And they stride, ‘cross the dunes and the wastelands. They stride, down the long years of persecution and hatred, carrying with them the lines of Truth. They, the only who still know the bearing out of the Actuality. Precious cargo in tow, they stride in fretful waiting. They stride, knowing that, one day, in the Far-Off, their day will come.
Through the desert wastes, they worry nought for the djinn and the devil, for they count them as allies and petty disturbances. Clad in full black, they defy those agonising rays of the Sun. They defy the Light, wrapping themselves in the comforting totality of Darkness. They confront the Day, seeing the length and breadth of the Night. All hail the encompassing Night! Swallower of Dawns and Dusks alike!
They stride, in Spite of the Rise and Fall of Empires; of Caliphates; of Kingdoms; of Eternity. Forevermore homeless, forevermore listless. Their tread is that of the March of Ages, numberless and without measure. Sometimes swelling, sometimes winnowing, their numbers fluctuate with the countless days. Consumed with inner fire, it matters not the number; the passion burns in a bright blackness for all to see. A twisting light encompasses the Chosen, setting their faces awrought. Curving and difficult is there visage. Theirs is the Glory, Theirs is the Power. Pandemonium is their glance, Hell is their voice.
Lo, they come upon an Unbeliever! Lo, they come upon the Enemy! Lust! and Hatred! Consuming passions, most heated. The Knife, glistening! The Knife, sharp enough to cut the air! The Knife, sharp enough to cut the Life! The Knife, plunging – The Knife, gouging – The Knife, stain-ed. The Life, spent – The Life, wasted – The Life, name-ed.
Named, in that Book of books, that Scroll of scrolls. Recorded, evry one of ’em, the Accursed. Made to spout their slanderous name ‘afore their consumption, they are recorded, and seen, and bequeathed. They are known, and forevermore burn-ed with the passions of Him. They are known, and are forevermore spun in the cyclone of Her.
Their blood soaks those lonely altars; those few and far between standing stones that are known only to Them. Scattered, they are; scattered throughout that World-Desert, which spans the Double-Continent. Mark’d not by their ferrous content, but by that age-old custom, observed by Mighty Empires, by Vital Cults, by the Lively Few; by that age-old custom, which sees the blood of the slanderous and the foolish spilled; by that age-old custom, which sees the bodies of the Enemy and the Other mutilated and objectified.
The bodies! The Bodies! What lust stored up, what belief and what breath! Those bodies, so useless to their previous occupants, and what incredible use to their new Possessors! Actualise that Lust! Actualise that Life! Spill the seed of Existance, and Overflow the coffers of Death! Throw it all away; throw it all into the Pit! Cast the Husk of Life, in all its mockery and all its slight, away from thou, and breathe not its intoxicating humour. Cast it into the Pit, where it might be consum’d and done away with. Cast it with all thy might, cast it such that you might’nt see it again, and needn’t deal with the Fault.
But what is It? What is It, that gives the Wanderers this License? It is! It is! It is, the collection of those most Un-Divine Rhymes, those Anarchical Scripts, those Dividing Lines!
“Our fallen angel vexed
Was banished from the sky
Recite now from the text
Pray for ALL to die.”
Bring about that End, Bring about the ultimate Denial. Bring about the Affirmation of the Death, the terminus of Existence Itself. Bring about the Great Peace, and the Loose Freeing. Cast off this dragging mortal anchor, and embrace the Denial! Embrace the End, and see yourself Annihilated! What could be more comforting than that Velvety Darkness? That Enveloping, that Obfuscating, that defining Absence (Abscess)? Engage it, and, in doing so, Deny it!