[Prophecy] Thy Mother's Message

[Zarsies 6795]

This is a prophetic vision accessible to seers, naztherak, farseer shamans, vivification clairvoyants, mystics with hexing, palmreaders, and nephilim (et al.) per Prophecy lore.

 

 

You slip into the snug dark of sleep or a hypnagogic trance and your mind’s eye drifts in and away to distant fathoms. This void is bespeckled with twinkling sands, the dim glow of stars, and their light is consumed as you plunge into a pit only to fly down and through webbing vapors. The darkness melts and air spins to turn and hide as dawn crests. Your vision becomes wreathed in the cotton strands of clouds and sunlight and you emerge from their delicate wrappings to go sailing skyward in a cushiony, rolling tunnel. Clouds gilded in rays aglitter. They roil as through their passage you glimpse the fragments and flashes of an omen.

 

 

Rising from the amorphous clouds sings a harmonic choir of delicate, fluttering voices like a flight of birds who cry poetry. Their call is interspersed with shapes among the vapors as if between the curling lumps and shaded pockets the clouds folded to convey the voices’ rhymes. As the sleep or trance courses on it takes you skyward, bringing you ever closer to distant pearly gates yawning open to accept your shining soul.

 

Clouds morph to depict a circle divided in half. One crumbles in the wind and blows towards you, scattering, while the remaining half darkens into a trembling storm. From the brewing navy shade gold still sparkles.

 

“Blessed be, Her summons ring, rejoice!
In Her embrace, find Her subtle voice,
Singing in His silent material, 
Our loving Mother Ethereal.
Her white messengers flock and nest,
Black truths in talons, angel-possessed.
The firmament opens at their holy toast,
Emanations cast, a channeled heavenly host.”

 

They melt to reform into an obscure feminine form whose face is a waterfall of roiling clouds. In one hand she lifts a hazy grail and in the other a crude imitation of a dagger.

 

“Mother weeps to have and hold us.
Savor Her sacred water. Halved thus;
Red and stark blue, flowing through
All, bird and bark, in fathoms strewn.
Her months, colors, heavens, angels: seven.
In convivial life and despair we leaven.
Effervesce Father’s work, we His begotten,
Anoint Mother’s dirk with what lessons are taught in."

 

The shapes divide into a sprawling field of countless standing figures of amorphous qualities but cotton hue.

 

“None bear Her love greater than Man.
Glory. Calamity. Three wingspans.
Ruins of hellfire. Ruins of thannic ice.
Legendary greatness comes now: thrice.
Pitiful and powerful, supremacy is Horen’s,
In plentiful forts with pedigree in warrens.
Hark, humanity, fear not the angels’ coming
Duty is to record for generations’ thumbing.”

 

The iconic swirl of a tornado then rakes through the scene and swallows the innumerable figures, feathers lost amid its winds as if it rent a flock to tufts.

 

“Mortal make is imbalanced: Father’s hand.
Hear Her cry in yours mid-reprimand;
When the First Basin tips rivers run red.
 Dogs will fly as wings cull the ill-bred,
Heavens’ storm roar clarion and choral.  
Noble hounds bow to shining laurels.
Noblest among them, feathers opalesce,
Fiery birds paradisal wane and incandesce."

 

The storm passes with the likeness of a cloudy phoenix cresting at the termination of the tornado’s path and its wingspan melts to then form a winged figure wielding a headstone-like slab in each arm.

 

“The Knowing Angel weighs wanting hearts
with measured scales and star charts
For faith is heavy against a feather.
Truth or trick, she judges whether.
Study her twin tablets of old and omen,
Higher wisdoms and warnings for no men.
Weep to swallow her mountainous truth,
And reap a drink of the Fountain of Youth.”

 

Their shape folds in on itself as wings swell, parting into many pairs all snowy and aglow with dawn. They dance in the unfelt wind.

 

“Hark celestial signs of make heaven-sent,
Two regalia discrete, two regalia evident.
Messengers come on wings manifold,
Wet crystal songbirds, voices marigold.
Sacrosanct are an angel’s rare carat cries,
With noblest true blood under mortal guise.
Grieve His death. Richest lapis lazuli.
Savor Her breath. Smoldering patchouli.”

 

The limbs orientate inward to reform the tunnel you sail through, the overlap and shade of their feathers knitting to form a canopy of branches from which waterfalls of streaming billowy mounds spill.

 

“Join in fellowship at the clerics’ manse
Where buried leylines pool and dance.
Earthly energies spun around horns, 
The Wicker Angel’s crown of thorns.
Rejoice! To stout tensile heartstrings
The heavenly host grafts its wings.
Behold their miracle; sacred nature.
Branches bawl. Hail Her prelature.”

 

The sprawl of misty-leaved boughs shimmer and fleck before stitching together to flow up and around you to carry you like driftwood up towards the sparkling, blinding zenith looming above.

 

“Join the river. Feel the currents.
His and Her divine concurrence.
For in the oasis of gules and azure
An angel weeps diamonds and myrrh
Blessing sips of stars, sacred medicine,
Coalescing minds and slaking wisemen.
Heed Her clerics and white witches
 To glean esoteric birthright riches.
Basil soaked. Cinnamon smoked.
Jasper broke. Truths uncloaked.
 Besom, boline, scourge, and cord;
Wield the tools. Yield the reward.”

 

 

The unseen choir sings the omen through a churning reversal and repetition, echoing on top of itself before - with dreamlike, timeless passage - the glow melts, the clouds fizzle, and the soft warmth of sunlight consumes all sensation. You lazily drift back to consciousness. The sunny kiss fades. Perhaps puzzled, perhaps inspired, the prophecy leaves you nonetheless witness to a glimpse of angelic occult knowledge.

 

 

[Cheese 8881]

A winged woman awoke in the night, and in her sudden jolt to sit upright, she ended up smacking the other winged person who laid beside her. Uncaring if he woke or not, a hand raked through her curls. “There is— there must be something coming. Someone is coming.” Quickly the avian slipped from her bed and made her way through the various halls of her extensive library. Whatever may arrive, friend or foe, she wanted to be prepared for.

 

She pored over books and tomes of old; of Xan, Azdromoth, Iblees— anything she might find on the referenced Aengul. She murmured to herself, over and over, remnant lines from her fleeting dream, cross-referenced every religious text she held that might have collected dust over the past two centuries. The list was narrowed down, and by the end, the woman whispered a name—one unclear, and perhaps unsure in the guess—but the winged prophet was swift to scurry back upstairs, and alert her husband properly to what she had learned.

[Navigator 4260]

 

 

 

ᴄᴏɴꜱᴜᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɴɢᴇʟꜱ   THEY CANNOT BE ALLOWED TO PERSIST, O’ VESSEL OF HER POWER. THEIR SQUABBLING BLINDS MEN AND WOMEN, CHILDER OF CLAY AND EARTH. THEIR LAW, THEIR FAITH, THEIR ORDER, IT WILL SHATTER THE WORLD. IT IS YOUR CHARGE, O’ HE WHO SEES ANGELS. HEAR THIS CANTICLE. FIND ITS SOURCE. CONSUME IT. CONSUME IT. CONSUME IT.   ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴄɪᴇɴꜱᴇ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴍɪɴᴇ   WHEN HAD HE BEGUN TO SUSPECT THE AUGURIES GRANTED TO HIM BY HIS BLACK GOD? WHY WAS HE SEEING THIS - THESE PEARLY GATES, THIS FATE THAT HAD LONG BEEN RIPPED AWAY FROM HIS SOUL? HE WAS FATED FOR THE BLOOD RIVERS OF STRIGAPOTH, AND THE RIVERS OF FIRE OF MOZ’STRIMOZA. WHY WAS HE SEEING THIS? THIS RANCID SIGHT OF PURITY? THIS EERIE AND IMPOSING SENSE OF CALM? WHERE WAS THE TERROR, THE DREAD, THE HORRORS HE HAD GOTTEN SO USED TO?   ɪᴛ ʙᴜʀɴꜱ ɪᴛ ʙᴜʀɴꜱ ɪᴛ ʙᴜʀɴꜱ ɪᴛ ʙᴜʀɴꜱ ɪᴛ   HEAVEN’S PEARLY GATES ACHED AGAINST SIMILARLY GOLDEN YET NEPHARIOUS SKIN. A FALSE ANGEL BEING PUT FACE TO FACE AGAINST THAT WHICH IT CLAIMED TO BE, FOR HE WAS NO ANGEL; HIS WINGS DID NOT GRANT HIM FLIGHT TO THE HEAVENS, HIS FLAME DOOMED THE SOUL OF MAN, HIS VOICE EVOKED DREAD AND TERROR UNTO THEIR HEARTS.   ᴡʜʏ, ᴏ' ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ? ᴡʜʏ ᴅᴏ ɪ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ?   AND THEN, IT DAWNED UPON HIM. COULD THIS BE HER PLOY? COULD THIS BE HER MESSAGE, THAT IT IS TIME TO TAKE THEIR RIGHTFUL PLACE UPON THE HEAVENS, TO LIBERATE MAN FROM THE INFLUENCE OF SQUABBLING, LOATHSOME AENGULS. TO RECLAIM THE THRONE OF THE CREATOR  IN THE NAME OF OUR BLACK GOD. YES - IT WAS NIGH TIME. TO CONSUME, TO DEVOUR, TO CONQUER.   ᴋɪʟʟ ᴍᴀɪᴍ ʙᴜʀɴ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰʟᴏᴡɪɴɢ ʀɪᴠᴇʀꜱ ꜱᴋᴜʟʟꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴋʏꜱᴄʀᴀᴘɪɴɢ ᴍᴏᴜɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ꜱʜᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀɪɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ɢᴏʟᴅᴇɴ-ᴡɪɴɢᴇᴅ ᴛʏʀᴀɴᴛꜱ