encompass its proper apprehension. What is really being put forth is, an honesty to self. A personal sincerity, void of delusions without intention.

When I was young, I often pondered the stark consistency of LaVey’s philosophy and his character. Old Howie’s detractors often point to all of LaVey’s lavish deceptions. From plagiarism to the embellished and sometimes completely fictitious stories of his past. Certainly there’s no accountability, right? I have to disagree. I find it completely consistent.

A man with a fake name. Telling embellished or possibly false stories. Pushing a meant-to-be sensational “religion” of the secular and rebellious. Charging a membership fee for a “church” against all churches. All while grifting the grifters. Watching those old videos of ritual and ceremony and even the many television interviews, there can be seen a twinkle in the corner of his eye. After all, the devil is a gentlemen, in the words of Shakespeare.

You can see it, simply by observing. There’s a consistency in him. A playful deviance, if you will. A harmony between word and deed. Should he be a liar, then let his lies be bold and outlandish. We then find an inner-resonance of self honesty to balance against it. With the mind of Lucifer, a carefully crafted deception was made to inspire doubt.

LaVey was a proponent of doubt as being paramount to truth. Doubt, the emancipator of minds, bearing the sword of unbridled wisdom. If this is a war for the eternal souls of men, then doubt is the great equalizer. A great many will ask themselves, “Is this a hill worth dying on”.

We are left in contemplation. Are we pretending or is this truly who we are. Is there a consistency between our words and deeds? We realize that, no matter how fortified the castle is; if it’s built on a mountain of sand, it takes but a wave to wash it from the shore.

Live Deliberately!

-Dread Beast Xeno

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Turnskin by Ariadne and Kristos 513

‘Pharaoh is the Bull of the Sky,
who shatters at will,
who lives on the being of every god,
who eats their entrails,
even of those who come with their bodies
full of magic from the Island of Flame’

The Cannibal Hymns of Unas, Utterance 273

Predation upon other organisms for sustenance is not at all uncommon, a harmonious act of violence which facilitates evolution by weeding out those who are unfit to survive, while also ensuring the continued existence and reproduction of those specimens who, by practical demonstration of their ability, have earned the right to survive. The prey organism is typically of a different species, however, this is not always the case, and there are many naturally-occurring instances of cannibalism, such as with the genus of jumping spider known as Portia, which preys on both web-building spiders and its own males after copulation. Portia, despite its diminutive size, shows complex social behaviours and a sort of intelligence one might expect of much larger predators, using particularly devious tactics to lure its prey – other spiders typically several times its own size – into vulnerable positions. Preying on one’s own kind is far from exclusive to the delightfully sinister Portia, and the apes which we share common ancestry with have been observed to carry out very similar acts, albeit in very dissimilar contexts, such as the consumption of infants or, particularly in the case of chimpanzees, the eating of young snatched from other families in very deliberate acts of primal warfare – a precursor to the tribalism they will no doubt later develop.

Humans, for all their moral posturing and delusions of separation from the horrors of the natural world, are not exempt from the above, as both history and its psychic shadow of mythology are rife with instances of cannibalism – the subconscious traces of a ghoulish racial memory, one which is alive and well in the dark corners of the earth, and even within the boundaries of ‘civilised’ society, the forbidden act of consuming human flesh is not unheard of.

Early humans displayed cannibalistic tendencies for largely the same reasons as their ape cousins did – sheer practical need. A body no doubt lure predators to the rest of the tribe, and so it stands to reason that the best and most efficient way to dispose of the material was to eat it, which just so happened to address matters of nutrition as well. While a human body might not be the most ideal source of nutrition, it was remarkably accessible besides, as defending one’s area from invaders would no doubt result in a surplus of freshly killed meat lying about. Furthermore, hunting larger prey is dangerous if done by a group and near-suicidal if done alone, many animals taking quite a bit of abuse from primitive tools before going down, and not before injuring a member of the hunting party or two. A person, however, could be inncapacitied with comparatively little work – a rock in the temple, for example – and yield a sufficient return besides. This type of primitive efficiency is seen in the modern day as well, as various tribes of Papua New Guinea (including the infamous Asmat, who supposedly killed and ate Nelson Rockefeller), Africa, and throughout the Pacific islands.

As human societies grew more complex, evolving from the most rudimentary kinds of proto-culture to something more recognisable, the exact reasons for acts of cannibalism grew more abstract, as there was no longer as immediate a need to capitalise on any and all opportunities to eat, nor was there as much of a need to avoid luring predators with corpses. Many of the tribal cultures still practicing cannibalism do so for magical-religious reasons, such as to take on the power and attributes of a foe – the African warlord humourously known as ‘General Butt-Naked’ is said to have partaken in cannibalism for precisely these reasons! Another good example of post-primitive cannibalism for spiritual reasons more than practical is the practice of the Indian Aghori sect, a Shaivite tradition which has become infamous for its rather morbid rites, including eating the flesh of the recently deceased. However, unlike previously mentioned examples, they do not kill or harm anyone for their strange communion, and such practices are intended for them to truly know God – after all, how can one say they love and respect creation if they only accept the parts which are pleasing to the senses? Are not the deathly and grotesque also a part of nature, and the rot which feeds life? Furthermore, exposure to such unpleasant stimuli takes no small amount of willpower to override a feeling of revulsion towards the act, and it is through willingly taking part in difficult practices, such as eating the recently deceased, that they develop a state of absolute domination over the lesser parts of themselves which might feel fear or disgust.

Almost as if the practice of devouring one another is hard-coded into human nature, cannibalistic acts are not limited to the carnal and fleshy. Ideas are subject to being preyed upon in this way, the growth of mythos rarely, if ever, being a spontaneous phenomenon. As cultures interact with both each other and themselves, their various memes undergo changes to reflect the very real movement of people. Most immediately relatable in a broader Sinister context is the way in which folk European traditions were adapted as the region underwent its conversion to Nazarene practices. Instead of merely erasing the native ways and mythos of a given area, they were instead devoured by the Christian organism and thus, made part of it in such a way as to strengthen the organism and help it to adapt to its environment. This is seen in the transmutation of local deities and spirits from mostly benign entities to ghouls, devils, and evil things which snatch away children and livestock. For example, the Devil in modern popular culture is often shown with decidedly goat-like features in the form of cloven hooves and horns, while also possessing very carnal appetites and a certain mischievous inclination. Imagery of the Devil as an anthropomorphic goat-man is not canonical to any sect of Christianity, and is rather the product of demonising, quite literally, the ancient god Cernunnos, who was worshiped by the Celtic peoples, and similarly, the Fauns, Satyrs, and their lord Pan, who were part of the Hellenic cultures to the southeast. Both Cernunnos and Pan shared a similar horned man-beast appearance, as well as their considerable hunger for all manner of sensual gratification – quite possibly the most literal, archetypal depiction of that which is considered ‘Pagan’ – and so the deities previously revered by a people were ‘cannibalised’ as they transitioned from the old ways to their regional flavour of Christianity. Other folk deities across Europe underwent a similar process, such as the north’s Allfather Odin, who formed the basis for the modern archetypal witch, and also from the north, the underworld place of the dead known as Hel, whose later inclusion in Nazarene mythos is obvious. It was not an outside force that endeavoured to suppress old-world traditions in this way either, but elements within each of the cultures, those who swallowed up their own gods, regurgitating them as the politically necessary devils of a new religious form. As cultures shift into new paradigms, their old ways are consumed, and absorbed into the younger, thus contributing to its growth – not unlike young spiders devouring their mother after birth.

Just as humans prey on their own mythos to create new ones, the mythos themselves also feature instances of people being killed for the purpose of being eaten. In the Greek tale of King Lycaon, for example, the titular king makes a rather foolish attempt at testing Zeus. Lycaon secretly murdered his own son, and then prepared him as a meal for Zeus. Outraged, whether at the moral bankruptcy of the act or the insult to his divine intelligence, or both, Zeus turned Lycaon into a wolf-man as punishment. This story has both literal and symbolic components, as the Greeks found themselves utterly revolted by the savage religious practices of their neighbors, which supposedly included cannibalism, and so their disgust was reflected in their own mythos as a reflection of their societal values. In addition, one of the themes of many Greek myths is that of arrogance. That Zeus chose to react to this one instance implies it was the specific action of a mortal daring to test him which drew his ire, as the practice had obviously predated the Greeks and indeed all of civilisation – where then are the other Lycaonians?

Another instance of like-devouring-like, this time in Latin, involves the figure of Eumolpus within the Satyricon. Unlike the Greek tale of Lycaon, the cannibalism of Eumolpus was not an act of mortal hubris, but one of necessity for financial gain. Eumolpus is an unextraordinary poet posing as a wealthy individual in order to exploit those who might proverbially bend over backwards in order to gain his inheritance, and indeed, all manner of fawning candidates went to great lengths to appease him. Unable to keep up the ruse, Eumolpus has his will read to the gathered ‘inheritors’, which proclaims that, in order to receive any ‘inheritance’ they must eat his dead body in public. Naturally, the condition of being required to eat Eumolpus’ dead body was intended to ward off those who expected what could not be provided, but it also speaks to the mindset of those who would seek out in some way the legacy of their forebears, as they put on all manner of disingenuous fronts and superficial displays in a shallow attempt at courting approval and thus, assurances of inheritance – and the post-mortem division of assets and legacies does indeed resemble the butchery of a carcass, often done ravenously, as though the inheritors were tearing the corpse apart in the street and swallowing great fistfuls of viscera.

How curiously do we come full circle.

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A Gift for the Abyss

The quickening silence onset in the dank hours of midsummer’s heat, then before dawn. A single arm slipped through the black plush comforter, and sought out the unblemished curvatures of the disrobed counterparts with surgically executed barbarism of the erotic intent. Contact fell and coursed like electric; the exchange of subatoms, energy and soul. Then in the rising of the new planetary dominions, William exercised with due diligence his properly enveloped husbandry in overtures of ancient ardor. Therewith, beyond the firmament even those fell messengers which stood watch over his ancestral rural abode were galvanized with fire and enthusiasm by the efforts of he, their fleshbody symbiont.

Waves of dark celestial choruses — persecutive daughters of the dread queen, the Mother of Blood, incised their lips and tongues with fervor as they caressed their dead white skins bound to the extradimension in sapphic embrace. The savagery emblazoned upon those formless intelligences: apprehended by perspectives that bloom from the development of abyssal being, alone. Their pressings pushed furiously upon their muliebribus, on this morning of soft tortures and umbral delights. The air was bloodthirsty, and saturated with rancor, pulled in with all senses of an dark empassioning, envenomed, and offered before an opening of the acausal continuum where that aweful deyonne — the Mother of Blood — waits beyond the mirror’s pane. Many preternatural rains dove then downward: reanimating, compounding, folding, hammering… priming the beautiful felony of an harvest unforgivable, as red candle wax and elixir would flicker between the shadow play of the maligned triptych.

An ocean away, in England, near the boarder of Wales where Arthurian shades still haunt, fissures grew rapidly in the crystalline pyramids that decorated a long since used edifice, hemorrhaging a physical, and yet supernatural exsanguination. Rivulets of vermillion sheen crawled downward the helix design, ebbing in cadence with his pulse, now irregulated by the increasing limitations of his mortal coil’s ever-creeping conclusion. The lonely man, now devoid of even the most infinitesimal capture of significance watched the phenomenon unfold, and with violent onsetting fluxions of clairvoyant-knowing as the omen was understood — or so he thought. For, this was no such message from those who have risen beyond the gate of Saturn. No, this was but a mirage; a contrivance. Sent, not as a work of theatrics, but a sword… or perhaps a cloak and dagger.

Then from the upper cabinet in his kitchenette, the lonely man fingered a small phial of fast acting toxin to then morbidly, and yet, welcomingly, descend the wooden cellar staircase, to which the final darkness called, and this, was no mere contrivance. For there he would consign, as he would dream in waking life, to the oblivion that waited him, patiently, across the span of many decades redolent of multifarious adventures. The edge of the deeps that his descent neared: a mouth of Hell — a hostile pandaemonium, more real and existent for him than any other mortal prior. As so many souls did he guide directly into its chasm; and so many also to its edges, that would never return, for his seduction lingered even in his own absence. Now it, and they who populate its infernal habitation, wanted him as a final, great reward. No expiation remained. Only this last rite of nihilation, by his own hand, and not therefore, by the cruel unfolding of nature. Little did he realize that this dubersome snare had been strewn for quite some time by a vast, complex network of minds, and was swiftly nearing its apocryphal moment.

They couldn’t be any more different if they tried, William and the lonely man. If you were to prick him, William that is, he would have bled the blood the Dark Way, the sigils of its signature, its sacrificial cadence to non-euclidean entities, and for that matter, bled the blood of the Horrible Dragon that now inhabited his earthbound vessel — such things born from transformation into states far beyond human tantamount to dark sorcery; in tandem with deeds of true evil, as that term is commonly understood, manifold in form, continued and continuing in the real world. He did not follow the babblings of the lonely man’s students, whimsically and arbitrarily cycling into random factoid prisms that often have no practical application beyond the pale of fanciful mythoi of which they constantly claimed to have succeeded, notwithstanding their occult baboonery from which a constant sense of self-entitlement therefrom was derived. Nor did he seek their counsel in latter days as celibate oxonians with their perseverations on the purity of esoteric manual-of-form; their confabulations often self contained and coursing with the stink of sycophancy. No, William developed, and learned, and strived in secret, sometimes across the globe, and learned that which one learns in how to instigate permanent changes in consciousness, at the personal level.

And the lonely man? Just a Maniac-Mage, who had long since lost his esoteric empathy, somewhere in the mix of his own reindeer games.

In an unoccupied room within his home, that he shared with his two polyamorous companions, several items had been stored in the afforded space within. Relics smuggled from the Green Damask Room by an unofficial collaborator, as the lonely man had nurtured many an enmity over years of corruption, infighting and shameless self-promotion under a thousand different names. Soil and stones from Black Rhadley, Caer Caradoc, and Wenlock Edge transported overseas, and water bottles filled with the Long Mynd, as well as the river Severn. There were shavings of metal obtained from Post office box #4 in Church Stretton, as well as those from box #700 in Shrewsbury.

Using the skillsets that had once been cultivated, in the beginning, from the lonely man — the Maniac Mage — but then in time, refined and perfected across a willfully striven and individual anados, William sat then cross legged before the affections obtained. The matrix of his being calibrated in sympathetic contact to the defiance of Newtonian physics and a limited space-time dimension. He needed no incantations, no holy names of god or gods, or Satan for that matter, or planetary forces. There where no prayers, or even words that were spoken, only the astral patterning across the web of Wyrd. William at no point fed off of the lonely man. Rather, he fed his own life-force into the cosmic dimension, deconstructing time, and rendering no space between himself and the target of his esoteric emotional operation.

They meant nothing to William: the words, the motions, the correspondences and the incantations. They were only but a means — in the beginning — of a science to be overcome, and wholly intending to self-destruct the primitive mind of the novitiate physis. Much as the ONA itself was always meant to self-destruct in the year 2020eh/ev, as foretold by the classic document Sacramentum Sinistrum. And yet it persisted, for reasons unknown. That its lifeless husk remained — a quandary unanswerable. William’s understanding was that the truth behind the Dark Path, was that, it could merge with anything — a perfect mergence — or merge with nothing at all, remaining nameless therein.

William felt the footfalls upon the sawed stairs undertaken by the Maniac-Mage, as he saw with his own eyes the omen which was projected into his mind, only minutes before. When then he stood in the centre of the pitch black stone cellar, a tomb fit for a lord of this world, the lonely man lifted the phial to his face and examined it. He removed the cork and closed his eyes, feeling the weight of lifetimes stacked upon one another — the loss, the memory, the joy, and all that goes along with the rush that accompanies a sordid recalling and added regret when to dispatch oneself is finalized.

Both William and the Maniac-Mage spoke out loud, joined in darkness.

“To kill a king…” they both said. At which the lonely man lifted and drank the substance into his body. Tears streamed from the eyes of the man, and William’s eyes wept blood, as they both collapsed onto the floor in their respective localities. The man and William convulsed in unison, then into fetal position, and then to soon expire, or at least one of them. At that moment across Terra Firma, twelve individuals fell to the floor, or awoke screaming and fell, ensorrowed for what could only be intuited and not truly known.

But the most cold-hearted and cold warrior machination was embodied and lived by Claire, who was of Amerindian stock, complete with William’s three miscegenated childer, all of a blended, native breed to their home of millennia that reached further back than human memory could assure. When she had traveled to meet with Scotland Yard on official business, the plan had remained ‘open,’ as was discussed and agreed upon prior. That she was to deliver an exercise in fellatio of unforgettable make-and-model to the detective chief superintendent was something that simply fell into place, hair double-braided and exotic as a Pocahontas of the most corrupt professionalism. His no-scalpel vasectomy procedure exempted her from the zygote infused sacrificial conclusion, but her esophagus was sprayed, with wanton accreditation, for a sexual favor most perfectly executed.

With papers signed, a reason cooked up never to be questioned under the critical mass of threatened termination, and the ghastly exhumation occurred. Her skull, being that of the lonely man’s dead lover, replaced with a cheap pewter fabrication purloined from an American vendor, free of charge; credit from a previous blunder honoured. A type of old-world necromancy was in the works, to conclude the epilogos that, even now, begged to be complete. For her death signified his ultimate failure as a human being. Perhaps his attempt at expiation occurred in the maximizing of his earthbound days: with his heart tortured daily and nightly by reflexions upon that burden which surelye cost him his very soul.

Claire entered the room wearing the skull now sawed and threeded to be worn as a mask. In fact, the skull was all that Claire wore, being of a buxom, well endowed hourglass figure. Her distribution of fat cells seemed to hone in, like a heat seeking missile, on those sex organs that stoke the élan vital of the male species. Like a figure from mythology, enskulled and sexually disproportionate, Claire sauntered before the collapsed but rising body of William, arms raised in horror, reflective of the desolate vacuum that was his spiritual essence, now populated by evil spirits in great number sealed into the flesh.

In England, the lonely, dying Mage saw his former lover, or what he believed was her, arrive, dancing around his fading light. She wove between, with her dance, several Dark Ones, who stood watch before the felling, some of which he knew in his life — and some of which he did not. For only some of the dark forces had been cataloged, by him, and by others. Whom he thought was his dead lover’s revenant shade, but truly Claire projecting the necrotic form into his psyche, attached her swaying movements to a particular inter-dimensional being. In the world of the phainomenon, this was William, now broken of one sympathetic contact, and onto the next, wearing a butterfly mask. The custom piece of taxidermy was made of once living fragments of hipparchia semele, known in the United Kingdom as graylings, that which employ a technique known as cryptic coloring: a manner of disguise.

Her derrière fell with violence upon his pelvic region in lustful, circular, backwards thrusts. The lonely man then watched as Noctulius— Lord of Night— entered into her bowels with ascendant sexual hunger. She was taken by him through the forbidden orifice, porta infame, and ravaged with pure animality. Her juttings were accompanied by facial expressions of anguish, fear, and terror untold. Her cries were those of submission — to that of a higher man, a young Lion. The lonely man died, with this, and all that accompanies these visions, as his final constituents, sealing then his eternity into resigned nullification, as Noctulius —Lord of Night— filled his ghostly lover’s cavity with his amaranthine essence.

He died, and died again, or so it seemed — and so it was — for the Nightmares woven this morning were vile and atomizing as befits the reception of a theoretician of terror. For like kind must meet with like kind, in great leagues above all known capacity and expectation. An evil so vast in possibility — an limitless, total evil, unvarnished and unadulterated — the only measure that could be justified in one’s dealings with the Maniac-Mage, and all who are of his ilk.

Some time later in New Jerusalem, Pennsylvania, William and Claire sat closely at their dining room table, playfully stroking limbs beneath the structure against one another. They exchanged glances of mirth and penetrative gazes of deeper meaning. The flutters of eyelashes and whispers that rained glory upon one another came in droves, crossing and colliding both ways. There were plates of meats and glasses of milks set before them, as they proffered then slivers of predatory restriction into each other. Bodies that were in a constant state of ketosis, physically nourishing the thirsty nightsky on a consistent basis, which veiled those lurkers upon the evil tree, basking in the undying flame of the here and now.

Dark and crimson spheres pulsated with life-force. Ghostly shadows unveiled. The seeds of astral tides propitiated, as foretold in elder tomes of antiquity, towards purposes once initiated remain unchanged. A species that would be builded into the real world, capable of breathing her fiery breath into forges that produce principles of iron belief. Kings and Queens who, as terrible lawmakers of preëval lineage, sworn to uncompromising stricture, claw, even now, at the fabric that separates you from the woeful and approaching eventuality.

From the dark recesses of an antechamber, Phaedra flung face first into Claire’s nestled cleft with unbridled berserker rage. The brood of Mactoron howled like jackals before the desert moon, drunk on the blood of an aeonic opfer, and Sodom’s devils rose from an eternity of ruin to rub the dust from their eyes. Blasphemy enthroned, they three drank of the flesh unrestricted; pagan and extramarital in extremis. An heresy unchallenged in propriété privée, voices outstretch in perversion. Nocturnal turgesence traversed backwards and forwards in slick repetition, engorged with the confidence and character that is welcomed into the vulvas myriad which the open expression of desire brings into being, liberated fully from external compunctions.

Phaedra panted as Willam took her deeply — the fullest and deepest ever to be, but her cries would fall upon the deaf winds, as Claire shoved her darling face into the carnage of her yearning cunt. Hot and live seminal fluid blasted Phaedra’s ovaries, once more miscegenating the body of non-Aryan woman.

Anwynn Edgar Thorn


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