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S.C.M.M :V: The Crypt of the Self

And so the court swells with power. 

Brimming with energy; ignited by the fires of ancient archetypes. Like a forge of the Gods you will see your kingdom grow ever outward if you heed the words of your council, and understand that it takes more than one man to rule a truly great, and just kingdom. 

The Wolfhead King moves ever closer towards his goals, and sees the horizon expand in front of his holdfast. 

Yet for the time being his duty does not reside on the horizon. His future is his destiny, yet his future relies on the present, and the present must sometimes look to the past for the strength needed to unlock destiny. 

Fate is not a linear beast, and requires much more than a simple PAST>PRESENT>FUTURE equation. These properties double back, contradict, twist and writhe, and continue to hide from the hero until he is scorched and contorted beyond any discernible guess of the imagination. 

“Hooded, and veiled with their night-like tresses, The Fates shall bring what no prophet guesses.”

So often does the hero, or his predecessor become plagued by the past. “Why do you fear the past? You are Isildur’s heir, not Isildur himself. You are not bound to his fate.” says Arwen to Aragorn. “That same blood flows through my veins” he retorts back in a concerned and defeated tone. 

Even Gods fear what the future might hold, and so Odin All-father frantically searches for the answers, and understands that fate is not a fixed entity, but a river that flows dependent on the contour of its surroundings. 

Do not fear the past nor the ghosts that lurk in the dark corners of your realm.

It is within the swarth of the Wolfhead’s keep that he will find these crypts. Step by step he must move towards the unlight of the silent realm of yesteryears. 

The crypt of the self houses many effigies still dimly lit. They stand guard over memory, and those that brought you to where you now stand.

Who were you once? Within one great man is the spirit and memories of many men he once was or wished to become. 

Those that once were -gone now they might be- deserve the King’s respect. They built what he now has.

:I am the Spear that guides the way:

:The Edge of GAR that does not sway:

Not only are you the sharpened point of all your ancestors, but you are the spearhead of the staff that has been honed by every version of yourself since birth. 

Who amongst us can say they are the same man they once were. Who amongst us is so bold to persuade other men that they have never learned from the death of some part of themselves?

Still, this is not enough. We must embrace the spirits that once were. We must look to the stone effigies within the crypt of the self. We must look into their cold lifeless eyes as the candles shudder and the halls exhale a cold wind from the outer realm. It is here we must bow our heads and remember what was.

For it is because of what was that all now is. For better or for worse, we owe those ghosts our time, and company. This is the truest council. This is the shadow court, where no archetypes but you might find the purest of refuge. 

No laws are made down there. No new ties to powerful allies can be found in the crypt of the self. Its truest bounty is the lesson of death and the promise of progression. The flowering cycle that all things are bound to. 

In order for a Hero King to exist there must be the fallen. The road to the throne is cobbled by corpses and failures that span out for miles across the desolation. We must honor them for what they achieved before we rose from their ashes tenfold. We are who they meant to become. And become they did.

Crypts have always been a temple to memory. But there is no need for us to differentiate the stone effigies of those sullen temples to the dead from those of the bountiful altars we erect in honor of the Gods.

So often the temples that man has made to house Gods become synonymous with hope for a future outcome, as crypts assume the mantle of memory. But this is the problem of lesser men.

Here in the grove of the S.C.M.M we assume all our peers to have a more refined understanding of these holy places. We do not delve into the crypts in search of anything. We do not prostrate ourselves at the knees of the Thunderer in hope he takes pity.

We go to those hallowed areas to be away from all others, and we do so to honor those parts of us that deserve honor. And those things that are still perhaps beyond us. 

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I, Thaumaturge – Pt. II – :TRINE:

The Thaumaturge’s threads amalgamate. A paradigm is born. 

Magicks of the world permeate all. They exist within our psyche, and outside its bounds. The raw energy refined by the spinning wheel of ourselves. Arcane golden threads, weaving with luminous ferocity. Threads laying down the patch work of…

The Divine Tapestry

The Banner of :I:

Spiritus Ad Monumentum

The Thaumaturge Archetype has roots within a concept which many of us understand well. Mind, Body, Spirit. The weaving of the roots of the sacred trees which encompass the all. Within all Archetypes, composed by various great minds, we see places where the roots twist and gather. 

But the Archetype is composed of pieces which make the whole. A Sub-Archetype. Small, but no less significant fragments to the greater whole. The magicks and mythos of this world are vast and many. One could fathom them over a thousandfold. Today I shall discuss the :TRINE: of the Thaumaturge. A trio of Sub-Archetypes. Embodiments of the physical, the intellectual and the mystic. The cosmic alchemy which births the Miracle-worker. 

:SORCERER:

:HAG:

:ONEIRONAUT: 

SORCERER IN THE TOWER

Clairvoyance, practice, transfiguration.

We may imagine the Wizard within the Old Tower. An image most of us have no trouble imagining. He sits atop a grand pillar of stone. The spire of his monolithic structure cleaves the clouds and touches the stars. What a majestic site it is, paralleling the untamed potential of the human mind. 

His magicks are calculated. The crystal ball’s image means little without the means to understand. His esoteric workings can get “messy”.  We see this parallel within our own minds. We make mistakes. We lick our wounds, we improve our methods in the future. 

Precious metals litter his study. Precious minerals, once coal and soot, now enough to satisfy the greediest of harlots. Perhaps even to please a queen. His magic won him Rapunzel, his passionate spell now burns within her heart, her endless locks twirling around her wedding ring. 

The wizard is focus and mental fortitude. Directed intellectual energy for the purpose of something divine. His tower is the psyche and his being the spark which illuminates it. 

Magicks of the mind serve us in this corporeal world. They teach us to filter the jargon and sharpen an adamantine focus. Carve and shape your mind as the wizard carves the philosopher’s stone.

HAG IN THE WOODS

Alchemy, Physicality, Improvement

Take a walk through the dark wood, where most fear to tread. If you make it far enough you’ll come across a house of stone and moss. A Hag lives within. Hansel and Gretel would fear to tread here but you press onward. 

In her abode you will not find death and evil, but of simple devotion to the alchemical. Her cauldron bubbles, salted meat and garlic hang from the ceiling. Here she devotes her work to magicks of the body. A plethora of potions litter her shelves each promising various effects. The effects of some are known, others not. 

She invites you to feast and imbibe, and you curiously agree. You may undergo a transformation of your own. This may not be quick, this may not be painless but by the time you leave this cabin, you won’t be the same. 

She has a husband, did you know that?

Alas, he is no demon, nor wilted homunculus of which many fairy tales may speak. In fact he is a glowing monument to her work. A colossus of a man, fists of hardened iron, limbs of the strongest and tallest of trees.

Hansel and Gretel would have been wise to take her up on her invitation. By the time they left, Gretel would have been the fittest of young women. Legions of fawning men lining up to court her. Hansel would have become a hero the most gallant of knights would respect, and the finest of women lust after. He could definitely deadlift at least 3 times his bodyweight, I’m sure. 

The Hag is the physical creator. Her methods may not be comfortable, or quick, but they will forge you into something worth singing about. Tap into her essence next time to feel like skipping the gym. Tap into her practice when that weight is “too heavy”. Embody her ideal on your quest for physical glory, her wares are potent.

You are too.

MAD ONEIRONAUT 

Exploration, Chaos, Enlightenment

Alas, the most colourful among the lot. The pioneer within the psyche. He who traverses the realms of the unwoken world. He is the dream scout, the nomad of the spirit. We don the boots and equip the eldritch compass of the Oneironaut.

Madman, I would say. What is to be found in the order of natural laws where there are none? When control is relinquished to the subconscious mind within our heads. He roams in restful sleep, where lucid dreams take hold. He traverses the kaleidoscope of ideals and fragments, his head full of psychedelics. 

The Sorcerer has learned control over the magicks of the corporeal. The Oneironaut romps in a mad euphoria amidst the incorporeal. He sails through chaos and divinity within the dreaming realm. He drinks the finest of wine with the voice of the cosmos. He passionately fucks Aphrodite herself. He howls through his drunken haze. He spits lightning into the howling abyss of creation. 

His romp through this unwaking realm seems foolhardy, chaotic. Let us not forget the importance of chaos, however. Chaos within the self. Where we let go within a place that inherently makes little sense to begin with. Here is where we start to uncover that which we cannot find in our day to day state. Here is where we read scriptures we were otherwise not meant to find. Here we uncover relics meant to lay buried. Here, in the dreamworld, in the higher spirit we discover ourselves. Here, we uncover our secrets which slip in front of our very eyes. 

This is the path laid by the Oneironaut. He is the unhinged explorer, bottle in hand weaving the rainbow cable around the magicks laid by Sorcerer and Hag. 

We are him. He is we. 

The Trine of the Thaumaturge archetype. The corners of the triangle which make up the whole. Learn to know each one. You could certainly learn something from your own personal sorcerer. Marvel in awe of your own self the Hag helped you to create. Revel in the discovery of the Oneironaut, and the wisdom he can point you towards. These three lead you inwards toward the heart of this Trine. 

Towards the Thaumaturge. To the stronghold of the heroic Spell-weaver.

I hope you find him, my friends. He’s in you, and he’s waiting.

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The Jealousy of Gods

The Human Power no God can wield.


Navajo Man dressed as Nayenezgani (Naayéé’neizghání in the Navajo language) translates to “Slayer of Alien Gods”, or “Slayer of Strange Gods,” or simply “Monster Slayer.”


What a curse to be a God. It is no wonder that so many tales speak of their jealousy towards mortals. Clear to see why so many of them disguise themselves as mere aspects of their highest form and walk among us for the purpose of entertainment // envy. 

Like the boy who tires of his homework and escapes off into Hyrule to mimic the quest of the hero, as the Shaman dances in the likeness and skin of a wolf to become feral once more. We share with the Gods this need to abandon greater control over our surroundings. We stand with them in envy of those we -as a tribe- have deemed more free, and lesser. For with power comes duty, and with duty comes the heavy chains of command. 

These chains bind even the highest forces to what they have gifted, created, realized, or imposed. 

And yet -unlike the Gods that have revealed themselves to the ages and empires of man- the mind, body and soul have granted each and every mortal a great deal of changeability. This change is not always capricious in its nature, but rather I speak of the gradual process of self alchemy that each of us must undergo throughout the path of mortality. 

Often when a God is faced with a problem, it is almost akin to that of animal instinct in the way that they resolve the issue. Occidental Gods -although known to share human traits- often dealt with their problems with unique powers that were possessed by them alone. Some examples even prove this idea of feral instinct. For example, Thor confronts the Thursian threats with his hammer (this is the essence to the rune of thurisaz – reactionary force), Hephæstus forges powerful magic weapons for any and all who need them. 

In other words, he stands as an entity that fabricates answers to any problems that might have arisen in any time or space.  

So you see, when a God looks down upon us and sees us overcome our problems with no powers at all, this must be a curious thing indeed. To the Greeks, it was known that the Gods did not even create us, but it was through the power of :FATE: that Prometheus took that fire, and disobeyed in an almost Luciferian nature the word of the Sky Father. This was how Tolkien’s dwarves came to be also, and it is the darkest truth for any lesser spawn to know how small they might truly be in the eyes of their higher.  

I speak now to those who have been cast aside by their Fathers. This is a terrible fate indeed, and something that no other soul (no matter how close they might be to you) may aid you with. This is often the most intense of realizations. The two twin brothers of the Navajo creation myth tell the tale of how two sons of a God must undergo several trials upon the path towards their father, and then more trials still in his presence inorder to prove their origin to him. It was said that they went through ‘the rocks that crush and the reeds that cut’ and eventually arrived in the sky where their father doubted them until they proved their origin and personal powers. 

Mask representing the younger twin, known both as Naʼídígishí, He Who Cuts Life Out of the Enemy, and Tóbájíshchíní, Born of Water. Mask used in Night Chant Ceremony, recorded by Matthews in 1902
*Note this mask of Sun God’s child is decorated with the Germanic rune of Dagaz. Realize that there is no possible connection between the cultures and then understand the deep seeded connection we all share through symbols and gods. 

Like the agoge of the Spartans that so few survived, humans are interesting to Gods due to their varying degrees of rigor and vigor; many fail but the noble few emerge from trials with new heights of personal prowess and skill. Rigorous and intense to the point of death for many, but for those who survive? Oh how your fathers will watch how high you might soar with or without their gaze.

This is the human condition. This is Nietzsche’s ‘God is dead’ in its unsullied gleaming light.

To the base slew of the human Western populace, this means a simple sadness or excuse for excess decadence, a sure path towards the devil that Christians warn us about. But, even the lowest among us understand how easily they can change their morals, duties, interests, and cares. This is a true freedom, and it is not at all as gratifying as the contemporary west would like you to think it is.

To be free of morals and duty is to be aimless and addicted to decadence. The line between the two was not always as thin as it is now, to the point where even the smartest among us can’t quite wrap their head around how this eroded so quickly under the shadow of Europe’s last civil war. 

  The highest among us strive for Godliness, not for power, but for growth

(:ING: -> :GER:) . The weight of responsibility forever makes us stronger, and the act of understanding that we each play a role and wear the mask of a higher force moves us ever upwards through a mimetic relationship to a power that is indifferent about our love or hate for its essence and self.  But, as Hermes is messenger to one group, he is the fury and highest to another. Perception is at the whim of fate. The fate demands what one man sees and another does not. The fluctuating, spell-slinging, chaos driven well of the fates is in its essence a very feminine portal not unlike the vagina; all things sling forth from it. The Gods are phallic in their wishes to rape fate and instill within it something more to their own image. It is without question that every event and cataclysmic chapter of human history has been spoken of with a playful mention of some strange hair-sized butterfly effect which we all love to jest as the straw which broke the camel’s back. And then there are those that say it is ‘the will of the Gods’ for better or for worse.

But as the Gods cannot simply control the way fate expunges events, we find likeness in them in that we cannot hope to believe every other human we interact with thinks the exact same way of us.

We are all unique in the individual eye of the millions that walk this earth. To some, you are another face, to others you are a son, and to others still you are a piece of shit. It is not up to any higher power to remedy or even out this disparity, for it is the way, and we are bound to it so long as we exist as mortals.

To pretend this relieves you of your highest duty, however, the duty to evolve and understand until you die, is to die before you ever take your last breath, and to prove to the gods by proxy that you are not their son. This is a plain display: that there is nothing on you of which to be jealous, nothing to entice the immortals to go green with envy, and proves to them the greatest aspects of the human condition are little more than a collection of flukes.

Are you a plaything for jealous Gods or are you a Man?

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I, Thaumaturge

Θαυματουργία – Ancient Greek – “Miracle-Worker”

    It’s easy to say the time of magic, myth and monsters has long passed us by. I don’t blame the average man for having that opinion. Things have gotten stale.

Stagnation, uncertainty, and oppressive fear-mongering from corrupt lords within the ivory towers above; the serpents which feed us the stimuli to herd us to slaughter.

Merchants, charlatans, and those that crack their whip. Those that peddle their cures with the promise of peace of mind and soundness of body.

The street magician, whose magicks are as potent as the flaccid cock his wares promise to fix. His :VIRILITY: a mix of piss and nightshade for the cuckold husband who can no longer satisfy his wife.  

The False Wizard. The corrupted Thaumaturge.  

Many among us happily go along with this. They flock to the flashy signs and charismatic showmanship of the con-man in flamboyant clothing. They believe, they are comforted by so-called “Magic”

As cattle charmed by a woman’s kulning, many of us act the same; put into oblivious bliss in exchange for obedient submission. 

But what of those of us that don’t buy the snake oil? What of those that refuse to drink from the well of tainted wisdom? When the curtain falls on the carnival show and we’re left to wonder: 

What the fuck was that?

We who fall into this camp know magic exists. We live it, we work it, it’s a part of our worldview. It’s not regurgitated jargon from paid-off news networks and medical “professionals”. Thaumaturgy, the working of miracles, exists within the hearts, minds and greater consciousness of those that understand my words. 

The Thaumaturge, the worker of miracles, is not a man in a top hat or a face on your TV set. It’s one who sees through it all. The one who sees illumination everywhere in his waking world, through the smoke and mirrors, 

Magicks exist in abundance for those who seek them. We find them in art, in passion, in sex. The eroticism and beauty within body, mind, and spirit.

In romance, in violence, in exploration. In the path and the struggle. We live it all, then rejoice upon the summit. 

All are components in this alchemical process; in the flames and blinding lights of passion, whether entwined in the warm comfort of a woman, or in the blood fury of combat with your fellow man. 

A rite, if you will; rite of the erotic and the destructive, arcane ritual sealed in vaginal fluid and blood. 

Deep meditations within yourself, on the concepts of life and love, of death and rebirth, of your psyche as a spinning wheel, and life’s energy the thread. Luminous fibres from all directions, twirling and twining together as embers fly.

A paradigm is born. 

Limitless potential, weaving together of everything, and nothing. 

This is magic. It’s exhilarating, it’s mundane, it’s divine.  

Fan the flames during a drought and you may burn down half the village. Do nothing, and you may sit alone in the cold. 

Rays of negativity penetrate our minds from all sides. The stagnant period the world is in right now only worsens this. The power to ward off these spells of destruction exists within us, however. We are the vessel for the magicks around us. They are our shield and our sword; our staff and crystal ball; our :STORM-CLEAVER: to cut through the madness. 

Save your gold pieces, my friends. Turn your attention from the demon in a false halo and instead, direct it inward. Open your mind and body, allow the ebb and flow of the mystic to flow within you. Shape it, experience it, embody it.

Smile, rejoice, celebrate. 

Experience, love, and be loved. 

We are the wizards. We have curses to lift. 

I, Thaumaturge

I, The Alchemist

I, The Vessel

I, The Cosmos. 

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:The Grail Flower:

The trials of :JUPITER PRIMUS: move into full swing, and the golden summer is upon us. 

We jog through the nightshade forests below the cold moon

//

 Stretch mighty and wide upon our awakening, and greet the skyfather in the clear blue sky above 

Like the seeds of spring we stretch and reach for more and more. Towards that golden glory do we strike forever; like those that came before us who fertilized the very earth that willed us to grow.

It is the soil that is home, the earth that cradled us and nurtured us towards higher horizons. 

For is it not true that any good home will eventually hurl you towards the highest heavens? 

Any home that does not do so is not a home for you young warrior. 

Any place you deem to belong the most should never keep you as a sprout. 

If you feel no growth where you are, there is something amis amidst that sacred runic formula (the cracking of :ING:) 

Observe here that very spell.

Observe also this GRAIL FLOWER. A Bindrune containing and representing the growth from home towards the purest of realizations. 

The flow that is able to commence through the sacred structure of the home (OTHALA) is the pathway of the inner hero. 

The flowerhead, and prize being the rune WUNJO (joy) but there also the inversion of this rune; its shadow and shade. True treasures are the ones that give us joy and also strife. The grail is the western NIRVANA, and this rune is its sigil.

Enlightenment upon finding this prize of prizes is unknown to most men that live today, but we can all imagine its form in at least some rough essence.

Unstoppable and fervent is the will of all material growth that strives for the heavens. Trees, mountains, man, fire, etc. This is the magic of :GER: and it will take us ever upwards through heavens and hells unknown.

Ascend higher and higher

So that in your fall you may burn brighter 

Brighter than any who came before 

Lighter so that in your dreams wake you will be reborn again once more

For the thousand trials to strip you bare as Campbell wrote you must first make that step out as the fool. He who searches for the mountain king, and the boons of a million gods. 

Adventure is beyond the imagination, for within our wildest dreams we are always successful. In the physical realm this is never so. You will bleed, you will cry, you will run, you will hide.

You will strive for the mountain top only to reach its roots, and find there amidst the endless echoes of boundless aeons the hollow laugh that rings of the rocks, and you will know it to be your darkest inner shadows.

There is no way for you to survive adventure. You will be sacrificed from yourself to yourself, and you will see the boy you were cast into the furnace, only to return as a man.

The slumbering king (once and future) only emerges when he is needed most, and you will not find him buried in your couch, and amidst the hobbit politics of your current home town.

Struggles unknown, and fears beyond reason await you traveler.

Are you prepared to become a man?

Or will you wither as a sprout.

You need only look to your neighbours to see gelded souls, as you need only look to your gutter to see acorns that will never be oaks.

Do not find yourself amongst them, as comfortable as they might seem in the present.

As you find yourself unable to sleep in the pouring rain of some foregin land, you will think of home, and find yourself laughing at the things you once worried about.

There is a storm in every man, woman and child. 

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:JUPITER PRIMUS:

I recently had the pleasure of breaking words with an old mentor, and chieftain in his own right.

This is a man of the lycurgan creed. Of the wolf-moon and horned-god. 

He shares his spoils with those who he knows to be true. 

Those who dance around their own fires and howl at the world that has deemed them villains… and all those who dare speak to their ilk. 

This man asked me of Halithaz, and how we grow.

He asked me what this :new way: intends to lead to…

And I gave him the only answer. 

Having known me for many years, he has bore witness to my growth, and aided me whenever needed along that path.

He sees now the torch must pass on, and I intend to do so with the utmost glory.

And he then, with understanding of my cause revealed to me a sacred blade. It came in the form of words.

Not to wound, and not to threaten, but to further arm an old pupil on the same path he took years before. 

They formed as such:

I know you and yours. And I know you know much beyond what you write of. Do not cull your writings to fit inside the heads of lesser men. They will know, or they will not.”

And there we have it.

Advice to crack the heavens.

Advice to melt away the frost of winter, and bring forth the seeds of spring.

ᛝᛝᛝᛝᛝᛝᛝᛝᛝ

SPROUT MANY BY THE
:ᚩ: :ᚨ: :ᚦ:

ᛝᛝᛝᛝᛝᛝᛝᛝᛝ

In the damp, frost-plagued earth did my mind and spirit coax new, old, and very powerful seeds towards the surface and forefront of my mind. 

So that one day they might sprout towards the great skyfather that we all shall meet someday. 

If my words become like fleeting snowflakes towards your mind; and they melt too quickly to see patterns of note implanted upon the brain, then I apologize and you are not yet of a similar mind to the rest of us.

But I do so press forward now; for those capable of understanding the ramblings of this soldier of the SUBLIME ARCHON (αρχ-). 

Spring is dead.
Long live the spring!

The time for :I: is dying. 

The feast to come is just beginning to take form. 

I pity those who have not taken the proper Apollonian precautions needed.

The duties required inorder to move forward and earn their Lon Laith within this most glorious summer.

THIS IS YEAR ZERO OF THE TRUE NBA (THE NEON BRONZE AGE)

…But do you make the roster?

If you have not prepared, then you will simply not attain the true warmth and might of this glory. 

And no one will be to blame but yourself.

Look to the signs.

Is it not true that the world now splits between those who understand and those who do not?

Is it not true that with every passing day this reality becomes more and more uncanny?

Theseus has entered the labyrinth, and there is no turning back. 


Evil is here my friend. And Yet so is the light. 


Science of the modern era has even heralded this. Only one week ago was there seen a massive solar flare from the great ⊕. 

This inevitably gifts unto all humans of this era the boons, and power of hearty

                                                                 :SOLAR WINDS:


I wish to leave none in the dark and cold. 

Though now me and the others press upwards and onwards towards the :highest peak:

We move to greet the Archon and bask in the boons of what is about to be unleashed upon this great green earth of ours.

THE :JUPITER PRIMUS: IS UPON US 

If you seek to join us then I urge you to take bedside by this dying spring.

Follow these tasks, and see yourself further prepared for what is to come:

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The Blade of Order

In opposition of the unbridled chaos of the flail, the tempered blade of order stands gleaming

I’ve previously delved into the all too often dismissed force that is chaos and its place in the natural cycle. Its role in the balance between order and disorder. In my last piece, I talked about the flail and its absurd potential for destruction. I also discussed how to utilize it’s chaotic and destructive potential. To direct that potential, and use it to further your own self in a positive, uplifting sense. I’m now choosing to shift the focus into the Apollonian side, and delve into the force of order, it’s relation to chaos, and it’s role along the Halithazian path.

As chaos is the flail, order is the sword. The fusion of order and disorder is the hero seed. 

If chaos is the force which shakes the foundation of everything in our world view, order is the binding force which draws it back together. The storm will not rage forever, eventually the beaming rays of the sun will pierce the black clouds above. The winds are dispelled and warmth, balance and control once again returns to the realm. 

Order within our minds manifests as discipline, control, calculation and execution. We cannot allow the forces of chaos to completely overpower our will for improvement and mastery, and so order comes in as a staunch reminder of our endless journey upward. The sword is the perfect symbol for this from it’s very nature and design. A shining, well crafted blade of steel, pointed skywards in a symbol of masculine potential. A deadly omen of the disciplined hero. 

One does not have to look far to see the use of the sword as a symbol of the hero archetype within the realms of history, fantasy and myth. The sword Gram, which Sigurd used to slay the dragon, Fafnir. Andúril, the Flame of the West, wielded by Aragorn II, heir of Isildur. Or perhaps one of the most well known examples, Excalibur of Arthurian legend. Tales and stories of men of great fortitude carrying these great weapons against imposing odds. Using the blade they carry with them to dispel the forces of evil. Introducing order where chaos has run far too rampant is necessary. The slavering beast with smoke emanating from its nostrils stands above our gallant Knight. As such, so often the forces of chaos can seem equally imposing.

We must train to utilize the blade of order effectively, just as we do the flail. A well-tempered sword is a deadly enough instrument of its own to be sure, but made all the more imposing in the hands of a competent wielder. Introducing order and discipline into your life is the equivalent of arming yourself with your own Excalibur, your own Andúril. It is your steadfast will, weaponized into a thing of regality and excellence. 

You possess the ability in everything you do. This is your time spent training your body in whatever way possible. The effort you put into eating REAL food that’s going to make that training worthwhile. The opening and sharpening of your mind through reading and meditation. These are not dissimilar from the master bladesmith, toiling away in his forge to craft the perfect blade. Just as his quest for the perfect steel is never ending, so is yours toward the perfect version of yourself. This is what keeps you going. 

Chaos is a part of life. It can be truly tempting and truly destructive. It’s only natural for all of us to revel in it’s erotic embrace from time to time, but never let it consume you. Keep a level head of discipline even where it seems there is none. As fun as the flail may be to swing, never forget that the steel by your side is the backbone. It’s the ultimate tool you have for keeping chaos in balance, for smiting the demons ahead. It’s your own personal ascension. 

Who is the man who wields both the Blade of Order and the Flail of Chaos?

A Barbaric Aristocrat? A well-off gentleman leaving his study to go clobber his friends bare knuckled in the cellar?

A Drunken Templar? A trained swordsman of the cross, struggling to undo his piss soaked britches during a night of debaucherous indulgence?

An Apollonian Madman? The musclebound lunatic who drops his rusty barbell onto green grass, freshly cracked White Claw pouring down his stark naked husk?

He could be all of these things, or none of them. It’s your steel, it’s your iron ball and chain. Understand both, and wield them as you will.

Keep your steel sharp, your blade hand swift, and may your target be smitten.

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:THE BARD: – :THE JESTER:

There is an area at the very top of England that was once known as ‘Yr Hen Ogledd’. This translates into the modern tongue as ‘Old North’ reasonably well. 

It was here that Ida and his offspring of Anglisc blood would fight, settle, and dominate for many generations. 

As you can imagine, there was much renown and glory to be found in the act of conquering amongst these warrior tribesmen. It was not uncommon for particularly powerful and aggressive rulers to gain nicknames. 

There was one amongst Ida’s line that was known to history (according to ‘Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum’) as ‘Flesaur’ meaning ‘The Twister’. 

Fucking hell… 

Imagine being such a man. Imagine being such a barbarous chad that you are remembered throughout time as ‘The Twister’ for your battle ferocity, and ability to ravage and decimate the Welsh. 

What’s stopping you from crushing your opponents and claiming their lands with such power that your deeds resonate well past your death? Well I suppose that’s an article for another time. 

You might be a fine young man. You might be even more than a fine young man, but how are you to withstand the gullet of Cronos/Time? 

How would this man have been remembered if not for the renown and resonance that found its roots on the tongues of poets and in the resonant strings of the bard?

How do you presume to carve a legend out of yourself without the aid of whispers and tunes?

The fact of the matter is that music is simply magic. Songs are spells, and words carry the meaning behind the victors first to final sword strike. They are the psalms that send the peasantry to their deaths in the name of a king. They are the words that plant the seeds of hubris within all inherited crown wearers. 

They are the beginning and the end.

Any man that has not found it so has never been remembered.

Any society that has not valued beauty has settled into a mass of conquerable dough. 

Like veins all across ancient England did the bards and poets flow from kingdom to kingdom, bringing news of perils, victories, magic and power. 

Sagas  from the North demonstrate to us that even well into the iron age did our ancestors understand the weight and power of song. I urge you to read Egill Skallagrímsson’s ‘Head Ransom’ poem for further proof of this.

:THE BARD: is an archetype that cannot be underestimated in any courtroom that wishes to thrive. 

He is your conduit from the self to higher self; from highborn to lowborn; from victor to loser.

The bard imitates the holy psychopomp. He is the wanderer who carries with him the spirit of somewhere else. And he is loved for this, and treated as holy.

Think of rockstars. I’m not even talking about the famous ones. Consider your lowly thrash metal band on the road. They are poor, they stink, they have addictions… and they still fuck. You can take my word for that. 

Fame is granted to those who carry the magic within their heart, and wherever there is beauty there will be music.

:THE BARD: will sing of your many undertakings, he will romanticize in the most important way possible all of your tales, and deeds. 

This Archetype is necessary for your court, for he will remind you of all you have already done, and take those songs with him wherever he might travel. 

The power of Taliesin is paled by no other force within your realm.

And yet he is mocked, along with everything else by the antithesis of Romanticized triumph.

For across the room at his polaropposite position sits the grinning, and fearless mockery alchemist.

:THE JESTER: can make or break you. As Loki storms into the halls of the great one, and insults his way into the events that conclude with the ending of the world… so too does every jester enter his King’s royal court. 

Mockery, and comedy is a spell that many fear far more than they will ever admit. For if you cannot laugh at yourself, and your deeds, and your goals, and your life… then it will all be in vain. 

There is a world of difference in the west from when Christianity went relatively unchecked by any Jester Magic, to when Monty Python decided to throw the molotov into the stain glass of the basilika, and the label on that bottle read ‘The Life of Brian’.

Contemporary Christianity showed its weakness that day, by its lawsuits, and weak death throes upon the cackling band of British Jesters. 

A true king fears naught. And in the sullen court where the King banishes or kills his fool, all will agree in silence that it was the Jester that revealed his crown to be naught but piss and shit.

The final act of the fool is revealing his severed head to hold your crown, as you sit angrily upon the throne wearing his bell-tethered, and jingling hat.

Like a wild beast the fool might try and find weakness. It is uncomfortable.

Often his jests mimic that of the peasant’s who finds passage through the knight’s shining armor with the plunge of his rusty dagger upon a field of mud and gore. 

It should be understood by all who follow the Germanic tales of the gods that these are tales of the inner world. Odin Wolfhead is a sworn blood brother to the chaos that is Loki Jester. This is the creator befriending the mockery/chaos.

This Archetype is not evil. Its intent is not to destroy, but to discover cracks, and to push limits. It is from the chaos that we might have had the big bang, or the fire that met ice. You must find this jester amusing, and you must listen to him carefully.

He will antagonize, and strip you bare, while the bard only wishes to sing you the songs of praise, and glory.

Both are crucial, and both will balance you whilst you seek entertainment and self indulgence. Meditate upon the jokes, and hum the tunes as you assess your next moves. 

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SCMM III: Court of the Solar King

The inner you is a gnarled figure. He has seen much darkness, and he wears the armor and scars to prove his descent into the darkest areas of your mind and world. 

He is :The Wolfhead King: and he seeks the highest light. 

He searches for the true god. He searches for the :The Solar King: 

He chases him round and round the mortal coil (axis mundi).

In-turn, he often feels like he runs from this figure. For what man can say he has only ever stuck to the path of light?

 We all run, sometime or another. For this is the way of all. We share the memoriam sanguinis of Aragorn.

The good news is that the simple act of fleeing is enough for the inner you to rouse a slumbering conscience. It is not too far-fetched to claim that a character such as Jiminy Cricket can be seen as ‘the guide’ archetype manifest. The wizard, the elder, whatever you like really.

For many of these archetypes that call to us have similar goals and boons to attain from coaxing us into certain paths of thought and memory. It is fallacy to believe them to be one in the same.

It is also important to note the clever trick of Disney to manifest his guide archetype into the form of a bug. For whose conscience does not ‘bug’ them? 

When you run from fate, you understand this is wrong. 

These guide archetypes call for you, and care for you deeper than you know.

Keep them in your court, and treat them well. But also understand that these figures are not always of the same mind.

I speak now of those closest to your ear as you sit upon your sullen throne. To your left stands :THE CHIEFTAIN: and to your right :THE WANDERER: 

For out of all the various emissaries of :Ansuz: these two stand to be the most powerful and effective when your goal is to obtain order and higher-self magic.

It is folly to assume all your archetypes are one and unified in their causes. Though these archetypes stand for similar points in their advice and council, they are themselves opposed, and at odds more often than not. 

Both of these archetypes have your closest seat. They are often the first you meet along your journey or path to kingship. Their goals are the same, to aid you and show you the path towards your fate. 

Yet their means of bringing you there are nothing alike, and in ways are quite opposite.

Observe, 

:THE CHIEFTAIN:
This archetype should be seen as a seasoned governor. He is familiar with all avenues of leadership, and has pledged to aid you through the art of justice and reason. He does not care to leave anything to fate, and his belief in cultural magic is seen as yet another tool towards garnering favor, and maintaining power. I speak of Earl Haraldson, Rogal Dorn, Roose Bolton, Marc Antony.

:THE WANDERER: 

This archetype stands for unrelenting fate and unseen magic. He is furtive, and deals in riddles. He is not afraid to toss you into the storm, and his reasoning to do so will never come from his own mouth, but discovered by you after the trial is completed. I speak of Merlin, Gandalf, Odin, Kaepora Gaebora.

These archetypes have guided heroes near and far, and through history, and myth. They are timeless, and they are separate entities that, quite often, are at odds with one another. But as any story will show you (where they are both present) there is an understanding that they are two arms of the same mechanism.

The hero will need them both in order for his teaching to be entirely complete, and for his rule to be truly just.

One must prove to be the axis in which these two wisdom feeders generate their magic. They spin round and round upon the hero’s soul.

More soon. 

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The Chaos Flail

The Chaos Flail 

If order is the sword, then as the symbol of chaos stands the flail. 

As a man of action, I understand the importance of maintaining a degree of discipline and a relatively staunch control over my actions, the Apollonian side of my nature. I am sure most reading this already have a solid understanding of the Apollonian and Dionysian dichotomy in regards to human behaviours, of the balance between the forces of order and disorder (Read “The New Way” by Ioan Eofor for excellent views on this).

For this thought piece I’m going to choose to focus on the latter. Chaos is an interesting thing. Chaos is the raging hurricane, it’s the tornado across the plains, it’s the bull in a fit of rage goring any unlucky enough to stand in its way. At the same time, I would argue it’s not only beneficial in controlled circumstances, but essential. 

  The sword stands true as a powerful symbol of order. The blade glistens as it points to the sky. Its inspiring presence is immediately recognizable as one of virility, of vigor. Its counterpart I will liken as the flail. The flail is a weapon as frightening as it is chaotic. It’s an absurd weapon, one that despite it’s intimidating aura was grossly impractical. The weapon is more entertaining fiction than anything and was rarely, if ever, used in actual combat historically. For that very reason however, I’m choosing it to represent chaos in a purely symbolic sense, so I implore you to keep that point in mind for the duration of this article. The morning star twirling around one’s head, the rattling of the chain. Its strike is devastating, for either the target or the wielder. Therein lies the nature of chaos. It is unpredictable, dangerous, and at its core absurd and almost comical in the sense of the damage it can inflict. At the same time, It invigorates, it sharpens the senses, it makes us feel alive. 

Where chaos becomes what I would consider to be detrimental is when it gains complete control over order. In human beings this manifests in a number of ways. Mental illness, violent abuse, addiction. The alcoholic man has completely caved to the forces of chaos. His Dionysian side now embodies his entire being as he descends further into disorder with every swig from the bottle. Chaos is rampant not just in our human microcosm, but in the world around us. Storms rage across the oceans, wildfires burn and blot out the sky with their smoke, and earthquakes shake and crumble that which our civilization has worked so hard to construct. 

Chaos is necessary. It is the second half of the whole, and must be respected and understood. It can consume an individual, destroy them if poorly understood, or uplift them if it is effectively controlled.  If you are to take an average person, and put a flail in their hands, and tell them to use it effectively there’s a good chance you’ll be making a mistake. There’s a good chance they will end up caving in their own skull before they even have a chance to hit the target. They must train themselves in the technique to swing it properly, armour themselves sufficiently as to avoid injury. Even so, the risk of the flail, due its very nature, is great. Someone who has trained with such an instrument is still at risk. No matter how adept you may think you are with this infernal device, you still run the risk of taking yourself out simply by using it. With the rattling of the chain as it twirls in air like an iron beacon of destruction it exudes the essence of chaos. As a force of disorder and destruction, it can be harnessed and used by a competent wielder to powerful effect. 

The wielding of the flail stands as the metaphor to us as individuals embracing the chaotic sides of ourselves, using it to uplift ourselves to greater levels without allowing it to consume us. Giving in to the chaos of your anger will result in damage to not only yourself, but those around you. However, by using it, harnessing it and learning to direct it in such a way that it becomes a motivating force, It gives you a reason to change things, a reason to improve an area of yourself that may be lagging behind. You wield the flail in times of grief, where you are overtaken with sadness, and rather than simply giving up and resorting to either a bottle or various other empty pleasures, you swing it around your head and use it to inspire yourself. To make yourself realize that it is your duty to keep swinging it to honour those that came before you. 

The Sword and the Flail. The duality of both weapons and their symbolism are icons of what us individuals along the good path hold close. Our discipline, our control, our tempered steel is in balance with the cumbersome, challenging destructive force of the morning star. But approach with caution. When swinging the chaos flail, you must take care. You must take the time and the initiative to understand both its potential for growth, and for self destruction. 

Keep your chaotic nature in check. Learn how it benefits you, and where its potential to destroy you lies, and learn to redirect its force into one of growth and betterment. 

Raise your flail arm, may your star strike true.