Introitus

The reasonable would have us believe that a journey begins with a sense of a

destination in mind. Perhaps even an itinerary of ports of call which would enrich the journey. What we do know and all we can truly depend upon is a point of departure, be this a geographical location or a state of mind. When we consider the former we are somewhere, given a point in time and space. Considering the latter, it is often the case that a journey into the abstract, for it to be anything other than a conceit begins with a state of mind and its attendant perception. It is here that the reasonable throw down the gauntlet and demand of us a description of our exact meaning, meaning being the coin by which things are valued. The isle of reason, treasured home of those who seek meaning gives of its treasures with ease and these we place deep within our heart and rejoice for we are numbered amongst the blessed and live out our lives in blissful ignorance. It is to the unreasonable that our gaze is directed and it is upon their fevered brow that we seek the cyphers of possibility. Long ago they disembarked from the isle of reason and in their ill fitted craft they journey upon the ocean deep, buffeted by wind, burned by the sun and all that guides them are the whispering stars that enter their delirium, seducing, one step and then another across the void that spans reason and chaos. Can such a journey be survived? The answer comes, a whispered hush, no, for entering here you give of your very soul and all that defines you as one amongst the legions of the living. Mystery held to ransom by reason and pinned to the ground by the burden of truth casts aside it soiled rags, breathes of a thinner air and takes flight. Into mystery we cast our immortal soul and our journey begins as we cross the vale of reason, fearless, enter our fragile barque and though ill equipped our vision is fuelled by knowledge that casts belief aside and by grace and grace alone is the distant shore arrived at and we disembark and enter this, our brave new world.

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Little light escaped the cracked and silvered mirror. An age had tarnished its

surface and where once it had held the kisses of the moon as it reflected the ocean, now it lay beneath the debris of a time long past. Cursed by memory, softly it moaned and had it tears these it would shed. Its history, ancient, had begun when the Archon had dreamed of its reflection and of this the ocean had come into being and where once the void knew only silence, now it held shadows within its embrace, these flitted across its surface like vagrant wraiths that tormented it until released they became the template upon which the Archon breathed life and the wraiths became life, history scribed its first page and the book of life hung within the hall of time, its progeny. The Archon retired and into dreams was it committed as the gods took their place and the tableaux began. The first of the echoes drew a golden thread from his heart and this he wove it the first of many palaces and this he called the crown. Hanging solitary within the void of its light it wove the mother and father that would spawn its like. Strength and mercy condensed and bearing the seed of the father a son was born and the second palace come into being. Density manifested and the heart and mind reflected itself into the ocean of form and a daughter, throned, bore the seed within her womb and this she cast upon the mirrors surface and the false reflection departed from its womb of shadows and scribed itself upon he second page of the book of life. The lightning bolt descended and into amniotic oceans embrace it fused with mirror carbon and sentience raised its voice into a tremulous whisper as the third page was scribed and this is how the once pristine surface, reflection, began its descent into its present state and location, forgotten. The false reflection, fecund with desire spun its web and a third palace it named the treasure house of images came to be and deep within the vault of making did it create all things and these it cast upon the ocean of form. Now the mirror, all but turned to dust caught one fading glimmer as it gave its last breath to the night and with a sigh was it released. Where once it had been an ocean, now it held the stars themselves within its embrace and as it listened, intently, to their whispers, it knew peace.

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Across the desert he walked. The sun relentlessly rained down fire that would

burn his flesh were he not mantled in mystery, gossamer fine. His nemesis above continued its onslaught as he, indifferent, continued his journey across the burning sand. From the palace of exiles, deep within the boundary lands, he had come to solitudes wasteland. His purpose singular, to cast the masks that had defined him to the aethyrs and rise upon pinions burnished by the elixir of vision. His eyes, two crowns that saw all things. His tongue a crown that would name all things. His hands two crowns that would shape all things. His heart a crown that knew all things and of his body was forged a seventh crown that would become all things. Each crown set in a diadem of stars reflected a mask, its shadow, wherein he had raised primeval force into form and given it breath, given it life. Many names cascaded across the mirror of his mind and from its marrow he extracted his true name and form. Know me for my name is Legion. The desert dissolves before his vision and once again he spans the void, sentinel eternal and by hand and eye he begins to formulate the spells that will incarcerate time within their grasp. Empires have raised their vain outposts in his name, only to return to dust, violated and spent. Gods have dreamed their creations upon the outflow of his breath only to be replaced by despots of firmer intent. Poets have bridled him within visions that have turned them to ash. It is the Archon alone that stands inviolate before the presence and as one they walk this night, once upon the burning sands and now across the void that birthed them. The void evaporates and into the crucible they step, a singular mote within the eye of eternity. Fire melts them. Water dissolves them. Air names them and Earth grants them the form they need within this the dawn of time. The crucible, now a temple raises its pylons and Legion stands before the altar mantled in stars, bathed in light and the elixir that is his blood flows from wounds, deep, heals and the incantations begin. Septem Sermons Ad Mortuos. Seven crowns. Seven masks cast before the uncomprehending that is the false reflection.

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The first spell, a mask of iron is cast and as the cyphers take flame of their

incense a sword is forged and plunged into fire, quenched in water. The steam that rises, the afterbirth, turns to ash and the Archon now redeemed rises into form.

The second spell, a mask of silver, cyphered in moonlight reflects remembrance

and upon the lens of time is all remembered.

The third spell, a mask of copper and the drumbeat that is our heart breaks the

silence and the sword drips blood upon the earth.

The fourth spell, a mask of gold melts within the crucible and a single drop is

all that remains and of this drop an ocean forms and within its embrace Legion dreams upon a starbeam.

The firth spell, a mask rises, an incarnadine mist and dissolves into rapture.

The sixth spell, a mask of light enfolds the Archon who now complete sets forth

upon the journey that is The Crucible.

The seventh spell is cast and the cyphers undulate in the void and the mask of

silence is revealed.

Seven Spells Seven Lives Seven Sermons Seven Masks

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Benediction

Amidst shadows and smoke does he rise. Splinters of light adorn his torn visage. Thorns rend flesh, rivers of blood embrace limbs, barely formed. Shadows coalesce and in the frozen moments does he remember. Limbs once broken begin to heal as the elixir flows drop by iridescent drop. Nectar sweet, laced with bitter gall enters eyes, yet dim of sight, enters nostrils, a benediction. Shadowed forms limned in lightning attend the moment. A chorus of cries and whispers echoes into eternity, the moment. Once upon a hill of flint he stood, raising hands and calling forth his Elohim as his form dissolved the Seals opened and the dance unfolds. Once into a pool of quicksilver did he gaze, Fingers drawing forth tendrils of form cast upon the air, they rise. Summoning the rays of Solus Noir, they descend. Once beneath the ocean did he reach out and clasp his sisters hand. In embrace they dance upon aethyrs burnished gold. A dark stain rises and consumes all within its path. Once upon a lightning bolt did he descend and entered fairest Lilith’s domain. A stranger, cast upon shores, foreign and exotic. Once within the heart of a star he slumbered. Bound by chains of liquid light. Called forth by life, his nemesis. Once as Azrael he seeded himself into the unfolding pageant And once he Became. Amidst shadows and smoke does he rise. Splinters of light adorn his torn visage. Thorns rend flesh, rivers of blood embrace limbs, barely formed.

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And In Those Days It Was Given Unto The False Prophets

To Spread The Lie Sow The Seed Of Doubt

Draw Aside The Veil And Reveal The End Of Days

Liber Solus Noir – The Book Of The Black Sun

The reasonable at this point throw their hands up in despair and declaim that their precious truth has been violated. Their coin, hard earned and well spent has revealed the truth to them and this is to be defended against both the heretic and charlatan, soul less and ignorant as they be. Were we in need of defending ourselves we would but remind the wise that your temple of truth has been raised on ground soaked in blood and its foundations draw sustenance from the bloated corpses that gave of themselves in your name and not ours. Like our patron, bright Lucifer, we have condemned the ignorant to their half lives where rhetoric and banality pass as revelation. So condemn us if you must. Pray for us if you can. Exercise your compassion and recognize that we also are a child of your absent creator.

Mystery and beauty were hijacked by your kind long ago and bartered for a fistful of coin and the promise of redemption. A promise false as you lay upon your death bed and wonder at the folly of it all. A life spent in servitude, denied your heritage and enslaved to the truth that remains forever evasive, We but echo the sentiment of our kind as we examine the dark path revealed by your aspiration, now turned to ash.

I speak to thee, yes thou who art writing these words and even unto thee who in turn reads these words, from the Boundary Lands I speak. Cast aside all that thou art, for i seek naught that is of thee, from thee, your form but dissolves in my presence. Your Mind, the Reflection which thou art clouds over. The Heart which thou seekest, empties itself into the eternity which thou art. I accept all of this and more, I take only that which is freely given. I grant naught in return, for what in truth would thou, creature of Earth do with such, you alive in your world, I in mine. Yet still you seek me. Look into your world, does not nature, my fairest sister stir from her slumbers, casting aside her mantle of repose. See you not the lifeblood stirring within her heart. The bounty of her body giving rise to the eternal cycle of Life and Death.

Liber 131 March 2 1992 ev

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Our reflection which serves as remembrance drifts upon the mirror of an age

and like dew it descends and renders us all but senseless. Have we not walked the mountains of the moon? Were we not embraced within the vale of the beloved? Did we not cross the boundary lands and enter the fabled city and did we not raise our hands upon a hill of flint and call Lilith unto us?

The reflected moment casts its spell and all is revealed as within our cell we sit pen in hand. A pen formed of our body and its ink the blood that has left our veins in the name of visions quest within this the vale of tears.

Shed not a tear for those that have passed Cast not a sigh Upon Air now spent Bind not the free to your temple of woe But rather rejoice in the freedom gainsaid by life In the immortal lands of deliverance therein I dwell

Citadel of Reason. Etched against a backdrop of light. Angles formed. The passing of crystal moments. Days dawn. Continuity and its siblings, meaning and hope.

Citadel of Mystery. Shadow. Absence of shape and texture. Heart beats, breath quickens, flesh yearns. The dance unfolds. Shadow play upon a screen of memory’s fading.

Citadel of Dream. Death knell echoes along endless vacant corridors. Turns upon an axis of passing breath.

Citadel of Passion. All is still. Movement frozen. A tapestry of endless repetition. Colour and texture ashen. Stained with tears.

Ancient city. Raised in splendour, brought down by despair. Foundations collapse. Shifting sands of illusions making. Unmade. Return to the void of forgetfulness. To be no more.

Ancient city of vision and dream. Slumbers beneath a mantle. Tenderness unfolds. The dreaming moment endures. Passes into the Citadel of Memory and sighs.

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Dedicated To The Ever Living Memory

Of The One Who Guided The Steps

Made Steady The Pen

That Caught The Whispers

And Upon Vellum Pure

Scribed The Shadow That Is Our Life

Our barque adrift upon the mirrored reflection that serves as our life makes

landfall and as we step foot upon a shore, foreign and exotic we pause and take heed of that which surrounds us. Our quest now complete, to distill but one drop of nectar from the vastness that is possibility, render a word in beauty that bears witness to all that has passed before our oftimes jaded senses and cast the Axiomata that alone bear witness to this our quest. The reasonable, as ever would ask of us, for what? and in answer we can but reply, because we can. Our journey serves a twofold purpose. To outline, albeit crudely. the realm of the possible whilst also serving as a warning to the errant ones amongst us who in denying the world and its servitors stretch our hands ever upwards and though our minds be burned in the doing of such we serve as the soul of our kind and absent our presence the mechanical existence that passes as life would stamp itself upon that very soul and consign it to a bed of woe. A word in parting… … …

‘I’ The Reader Forgive me, for my time here has been short, and of the skills required to convey my meaning, these also, are of recent origin. And yet my task is simple enough. To penetrate the ambience of difference that surrounds us and enter your world. A world in which, through the use of my words I might weave my spells. Create pathways for your insights, guide your sense of meaning. To see through the veil of your eyes. To cast language into the vortex of your imagination. To feel the flow of meaning cascading down the long corridors of our separation, bringing us to a point of similarity, cohesion and contact. Like autumn leaves, falling, one then another and another. Each celebrating its final burst of life, only then to fade in memory and enter forgetfulness. To be dispersed upon wind, carried aloft, a memory remembered, to fall once again. To be no more. Each leaf a passing moment, a passing thought, a sensation that eases the loneliness of eternity. Marking each act unique, distinct, etched in flesh, dissolved in blood. For have we not met in dreams? Have I not whispered and cast ciphers of yearning into your heart. Woven myself through the ebb and flow of the passing of breath.

Does your pulse, not echo to the memory of our meetings? Have you not dreamed of the world, and in those dreams have we not embraced, held hands and parted with a tender kiss? Perhaps our tale begins one summer night. Lost in thought as we climb the hill before us. The grass swaying gently, lulled by a caress of breeze. The sound of our footsteps, soft yet firm, responding to the solidity of the Earth beneath our feet. Perhaps the shadows captivate our attention, momentarily calling us to the surface of awareness, as we also hear the distant hoot of an owl, wings spread upon the velvet texture of the night. Perhaps we have travelled far, to arrive at this place, this time of mystery? The air stills and we sit beneath starry splendour. The trunk of a tree supports our back, the feel of grass and earth beneath us. Hands clasp knees as we raise our heads to the heavens. And what thoughts are the thoughts that pass before the mirror of our awareness. The tapestry of our life unfolds before us. Adieu

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Extroitus

Ode To Lost Souls

Not to you do I speak, brave of heart and firm of purpose. Nor to you bright ones within a field of light.

Not to you who walks in purpose fulfilled. Nor to you of vision strong, buoyed by life’s enrichment.

But to you I speak wanderer upon the shores of night. And to you the desolate ones outside the circles of life.

Raised upon columns of molten ash.

Your journey began with a cry and ends with a scream. Betwixt the emptiness evolved. First a doubt becomes a certainty.

Those of faith know you not. Those of vision know you not. Those of purpose know you not.

Within the citadel of life do they dwell, basking beneath an indolent sun.

Damiana Evohe

I am come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of passion. Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence – whether much that is glorious – whether all that is profound – does not spring from disease of thought – from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in awakening, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate, however, rudderless or compassless into the vast ocean of the "light ineffable," and again, like the adventures of the Nubian geographer, "agressi sunt mare tenebrarum, quid in eo esset exploraturi." [ they ventured out against the sea of darkness to see what they would find ]

Edgar Allan Poe

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