Pax Nobilis - A Nobel Peace
Posted: Thu Jun 13, 2013 3:33 pm
Slumbering within her grave, pale Damiana sighs. Above, the soft pressure of leafmould, like a blanket, wraps itself around her in tenderness, a tenderness she had not known in life. Beyond that a gentle warmth sometimes makes itself known to her diminishing senses. How long she had lain here none could tell, for in truth none knew of her presence, alone within this shallow grave. How had she lived, how had her life come to end and how, within this earthy tomb could she yet continue to be?
How could she still be here and not as the prophecy had foretold, released into freedom and the golden valleys beyond to join her Lord and Lover. Only in these rare moments of awareness did she wonder, for mostly she knew only the dark, the sweet embrace of oblivion. This she would have, and yet something called to her, called to her in fine sibilant whispers, seductive, enticing and beguiling.
In life she had been fine and noble of form, in stature tall, lithe, the body of a dancer, fine of feature, cheek bones a razors edge, nose aquiline above which a pair of almond eyes, stained violet at their heart, shone like bright suns. Crowned by a mane of ink black hair, dark as the night sky itself, hung in swathes across her shoulders and shrouded the nape of her neck, cascading, like a waterfall over breasts of milky opalescence crowned by aureoles of crushed peaches. Travelling downwards across muscle firm yet yielding to that secret place nestled between thighs of softness, covered in a fine down of gossamer strands of silk. Legs, long, tapering to an ankle of fine bone and sinew. Feet slim yet strong. Many had sought her through her short life, for her beauty, for her mystery, each of them now lay dreaming within her womb. Yes, she had shared her delights, only briefly and harvested the fruits of love, memories which now haunted her into the long night, unrelenting. And then death, one velvet dark night had seduced her into his mystery, had come for her whispering gentle endearments into her ever open ears, had lain with her, entered her and claimed her as his, for was she not beauty indeed?
And yet, she was still sentient, not a fleeting spirit adrift upon the night air, not a disembodied soul seeking solace amongst loved ones. Was this her reward, her penance? Had she not served her mistress well, offering blood and semen as votive offerings within the services performed in her name? Had she not offered herself, her flesh, the means of manifestation, where passion is the prayer and lust the means of Invokation? The dark shore of night whereupon, we embark upon a journey from mystery into greater mystery, our blood knowingness our only guide, steers us through dark atavisms and pre-human byways of being, where bestial tongues utter inchoate sounds unto the firmament that hears them not. Hecate’s dark realm, awash with soft murmurings yielding to screams and the torment of tortured souls. She stands triumphant upon the bones of her worshippers, for torment is her service, where pain is but the echo of her yearning, where birth and destruction are the ebb and flow of her breath, fetid with the whisperings of dark mystery. Had she not been promised entry into the realm of the true gods, those who exist outside the night of time?
A whisper from the dark lord Lucifer, brooding within his citadel of memory, casting dreams like sprinkled stardust into the void. Dark lord of Repose. The Redeemer. The Opposer. It was for this one that she had served her dark mistress these cold, long aeons.
The circumstances surrounding her death are a mystery to her as is her present condition. Of time she knows not, of reason also, little is known, only the ever dimming memories that surface to torment her within her citadel of isolation. And yet occasionally she feels, rather than hears a distant, plaintive song, a calling back to flesh and life upon the surface of the shimmering star. And how does she spend her moments of lucid waking? Remembering sweet pleasures, ones which elevated her, made her complete within her service to her dark mistress.
And how had that service begun? Alone upon a wind swept beach, hair tossed by the raging tempest, the tang of salt upon tongue, stinging her eyes. Skin, open to the elements through folds and pleats within her dress and cloak, bruised by the contact of cutting wind and occasional grains of sand, too light to retain their tenuous grip upon the surface of the beach. Walking, musing upon trifles, what was and what would be. Then turning, noticing for the first time the moon, blood red, ravaged by clouds the color of bruised flesh, waxing, not yet full. A sound, at first shrill then becoming deeper, insistent as it invades her attention. From what source, and to what purpose?
Pausing to discover its point of origin, a shadow within shadows, the entrance to a cave and at its entrance a dull pulsating light, honeyed amber in color, reaches out and invades her senses, captivating, entrancing. Stepping forward, one faltering step then another and finally stretching into a run, a sense of slow motion envelops her as she moves forwards, yet moves not, a wrenching sensation in the pit of her stomach, a snap of some internal unknown and movement is granted and with lightning speed she arrives at the cave entrance. Waiting, waiting for what? She knows not.
Then the sensation of tiny fingers, touching, caressing, fingers of ice calling forth her heat and moisture as slowly she is lifted from the sand and begins to spin upon the breeze, now master of her movements. Ice enters her, touching first the surface of her skin, then penetrating inwards and meeting her fire, melts into languid and liquid delight, she glows, sweats and gentle moans rise from her throat as one by one her clothes are teased from her, opening her to the elements and the penetration of the night. Fingers slide across back, belly and breast, down thigh and leg leaving her naked, exposed within the embrace of fire and ice. She touches sand, its grains abrading soft skin, feels its coolness, its support. The sound diminishes and in its place, shadows arise, dimly seen, keenly felt and in the silence the tempest ceases and stillness soothes her ravaged senses. Advancing upon her, the shadows, at first fragmentary, coalesce into an aethyreal form of opalescent beauty, hues, pastel in shade undulate across and through surfaces creating a shifting plane of perspectives, “speak not” says a voice of liquid amber, “take delight and pleasure in the flesh.” Advances closer crooning a lullaby, distant memories arise, childhood, summer, a forest glade, lying at ease in the embrace of nature. Fingers touch, breath like the gentlest of breezes touches, flushing of skin, hearts blood coursing through sinew and skin causing breath to increase, as one by one each part is touched, hair stroked, teased outwards into a veil, a nimbus of dark light illuminating contours and features, eyes opened to the glories of the dark by a breath that touches lightly and then is gone. Lips brushed, the taste of almonds and orange blossom, causing the lips to part the tongue to move outward, to touch, contact lips, now gone. Breasts aflame as liquidness touches their surface, nipples harden, pulse, stretching towards this source of pleasure. Belly opens, like the womb of time itself, opens and releases moisture, demanding. Fingers touch, explore soft contours, like the petals of a rose, one by one unfolding, opening to the sensation of penetration, releasing moisture, as thighs gently bruised by a lovers kiss, back arches, stretches, the abandon of passion sweet.
Adrift upon the tide of passions velvet embrace she soars into unknown realms, realms of pure sensation, each breath etches a lambent flame upon her flesh, forming an alphabet, whose consonants and vowels are the sweet sensations of fulfillment, an orgasmic being, where only the essential, the pleasure of the moment unfolds itself to her saturated senses. Finally pausing, spent, she alights upon a barren plane and in the near distance a mountain range, a castle, brooding, casting its shadow across the terrain, staining the landscape, as if some hideous night born horror dwelt within. Rising, compelled to move towards this monstrosity. Surveying her surroundings, the barrenness reluctantly gives way to fetid swamp, her feet now awash, slime arising from the depths, ankle deep in the mire she makes her way tortuously through the rank undergrowth, the stench released by her footfalls releasing into the air the odor of decay and stagnancy, night creatures make themselves known to her sharpening senses. The slither of serpents rising along the sinews of her legs, wrap themselves around her as if they would hide her nakedness, searching, probing, exploring her contours. She advances amidst the chorus of nights purple legion.
Swamp gives way to rock and the sharpened fragments of stone now underfoot, causing her to wince, briars in profusion, unyielding meet tender flesh, barbs that enter and tear at her skin, forming fine rivulets of blood travelling along the length of arms and legs, stinging as the night breeze opens her to further sensation. She gasps, her breath coming in halted gulps. Onwards and now upwards she treads, a barely discernible path, flanked by stunted trees and twisted shrubs releasing their perfumes upon the night air, finally gives way to a courtyard, an expanse of broken flagstones, limned with lichen and moss, glowing as with the presence of praeternatural light, weeds appearing in crevices formed by the passage of time. Steps rising and finally a doorway of marble embossed with plaques of metal, strange signs and images, some of nature, some of strange worlds, all carrying a sense of menace. The way is barred to her. Sentinels guard the portal, bestial forms, part human, part beast, raised upon pinions of furred talon, giving way to the torso of humanities perfection, ripe, full breasts and the softness of curves she recognizes well, crowned by a visage of bestial perfection, fangs bared as if awaiting their quarry, who even now passes between them.
A voice, hushed whispers, issues from she knows not where, “what seekest thou, fair creature, the delights of our castle, or perhaps the presence of she who dwells within?” In answer she claims her innocence of any intent, and as a simple traveler has stumbled upon this place, this castle. “Enter and know that shadows and despair await thee”. No way back, she advances to see the door dissolve before her eyes and now she is within a chamber, vaulted, supported upon pillars rising upwards into unfathomable heights, carpets scattered upon bare stone, alcoves containing statuary and images from the past of cultures divers, some human, many not. Recesses containing divans of velvet flanked by candles whose guttering flames cast an amber light upon the chamber. Pausing she takes her rest in order to better survey the immediate surroundings. Along one wall a hearth, the mantle of which is supported by angelic forms, wrapped in their pinions and gazing upwards beatifically. Within the hearth the roaring of flames fed by logs the size of small trees. She rises and advances to this place in search of warmth.
Whispered endearments meet her ears as finally she arrives and is greeted by a being who steps out of the shadows, ink black his skin, red his eyes, of form slender and sinuous, graceful, crowned by a skullcap of filigreed metal. Magnificent in his nakedness he holds within his hands a bowl of beaten brass figured in an unknown cipher. “Drink, fair one, for it will prepare the way.” Reaching out she receives the bowl, raises it to her lips and drinks deeply of its contents, again the taste of almonds and orange blossom assails her senses and carries with it a sense of well being and rapture. Emptying the contents, swooning, she falls upon a surface of furs and rich velvets and dreams.
Awakes to the sound of plainsong interwoven with the susurration of flowing water and the call of night birds. Beneath her back cold stone, she is stretched, arched across a boulder, hands and feet bound by silken cords. Above her, smiling, she stands, awaiting the return to consciousness of her ward. “Fear not the bindings, for I must open your body, your flesh”, comes a whispered voice, caressing her senses with its wine rich depths. “Long have I awaited you and now the time of waiting is past, be at ease, rest, be attentive for I have a story to tell. Like you I to, was once mortal, shared in the pleasures of the flesh, yet I knew the worm awaited me, the unrelenting passage of time would bring me into its chthonic realm, this I denied with every fibre of my being, sought long for the means of release from this curse, having searched high and low within the confused ramblings of my kind, the promise of celestial paradise, the entrance to hallowed halls of learning and becoming. I finally realized that this served to distract, assuage the inevitable which I too would come to despite my time honored and cherished illusions. Yes I learned of the sweetness that sours in the light of times passing. I knew pain, hurt as any of my kind would, for as a woman I carry the joys of the world within my womb and also its sin. In time I came to know the purity of despair and came to savor the austerity of its bitter sweet taste. I found pleasure a paltry affair, visited infrequently by moments, mere moments of anaesthetic release. No more would this be so, I withdrew and so doing ceased to be as I was, and now, would never be again. For I abandoned my kind and their ways.
And in the desert of despair left this world, leaving only a shadow self to continue the pretence. That shadow continued, retreated further then it too dissolved and joined me and became she who now stands before you. From the pit of suffering and remorse I arose triumphant and made my pact with the lord of this world, the ever present one, thinly guised as pleasure, as pain and the means of release from both. He took me into himself and shared his glory, his secrets, his yearnings, until I finally joined him and knew rapture pure, undefiled by thought and speech, the chatterings of primates scurrying from darkness to darkness complete. Long aeons have I dwelt within my fortress of night, taking my pleasure amongst the legions of the half lives. Distilling from their pleasure and their pain the vital nectar that sustains my form, form which exists within the dark cave of each of their hearts, their lives. They see only my horror and not the beauty of austerity that shines within my heart, the pulse of life that bruises my eyes, eyes that know their hearts and minds. Only suffering they know, for they have not plumbed the depths of despair and its kindred, my offspring. And now I would claim thee as mine fairest Damiana for I know your heart, your mind and now I would know your flesh.”
So saying she advances and in the silence of her passage Damiana again tastes almond and orange blossom upon her lips as a gentle breeze resolving itself into flesh touches her lips with a stroke so fine and rich. She answers the call and opens her heart to the embrace, an embrace which ignites her flesh once again into rapture, as tiny tongues of flame reach out and touch her. Breast to breast, lips to lips they meld and become one, exploring textures and shapes, tastes and odors of intoxication, lines of fire limning their every angle and contour. Caught upon a wine dark sea travelling from rapture to rapture. Gently she rises wiping the sweat from her brow, from her lips and breasts and looks upon Damiana. “Would you join me fair one and know my Art, my Knowledge?” In silence Damiana answers an assent. “I must open your flesh, let it blossom, strip the kernel that yet binds you and release you into the exaltation of the new flesh.” Advancing she utters a brief plaintive call whereupon she is transformed into the guise of the sentinel encountered in the outer hall, in shadows he advances, black within a deeper black, his eyes glowing in the darkness now all but complete and from the air he plucks a crystal which sparkles within its own light. With this he touches her forehead and she sleeps and dreams of caresses, of kisses, of passion ignited by the touching of flesh to flesh and as passion unfolds itself within the passing of their breath, one to the other he opens her fleshy veil and extracts her essence, bone, blood, organ and muscle does he excise, making of it a mannequin which dances in rapture. And of her essence he shapes a new form and inscribes upon its contours the ciphers of desire, sigils of power, of protection and eternity. Lambent light courses through this new form, sigils form and reform, dancing eternity’s dance of splendor and becoming. The sigils coalesce, writhe and finally meet at a central axis point between her breasts, then dissolve into the new tissue and flesh.
Damiana awakes from her dream to whispered words, caught upon the breeze, “in time you will know my name, for that is secret and undivided, for now go forth and take thy will and pleasure amongst the legions of the living.” And in this way did Damiana meet her mistress and true to her did service through the flesh, opening herself to each and every delight, celebrating the new flesh. And then she met with death one ink black night and now waits for the call that will release her from her leafy grave that she might know glory and the promise of eternity in the arms of her dark lord. He who awaits her arrival on the other side of the veil called appearance.
Go in peace and rest [font=][/font]within the embrace of shadows tender arms
Damiana Evohe
nemesispublications@googlemail.com
How could she still be here and not as the prophecy had foretold, released into freedom and the golden valleys beyond to join her Lord and Lover. Only in these rare moments of awareness did she wonder, for mostly she knew only the dark, the sweet embrace of oblivion. This she would have, and yet something called to her, called to her in fine sibilant whispers, seductive, enticing and beguiling.
In life she had been fine and noble of form, in stature tall, lithe, the body of a dancer, fine of feature, cheek bones a razors edge, nose aquiline above which a pair of almond eyes, stained violet at their heart, shone like bright suns. Crowned by a mane of ink black hair, dark as the night sky itself, hung in swathes across her shoulders and shrouded the nape of her neck, cascading, like a waterfall over breasts of milky opalescence crowned by aureoles of crushed peaches. Travelling downwards across muscle firm yet yielding to that secret place nestled between thighs of softness, covered in a fine down of gossamer strands of silk. Legs, long, tapering to an ankle of fine bone and sinew. Feet slim yet strong. Many had sought her through her short life, for her beauty, for her mystery, each of them now lay dreaming within her womb. Yes, she had shared her delights, only briefly and harvested the fruits of love, memories which now haunted her into the long night, unrelenting. And then death, one velvet dark night had seduced her into his mystery, had come for her whispering gentle endearments into her ever open ears, had lain with her, entered her and claimed her as his, for was she not beauty indeed?
And yet, she was still sentient, not a fleeting spirit adrift upon the night air, not a disembodied soul seeking solace amongst loved ones. Was this her reward, her penance? Had she not served her mistress well, offering blood and semen as votive offerings within the services performed in her name? Had she not offered herself, her flesh, the means of manifestation, where passion is the prayer and lust the means of Invokation? The dark shore of night whereupon, we embark upon a journey from mystery into greater mystery, our blood knowingness our only guide, steers us through dark atavisms and pre-human byways of being, where bestial tongues utter inchoate sounds unto the firmament that hears them not. Hecate’s dark realm, awash with soft murmurings yielding to screams and the torment of tortured souls. She stands triumphant upon the bones of her worshippers, for torment is her service, where pain is but the echo of her yearning, where birth and destruction are the ebb and flow of her breath, fetid with the whisperings of dark mystery. Had she not been promised entry into the realm of the true gods, those who exist outside the night of time?
A whisper from the dark lord Lucifer, brooding within his citadel of memory, casting dreams like sprinkled stardust into the void. Dark lord of Repose. The Redeemer. The Opposer. It was for this one that she had served her dark mistress these cold, long aeons.
The circumstances surrounding her death are a mystery to her as is her present condition. Of time she knows not, of reason also, little is known, only the ever dimming memories that surface to torment her within her citadel of isolation. And yet occasionally she feels, rather than hears a distant, plaintive song, a calling back to flesh and life upon the surface of the shimmering star. And how does she spend her moments of lucid waking? Remembering sweet pleasures, ones which elevated her, made her complete within her service to her dark mistress.
And how had that service begun? Alone upon a wind swept beach, hair tossed by the raging tempest, the tang of salt upon tongue, stinging her eyes. Skin, open to the elements through folds and pleats within her dress and cloak, bruised by the contact of cutting wind and occasional grains of sand, too light to retain their tenuous grip upon the surface of the beach. Walking, musing upon trifles, what was and what would be. Then turning, noticing for the first time the moon, blood red, ravaged by clouds the color of bruised flesh, waxing, not yet full. A sound, at first shrill then becoming deeper, insistent as it invades her attention. From what source, and to what purpose?
Pausing to discover its point of origin, a shadow within shadows, the entrance to a cave and at its entrance a dull pulsating light, honeyed amber in color, reaches out and invades her senses, captivating, entrancing. Stepping forward, one faltering step then another and finally stretching into a run, a sense of slow motion envelops her as she moves forwards, yet moves not, a wrenching sensation in the pit of her stomach, a snap of some internal unknown and movement is granted and with lightning speed she arrives at the cave entrance. Waiting, waiting for what? She knows not.
Then the sensation of tiny fingers, touching, caressing, fingers of ice calling forth her heat and moisture as slowly she is lifted from the sand and begins to spin upon the breeze, now master of her movements. Ice enters her, touching first the surface of her skin, then penetrating inwards and meeting her fire, melts into languid and liquid delight, she glows, sweats and gentle moans rise from her throat as one by one her clothes are teased from her, opening her to the elements and the penetration of the night. Fingers slide across back, belly and breast, down thigh and leg leaving her naked, exposed within the embrace of fire and ice. She touches sand, its grains abrading soft skin, feels its coolness, its support. The sound diminishes and in its place, shadows arise, dimly seen, keenly felt and in the silence the tempest ceases and stillness soothes her ravaged senses. Advancing upon her, the shadows, at first fragmentary, coalesce into an aethyreal form of opalescent beauty, hues, pastel in shade undulate across and through surfaces creating a shifting plane of perspectives, “speak not” says a voice of liquid amber, “take delight and pleasure in the flesh.” Advances closer crooning a lullaby, distant memories arise, childhood, summer, a forest glade, lying at ease in the embrace of nature. Fingers touch, breath like the gentlest of breezes touches, flushing of skin, hearts blood coursing through sinew and skin causing breath to increase, as one by one each part is touched, hair stroked, teased outwards into a veil, a nimbus of dark light illuminating contours and features, eyes opened to the glories of the dark by a breath that touches lightly and then is gone. Lips brushed, the taste of almonds and orange blossom, causing the lips to part the tongue to move outward, to touch, contact lips, now gone. Breasts aflame as liquidness touches their surface, nipples harden, pulse, stretching towards this source of pleasure. Belly opens, like the womb of time itself, opens and releases moisture, demanding. Fingers touch, explore soft contours, like the petals of a rose, one by one unfolding, opening to the sensation of penetration, releasing moisture, as thighs gently bruised by a lovers kiss, back arches, stretches, the abandon of passion sweet.
Adrift upon the tide of passions velvet embrace she soars into unknown realms, realms of pure sensation, each breath etches a lambent flame upon her flesh, forming an alphabet, whose consonants and vowels are the sweet sensations of fulfillment, an orgasmic being, where only the essential, the pleasure of the moment unfolds itself to her saturated senses. Finally pausing, spent, she alights upon a barren plane and in the near distance a mountain range, a castle, brooding, casting its shadow across the terrain, staining the landscape, as if some hideous night born horror dwelt within. Rising, compelled to move towards this monstrosity. Surveying her surroundings, the barrenness reluctantly gives way to fetid swamp, her feet now awash, slime arising from the depths, ankle deep in the mire she makes her way tortuously through the rank undergrowth, the stench released by her footfalls releasing into the air the odor of decay and stagnancy, night creatures make themselves known to her sharpening senses. The slither of serpents rising along the sinews of her legs, wrap themselves around her as if they would hide her nakedness, searching, probing, exploring her contours. She advances amidst the chorus of nights purple legion.
Swamp gives way to rock and the sharpened fragments of stone now underfoot, causing her to wince, briars in profusion, unyielding meet tender flesh, barbs that enter and tear at her skin, forming fine rivulets of blood travelling along the length of arms and legs, stinging as the night breeze opens her to further sensation. She gasps, her breath coming in halted gulps. Onwards and now upwards she treads, a barely discernible path, flanked by stunted trees and twisted shrubs releasing their perfumes upon the night air, finally gives way to a courtyard, an expanse of broken flagstones, limned with lichen and moss, glowing as with the presence of praeternatural light, weeds appearing in crevices formed by the passage of time. Steps rising and finally a doorway of marble embossed with plaques of metal, strange signs and images, some of nature, some of strange worlds, all carrying a sense of menace. The way is barred to her. Sentinels guard the portal, bestial forms, part human, part beast, raised upon pinions of furred talon, giving way to the torso of humanities perfection, ripe, full breasts and the softness of curves she recognizes well, crowned by a visage of bestial perfection, fangs bared as if awaiting their quarry, who even now passes between them.
A voice, hushed whispers, issues from she knows not where, “what seekest thou, fair creature, the delights of our castle, or perhaps the presence of she who dwells within?” In answer she claims her innocence of any intent, and as a simple traveler has stumbled upon this place, this castle. “Enter and know that shadows and despair await thee”. No way back, she advances to see the door dissolve before her eyes and now she is within a chamber, vaulted, supported upon pillars rising upwards into unfathomable heights, carpets scattered upon bare stone, alcoves containing statuary and images from the past of cultures divers, some human, many not. Recesses containing divans of velvet flanked by candles whose guttering flames cast an amber light upon the chamber. Pausing she takes her rest in order to better survey the immediate surroundings. Along one wall a hearth, the mantle of which is supported by angelic forms, wrapped in their pinions and gazing upwards beatifically. Within the hearth the roaring of flames fed by logs the size of small trees. She rises and advances to this place in search of warmth.
Whispered endearments meet her ears as finally she arrives and is greeted by a being who steps out of the shadows, ink black his skin, red his eyes, of form slender and sinuous, graceful, crowned by a skullcap of filigreed metal. Magnificent in his nakedness he holds within his hands a bowl of beaten brass figured in an unknown cipher. “Drink, fair one, for it will prepare the way.” Reaching out she receives the bowl, raises it to her lips and drinks deeply of its contents, again the taste of almonds and orange blossom assails her senses and carries with it a sense of well being and rapture. Emptying the contents, swooning, she falls upon a surface of furs and rich velvets and dreams.
Awakes to the sound of plainsong interwoven with the susurration of flowing water and the call of night birds. Beneath her back cold stone, she is stretched, arched across a boulder, hands and feet bound by silken cords. Above her, smiling, she stands, awaiting the return to consciousness of her ward. “Fear not the bindings, for I must open your body, your flesh”, comes a whispered voice, caressing her senses with its wine rich depths. “Long have I awaited you and now the time of waiting is past, be at ease, rest, be attentive for I have a story to tell. Like you I to, was once mortal, shared in the pleasures of the flesh, yet I knew the worm awaited me, the unrelenting passage of time would bring me into its chthonic realm, this I denied with every fibre of my being, sought long for the means of release from this curse, having searched high and low within the confused ramblings of my kind, the promise of celestial paradise, the entrance to hallowed halls of learning and becoming. I finally realized that this served to distract, assuage the inevitable which I too would come to despite my time honored and cherished illusions. Yes I learned of the sweetness that sours in the light of times passing. I knew pain, hurt as any of my kind would, for as a woman I carry the joys of the world within my womb and also its sin. In time I came to know the purity of despair and came to savor the austerity of its bitter sweet taste. I found pleasure a paltry affair, visited infrequently by moments, mere moments of anaesthetic release. No more would this be so, I withdrew and so doing ceased to be as I was, and now, would never be again. For I abandoned my kind and their ways.
And in the desert of despair left this world, leaving only a shadow self to continue the pretence. That shadow continued, retreated further then it too dissolved and joined me and became she who now stands before you. From the pit of suffering and remorse I arose triumphant and made my pact with the lord of this world, the ever present one, thinly guised as pleasure, as pain and the means of release from both. He took me into himself and shared his glory, his secrets, his yearnings, until I finally joined him and knew rapture pure, undefiled by thought and speech, the chatterings of primates scurrying from darkness to darkness complete. Long aeons have I dwelt within my fortress of night, taking my pleasure amongst the legions of the half lives. Distilling from their pleasure and their pain the vital nectar that sustains my form, form which exists within the dark cave of each of their hearts, their lives. They see only my horror and not the beauty of austerity that shines within my heart, the pulse of life that bruises my eyes, eyes that know their hearts and minds. Only suffering they know, for they have not plumbed the depths of despair and its kindred, my offspring. And now I would claim thee as mine fairest Damiana for I know your heart, your mind and now I would know your flesh.”
So saying she advances and in the silence of her passage Damiana again tastes almond and orange blossom upon her lips as a gentle breeze resolving itself into flesh touches her lips with a stroke so fine and rich. She answers the call and opens her heart to the embrace, an embrace which ignites her flesh once again into rapture, as tiny tongues of flame reach out and touch her. Breast to breast, lips to lips they meld and become one, exploring textures and shapes, tastes and odors of intoxication, lines of fire limning their every angle and contour. Caught upon a wine dark sea travelling from rapture to rapture. Gently she rises wiping the sweat from her brow, from her lips and breasts and looks upon Damiana. “Would you join me fair one and know my Art, my Knowledge?” In silence Damiana answers an assent. “I must open your flesh, let it blossom, strip the kernel that yet binds you and release you into the exaltation of the new flesh.” Advancing she utters a brief plaintive call whereupon she is transformed into the guise of the sentinel encountered in the outer hall, in shadows he advances, black within a deeper black, his eyes glowing in the darkness now all but complete and from the air he plucks a crystal which sparkles within its own light. With this he touches her forehead and she sleeps and dreams of caresses, of kisses, of passion ignited by the touching of flesh to flesh and as passion unfolds itself within the passing of their breath, one to the other he opens her fleshy veil and extracts her essence, bone, blood, organ and muscle does he excise, making of it a mannequin which dances in rapture. And of her essence he shapes a new form and inscribes upon its contours the ciphers of desire, sigils of power, of protection and eternity. Lambent light courses through this new form, sigils form and reform, dancing eternity’s dance of splendor and becoming. The sigils coalesce, writhe and finally meet at a central axis point between her breasts, then dissolve into the new tissue and flesh.
Damiana awakes from her dream to whispered words, caught upon the breeze, “in time you will know my name, for that is secret and undivided, for now go forth and take thy will and pleasure amongst the legions of the living.” And in this way did Damiana meet her mistress and true to her did service through the flesh, opening herself to each and every delight, celebrating the new flesh. And then she met with death one ink black night and now waits for the call that will release her from her leafy grave that she might know glory and the promise of eternity in the arms of her dark lord. He who awaits her arrival on the other side of the veil called appearance.
Go in peace and rest [font=][/font]within the embrace of shadows tender arms
Damiana Evohe
nemesispublications@googlemail.com