Igniting Azazel’s Torch By Feriluc II°

Lit torches are all that illuminate the stone tunnels below the manor. Ten hooded figure transgress through the cold pathways in procession. Masked and robed to ranks each one only focusing on following the other. Only the leader knew where to turn. Behind the tenth is found an eleventh. The eleventh figure, bound and blindfolded, was otherwise bare skin in the dank air. Where the leader and the first two figures walked with surety, each one there after walked with increasing fear respectively, save for the eleventh.
A great hall opens forth from gloom to architectural grandeur. With great archways encircling a centering of the great hall and bowls of fire casting dancing light all around. Into the archways each member of the procession takes to specific position with the leader in the dead center. Bells ring out in echoed choirs as the circle is cast and the robbed are aligned to the Will of the Gods. However, shadows begin to play at the eyes as the opening of the trial is declared.
The one who is bound is pulled forward into the circle by the chains that bind. The blindfold is removed and a malevolent glare is cast around the hall. Charges of blasphemy, sacred oaths broken, and defilement are read in the echoing chamber. All in favor of imprisonment within this dark area sing “Aye!” in unison as predetermined and the jealous leader awaits rebuttal from the guilty.
Within the skull of the bound defiance ignites the tinder of desire. A flash of monstrous forms rising from the deep place and clawing their way to life. The need to dominate these forms descends from the place on high in serene radiance. As the battle ensues a great blacken fire erupts from the war and engulfs all.
The Fire exposes all to the perception of the observer as the sound of chain links snapping echo in the deep. Burning with a terrible radiance a choice is made. The strong one as come. Burning its binding webs with the fires that illuminate from within the initiated stands in defiance. The bowls of fire are snuffed out by shadow one by one.
The sharp tongue of the rebel stabs at the congregation with a bellowing “Nay, I shall not be bound to your Will for I am the only God there is.” The impotent leader falls back and becomes prey as shadow robes the initiated and hungry shades project from the fabric of darkness seeking sustenance.
Terror fills the chamber as the robed in ranks fall to the strong one and his legion. The words of protection offer no comfort or mercy. The initiated burns as bright as the eclipsed sun ascends from the chamber to enter the world. Wielding powers of creation, the forces of destruction, and burning with the passion for life. The Daemon comes in temporal form in the temple of flesh and spirit. The initiate moves in cold isolation with legions to command and the clothing of the void. Into the dawn walks the isolate spirit bearing a light like no other. Reborn in the image of self-creation, the bound dies in the birth of the liberated. The liberated dies in the process of apotheosis into the free God of the Self.


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