schizopost DEATH TO HERESIARCHS

[framalam 837]

 

WRITINGS TO THE GAOLER’S WOE

 

May my birds flutter, and my words fly with them. Now, and only now, do I speak to the world as I please, and never hear a response. All I hear is the pitter of the dew off the lichen, and all I can yearn for is the freedom, and to bask in the sun once more. Truly, I have become a man devoted purely, and entirely, to my own thoughts, and yet never have I felt closer to the Lord GOD.

 

For all my sins, for all my heresy, there is but one thought coursing through my atrophied frame: crusade, penance. I proposed once, to take my eyes in response to the countless I had insulted in my youth. The merciful Sister Clover found it unnecessary, found it only apt that I write my penance in words. But words are words. Devotion, and by extension, heresy, is not seen through words - it is seen through action.

 

As brutal as my chains are on my ankle, as rusty as the iron grows with the blood it scratches off my heel, there is no greater cruelty than to deny a man his faith. The criminal, the naysayer, the nonbeliever, the heathen: all faithful may repent and ascend to the Skies through service to GOD.

 

Devoid of my texts, I scribble of my own memory of the Holy Scrolls bestowed upon us by the Lord GOD, his sons, and his son’s sons after Him. I trust they have not been perverted by my Sin. I pray that they have not been.

 

POENITENTIA

Left to only your memories, the life you had before you, and the walls of your cells, there is little more to do than dwell. And dwell I do. Only through moderation, led by faith, does the Lord GOD keep me from falling into madness and insanity. I am reminded of the mercy shown to me, the tongue, the fingers, and the head I keep on me. I am reminded, aptly, too, of the injustice placed upon me. No crimes have I committed against GOD or man. It was the charge of two women, neither servants of the Lord GOD or His Mother Church, who imprisoned me for a most heinous, Unholy crime.

 

And yet, it is not to them that I grow hateful toward. Hermitage is a most virtuous self-seclusion, and in this sense, it has only been bestowed upon me by the unfaithful. The Saulican, who cries heresy, and does not think on their words, who does not allow them to be challenged. But, through the Saulican, there is challenge. Challenge to see them to reason. This journey is arduous, but it is a journey terminable all the same. You must approach all heretics, all Saulicans, all naysayers, first with modesty. You know no better than them. GOD, knows no better than them. GOD is humble, for there is no man, no thing, no conceivable concept that is greater than Him. He is everything greater, and thus he has nothing to boast of, for there is nothing to boast to.

 

You must drive the Saulican to see their own flaws in logic. To see the flaw in Sin. To show an idiot he is an idiot, and call him one, you only condemn yourself to be hit over the head by his rock. You will explore their Sin alongside your own, for in all Man is there Sin. And together, you will find the only truth, the absolute truth. You will find GOD in your very words, and you will live ever closer in imitation to the Exalted, as all virtuous should.

 

But, to the pickpocket, to the murderer, to the heathen - they may prove uncooperative. They may prove beyond redemption in life, they may prove arrogant, stubborn, and not wish to change their ways. This, by itself, is of course permissible, merely not in Canondom. Cast out these dissenters from your kingdoms, Princes, and let them not muddy the Holy Light of the Lord GOD. Since Horen’s descent with his tribe, though, how many dissenters have there been? Too many, I answer. Too many, for they have been allowed to accumulate, and gather their wicked strength into holds, into forts. They have fashioned themselves princes, kings, emperors, gods, all without the blessing of the Lord GOD and his Vicar on our earth. They are the false princes, they are heresiarchs.

 

ITER

 

 

It is through the striking down of these heresiarchs that man redeems themself. Absolution in death and service to their holy passage. The waters, the churches, the places of baptism, the rites of passage our saints walked. In a holy passage, an armed pilgrimage, to oust the heresiarchs from their false, heathenous thrones, and claim more land for the virtuous flock of the Vicar of GOD, claim more land that is rightfully Horenite, that is rightfully Canonist, that is rightfully good. For all land was created by the Lord GOD, and so all land should be lived in by his people. The rugged tundra of the north, the sparse, isolated islands that, if no man can, even GOD can reach. 

 

I think, in my imprisonment, to my namesake. That name I took under oath, under baptism in flame to my Owynist rite of the Mother Church. The Saint Lucien, Velwyn de Ashford, a man who ascended so high as High Pontiff. I call upon the prayer book of the father Paco:

 

“Saint Lucien, bestow on me Your righteous fury and Your furious strength. Let me become the storm that strikes the enemy from Your sight. We crusaders call upon thee! Amen!”

 

Though saintly worship is a treacherous road toward idolatry, here we must pray with Saint Lucien. We must pray with him, we must pray for him, and he must pray with us for us. And so I pray, and I invite all that read, that the Lord GOD bestows upon us His righteous fury, and His righteous strength, and that we, from His blessings, may become the storm that strikes the enemy from the sight of GOD, Man, and any being that can see.

 

We strike them from this life, and through their heresy, they strike themselves from eternal virtuousness in the Skies. They forsook the word of GOD, them apostates, them liars, them heathens, them heretics. Them who we so rightfully condemn to death.

 

I pray for any man fitter than me to preach . Any man who can raise a sword, who can blabber his lips, who can grovel, modestly, at the feet of Holy men, holier men than myself, holier men than himself. Holier men who can unite the banners of Horen, and direct it rightfully, virtuously, furiously, unto the heresiarch.

 

And here I name one: Heresiarch Illyria Ibarellan. So mercifully, did Caius Primus bestow upon you warriors of the faith to drive out the Ibleesian from your land. And yet, so easily, so slothfully, do you allow them back in. The accursed children of Metzli, the horrid tainted scions of the Void, the servants of the demons beneath, the Azdrazi - the Unholy. I am sure any response you have will be quick to deny all these claims, yet men of the faith are always embroiled in combat against the Shade you so gratefully invite.

 

I cannot declare any wars. I cannot rally any banners. I am but a gaoled man, imprisoned by wills with far more men behind them than mine, or any who would defend me. What little I can do to further the defence of the innocent, of the flepir flock, of Canondom, in the state I am, I do. Daelishmen, repent. Bandits, repent. Robbers, repent. I will pray for you all to repent.

 

I see the descent of Jorenites, of Harrenites, of Godwinites. Men of all ilks, flocking to the banner of heresiarchs. I pray  for you, those who know what they are, to leave your lives of Sin, and repent.

In Holy combat for the Mother Church, for the flepir flock, is your place in the Seven Skies secured. I urge you all to recall the Third Crusade, in which the heretic, heathenous ilk of the false Allfather were struck down and made to whimper at the feet of great Canonist men. Again, too, shall the Tribe of Malin join us, beyond the virtuous few I have proselytised, beyond the virtuous few that have embraced the light. As Saint Lucien did so fervently, all man is redeemable. There is no quicker, no harder, no more diligent path to redemption than to die in defence of the faith. I shall pray that such an order is called, that such an opportunity presents itself to all you Sinners.

 

There is no greater proof of their Sin, than the only Canonist clan, the Nullivari, fleeing so far south to form their own realm. The good Canonist Gallahad, who, despite his self-brandishing as a prince (heretical), is a devout Canonist, which I may attest to in my conversations with him, has seen the flaws and cracks of Celian’or run so deep, that his only solution was to flee with his family and forge a new home from war.

 

And so is it that we must forge a home for our flock. I will pray for the death of the Ibleesian, for the death of the Saulican, and for the toppling of the heresiarch. Death to all who oppose, deny, and cower in the Light of the Lord GOD.

 

LUCIEN

LUKAS VON BERKHOVEN

 

 

Edited September 5, 2024 by framalam
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