The Eternal Party

The fear of the dark. It is but a primordial instinct, a body response from the imminent danger that presents all that feels unknown. An abandoned ruin, a hidden tunnel leading to a place of utter emptiness, the moment you find yourself  lost around dimmed foliage, you tilt your head then you see it, shrouded by the cloak of night. When you gaze upon the obscurity, a chilling sensation traverses through the hoarder of such feelings, it is known how they paralyze, and just like that, they let themselves be persuaded by the panic.

But such as any fear, it is irrational.

Darkness, as mean, as cruel as it might sound, is comparable to the absence of light. Just behind that eerie silence, stepping further through that black that all covers, and which you can only glance at one part at a time. There is room for the unexpected, a place, a friend, a window of opportunity for those wise enough to peek through the curtain that mortalkind, the gods itself purposely put in their way. Life goes around a lot, so it is not crazy to think that by refusing the constructs of mind that your fear creates, you might just be face-to-face with what you were pursuing, all this time.

For it is nothing to fear.

Exactly one of those shady places, that even though it follows all standards to be considered of bad omen, their foundations lie upon a purpose far more enriching, more noble. They shall make themselves be seen, and they will surely find you, but only a few know where to find them, and the answer lies in the far north, deep in the barren, snowy wastelands of Rimeglen.

It is of no importance, no relevance to the amount of tales they may have heard, the statements that stand true, and those who were exaggerated and unscrambled. Once you place your feet inside, once you see what I see, it shall all make sense. Our haven, where the constant buzzling of the lights appear overshadowed by the everlasting gaiety that never reaches the dusk, rooms crafted by dozens of creative minds with immortal time on their hands. Every crossing is a rabbit hole towards someone’s soul, their ideas, their desires, but also their insecurities, the things that upsets them. It is indeed a place where your imagination can run wild.

And they call it, The Meat Circus.

From the deepest halls of the carnival, It is where I rejoice upon their vibrant scenes, an endless visual lexicon. We are able to contemplate around one million colors, yet these walls seem to surpass even the limits of the light spectrum. One should simply accept the chaos that comes from within, and simply enjoy their slice of cake, as they pursue their constant enjoyment of the arts. My case, however, derived greatly, as I could not help but ponder, and ponder I did, from a dilemma that I saw impossible to resolve. 

As much comfort as our canvas provides, it is still surrounded by the harsh reality, a future without hope nor purpose contemplated by The Black Doctrine, and from which every performer, artist, and jester shall devote themselves to it, as The Witch King’s entertainers. What was The Circus, a place so fragile, so small, after the great scheme of things? Yet, of course, I could have simply turned my head around, looked elsewhere, for the show must keep running. But then what would distinguish us from mortals, those who go through their lives without second thought, if I did not care to question mine? An answer might lay somewhere, either behind those curtains when the spectacle is close to its end, or the mere words of the script which I put my effort into memorizing, over and over again.

And so, the response was revealed to me.

It was in those passages where I reached upon a door to one of these worlds. A vision towards a singular landscape reached to my eyesockets, a quiet green field, expanding indefinetly towards the horizon and the display of a cyan blue sky resonating all above it. A flock of birds, seemingly frozen in time, as this was but the perfect encapsulation of such a perfect day. The moment in time where you might lay above its infinite surface, the strands slip through your fingers as you find yourself tiny evermore, but also do your problems, your worries.

A place to inspire peace, where emptiness reigns above all things, yet I found it so vivid. As they stood, far away, but still attainable for my vision, a cattle of jesters in meeting. It was quite hard to observe just one, as they intertwined between each other in an everlasting motion, so the colorful ribbons that guided every single one of them together, towards the pole rising in the middle of it. A majestic dance, the astonishing display of colors, such as everyone might expect from the eternal souls that populate this multicolor realm. As the performance followed its course, one of the jesters began to sing, and so did everyone in a choir, it seems its intervention might have motivated them greatly, to inspire their fellow entertainers evermore. With that, they soon would lead the baton, a self-proclaimed director guiding every movement in choreography. Would this jester raise their arm, they comply. would this jester stomp their feet, they comply. Would this jester turn to themselves, they indeed, complied, from which they would now face each other, seemingly stopping their dance as to stare at their companion for a time longer than I could count. I was just a spectator, but I still could realize the grim feeling among the watchers,  the jovial mood that accompanied everyone that day, devolved into expressions of mad and enraged wrath. 

That. . . is when the real party began.

It was just a matter of time before someone threw the first stone, I was aware of this, yet I did not intervene. You may blame my morbid curiosity, but perhaps, I am simply not fond of interrupting a scene when this unfolds.  Nevertheless, my assumptions became true, the moment the director shoved its gloves into their eyesockets. There was not a scream, nor a complaint, only the bubbling sound of the blood tracing down the grass, some rotten eyeballs now squished far from recognition. The real thing arrived right after, for as if it was all part of the same premeditated symphony, every single one of the jesters indulged into their own personal carnage. Flesh tearing apart, bones crumbling down as to fertilize the grass below, blood channeling into rivers. It was all that would follow.

They laughed.

They chuckled, they chortled and laughed some more. Why wouldn’t they? They were not going anywhere, and even if they did, there would be brush strokes all over The Circus for them to be remembered, that is the way things go, such is the blessing they were offered. And soon enough, there would be no mouths left to laugh, the fields grew quiet again.

As an actor arriving late to an audition, it is that I stepped in, to assess the damage that chaos unraveled. It was not the lifeless corpses what shocked me, but the scenery. Somehow, the plains, the unreachable countryside, it had blossomed into a look no one could have ever thought of. It was the unalived performers, that with every drop, every stain of blood, they had transformed this reality into something different: a rose field. Flowers stretching out to what the imagination cannot reach. Was this such a mere coincidence, or was it all part of their playing? Be that as it may, It was the cause for an instant revelation. The answer that I so profusely seeked.

We are the ones who built this world of fantasy. The ones responsible to keep The Circus alive, for it is a reflection of ourselves, and in the same way, a reflection of the world. We do not live at the expense of  reality, we circle over it, just like a merry-go-round. The Three Truths reveal a life devoid of everything that makes it worth living, yet The Meat Circus found their place, they stated a purpose. Because as long as there are poems to be written, as long as our bodies still respond for a dance, we will always return. 

And I think that is beautiful.

-Calfaxmalis’s Journal. Also known as The Last Laugh of The Witch King.

The Witch Kingdom of Rimeglen

Hazk, and heed this warning now mortals and those who think it wise to fight against The Darkness. The lands of the Rimeglen are hereby now Consecrated in the name of The Black Doctrine. Let the Old Lords witness their successors strive forward, we the heirs of the Lord Malkaathe’s designs shall sing conquest upon our rotting lips.

The Witch Kingdom of Rimeglen has risen from the snow and cold. The Witch King declares that the living who squander the chances of immortal perfection are to be hunted on sight within the bounds of the Dark Kingdom. There will be no quarter given to the realms of the Fragmented Man, for the descendants shall learn what they lost.

To those lost warriors of The Dark, now is your chance to earn your keep. Come forward to the Grim Fortress, The Black Sepulchre, to seek judgement in this new epoch which is destined to rise.

Shadows Strive

Shadows Guide

Radiant is the Black Sun

Dark men chant in lost tombs. They reach beyond the veil into the Wastes and the after lives beyond. Searching for souls lost in the Stream as a fishermen may hook a catch upon their lines.

Salvation is offered to those who are denied the succor of the Golden City.

Those who found rest in realms beyond are lured by false promises of return from bliss or torment both.

Truth Hurts as the Flesh Rots.

Yet the soul must endure.

The Order of the Black Scribes

The Mourning Lords

A Commentary on the Purpose of the Transcended Mortal by Felix Wick as detailed within the Black Doctrines

“I am not flesh. I am the ledger.”

“I am not a soul. I am the vault.”

“I see what was, what is, and what must rot.”

“I forget nothing. I forgive nothing.”

“Let the gods die. Let the world burn.”

“Let all be witnessed. And I, eternal, shall remember.”

The Mourner’s Creed

Pale are the Lords of the Abyss who Mourn the loss of memory to the forgotten halls of time. Once Four Great Masters who cast aside the divine meddling and stole the power of Light and made it pure in Mortal Dark, in their footsteps do the undead of lost Aegis march forward to reclaim a world flawed by hubris of divine gods and imperfected mortal men. Each Knight of Death, each Behemoth of Stone, and each Mage Undying is a fractal of the Primal Truth which defines all men. Each exists in beautiful consort and harmony to achieve the purest form of unity under the banners of the Black Truth if made revealed to it.

The Second Sin of the Divine, when they defiled True Man into perverted amalgamations on what was meant to be, saw the sundering of the Mortal Races into the Remnant Man as laid before us by the Dead Faith of Xion. They not only fragmented Man into Four Races, but had rend out from their very being the Three Strengths which made Man, that of the Vessel, Essence, and Strength.  Forever now are these True States lost to Mortals, never again to be achieved as a singular and unified essence. Yet by the arts now made Dark by the Old Lords can Man be granted a glimpse of what was lost in ancient Aegis.

Thus it is that the Mourning Lords have come to be; those undead who represent the lost ideals of Man and can strive to better it in all things as they are ones to have broken the chains imposed upon them by Iblees and Ariel both. They are Knights, Sentinels, and Sorcerers to whom must advance the agenda of the Black Truth. To them are given the holy task of the Everlasting Jihad to bring Death Perfected to the Maleficar and those Mortals caught in the spiral of the Bright Lie, so they servants of the Defiling Light may be liberated from the wool which clothes their eyes.

The Pale Knights

“Pale is the colour of the soul Transcended”

“Devoid of a Cowl you see a Blank Slate”

“Let it be Parchment to record my Memory”

-Black Doctrine, On the Mourning Lords

Pale Knights are the aspectual power of the Mourning Lords who are servants and brothers both in Transcendence and peers to the Lords so Pale. To them rests the responsibility of the pursuit of Truth and discovery of the Black Doctrine’s deeper secrets beyond the parchment scrolls of flesh and bone. With eternity to perfect themselves do those who are Pale Knight granted the beautiful march to achieve what they could never do as a flawed Remnant Man.

The Death Knight

They are Darkstalkers, reavers to which falls the everlasting crusades. They are legion, for they are Vessels  undying in Virtues Purified through War which shall never end.

The Sorcerer Lich

They are Draugur, the Liches of sorceries arcana and those who are tasked to bring Order to Chaos. To them comes the burden of mastering The Old Dark, subjecting Chaos to the Will of Man.

The Ediolian Monument

They are Edolians, Monuments of Stone, everlasting and enduring. To them comes the burden of the Strength of Men, exemplars of endurance eternal to withstand the oncoming storm waylaid against True Man.

The Pale Lords

“A King with no Throne”

“A Lord of Dust in a Wasteland Empty”

“I alone am the embodiment of Lost Aegis”

“An Eternal Witness, clothed in light by the Black Sun”

-The Black Doctrine, on Pale Lords

Those who have achieved power beyond and respect beyond the Knight Errants of the Mourning Lords, the Lords of the Pale are they who Transcend the Transcended. Masters of Bone and Soul; they are Monarchs of Death among their knightly brothers, positioned to lead them by merit of their experience and prestige. To be a Pale Lord is to be burdened with responsibility, not power. To them lies the purpose to mourn what was forever lost, and strive for revenge upon the blasphemy of the Light for stripping away the purity which True Man once possessed. They are reflected and refracted upon each other, one a representation of the Vessel which is, the other the Essence of The Undying Witness as he is, was, and shall be.

Lords of Bone

They are Necromancers Ascended. Masters of death given transcended form. They are Lords of the Grave, and they shall forever be reborn as pure vessels of the Undying Witness.

Lords of Soul

They are Mystics Ascended. Masters of the soul given transcended form. They are Lords of the Barrows, amalgamations of essence brought closer to the Undying Witness.

The Black Truth

Writings on the Dark Truth of the Black Doctrine, by Black Scribe Felix Wick

All can lie, but what happens when a lie is revealed for the Sin that it is? Is the victim of the lie left with a hollow feeling empty? Is their reality sundered irrevocably? Or do they come to accept the Lie as a Lie and live in its ignorance only because the opposite is too terrible to rationalize?

This is the terrible reality that Truth reveals, to show us the misery of Three Truths which through its collective trinity of sorrow of these black wounds does one bleed the Lie from the soul.

One Truth Denies Life.

ˎ⸜ᛁ ⸍◟╮ו ⸍ᛁ⸜ᛁᛁ╵ ⸌ᛁᛙᛁ

One Truth Denies Death.

ˎ⸜ᛁ ⸍◟╮ו ⸍ᛁ⸜ᛁᛁ╵ ⸍⸝ו

One Truth Immortalizes Victory.

ˎ⸜ᛁ ⸍◟╮ו ᛁ⠃⠃ˎ◟⸍⸝⸌ᛁ╵ᛁ╵ ╮ᛁᛍ⸍ˎ◟ᛁ
Truth is Eternal to Witness Me.

ިᛁᛍˎ⠃ᛁ ᛁ⸍ᛁ◟⸜⸝⸌ ⸍ˎ ╮ᛁ⸍⸜ᛁ╵╵ ⠃ᛁ

Pale Prophecies

Truth does not promise hope. It is not meant to promise comfort, nor will it show mercy in its revelation. Instead it promises to show reality for what it is; broken by both Gods and Descendents for hubris in thinking they hold the sole right to play Dominion over the creations of The One. It is Truth that no one can rule absolutely, and Truth demands total submission to its workings for the sake of granting everlasting life through death.

The Truth of Flesh

Flesh Born of a Mother’s Womb.

ᛙ⸌ᛁ╵ᚽ ިˎ◟⸜ ˎᛙ ⸝ ⠃ˎוᛁ╵ ╮ˎ⠃ި

Beauty scorned and fades to dust.

ި⸝╮⸍ᛁ ╵ᛍˎ◟⸜ᛁ⸍ ⸝⸜⸍ ᛙ⸝⸍ᛁ╵ ⸍ˎ ⸍╮╵⸍

My heart aches within my breast.

⠃ᛁ ᚽ⸝◟⸍ ⸝ᛍᚽᛁ╵ ╮ᛁוᛁ⸜ ⠃ᛁ ި◟⸝╵⸍

My blood shall weep so the soul may rest.

⠃ᛁ ި⸌ˎˎ⸍ ╵ᚽ⸝⸌⸌ ╮ᛁᛁި ╵ˎ וᛁ ╵ˎ╮⸌ ⠃⸝ᛁ ◟ᛁ╵⸍

Black Doctrine

The body we live in is a vessel for our true self, that is the soul. Blood and Bone are naught but puppets to which our true divine essence lives within so it may interact with the creations of The One. Flesh is as much of a prison as it is an opportunity and a means to conceal the soul from the greater threat of the AengulDaemonica that would seek to consume the soul. It is thus realized that the only way to perfect Flesh is to entrap it within a state between when it thrives and when it dies. Undeath is liberation, acceptance of the fallacy of the living blood to one of everlasting memory.

It is here within stasis that the other Truths can be obtained thusly. Escape from one purgatory to a world that can never change save by the hand now the Arisen itself. What is life to the lifeless? What is Death to the Deathless? The answer is the same: everlasting eternity caught in the Black Shadow of Truth to which the Brightest Lies can no longer pierce.

The Truth of Memory

History is a measure of stories.

ᚽᛁ╵⸍ˎ◟ᛁ ᛁ╵ ⸝ ⠃⸝╵╮◟ᛁ ˎᛙ ╵⸍ˎ◟ᛁᛁ╵

Celebrated by the Victor,

ᛍᛁ⸌ᛁި◟⸝⸍ᛁ⸍ ިᛁ וᛁ ╮ᛁᛍ⸍ˎ◟

Mourned by the Vanquished.

⠃ˎ╮◟⸜ᛁ⸍ ިᛁ וᛁ ╮⸝⸜ᛍ╮ᛁ╵ᚽᛁ⸍

Both hide behind glory and myth.

ˎו ᚽᛁ⸍ᛁ ިᛁᚽᛁ⸜⸍ ᛍ⸌ˎ◟ᛁ ⸝⸜⸍ ⠃ᛁו

Undying does Memory remain unchanged.

╮⸜⸍ᛁᛁŊ ⸍ˎᛁ╵ ⠃ᛁ⠃ˎ◟ᛁ ◟ᛁ⠃⸝ᛁ⸜ ╮⸜ᛍᚽ⸝Ŋᛁ⸍

Black Doctrine

Our minds are as much a part of the soul as the soul is the mind. One gives the other purpose, one gives the other meaning. Memory is the food to which both find nourishment to grow. Yet so often do mortal minds, stuck in the fallacy of the Bright Lie come to twist what truly occurs or curse it in measures of hatred. History is said to be written by the victorious, yet when the victorious use history to justify their crimes, has the memory truly been kept?

Only the Undying can one see how life began and ends. Being removed from the cycle, the arisen must look at history with all of its blemishes and know that what occurred had occurred, for no moral mouth can alter the flow of time. There is no honour in recalling the past. There is no joy with it either. Only the everlasting toil to record, recall, and remember remain. Only in death does a story end.

The Truth of Divinity

Guardians of Creation.

ᛍ╮⸝◟⸍ˎ⸜╵ ˎᛙ ᛍ◟⸝⸍Ö⸜

Twisting they define Order.

⸍╮ᛁ╵⸍ᛁŊ וᛁᛁ ⸍ᛁᛙᛁ⸜ᛁ ˎ◟⸍ᛁ⡄

Iron willed they breed Chaos.

ᛁ◟ˎ⸜ ╮ᛁ⸌⸌ᛁ⸍ וᛁᛁ ި◟ᛁᛁ⸍ ᛍᚽ⸝ˎ╵

Eternal is Time,

ᛁ⸍ᛁ◟⸜⸝⸌ ᛁ╵ ⸍ᛁ⠃ᛁ

Undying is the Witness.

╮⸜⸍ᛁᛁŊ ᛁ╵ וᛁ ╮ᛁ⸍⸜ᛁ╵╵

Black Doctrine

Custodians turned into pilferers of divine treasure, those which we dub the AengulDaemonica are they who partook in the First Sin of creation. They trampled upon creation, perverting men with short lives and a false heaven. Dwarfs with a false resilience and insatiable greed. Elves with long lives but barren fields. Orcs with fallacious strength and murderous minds. Some of these divine guardians promised Order, yet were devoured. Some promise courage, yet send good men to death. Some have sinned so utterly that The One himself exhumed His will from his everlasting stasis to smite the Sinner for his crime. Iblees cursed Descendent Kind, and Ariel gave them false hope.

These grand beings take their power and make sport of our world. Plucking at the strands which hold it together, they bend and shape reality to serve their own ultimate purpose: the collection of the Essence of The One to feed their ever growing hunger which never ends. Yet they cannot stand against Truth, for to Witness their crimes is to understand the fundamental disconnect between Mortals and Immortals; they are editors, and we are what is written. Only when Man becomes unchanging like The One are we capable of persevering without the meddling of their changes. They abandoned the Undying simply because those caught between life and death are no longer bound by their script, and thus they seek to excise such a tumour from the body despite the inverse of their true nature and the nature of Descendent Kind.

Every Light must cast a Shadow, yet Shadows need not light to exist. Thus does the Bright lie attempt to drown the Truth by smothering it wholesale. Yet what all forget is that the brighter the light, the darker the shadow it shall cast. Thus do those who would reject the Bright Lie find comfort in the cloak of darkness they must wrap themselves within. Thus the Three Truths exist to remind us what we stand to gain in the rejection of the Bright Lie, a fabrication which never existed in the first place. Cloth yourself in flesh that lives, only to watch it rot away. Rewrite your history to better suit your needs, but know you change nothing. Bask in the radiance of Divine Light, only for you to walk willingly into a grasping maw.

The Bright Lie

⸍ᚽᛁ ި◟ᛁᛍᚽ⸍ ⸌ᛁᛁ

A Treatise about the Truth of the Lie by the Black Scribe, Felix Wick

“What does it mean to lie?

╮ᚽ⸝⸍ ⸍ˎᛁ╵ ᛁ⸍ ⠃⸝⸜ ⸍ˎ ⸌ᛁᛁ

It means to deceive.

ᛁ⸍ ⠃⸝⸜╵ ⸍ˎ ⸍ᛁᛍᛁᛁ╮ᛁ

To fool another.

⸍ˎ ᛙˎˎ⸌ ⸝⸜ˎוᛁ⡄

To obscure reality.”

⸍ˎ ᚽᛁ⸍ᛁ ◟⸝⸌ᛁ⸍ᛁ 

The Black Doctrine

All beings are capable of lying as easily as they breathe, for they flow forward out from the mouth as one might speak a greeting. Yet how does one come to lie in such an utterly debased manner as to fool an entire civilization, the greater civilization? Who is even capable of such blasphemy as to bring up entire peoples to fight and squat and feed and die upon a lie, clinging to it for the false warmth that it offers when the truth is cold and harsh and starves and stands?

Those who would invert the lie to their own twisted truth and the truth to a twisted lie. The Lie is a shell to which glows akin to an egg that appears to offer all one needs; yet under it is only a poison which slowly kills. The Lie is what starves the common herd. The Lie is what weakens them to shriveled husks. The Lie lies, and it is none other than those who shine with the brightest light in the offering of warmth that do so. The Aengul, the Daemon, and those wicked parasites which fester as spirits and demons both in the bounds of hell. It is said by many that it was Iblees who conducted the greatest Betrayal to both those that claim to be Gods and the Four Brothers alike, but he is just one of many who with needle and thread, knitting the cloth of wool which mortal kind willingly wrapped around their eyes, a tapestry of what is not to replace what truly is. His strife was merely the catalyst of suffering to which now all of the Conceptual Thought Things which feed on our souls now sing in twisted consort. There lies the instruments which sing songs of false triumph that soothes ignorant descendants into dependency.

“The One is not dead.

⸍ᚽᛁ ˎ⸜ᛁ ᛁ╵ ⸜ˎ⸍ ⸍⸝⸍

The One does not live.

⸍ᚽᛁ ˎ⸜ᛁ ⸍ˎᛁ╵ ⸜ˎ⸍ ⸌ᛁ╮ᛁ

Yet He bids for both at once”

ᛁᛁ⸍ ᛍ⸝⸜ ᚽᛁ ިᛁ⸍╵ ᛙˎ◟ ިˎו ⸝⸍ ˎ⸜ᛍᛁ

The Pale Prophies

Though why do they lie? To keep mortal kind docile of course. False dogmas, wicked faiths, and ideologies spur these creatures of ironic faithlessness so that they may sup upon the souls of the slain and grow fat upon the labors of the good mortal. It is no wonder that they fear the Truth; the constant; the supreme exacting law to which the husk of our world is a spawn of and lingers beneath the very skin upon which we walk. To what end does their treachery travel to? To one deep and most foul. The Gods indeed had meant to protect Mortal Kind by the command of the first Eternal Witness. To indeed shepherd His creations, and to help them rise to that of equals with them in beautiful consort in the heavens. Yet the Greater Intelligences of the soul realms had discovered to the hidden horror of many that an easier and more satisfiable change to their charge could be made; one of Sin. One of Gluttony.

The Great Sin is the Bight Lie. The AenguleDaemonic, His wayward spawn partake in the ravenous joy of feasting on His truest of flesh, content to grow fat off the hard works of the Decedents which are grown as a famer would grow wheat. in his field. Pitting them against each other in never ending wars of Faith and Gods so that they may drown in fanatic ignorance. Never though can the hunger that are these Thought-Things of soul matter which linger in the Light be satisfied, and ever do they gnaw upon the lesser, those that are beneath them simply because they are capable of editing the world as to ensure that their prey remains docile, like cattle lined up for the slaughter. It is a tragedy that those who The One had supposedly deemed His custodians abuse this power. It is only when the Light is lost can Truth be found, for in the shadows of this cold un-light can the horror of existence be seen.

In the Dark, when the warmth of light no longer shines can Truth be understood and appreciated. The touch of this brief Oblivion is what living truly means, for how can one live if they have not died, or died if they have not lived? To exist in between is to understand that no longer can your fate be taken from you, now it is forever trapped in between what the gods would call its fated destiny. That is not evil. That is truly good. When one rejects the need for the Divine. When one gasps Destiny away from their twisting machinations. When one accepts that all things must decay. Then does enlightenment come forth in soft whispers that promise not comfort to coddle or try to spark some zealous religiosity to inspire. It whispers that simply that your salvation must be taken into your own hands.

And into the hands of Undeath is the saved soul called as the Mourning Lords had found in the cusps of the Abyss, and then truly can one say in defiance most grim but beautiful "I HAVE BEEN SAVED!"

“Reject the editing of falsities.

◟ᛁᛁᛁᛍ⸍ וᛁ ᛁ⸍ᛁ⸍ᛁŊ ˎᛙ ᛙ⸝⸌╵ᛁ⸍ᛁᛁ╵
Deny the hope they bring forth.

⸍ᛁ⸜ᛁ וᛁ ᚽˎިᛁ וᛁᛁ ި◟ᛁŊ ᛙˎ◟ו

Embrace the universal foundation.

ᛁ⠃ި◟⸝ᛍᛁ וᛁ ╮⸜ᛁ╮ᛁ◟╵⸝⸌ ᛙˎ╮⸜⸍⸝⸍Ö

Flesh Rots. Gods Lie. The Dead Remember.”

ᛙ⸌ᛁ╵ᚽ ◟ˎ⸍╵×ᛍˎ⸍╵ ⸌ᛁᛁ×⸍ᚽᛁ ⸍⸝⸍ ◟ᛁ⠃ᛁ⠃ިᛁ⡄

The Black Doctrine

The Black Trials

⸍ᚽᛁ ި⸌⸝ᛍᛍ ⸍◟╮ו ╵ᚽᛁ⸜ᛁ╵ ˎ⸜ וˎ╵ᛁ ╮ᚽˎ ᛍ◟⸝╵ި ᛁ⸍

“Three Truths

⸍ᚽ◟ᛁᛁ ⸍◟╮ו╵

Three Chants

⸍ᚽ◟ᛁᛁ ᛍᚽ⸝⸜⸍╵

Threefold is the dance

⸍ᚽ◟ᛁᛁᛙˎ⸌⸍ ᛁ╵ וᛁ ⸍⸝⸜ᛍᛁ

Life, Death, and Eternity“

⸌ᛁᛙᛁ, ⸍⸝ו, ⸝⸜⸍ ᛁ⸍ᛁ◟⸜ᛁ⸍ᛁ

The Black Doctrine

The Black Scribes are an order which prides itself upon its ability to coax understanding from those who would seek to follow it. To them, the Black Doctrine is life and death; something to strive for. To this end, modern followers of the Black Doctrine have come forward with tests referred to in their shadowy crypts as The Black Trials; a profession of all that acolytes need to show and have in order to join the brotherhood of the Black Scribes.

Those who undertake the trials are referred to as Acolytes; Brothers to be in the Order of the Scribes that must reach forward with grasping hands- living or dead- to conjoin the Truths within the core of their being. Each trial given to the Acolyte is unique to the aspirant, for the Black Scribes believe that the interpretation of the  Black Truth is a deeply personal thing; with interpretations that vary considered to be a strength, rather than a weakness. To ensure that all trials are met with the fairness that comes with eternity of study; three Black Scribes are summoned forth to oversee the trials of the Acolyte; with one of the judges often being the direct overseer to the study of the aspects which must be mastered- although this is not always the case.

The Trial of Knowledge

“I am a Witness

ᛁ ⸝⠃ ⸝ ╮ᛁ⸍⸜ᛁ╵╵

A Witness to The One

⸝ ╮ᛁ⸍⸜ᛁ╵╵ ⸍ˎ ⸍ᚽᛁ ˎ⸜ᛁ

The One shall Witness me”

⸍ᚽᛁ ˎ⸜ᛁ ╵ᚽ⸝⸌⸌ ╮ᛁ⸍⸜ᛁ╵╵ ⠃ᛁ

The Black Doctrine

╮ᚽᛁ⸜ ⸍⸝╮⸜ ⸍ᛁᛁ╵, ⸝⸜ ᛁᛁᛁ ╵ᚽ⸝⸌⸌ ˎިᛁ⸜ ᛁ⸜ וᛁ ⸝ިᛁ╵╵. ⸝⸌⸌ ⸌ᛁᛁ╵ ╮ᛁ⸌⸌ ި╮◟⸜ ᛁ⸜ ᛁ⸍╵ ᛍ⸝╵ᛁ.

The Trial of Faith

“The Bright Lie casts a Shadow

⸍ᚽᛁ ި◟ᛁᛍᚽ⸍ ⸌ᛁᛁ ᛍ⸝╵⸍╵ ⸝ ╵ᚽ⸝⸍ˎ╮

The shadow coils me in Darkness

⸍ᚽᛁ ╵ᚽ⸝⸍ˎ╮ ᛍˎᛁ⸌╵ ⠃ᛁ ᛁ⸜ ⸍⸝◟ᛍ⸜ᛁ╵╵

Within the Shadows of the Lie do I find Truth”

╮ᛁוᛁ⸜ וᛁ ╵ᚽ⸝⸍ˎ╮╵ ˎᛙ וᛁ ⸌ᛁᛁ ⸍ˎ ᛁ ᛙᛁ⸜⸍ ⸍◟╮

The Black Doctrine

╮ᚽᛁ⸜ ⸍⸝╮⸜ ⸍ᛁᛁ╵, ⸝⸜ ᛁᛁᛁ ╵ᚽ⸝⸌⸌ ˎިᛁ⸜ ᛁ⸜ וᛁ ⸝ިᛁ╵╵. ⸝⸌⸌ ⸌ᛁᛁ╵ ╮ᛁ⸌⸌ ި╮◟⸜ ᛁ⸜ ᛁ⸍╵ ᛍ⸝╵ᛁ.

The Trial of Sacrifice

“In the Ashes I find Nothing

ᛁ⸜ וᛁ ⸝╵ᚽᛁ╵ ᛁ ᛙᛁ⸜⸍ ⸜ˎוᛁ

In Silence do I Mourn

ᛁ⸜ ╵ᛁ⸌ᛁ⸜ᛍᛁ ⸍ˎ ᛁ ⠃ˎ╮◟⸜

Yet in both I Remember”

ᛁᛁ⸍ ᛁ⸜ ިˎו ᛁ ◟ᛁ⠃ᛁ⠃ިᛁ⡄

The Black Doctrine

The final and most serious of all the Black trials - that of Sacrifice. To become a Black Scribe isn’t to just be of rejection of the Bright Lie, nor express one's knowledge on the meaning of the Black Doctrines; but to fully dedicate one to the shadows which coil around the heart of the blasphemies these wicked heretics to the world profess. Thus the Acolyte is called forth to give up something that would forever damn them onto the path as a Black Scribe. It is at this final trial that Acolytes often fail; for the demands of the Black Scribes to elevate an Acolyte to their Dark Brotherhood is both deep and extreme. Failure to bring forth a suitable sacrifice which is determined by the Acolyte themselves or the three Brothers overseeing the trial, can result in exile from the conclave or even execution should the sacrifice be deemed one to be insulting to the ideals of the Black Truth.

╮ᚽᛁ⸜ ⸍⸝╮⸜ ⸍ᛁᛁ╵, ⸝⸜ ᛁᛁᛁ ╵ᚽ⸝⸌⸌ ˎިᛁ⸜ ᛁ⸜ וᛁ ⸝ިᛁ╵╵. ⸝⸌⸌ ⸌ᛁᛁ╵ ╮ᛁ⸌⸌ ި╮◟⸜ ᛁ⸜ ᛁ⸍╵ ᛍ⸝╵ᛁ.

Success or Failure

Should an Acolyte succeed in all three trials; a ritual ceremony is given, often through the Trial of Sacrifice, to anoint the Acolyte in a substance referred to as ‘The Blood of the Abyss’; a ritual brew made up of Life Force, Ectoplasm, and other narcotics to induce a state of sublime euphoria and dreams. The Brotherhood believes that during this state, the Acolyte’s soul is washed clean of the remaining Shine of the Bright Light; in where once they awaken from this epileptic dream, the Brother is smothered by the darkness and truly reborn; now a fully fledged Brother of the Order of Black Scribes. No longer a student serving masters; but an equal among peers who welcome the newly arisen with open arms and whatever grim joy can be felt by those who subject themselves to the darkest pits of knowledge.

Failure however is seen as a mere route on the many paths and Acolyte might walk; and often results in death. The Brotherhood mourns the failed Acolyte in equal measure as they would rejoice in their success; but failure is not the end of the road for this lost soul. Often the brotherhood makes use of failed Acolytes as beloved servants, raised as Ghouls to work within the Order to a lesser capacity; and eventually to be given a second chance at rising into the ranks of the brotherhood as one of the Ascended Undead; either as a Dark Scholar, Eternal Scheneshal, or truly join as a Brother-Scribe again should they prove worthy in the service they owe; now made Eternal and Everlastingly beautiful through undeath.

Black Doctrine

ި⸌⸝ᛍᛍ ⸍ˎᛍ⸍◟ᛁ⸜ᛁ

“What is the highest purpose of existence?”

 “Not to rule. Not to rage. But to see. To gather each truth before time devours it.”

 “The living are loud with longing-rushing, clawing, fearing the silence between moments.”

 “Through undeath, I do not escape life, I perfect my place within it.”

 “And when all has fallen silent. I will remain. Watching. Remembering.”

 “For that is what I was always meant to be.”

 “The Eternal Witness.”

The Damned’s Creed

In the lost records of The Black Scribes, Aegis is not remembered as a paradise, nor a promised land but as the First Wound.

Where the world sees the Abyss as a pit of darkness, the Damned see it as a haven which is a broken, cursed, and truth-soaked place.

The Damned call the Abyss the Black Truth - a wound in the world indeed, but also a sacred vault, where unspoken truths still fester.

“All things forgotten fall into the Abyss.”     “All names burned, all cities devoured, all lives erased.”     “ They do not vanish. They descend.”   The Pale Prophecies

ᛁ⸜ ╵ᛁ⸌ᛁ⸜ᛍᛁ וᛁ ᛙ╮⸍╮◟ᛁ ╵⸍ᛁ◟╵. ᛁ⸜ ⠃ˎˎ⸜⸌ᛁ╵╵ ⸜ᛁᛍᚽ⸍╵ ᛁ⸍ ╮ᚽᛁ╵ިᛁ◟╵. ⸍ᚽˎ╵ᛁ ╮ᛁו ⸝◟╵ ˎᛙ ⸝╵ᚽ ╵ᚽ⸝⸌⸌ ᚽ⸝◟

The world is addicted to the Bright Lie. That the world is good. That life has a purpose which gods guide. But those are the lullabies whispered to keep mortals docile until the time comes and all their comforts are swallowed.

The Black Truth has three wounds, each deeper than the last.

The first is the Truth of Flesh - that the body is not you. It is rot given voice. It betrays you from the moment it breathes. Flesh decays. Organs fail. Beauty withers. All joy in flesh is borrowed. You are not your blood. You are what your blood remembers.

╮ᚽᛁ⸜ ⸍⸝╮⸜ ⸍ᛁᛁ╵, ⸝⸜ ᛁᛁᛁ ╵ᚽ⸝⸌⸌ ˎިᛁ⸜ ᛁ⸜ וᛁ ⸝ިᛁ╵╵. ⸝⸌⸌ ⸌ᛁᛁ╵ ╮ᛁ⸌⸌ ި╮◟⸜ ᛁ⸜ ᛁ⸍╵ ᛍ⸝╵ᛁ.

The second is the Truth of Memory - that history is built of lies. Nations chisel their sins from the stone of time. Kings rewrite failure into glory. Heroes are just murderers with better songs. The Damned remember the unclean version - the one buried under a thousand censored scrolls. We do not honor the past. We exhume it.

╮ᚽᛁ⸜ ᚽᛁ ˎިᛁ⸜╵ ᚽᛁ╵ ᛁᛁᛁ╵, ⸍ᚽᛁ ᛙᛁ◟╵⸍ ⸜⸝⠃ᛁ ╮ᛁ⸌⸌ ިᛁ ╵ިˎᛍᛁ⸜. ⸍ᚽᛁ⸜, וᛁ ╮ˎ◟⸌⸍ ╵ᚽ⸝⸌⸌ ◟ᛁ⠃ᛁ⠃ިᛁ◟ ᛁ⸍╵ᛁ⸌ᛙ

The third, and final, is the Truth of Divinity - that the gods are not guardians of order. They are hoarders of narrative. They silence what shames them. They abandon those who remember too clearly. They fear witnesses more than they fear blasphemy.

“When the final bell tolls and the sky is torn in half,”    “When the dead outnumber the stars, When all tongues fall silent but ours”    “Then shall the Damned rise in robes of ash and ink. The Mourning Lords will chant. The Pale Choir will sing.”    “And the Undying Witness shall open their eyes. They shall speak the First Name, and the world shall remember itself. Not with joy. Not with peace. But with truth.”  The Pale Prophecies

Mortals are taught to pray in desperation, to beg the divine to mend what they themselves cannot. But each answered prayer is a shackle. Each miracle comes with a price.

“Aenguls fear corruption.

Daemons fear order.

But both fear time.”

The Witness will not raise armies, nor cast judgment. He will reveal. With a single utterance of the First Name, the Primal Truth which shapes the illusion of the world will collapse, and all will see the tapestry of lies for what it is. But who is The Eternal Witness? It is not merely title each being should starve to become but the essence of the being which might be of memory, the patron of forgotten pain, the cold flame in the ruins of a holy lie. And in the end, when the final bell tolls, when tongues fall silent and the sky splits in half, it is not gods who shall speak but the Witness. Undying Witness is not one but rather those who reach the highest state of understanding.

“He is the truth that survives fire.”   “He is the memory that resists oblivion.”   “He is what cannot be rewritten.”   “He is the last voice that speaks when all others fall silent.” The Pale Prophecies

The Black Scribes are not mere historians. They are exhumers of forbidden memory, scholars of rot and ink, heretics who serve not gods, but Black Truth. They are the original custodians of the Black Doctrine, the first to reject the divine lie and choose remembrance over reverence.

⠃⸝ᛍᛁ ◟⸝⸍ᛁ וᛁ ╮ᛁ⸍⸜ᛁ╵╵ᛁ╵. ⸍ᚽᛁ ި◟ᛁᛍᚽ⸍ ⸌ᛁᛁ ᛙ⸝⸌⸍ᛁ◟╵, ⸝⸜⸍ ᛁ⸍╵ ި⸝⸌ᛁᛙ╮⸌ ᛁᛍᚽˎ ╵ᚽ⸝⸌⸌ ިᛁ ᛁᛍ╵⸍ᛁŊ╮ᛁ╵ᚽᛁ⸍

“In the eyes of the world, they are madmen, necromancers, and apostates.”

“In the eyes of the Abyss, they are disciples of clarity.”

“They are those who write in ash, bleed into parchment, and preserve that which the gods have tried to erase.”

The Black Scripture

╮ᚽᛁ⸜ ᚽᛁ ˎިᛁ⸜╵ ᚽᛁ╵ ᛁᛁᛁ╵, ⸍ᚽᛁ ᛙᛁ◟╵⸍ ⸜⸝⠃ᛁ ╮ᛁ⸌⸌ ިᛁ ╵ިˎᛍᛁ⸜. ⸍ᚽᛁ⸜, וᛁ ╮ˎ◟⸌⸍ ╵ᚽ⸝⸌⸌ ◟ᛁ⠃ᛁ⠃ިᛁ◟ ᛁ⸍╵ᛁ⸌ᛙ

The Black Scribes first emerged in the aftermath of Aegis fall, during the bleak exodus of the Descendants. Where others wept or rebuilt, the Scribes descended spiritually into the grasp of Black Truth. They revere the Three Wounds as the only way of existence. Though often loose and decentralized, The Black Scribes hold a sacred structure built not on titles of power, but on roles of purpose. The most devoted Scribes are named The Pale Choir. They are the echoes of unspoken truths, and the heralds of the Undying Witness’s awakening.

“I am not flesh. I am the ledger.” “I am not a soul. I am the vault.” “I see what was, what is, and what must rot.” “I forget nothing. I forgive nothing.” “Let the gods die. Let the world burn.” “Let all be witnessed. And I, eternal, shall remember.” The Mourner’s Creed

The Mourning Lords are the ascended undead of the Abyss, a caste of sapient, solemn death-knights and undead mages who have surrendered not only life, but identity, in service to the Undying Witness and the Black Truth. Where others seek to escape death, the Mourning Lords embrace undeath as a sacred burden - a second life not of complete domination, but of devotion.

⠃⸝ᛍᛁ ◟⸝⸍ᛁ וᛁ ╮ᛁ⸍⸜ᛁ╵╵ᛁ╵. ⸍ᚽᛁ ި◟ᛁᛍᚽ⸍ ⸌ᛁᛁ ᛙ⸝⸌⸍ᛁ◟╵, ⸝⸜⸍ ᛁ⸍╵ ި⸝⸌ᛁᛙ╮⸌ ᛁᛍᚽˎ ╵ᚽ⸝⸌⸌ ިᛁ ᛁᛍ╵⸍ᛁŊ╮ᛁ╵ᚽᛁ⸍

Chants of the Mourning Lords

“Ash to ash, lie to dust.

⸝╵ᚽ ⸍ˎ ⸝╵ᚽ, ⸌ᛁᛁ ⸍ˎ ⸍╮╵⸍

Bone to blade, truth to rust.

ިˎ⸜ᛁ ⸍ˎ ި⸌⸝⸍ᛁ, ⸍◟╮ו ⸍ˎ ◟╮╵⸍.

Bright lies fail, faith is torn.

ި◟ᛁᛍᚽ⸍ ⸌ᛁᛁ╵ ᛙ⸝ᛁ⸌, ᛙ⸝ᛁו ᛁ╵ ⸍ˎ◟⸜

Let them see the world reborn.”

⸌ᛁ⸍ וᛁ⠃ ╵ᛁᛁ וᛁ ╮ˎ◟⸌⸍ ◟ᛁިˎ◟⸜

Chant of ruin

“I surrender my name.

ᛁ ╵╮◟◟ᛁ⸜⸍ᛁ◟ ⠃ᛁ ⸜⸝⠃ᛁ.

I silence joy.

ᛁ ╵ᛁ⸌ᛁ⸜ᛍᛁ ᛁˎᛁ

I wear no face but mourning.

ᛁ ╮⸝◟ ⸜ˎ ᛙ⸝ᛍᛁ ި╮⸍ ⠃ˎ╮◟⸜ᛁŊ

I speak only that which was erased.”

ᛁ ╵ި⸝ᛍ ˎ⸜⸌ᛁ ו⸝⸍ ╮ᚽᛁᛍᚽ ╮⸝╵ ᛁ◟⸝╵ᛁ⸍

Chant of Mourning Vow

Wake not for vengeance.

╮⸝ᛍᛁ ⸜ˎ⸍ ᛙˎ◟ ╮ᛁŊ⸝⸜ᛍᛁ

Wake not for glory.

╮⸝ᛍᛁ ⸜ˎ⸍ ᛙˎ◟ ᛍ⸌ˎ◟ᛁ

Wake to see.

╮⸝ᛍᛁ ⸍ˎ ╵ᛁᛁ

Wake to remember.”

╮⸝ᛍᛁ ⸍ˎ ◟ᛁ⠃ᛁ⠃ިᛁ⡄

Chant of Awakening

ᛁ⸜ ╵ᛁ⸌ᛁ⸜ᛍᛁ וᛁ ᛙ╮⸍╮◟ᛁ ╵⸍ᛁ◟╵. ᛁ⸜ ⠃ˎˎ⸜⸌ᛁ╵╵ ⸜ᛁᛍᚽ⸍╵ ᛁ⸍ ╮ᚽᛁ╵ިᛁ◟╵. ⸍ᚽˎ╵ᛁ ╮ᛁו ⸝◟╵ ˎᛙ ⸝╵ᚽ ╵ᚽ⸝⸌⸌ ᚽ⸝◟

The Pale Prophecies are a collection of whispers scratched into bone, inked in ash and passed in secret among the Damned, The Black Scribes, and those who dwell at the margins of memory. They are not wholly human in origin, nor divine. Some say they sprung from the first moment the Abyss opened; others believe they were foretold by the Undying Witness itself before he fell into ruin and took the Throne of the Dark. These Prophecies do not offer comfort. They do not promise triumph, glory, or reward. They promise seeing. Remembering and Revelation. They are not good news for the bright‑hearted or the faithful. They belong to the broken, the exiled, the forgotten. At the heart, The Pale Prophecies are a counter‑myth to the Bright Lie. They undermine the assumption that the gods are protectors, that life has meaning under divine narrative.

╮ᚽᛁ⸜ ᚽᛁ ˎިᛁ⸜╵ ᚽᛁ╵ ᛁᛁᛁ╵, ⸍ᚽᛁ ᛙᛁ◟╵⸍ ⸜⸝⠃ᛁ ╮ᛁ⸌⸌ ިᛁ ╵ިˎᛍᛁ⸜. ⸍ᚽᛁ⸜, וᛁ ╮ˎ◟⸌⸍ ╵ᚽ⸝⸌⸌ ◟ᛁ⠃ᛁ⠃ިᛁ◟ ᛁ⸍╵ᛁ⸌ᛙ