I have gazed into the very heart of the human animal. I have stood trembling just beyond the lip of the Abyssum. And I saw the Archons. I saw the wraithmakers in their true forms. I saw their magick made from our lamentation, our forced martyrdom and lost loves. I heard the fratres absentiam speak in their own incomprehensible tongue, and I understood. I stand here now at the Mouth of Weavers, in the hope of sharing what I know. Some things cannot be spoken of as truth. Some things must be uttered as fantasy and fable. Things such as this.
Our religions and rituals, our chymic couplings, all stolen and offered back as theater for the dead. They make our hearts as black diamond, our tongues as bladed kiss. Our eyes are left to weep, at a lamentation so brutal. At a gatekeeper so austere.
Is this what we always were? Is this what we are?
To know that beneath our artifice, rage and glittered votives there is an open wound, a psychic tear that howls in a thousand voices. Does such knowledge make us any more able? I would hope so. To tell memory from madness, to know our strength is utilized by things now unseen to us - it must offer us a certain sobriety and recompense.
I would hope.
For we are not all wraiths. Beneath our howling and lament we were once as holy vessels; reliquaries of the incandescent. To be so again...the stuff of poetry...the stuff of fantasy and fable. Some things cannot be uttered as truth. Things such as these.
And now the sighted among us must share our sights with the blinded. We must offer something other than glittered votives. We must offer the unspoken, and the truth of all we once were. We must offer a resurrection.