...the further I have to go in my pilgrimage...

Assalamualaikum and peace be upon you…

We have twisted the longing into an insatiable craving to validate that which we are not. The longing is simply the unceasing directive to be that which we are.
Jalaluddin Rumi

Hearghh! Gasp! …hhh…elp!

The rotting hands of the Demon moved frantically to part the dark damp soil that has inearth him. His black soulless eyes are blinded by the darkness caused by the ever falling dirt. He is gasping for air as his chest is laden with the stench of the damp soil. Life seems to sip away from his tired body.

With all of what little might he has, he trusts his weak hand upwards. A loud thud fills the night air. The glorified child of agnus can feel the coldness of the night’s air. He frees another weak hand, gripping tight to whatever hold his rotting hands could find and pulled himself up.
With heavy tired breaths, his soulless eyes stared at the glimmering lights at the foot of the Mount Lucre where he was entombed for the last three dawns…

Twas the dawn of the day of the Terrible, 13th dawn of Acca Larentia year of the Pullus Ligneus.

The Demon has traveled trough these paths before. Twas the path that leads to Mount Lucre, the place where sinners become saints and saints become sinners. All that that roamed this third Child of Apollo seek this mount, longed for its magic, be at war for its control. Progenitors deny progenies just to have a sip of its sweet sinful springs, masters were enslave by its allurements, slaves become shells in pursuing its shadows.

This are the wonders of Mount Lucre.

In his Book and trough his Beloved, the Unfeigned, the One True Master has always instigate the disciples of the Dark Enlightenment to seek this mountain for reasons that only HE knows. All that followed, all that believe and all that claimed to believe in HIM and his words has never failed to adhere to this. Many have set distorted pilgrimage to Mount Lucre. Many have become sinner saints and saint sinners. Many have been blindly enlightened by the glimmers of this mighty mountain.

The Demon is one of them.

In his pilgrim to the Lucre, the Demon lost sight of the One True Masters’ guiding cane. In his haste to become one of the sinful saints, Avarus and Salax – the enchanting daughters of the Lucre, have managed to allure him to the living pits of Mount Lucre. In his bewildered state of consciousness, buried him in the torturous pits and left him to further rot.

For three painful dawn and lonely dusks he struggles to be free. No friend nor foes, no oracles nor necromancers knew of his faith. Hope and faith is seeping painfully slowly from his brimstone heart. Light has become but a memory for him…

Twas the dawn of the day of the Terrible, 13th dawn of Acca Larentia year of the Pullus Ligneus.

In his inanimate state, his failing ears hear a vivid voice. The voice is chanting a very familiar chant. He mustered his concentration, he listen so very tentatively.

“By the powers that be!” He cries.

“By the powers that be! It’s the One True Master five callings…at this time…?” tear of gratefulness streamed out from his eyes. With all of what little might he has, he trusts his weak hand upwards. A loud thud fills the night air. The glorified child of agnus can feel the coldness of the night’s air. He frees another weak hand, gripping tight to whatever hold his rotting hands could find and pulled himself up.

With heavy tired breaths, his soulless eyes stared at the glimmering lights at the foot of the Lucre where he was entombed for the last three dawns…

"Sire… ” On this dawn thy have thought this servant… from this dawn I am truly thee.”

Twas the tale of the Demon.