I would like to start of course with this: never, ever become a doomer. Never, ever blackpill. No matter what, we are all going to make it. All of us. It is never over. Spiritual death, and the death of comfort, is merely the conception of a new life. Death isn’t the end, and there are far worse things than death. As recorded in Hovamal: “cattle die, kinsmen die, but one thing never dies: a good man’s reputation.”

So it is that we all must die. And we must die to the self first. For you cannot truly love something, unless you are willing to die for it. But before you can learn to love the world, your fellow man, you must love yourself first. This does not mean you must like yourself. Not at first at least. But in the strive to kill off the weakness of the self, to endure and conquer, that is how you will find the means of self love.

Before you can truly know the love of romance, you must first learn to love yourself. You must do this before you are even able to learn to truly love God. You must learn to love yourself, my friends. To be willing to die for what you are. And if you are not, then you do not represent anything.

Do not be discouraged if you wander like this. I have for a long time. But that was a past self. The Lion you all know is a better man, in some ways at least. After all, “not all who wander are lost.”

Do not let the good things going within are small community fizzle out. Some of you hold more weight, and a greater burden of this anchor than others. Some among you are true, aristocratic spirits. I think it is why I am so deeply drawn to many of you, for it is so very rare to find kindred souls in that manner. You know who you are. But do not let the community on here fizzle into idle, bohemian thoughts. Do not chud out, and recede to the quiet. Make of yourself an ambition to seek.

Never forget that it is ultimately up to you to grasp the fate you desire. Fate is always calling, even in the times. Even in things as small as this little coffee shop in Vienna called Chudstack.

Remember also, do not go hollow. Autumn approaches, just as the warmth, and wrath of summer fails. The earth goes into the coldness of winter.

I have always loved autumn above all the seasons for this. It is the beautiful end of life. It makes me sorrowful, this time of year. But sorrow, to me at least, is the greatest of all comforts. My mind at this time is brought closely to that of the Crucifixion. Even were I to wholly lose all my faith in God, still I could never walk away from Christendom, because it is there at the crucifixion that the greatest romance ever told was written.

It is that most terrible, and tragic, and beautiful, and glorious of deaths wherein the whole of my heart resides. That one, good, awful moment.

Amongst the story of the Crucifixion, there is perhaps one of the most sorrowful moments in all of human history recorded. There is perhaps no more tragic and beautiful an embrace in all of human history than that of the Pieta. That moment when the God-Man, the king of kings, the lord of the universe who had died upon the cross, was lowered into the arms of his mother. The very same mother who know all of this was to come to pass. She had born the agony of her son too, just as even our own earthly mothers bear ours. It is that most sorrowful of all agonies felt by any son or daughter of Adam that true love is found. There, in death, is life.

A girl I used to know used to never understand why I loved that sorrow so much. I still do love her, and I don’t think it possible for me to ever cease it. That is, after all, the nature of loving another. Never can we ever say everything that must be said to those we love until they are gone from our lives.

There are so many things I do wish I could have told her. You must forgive me if this sequence remains vague, and a little incomprehensible. It is perhaps embarrassing to write this here, behind a screen of anonymity. The only tragic part is that some of my followers do in fact know who I am, and know who this is about. And, wishing to avoid addressing this in person with any of them, I instead will defer to this. Now, that at the time they are reading this, I am currently sitting in some hallway at Fort Benning, GA.

There were so many things I withheld. I hate her, truly. But one cannot truly hate, unless one also loves. I suppose I will probably never see her again in my life. I hate the ills I caused such a fair and wild creature. And I resent also the time you occupy in my dreams too. I cannot replace yet the affection of the heart it seems with another just yet, despite my greatest efforts. You loved me dearly, and I the same. But I know in my heart, we did at times make one another happy, but fate is sometimes cruel, and love is a fickle mistress.

But, I must admit, losing you was the best thing that ever happened. I had to lose who I cared about most, in order to find what I wanted. Now, I have found that. But I am different now. I am the antithesis of who I was, which I know if you knew who I was now, you would hate me too. But it is what was necessary. I do not know how you are doing, but I hope, desperately, that you are doing well. If never again I see you, then farewell, fair Iseult of the golden hair.

My greatest wisdom I can ever offer is never cease to fight. Never give in while you yet draw breath. Never doubt yourself. For you may yet achieve the world when the world doubts, but you will gain nothing if you do not even believe in your own will. The world is yours to conquer. Go. Fight in the way which the fates demand. Fight for the fair maid. Fight for the good man. Fight for a good death. All that is required to destroy the weakness of the world is but a few good men, and a few good women.

It is from this, and the love between such, that a new generation can arise. The West is ill. Terminally so. It is possible we will not live to see the goodness of the future. Of a renewed West. Many of us will die before that good end comes. But that is the price of the hero, the true hero. They do not get to see the good days that come after their sacrifice, but because of this, they are remembered forever. It is their good deeds that won them eternal glory.

But such is the bargain of every great generation. Such is a hero’s bargain. To love with no certainty. To fight without knowing how the day is won. And to die before the sweetness of victory.

We, my friends, are at the crossroads. It is up to us to be that great generation. That age of heroes. Or at least, to raise the ones who will be them.

Love your fellow brother. Love him with spear in hand.

Do not chud out. Do not give into the comforts of simplicity. Do not run away and retreat to the Shire. There won’t be a Shire unless we win. We must win. And if we are doomed to fail, we must go down valiantly. There will be another time.

That, my friends, is the courage of the human spirit. The human condition is hard. And evil is ever-pressing at the gates. It is easy to run away, but it is also hard to be patient. To prepare and to wait for the time when we can finally gain victory, that is an even deeper difficulty.

There is much more I would like to say. Hopefully, while at OSUT, I may be able to check in from time-to-time on Sundays. But I can’t guarantee it. I am going away for but a little while. Don’t let me come back to an empty waste filled with strangers and lowly meanderings. Do not let me come back to a land of strangers.

There is much wisdom I will gain in these coming months. Do not forget to do the same. I am coming back, but for now I must go away for a time.

Until then, farewell, my good friends. Never give in, never give up. Do what must be done to make great stories.

“I want great love stories.”

– Lenny, The Young Pope, S1E3.

But why? Of course the obvious reason is that the weather gets cooler, drier, and the trees turn all lovely shades of yellow, red, and orange. There are few sounds quite as lovely as a sudden gust of wind through the trees on a cool, cloudless October day.

But conversely, I think it work asking why would autumn be so loved? All the beauty of the world begins to fade and die away. No one prefers an old woman to a young one in terms of beauty, after all. Autumn is a month of remembering death. It is a season remembering that all good things must die. That spring’s youth and summer’s flame will fail and give way to winter.

Autumn is melancholy.

Among the curious little coincidences in life, one I have recently noticed is how I will be gone for a while for all of autumn. In fact, I will pretty much spend the same timeframe at Ft. Benning that my work-in-progress book will take place.

It too is a fundamentally autumnal story. A reminder of death, and of duty, and of duty unto death. It is a story of romance, and war, and all the other sorts of things that enthrall the human spirit. Though, admittedly, it is less than half as well written as it should. And I have grown in wisdom beyond some of the means by which the plot happens.

But I think all of this has to do with the human mind’s difficulty in handling the moving of time. It is unavoidable. Time is the currency of your spirit. And Autumn is a reminder that you are running out of time.

You cannot afford to ignore the burdens of life. You cannot afford to runaway. Death comes. It will come. You cannot avoid it. Those who wish to become gods so often in life and in mythos seek to do so by avoiding death. But there is one truth to death:

You cannot become like God without death.

You cannot gain life without death. The life unsuffered is a life not lived. You were not built for a world of infinite ease, or lacking in chaos, or evil. You were not made to disappear into the forest.

Of course, man must be like the springtime and the summer. He must arise from the ashes, and carve out a good fief for himself. This he must do. But summer cannot last forever. It always ends. And so too must life.

Most are frightened of death, but in its own cruel sense death is beautiful. Such is the central myth of Christendom. Such is the center of all myth. That of the hero.

But heroes must die eventually. And it is often their death which is what wins them final, eternal renown.

I think in some ways this spiritual truth is why autumn is so loved. Because nature permits itself a beautiful death. And that sad departure makes something to remember, and to hope for. Becuase winter is not eternal either.

Spring always comes and the conquest of life begins anew.

All of this allegory is to say that one should not fear to fail or fall or suffer in his or her struggles. You cannot avoid your struggles, or your sins. Always they will follow you. But if one dares to face his struggles with dignity, then one can hope to make himself a true hero.

Do not be afraid to let parts of yourself die.

What a time it has been on Chudstack! That, for certain, is something to be said.

I should start that though this will be a longer essay, it will remain informal in style. I care quite a bit, but I do not care enough to make this perfectly organized.

It has been a very eventful month so far. We have seen the hyper-simulacra of Mongolian Will Martin, who quite frankly is a very legit guy. He is the great Khan, after all. We saw the fall and return of many classics, and nearly saw Damp Toast goon out. This has without a doubt been one of the funniest times I have ever experienced on this site.

We have also seen a very particular spirit arise, which climaxed within the last seven days, of the wonderfully chaotic spirit of rapestack.

I fear ever having to explain what rapestack is to any normie. And I fear simply blowing my brains out would be a better answer than anything I could possibly attempt to explain to anyone who is a normal member of society.

But, I do believe that whatever Dionysian spirit has possessed us has come to pass. And it has passed leaving us all quite hollow, I think.

I know we have all made many friends in this time, though. I know for myself, I could honestly say I would love to personally meet many of you and hold serious conversation. Even you, Gothic.

The fruits of rapestack have been the antithesis of the mellow, meandering, quiet, and esoteric state Chudstack was in not so long ago. Remember when the most chaotic thing that happened in recent memory was Worst Boyfriend Ever drama?

I should also like to say before I move forward, to use myself as a piece to criticize. Admittedly, though I am not quite the same shitposter tier of the greats like Matthew or Hadmar, I have been quite involved.

I mean, within the last month, I think I have doubled my subscribers and nearly tripled my followers. And I think a lot of us can say the same. In terms of profit margins, we have made quite a bit of bank.

But we have in fact completely overrun the meme. Now, are rape jokes still funny? Sure. Can a brother still horny post a little on main? of course. I am not here to do the exact opposite of a note I posted a few hours ago railing against puritanical moralizing. I am, in fact, not Mary Scotts. I am not here to stay we should stop shitposting. We should never stop shitposting. The last thing we want is to become a pseudointellectual jerk off like how Chudstack usually is.

But it is pretty clear that the zeitgeist needs to move on. We haven’t gone too far, but we have gone too hard. And now, we run the risk of no longer meaning anything at all.

I think very much so the antithesis of rapestack or just chudstack in general over the last couple weeks would be someing overly sentimental, overly emotional, and depressed even. Or even worse, it would be doubling down on purity signaling and a total crashout at the mere mention of anything vaguely sexual. Again, we shouldn’t become neutered. Please good lord do not become like my ex.

Instead, I propose a bit of a synthesis. Yes yes something something faggot Hegelian dialect whatever. But, it is true. I also must admit I don’t quite know what it should look like for chudstack in general. Also, let’s not become like Orthostack either. I was unfortunately exposed to them larping about Leif Erikson and vikings being Ortho or something. Truly dick ripping stuff.

What I know for myself however is a recognition of why rapestack and the foidposting was attractive to begin with, and much of it has to do with being antithetical to a past version of myself that was, to summarize, different compared to my persona on this site. That isn’t to say, of course, that my current disposition isn’t a toned down version of this account, either.

I am and will still remain The Lion of Normandy. I will still shitpost, and occasionally flirt with foids. Such is the way of things.

I think the most important thing to remember is that we can never let ourselves become wrapped in too many layers of irony.

We cannot become faggots who no longer even know what we mean. We should remain passionate, and even a little infatuated with pursuing beautiful women. After all, it is addictive because we are hardwired to try and catch them. And the making of a good romance is still a fundamental part of the human condition. Men and women must always and will always be infatuated with one another. We can only hope to cultivate this.

But we cannot forget that there are many other things to manhood. The masculine cannot merely dwell on the hungers on the flesh, though we also must not be like how I perceive the gnostics who infect this site outside our little bubble.

We must never become gnostics. We cannot ignore the senses of the flesh. We must rather embrace them properly. And, forgive me for being a soppy faggot, but embrace love. True love. The sort that comes with both the sword and shield in hands. The sort that cannot be rationalized. Love, after all, is irrational.

I think chudstack has gazed into the void some, and from the disordered chaos, derived a goodness. A hunger for better direction. We all seem to have a weird post-nut clarity. I know I personally would like to write better on this. I am actually working on an article about the importance of self-hatred. More on that in a later post.

To more or less close, let the shitposts continue. Milkstack seems to be a funny, new idea. And I think from the shitposting we can derive quite a bit of thought. But, we run the risk of essentially turning into /b/ or even twitter unless we at least occasionally make serious notes, and occasionally are not nice, but kind.

I love Chudstack. I would consider many of you retards to be actual friends. And I will in fact continue bullying people in comments, and rallying against defeatist ideas. I will make fun of you if you think homesteading is the answer to the world.

We simply are stuck in. We must raw dog the chaos of the modern world. Our revolt cannot be a retreat into the forest. The answer is not to hide away. There is no heroism in the log cabin.

Chudstack exists in this wonderful pocket dimension that disagrees with mainstream conservatism, monarchism chuds, groypers, and Christian nationalist larpers. It’s like if the vitalist movement wasn’t completely overrun by retarded Norse Pagans or something. It reminds me of how antisemitism, racism, and sexism felt before they became mainstream. We should take at least some of the energy, the actual capacity for thought we have, and remember to use it a little bit on the ambitions of figuring out how to win. How to make our musings into actual theory, and theory into somethinng new.

It’s exactly what I meant in a few recent articles I wrote, namely in criticism of modern traditional Christians as well as where I said anti-intellectualism will kill and already has nearly killed the right. Chudstack has the unique factor of actually working like an old, public forum. There is still a legitimate dialogue had on here. And it hasn’t yet been flooded by millions of normies yet.

As an additional side note, we have seemingly found a way to cross the barrier from chudstack into hoestack. Right now within our community are quite a lot of women actually. I think this is far more revolutionary within the alternative political discussion than we may realize. Maybe the wild number of rape jokes, foidposting, and overconfident rizz was an ultimate net positive. Something something save Evropa.

With that in mind, I personally will be rallying on the front of heroism and heromaxing. Which, is nothing new to this account, but something I will revise with some of my thoughts I have made in the last couple weeks. I spoke a lot about this with a good friend of mine Friday night actually, after feeling a bit disgusted with myself for spending most of a day at work deeply hungover, embarrassed over drunk texts, and though they were funny, some of the notes I wrote.

But, of course, heroes aren’t perfect. That is something the left is correct in. But where they fail, and where we can be correct in, is that the good man is not the perfect one. Goodness is a complicated thing. And it is not something I will solve here either. But I can at least give my thoughts on the rare thing we have, and how with just a little bit of ambition, can actually do something with it.

But now I just got a text from a good friend that someone on here was calling someone a liberal simply because he went to college.

Now I am going back to calling everyone a faggot instead.

Right wingers who think like this, who accuse people of liberal for going to college, serving Israel for joining the military, or whatever string of disapproval of men who do anything artistic, or men who enjoy wine, genuinely need to go fuck themselves.

Genuinely, what the fuck do they think the right should do? “Don’t go to college it’s all liberal cuck ideology.” Literally almost every right-winger seems to sort of hold this idea. You wanna know what dudes were doing in universities like 100 years ago? They were measuring skulls bro. They were unlocking vrill. JRR Tolkien and CS Lewis became friends because Lewis (and adamant atheist, hater of linguistics, and a proper Ulsterite hater of all Catholics), heard there was this provincial bumpkin Catholic at uni who had a club where he would sit and recite the Icelandic sagas in the old Icelandic. who the fuck in the right is doing shit like this anymore? It sure as fuck isn’t these dudes who say college is stupid and you should just do trades.

Universities used to be based. The right stopped caring about education, but marxists realized they could co-opt and conquer it. So they did. It took them decades, but they did it.

Dudes will unironically be like “have fun dying for Israel” when you tell them you joined the military and legit look at you like this (see: exhibit A).

Like bro, are you even fucking European? we CONQUERED THE WORLD simply so we could have some tasty leaf juice and cheap spices. We literally got China addicted to opioids and went to war with them for love of the game. The question the rightwinger should ask is not “why would you fight for Israel” but rather “why am I sitting here at my chud job being a wagecuck making money for Jewish billionaires when I could be gaining personal glory literally sliming people out.” These people are the biggest non-cat-non-hitters out there. Literal worthless goyim. The only reason you should need is because war is cool

As for art, how many of these right wing dudes don’t actually read, or actually know history? They all are the same “muh WWII” or if they’re really spicy and from the south, probably are confederates. Ask any of these dudes if they got approval from Tribune Aquila for any of their ideas, and they’ll have no fucking clue what you’re talking about. They love to Crusader larp, but don’t know the history. They have never heard of the Song of Rolland, they haven’t read Arthurian Romance since 8th grade, and their love of the Middle Ages is some incoherent antiquitatian larping bullshit.

When was the last time these dudes read and wrote poetry? When did they last write a book (and heavens forbid they did, as it is probably the biggest incel slop you’ve seen that has no continuation with the west).

how many of these dudes avidly reject the idea of decorating their house/apartment/bedroom to look based?

Utilitarianism is fundamentally at odds with the right. These men do not have any semblance of ideals, of romanticism, of actual hate, rage. They shy away from love, death, sex, and war. They are small, weak, and hide away in whatever larp they can find. Be it not even being a real pagan, SSPX, or whatever else. They aren’t really real, and they aren’t really too much better than their libtarded counterparts.

These right wingers don’t realize they are part of the last men. They are a shame to the actual great men who came before them.

The chuds are completely without vrill. No life energy. No sense of personal grandeur. No dreams. No true struggle or strife in their lives. And they don’t deserve them. They don’t even deserve the glory of suffering.

The soul of Christendom at current moment has become completely frightened of anything beyond the indifferent. It has become almost gnostic in its approach to the dark, the physical, and the emotional.

Most devout zoomers it would seem suffer from an unyielding, phlegmatic blight that has made them see sorrow, righteous zeal, and the sanguine as fundamentally sinful. The zoomer church oddly enough suffers from the very thing that the late medieval church did.

The human spirit has become lacking and scorned.

The zoomer Christian looks upon the secular world and sees the lack of virtue and blames “paganism,” when in fact it was the Roman and Greek worlds that brought us the concept.

Paganism is not wholly true, and there is only One True God, whose name is Jesus Christ. But what we have forgotten is the heroism, the sanguinity, and the story that humans are made for.

The answer to this stupid debate does not lie in a legalistic proving of “oh but about what this pope said” or “but what about St. Thomas Aquinas,” but in a more mystical answer.

After all that is why kissing even exists. A kiss is a sign of love, of trust.

This is precisely why the church does not have an explicit “yes/no” checkbox on what is and is not ok within the context of a relationship or marriage, outside a few very overt cases. (I.e. procreation).

Legalism must always be avoided. Theology is not a case study. To treat it as such is to quite literally be a Pharisee.

My answer to anyone on any side of this debate would be to look at renaissance art for a few hours and read just a little Arthurian or Carolingian romance. There are the answers to not only this debate, but also the dusty, corroded sword of Christendom that lies abandoned. There is the answer to the avoidance of sorrow, and the goodness of passion.

Humanity is messy. We are also fallen. And the passions of the heart, though they may lead us astray, must be listened to. It is better to be the man who follows the difficult path, even if he may fall (though the Good King stands always ready to come to our aid if we but turn to him in the sacraments), than to be the boy who never leaves his farm. For Christ did not call children to remain childish, but for men to become men.

Of course, for those who remember, much of the light fantasy craving came in response to the AI generated 80s Dark Fantasy posts which gained traction between 2023-2024, which of course held the sound of Hide by Dorian Concept.

What this gives us I think is a clear sign of how fantasy really is beginning to change along with the collective conscious. the 80s dark fantasy thesis of dark aesthetics, desolate themes, but with optimistic synths versus the light fantasy antithesis with a focus on traditional fairytale “vibes,” only for 2026’s grimdark LotR synthesis.

But why? After all, The Lord of the Rings has long been stereotyped as being almost childish in its morals, or even as cozy to others. In fact, for those who give deference to A Song of Ice and Fire over Tolkien’s masterpiece, the entirety of their many arguments really do boil down to seeing LotR as a story that isn’t gritty enough.

However, I do very much believe that these people are wrong, and these Instagram edits are not only proof that LotR is far darker, but proves something that I have been musing on for quite some time: that Fantasy’s sound should not be light instrumentation or even orchestral, but rock. (and more specifically, hard rock and metal).

After all, Led Zeppelin would certainly agree with me.

I believe this also highlights my biggest gripe with anything labelled fantasy regarding books, movies, TV series, and even video games. And it all has to do with Fantasy either becoming a wholly superficial version of itself (i.e. Romantasy), or taking itself far too seriously and thinking it is a genre meant for the mainstream.

As for the first of these, Romantasy, or feyslop as I like to call it, is quite literally just pornography. I should like to start by saying that I do not believe Sarah J. Maas was some evil witch who was the first person ever to put sex in a fantasy world. She wasn’t, at all, in fact. In fact one of my favorite series ever, The Witcher, did it twenty years before, along with George R.R. Martin’s ASOIAF.

However, all of this was preceded by pulp fantasy or Sword and Sorcery movies and books, which have always had a heavy reliance on sexual themes. See: Conan the Barbarian.

All of this is to say that Romantasy in principle is not wrong for having sexual themes, as such things are critical to the human condition, but rather that Romantasy removes the masculine from fantasy in order to replace it with a story that revolves around the demure. Empathy is more important, and the dragons that need slaying typically consist of a bad boy in bed rather than any real monsters.

Romantasy is genetically a descendant of those awful pulp romance books written for middle-aged women along with general young adult fiction. Romantasy is a fetishization of fantasy. It is, even if it did not have “spicy” scenes, a pornographization of fantasy.

On the other hand, there is fantasy that takes itself too seriously. I should like to start by quickly making this phrase make far less sense than it seems by saying one of the most egregious parts of this is the Marvelization of fantasy as well.

The best two examples of this side of fantasy is the average Dungeons and Dragons group, and The Rings of Power. Though, I suppose, you could replace RoP with that horrendous Wheel of Time show, or The Witcher, or even the last season of Stranger Things, or honesty any new fantasy marketed for the mainstream.

The problem is it’s gay.

Like, really gay. Ontologically even. Or whatever other buzzword gets views on this website. I am not an intellectual, and you should never view me as such. I just have strong opinions on everything.

But returning to the issue at hand, this pop fantasy has a diverse, inclusive, inviting, and “fun” structure to it. The uncomfortable teeth of fantasy are removed. Perhaps on the best examples of this is how Orcs have changed in recent time. Where once they were typically written off in most fantasy as corrupted beings who were capable of nothing but wanton destruction and akin typically to something like Mongol raiding parties, now they are, according to D&D, Mexicans.

This is because fantasy has been forced to accommodate the post-modern world and it’s presumptions. Thus, stories of good and evil in this framework become stories about ideological good and evil. It is no longer the Free Men of Gondor and Rohan versus Sauron, and the fundamentally spiritual battle that meant, but now it is about the good guys versus “hecking fascism.”

It is why all the good guys have to be either ugly, gay, or brown people in modern, mainstream fantasy. However, even with this fantasy fundamentally doesn’t work well under these premises. But this is because fantasy by nature operates on pre-modern sensibilities. But, sadly, we have suffered from the milennialification of fantasy where everything has to be comfortable and inclusive. Thus there is no room for the sensibilities of kings, or of violent warriors, or fundamentally evil villains. Everything is the product of nurturement, and there is no good or evil. And worse yet, violent means against evil are either completely trivialized or looked down upon.

I am of the opinion that there is no better way of properly addressing the primal, spiritual concerns of the human person than through fantasy. This is why fantasy is almost always set in a medieval period, as it is a time that is antithetical to the urbanized world. Myths derive from malleable ages. They cannot arise in ages of extreme order.

Myth, and fantasy for that matter, derive from a fundamentally anti-gnostic lens. This is different from the liberal worldview we have today, which insists that all men are the same, and that all can be overcome by education and economic prosperity. That reason, the rational, and the material are all that matter.

These are all things antithetical to an age of swords, and kings, and blood oaths, and dragons. Fantasy is inherently irrational. Dark Lords cannot be reasoned with. Dragons must be slain. Fantasy presents worlds that have no distinction between their physical and spiritual struggle.

The dragon is in fact, a giant flying lizard with such horrendous breath that it burns flesh like fire. But it is also a supernatural evil that hordes and consumes whilst literally breathing death.

This brings us back to this new synthesis of various trends. In many ways, it is a return to form. A return to when fantasy wasn’t mainstream, but was found amongst teenage hessians blasting Saxon and Metallica while playing AD&D. A time before the average table consisted of a bunch of 35 year-old millennials who are all playing some variation of the “super unique” Tiefling bard/rogue/sorcerer/warlock and where the typical session just consisted of everyone joking around for three hours with no plot to be seen or had.

Fantasy’s time in the limelight is fading. And that is a good thing, as it means it will return to what it should be.

Fantasy should be rough, loud, angry, melancholic. It should be alien to our sensibilities today, and should be a spiritual continuation of the themes found in the mythology that inspired the genre.

Fantasy will not be good again until it is in all parts tales of horror, romance, war, and death. It should be uncomfortable. It should be challenging, because there is no better way to inspire the human spirit than to show it how to slay dragons. It cannot be perfectly ordered, or easily defined. It should not sound like a symphony, because it isn’t and never will be.

Fantasy is not pop. Fantasy is gritty and messy because humanity is gritty and messy.

To truly begin, let me start with a story involving myself, my cat, a roach, and St George.

It was summertime, and I had gotten up in the night to go and turn the lights off in the kitchen in my little apartment. Now, it is worth noting I lived with an untidy roommate in a very old apartment, and I had seen (and killed) a handful of bugs which had been in the apartment. Of course, living in the Deep South in summertime also warrants an ambient chance of the evil wretches showing up. However, regardless of all of that, I still hate them with a burning passion, and had seen more than one in said apartment due to said conditions of the building and roommate.

It was then, to my horror, that there was indeed that most vile and putrid of all creatures: the cockroach. Immediately, I grabbed for my lance (broom), charged valiantly into battle (stomped into the kitchen), and struck at the creature, but somehow missed.

The wretch then spazzed about and cornered itself. It was then that my noble homunculus (cat) Tolkien wandered in to inspect the commotion, saw the roach, and proceeded to do slowly wander towards the wyrm (roach).

However, the creature was crafty and slithered into its lair (under the stove). Angered, I tried to pull the tray under the stove out, but found it was stuck and wouldn’t budge. However, with the demon cornered, I could not retreat back to Camelot until the creature was slain. Thus, I waited. And waited. Until eventually five minutes passed with no sign of the creature.

It was then that an idea came to me to pray to St. George. And so with Tolkien as my witness, I boldly proclaimed “St. George I ask for your intercession to slay whatever foul creature is hiding beneath my stove and to not let another one of its kind or spawn ever into this apartment again.”

Shortly after, and I swear this is true, I heard a pop beneath the stove.

The next morning, I checked and found its corpse slain. I also never again saw a roach in that apartment until the day I moved out. Thus, whenever I see a roach, even to this day, I pray to St. George, slayer of roaches.

I won’t go into the historical tradition of St. George or even give a biography of his story. If you haven’t heard of him, there are many who have written much better about him than I may. But, he is in fact known as the Dragonslayer.

Of course, as to whatever the dragon he slew was, be it a demon or just demonic creature feasting in some way upon the youth of Libya, it doesn’t actually matter. There are today dragons in positions of office, working for corporations, and in our systems. Those who demand cruel sacrifices for no other reason than the hoarding of gold or goods.

Such is the case of Fafnir and Sigurð from the Nibelung Saga, or Beowulf and the unnamed dragon that terrorized his kingdom. Tristan from Tristan and Iseult slew a dragon which terrorized Ireland as well. Hercules too slew a few dragons. A personal favorite of mine is that of Dobrynya, the famous bogatyr from Slavic mythology who saved a princess from a dragon.

There is a reason why the idea of knights fighting dragons and saving princesses is a permanent fixation upon our minds. Because it is true.

Dragons even today hoard women and children to devour for their own pleasure. Even today dragons hoard wealth they sap from the commoners. Even today there are poor valiant men and women plagued by the despair of dragon’s breath. Those poor, beautiful souls oppressed by the dragon’s breath, which in the myths was not fire, but venom which burned like flame.

Such is the case of Faramir and Eowyn from the Lord of the Rings, who both suffered under a despairing blight after battling with the Witch King of Angmar and his Wyrm.

How many do we know who suffer under such poison?

But there is a solution. Wherever a dragon arises, so too do heroes. Wherever a dragon rests, good men with lances may yet arise. There is no glory, no striving for good for Man unless given the chance to battle against evil.

Saint George, pray for us!

pictured below: St. George painted by my grandmother

It is an image most are familiar with. And it is one of my favorites. It depicts a story from Roman mythology, that of Saturn, the Father of the Titans, consuming his own children for fear of his overthrow.

Saturn was king of the universe. And yet he feared the prophecy of Terra (Earth), and so consumed his own children.

Yet one was hidden from Saturn. One child was spared, and his name was Iupiter, or Jupiter.

Of course, Jupiter would overthrow his own father and cast him from the heavens into exile.

The story of Saturn is a remarkably ancient story. And as is the case with mythology, it unveils a greater truth than the face-value literature we are shown.

What Saturn warns us of is the greatest betrayal of the natural order: that of the father against his own children. The greatest obligation of the patriarch is that of passing on power, knowledge, and wisdom from father to son. To know when your age has ended, and the time for the next age comes.

In Greek and Roman mythology, this mark was concerning the end of the Golden Age, where suffering didn’t exist for mortals and the entrance into a new age under Jupiter. An age where men would toil and suffer, but in a way that gave them meaning.

In the proper cycle, the young are given the reigns of the old, and thus given power. Yet, they must still uphold the honors of tradition. And so, from father to son, mother to daughter, the wisdom of our ancestors continued. There was a line of continuity going back into the beginning of this age, the age post-antiquity.

The origins of the West are founded upon the gravestones of Rome. It was the Middle Ages where the infant west grew and learned itself under the watchful care of the Holy Church.

That is, of course, until the great age of apostasy, when Protestantism arose. Then again in the Age of Enlightenment.

Finally, the West has been given its terminal diagnosis following the World Wars. Traditionalism and the illiberal was eradicated by the first, and fraternity by the second. It was the fall of the Cold War which then left only liberal democracy standing.

But what have been the fruits of our modern civilization? What is our reward for the “end of history?”

We found ourselves handing the reigns over to the new, wide-eyed and egotistical generation of the Baby Boomers. To them, there was no need for tradition. No need for religion. No need for fraternity. Anything and everything their great-grandparents held sacred were anathema. Now was the age of the worship of new gods.

The Boomer arose and demanded new pillars of civilization built on happiness, tolerance, and liberation. It was John Lennon’s Imagine manifested in a single generation.

Thus the Boomer attended college, found gainful employment, bought a house and raised a family. Though, of course, never more than one or two children! Said children were either completely neglected (see: Gen X), or pathetically coddled and idealized (see: Millennials). All of this left a quiet and bitter generation of overachievers and another generation of hopeless idealists desperately attempting to cling onto any sense of conflict.

But to the Boomer, who had owned a home since his mid-20s, and whose generation had held onto power from the 70s all the way into today, everything of their systems was perfect.

To them, they had conquered bigotry and prejudice all by the worship of drugs, sex, and rock ‘n roll. Women were now liberated from the home with birth control, abortion-on-demand, and a soulless corporate world that has no care for the well-being of anything but shareholder pocketbooks.

By the way, since the 1970s, one billion babies have been murdered in the womb. Over 95% of these murders were simply for the sake of convenience, as is the case even today in every western country.

This very crime has left 1/3 of my generation brutally ripped from life before gaining their first breath. How many friends were I meant to have, taken by this?

Today, the legitimate best chance a young man has at buying a house is either being born into “daddy’s money” or joining the military.

Today, college enrollment sits at about a 60-40 female to male ratio, and about a 70-30 graduation ratio.

Today, the churches are no longer empty save for balding, old men and widows, but young men especially.

Today, there pretty much is no guarantee of gainful employment even with a college degree, especially if you’re a man. In fact, the rate of employment is the same between men with and without a degree. Surely, that should say something.

Today, the average age in the House of Representatives is 57, and 64 for the Senate. Trump, Biden, Obama, Bush Jr., and Clinton are all Baby Boomers. The last president elected under the age of 45 was JFK, who was elected 65 years ago.

Quite frankly, the West, is plagued by innumerable diseases. And the youth are replaced by machines and slave labor protected under the term of “immigrants.” The great replacement is a real thing.

But all of this is downstream from a great lie that this is the end of history. It is a lie that the ancient stones in power cling to, just as Saturn did.

But it is also something esoteric. In the Bible God punishes the worshipers of Moloch. Let me get something very clear: the gods we see contest against Elohim were real. They, however, were not supreme. Moloch is no different. Moloch is a real demon, just as Dagon, Beelzebub, Mammon, Baal, Astarte, and many of the other gods who God and Israel battled against.

But Moloch was perhaps the most deprived. He was a god that demanded the sacrifice of children for the sake of crops. The worship of Moloch was about inflicting suffering, specifically on children, for the sake of prosperity.

Today, here in America, there have been over 60 million children sacrificed in the name of Moloch via abortion. All for the sake of consequence free sex (for both men and women). “Why bother throwing away your shitty corporate career with a baby? Just kill it and you can make money for those same corporate executives who will suck every last ounce of life out of you and then replace you with some H1B Patel that will extract all his pay and send it back to India.”

This is the state of things. In all truth, the honest answers for what must be done cannot be found on any Fox News show. Nor CNN. After all, Tucker Carlson was too “radical” for them, and he has the average normie politics of a Theta Chi frat bro from 2011.

Therein lies the flaw, and I wish I could say I pity the old guard. They know it too, and so that is why demoralization is the goal. But, I hope, it won’t work. Lest this be the last generation of the West.

I’ll admit, I enjoy occasionally watching murder documentaries as well. They make easy plots. But they become very boring and uninteresting when you finally reach the answer for why people watch them.

Pretty much everyone that watches them does so because they “want to understand why someone would do such terrible things.”

But this isn’t a dead end, but rather an endless chase of a white rabbit. You will never fully uncover that answer because there is no hard, objective, scientific reason. There is no formula to solve evil. It is irrational, even if it is often deeply seeped in reason.

Evil simply is something we humans will always have to deal with. There is no utopia. There is no golden city upon a hill.

It is worth noting then the love of murder mysteries is an ultimately empathetic motive. It’s a desire to understand, and gain understanding even of the irredeemable.

This is why, in my opinion, feminine fantasy literature is so terrible. It’s deeply part of the reason why villains are all nuanced and “misunderstood.” Consequently, it’s why every villain in books today are all hot, dark, and brooding and secretly the good guy.

There was a study conducted measuring the neurological reactions between men and women while watching people play a game. During the study, there was one subject who was the designated cheater. This cheater would, well, cheat during the game.

The study measured the brain activity between men and women watching whenever the cheater would get an electric jolt after cheating. What the study found was that women’s reaction was that of empathy for the cheater, and the men actually had a release of testosterone and pleasure at seeing the cheater get punished.

This explains in my opinion why men on the other hand love film of evil people just getting slimed.

Men are, metaphysically, designed for violence. This is one thing I will agree with the 2016 third wave feminists on. Men are, naturally, violent.

However, this isn’t a bad thing, but rather necessary. And what is necessary is ultimately good. The difference between a good man and an evil one isn’t whether his is violent or not, but rather who he selects to use it upon. A man is evil if he uses his violence upon the innocent. But he is good if his violence is used to stop evil.

It falls easily into one of the most misunderstood verses in the Bible, that of “he who lives by the sword, dies by it.” This is not a passage of endorsement for pacifism, but rather it is simple wisdom. Practically, Jesus was telling Peter to fight another day. But also, he was warning men to be aware that to dedicate yourself solely to violence may spell your death. Which, in and of itself, isn’t a bad thing.

After all, there is no greater love than to die for your friends.

As for what to do with this information, I can only give a cautionary warning to the three women on Substack that dont just post about being an ex-consort or are tradwife grifters:

beware your beautiful gift of empathy. This world will take advantage of it. In fact it’s entirely designed to do so. Save it for where it really counts.

Likewise, to men, know violence. Know how to use it. But do not permit yourself to become a wild animal. To simply larp in the gym is not sufficient. Do you know how to fire a weapon? Do you know how to actually fight? Do you know how to be a diplomat before all of that?

Understand the gravity. And understand you won’t fully understand it for yourself until you have to do it. It takes 5.5 months of constant training and discipline before the US Army is willing to say a young man is capable of getting in a firefight with enemy combatants and won’t just sperg out and die. If you are a young man and do not own a weapon or know how to use it, that is inexcusable.

Otherwise, you end up in our current state. A state where tragically men and women are almost completely separated into two separate worlds. Almost all men my age are either materialist libtards, NPC corpobros, or chronically alone Doomers. Women on the other hand are either overt feminists, or covert feminists and are unaware that they don’t have to fight alone. And that it’s ok to trust good men.

The way we win is for men and women to not be loosh farmed into oblivion. “But we are all run by pedos,” some cry. Then learn how you can gain power within and without the system. We have time on our side.

Too many women run into the Eowyn dilemma of feeling like caged birds, and seeing their only way to safety is through masculinity. But Eowyn didn’t gain happiness from killing the Witch-King. Nor was that her ultimate fate. Hers was with Faramir, and to accept that she can be feminine and still safe.

But above all else do not despair. Everything is so fucked anyways, you might as well just go pursue whatever you want. Take the roads less travelled.

And it reminded me very much of an image that I think everyone has now seen a million times. That of post-college white collar men in their mid-20s and 30s wandering around in the same navy colored slacks, faux leather shoes, wearing either Nike athletic polos or baby blue button-ups, and the dreaded frat bro vest. You know the one Im talking about. They all went to the same three SEC schools, have the same inoffensive side part, and if they’re dating enough might even sport a millennial “tough guy” beard.

It’s a bit of a tragedy, as in my opinion these are often degenerated evolutions of the stereotypical frat bro, which I have talked about in the past as being a simulacra of the huscarl and the mead hall.

Only it is the natural conclusion of soyciety. They are the oathbound Knights of Mammon, the poor corpobro.

They are a complete bastardization of the feudal knight in service of his lord. His regional manager thinks himself a Baron, of which he is in the corporate world, and they are always ready and eager to betray whoever in order to climb that dearly coveted corporate ladder. In fact, to not covet it is to mark oneself as an outsider. After all, to the corporatist, there is no higher good or ambition outside of increasing your pay grade.

But it is also a deeply emasculated profession and life. It is a service that is deeply white collar. But such is the way of things in a liberal system, where the king and aristocracy are overthrown in favor of the tyranny of the Bourgeois. A tyranny that is in fact far worse and more subversive than any king or scheming Marquis.

I suppose that whole paragraph will be a near impossible read for the liberal, whose politics are forbidden from crossing into anything beyond whatever can be found on Mainstream Media or even Reddit.

But it is the truth. And I think there is no greater show than what the corporate life fundamentally is about: comfort. It is an unfulfilling life, and I do not mean in the sense that it is without difficulty. The corporate world is unforgiving, and entirely driven by results. Everything is permitted, so long as you had more sales this month compared to last.

I also think it is why I found it a life I could not enjoy, nor thrive in. It is a lifestyle of essentially being a performative male, it is a game of constant assessment on how often you can say the right things. It is the final boss of wagecucking. And it is the antithesis of heromaxing.

The corpobro has a thorough enjoyment of sportsball, cowboy boots, and country music. But he hasn’t run more than ten steps since high school. He doesn’t understand the spirit or history of meaning of the word cowboy. Or at least not even in an intuitive sense. He claims to be conservative, but doesn’t go to church, is ok with transgenderism and gay marriage, has no qualms with sex outside of marriage, and buys into the mantra of “the government is like a big business.”

There is no semblance of tradition, nor even the delirium of the progressive in them. It is a desire to stay exactly like whatever they currently are and aimlessly follow whatever vague social expectations exist. In all honesty, it is the safe route, even if it is an exhaustingly high cortisol environment.

However money and high stress are not sufficient to make a man. The corpobro is only capable of survival in this sort of world: an urban, greedy, and weak society. They are much akin to the last man, as they have no true strength of spirit in their own right. What strength they believe themselves to own are simulacrums of true strength. But they are no men. They have known no true sacrifice, no struggle. They have not hung upon Ygg’s branches for the sake of wisdom. They are not capable of violence. They do not dream, and therefore are not really alive. They sit in a truly undesirable position of being subconsciously aware of their need to improve, but consciously having no idea what that actually means.

And so it results to total chudism. It is the death of the hero’s journey. The rejection of the call to adventure. It is as if Theoden turned around and went home at the Pelennor Fields. It is the death of the man.

That is why I cannot advise any man to go into the corporate world. I in fact openly discourage it. There is a price for everything, and the price for the corporate world is your virility.

Do not be the Last Man.

“Such beauty!” Tito exclaimed. “Such beauty held in such a strange land as this!”“There is much yet to see in this world, Tito.” Ragar answered. “And forests even fairer than this within this very mountain pass. This is but the very edge of Cardûil, the ancient forest of the pass. Soon, we will come across trees far grander and more ancient than these.”

“It is a pity,” Tito sighed. “For such a sight as this to be so fleeting. For I could wish to spend all of my days here. I cannot imagine a sight as fair as what you speak of, though I long to see it.”

“Soon, we will. And you may yet have your fill of this forest’s beauty before the end!” Ragar laughed.

After some time had passed they halted as Mockingbird came to a stop. The Nightingale strode beside him, the leads of his horse in hand. There, he turned his eyes onwards at the rising hill before them. Thorn bushes covered the hill as faded white stones sat as bones beneath the moss.

“This is no hill,” Clovis muttered. “This an ancient ruin of which I am unfamiliar with. Be on your guard, my boy.” Clovis said, turning to Haltir.

Haltir strode behind Clovis, the rest following. An old archway stood hewn into the ruin of stone and brush. Clovis disappeared into the dark passageway. Haltir stepped forwards, his eyes resting upon a strange courtyard. The afternoon light passed through the leaves of many tall trees which grew over the ruined stonework. He turned about, gazing at the vast ring. Wildflowers covered the floor.

“What is this place?” Tito asked.

“One of the old waycastles of the Pass, my boy.” Ragar answered. “Many dark things once sought to rule these forests. Yet warriors savage as the wilderness itself mustered against the evils. It was their hands which laid these stones long ago. But now, they are fewer in number and nobility alike.”

Tito removed his helm, gazing upon a statue in the middle of the ruin. It was of a woman, her hair long, and filled with flowers. In her hands she held a bow.

“Then I would much prefer to never meet such a folk as you describe. I should prefer to find some as fair as this marble. Such a pity indeed!” Tito sighed. “For such fairness to rest evermore amidst this decay and ruin.” He brushed his hand across the base of the statue until they caught against something metal.

He carefully pulled away the moss until his eyes came across a tarnished, silver hilt. It was a long, thin dagger, its crossguard flowing like rays of light. Along the blade it read in Elvish:

Hёda Fёatha Na’as

“Fernandir, what does this say?” Tito asked, showing the blade to the Elf.

“This is an ancient dagger, far older than any I have seen. And its inscription ancient even by my reckoning. Yet it says in your tongue, ‘here is light of lesser make.’”

Tito held the dagger, studying it.

“There is something else I sense, something foul.” Fernandir muttered, his eyes peering about. He strode forwards towards an ancient elm which had arisen long ago. He reached down, grasping a bronze chain. Upon it was a scorched wooden square. Strange etchings covered it in terrible runes.

Clovis looked up at the Elf and in a moment rushed to his side, his hood flying from his head, his face filled with shock and horror. He ripped the amulet from Fernandir’s hand, throwing it upon the ground.
“Do not touch anything of this make!” He shouted. “You do not understand such things, for if you knew what this was, then you would never again take to the wilderness.”

He began to recite a strange incantation until at last the amulet began to smoulder and fall into ash.

“What was it?” Fernandir asked, astonished. “I have seen dark amulets before, but nothing of this make.”

“There are things that even you do not know about the forests, master ranger. Things overlooked as mere rumour and myth. For that was a mark of one of the servants of Death.”

“Spare us the riddles, what servant?”

“To my folk they are Shades, servants of the Old One. They serve their cursed master even in death. I will not mutter his name aloud here, for I fear it above all else.” He sighed. “No matter, this ground is purified now. We best make camp here for the evening.”

Mockingbird turned away as the others muttered amongst themselves. Haltir swiftly went to follow him as the two argued in hushed whispers. Tito listened closely, though he could gather little more than something about Tyras, vampires, and a great fire. He puzzled in silence to himself, thinking of the meaning.

I

There is a wandering within me, 						
a longing deep in heart alone. 						
Come! By Spirit of the Lord come! 						
Long did my ancestors call to you, 						
the Mead-Poetry and its magic. 								
The inspiration of ancient days: 							
days of greater men and lesser homes. 					
Days of men born of grief and blood and snow. 				
‘Ere I rest I wander to the mind-palace of home, 				
a home I have never known! 									
A land so fair and bleak and green!						
I sit before the serpent ready, 		
The spear is shattered, my shield pierced, 					
my iron crown is but broken. 						
An age of sword and serpents, 								
an age of breaking and birth.							
An age of darkness brighter than the wise. 					
Pale is the moon which shines so blinding. 					

II

Retreat I do to courtly song and dance. 
My mantling is plucked, 								           
My cloak stripped, the hauberk pierced.							
Alone! Alone! Alone in squall and snow. 
In exiled lands across the sea I look beyond, 
the memory of fairer days long gone. 
Passing! Passing! Fleeting is my mind: 							                            
a mind of seas so cold and grim!								
Memory! Memory! That is all I shall own! 
Forgotten is my name in annals of home. 
Home! 
How I long for home! I, the lesser of greater men! 				                             
Long decayed are they in cairns back home.	 						

III

Where are the maidens fair? 
The men of courage and steel and gold? 
In their stead are children bitter, brittle, and of stone 
An age of iron! Of axe and spear, ere the fall of empire 
Falling is the mountain, surging is the sea 							
Forgotten are the children of strife								
In silver smoke and honey-mead I watch 
Beneath tattered banner of red and gold 
Before blackened sky and storm of old 
Where come then forgotten sons from westlands foretold? 				
Across the sea! The sea! The Sea! 								
So I long for my home, The Sea! Rising yet of peace, surging yet calming. 
So am I: son of the Sea. 

IV

For the emerald shores and rivers forgotten, 
in memory I recall them all! 									
Upon craggy beaches I wander 								
through forests of oak and ash and elm 
A land of ever-autumn. 
There shall be my home! 
There shall sword be sheathed, 								
the helm restored. 										
There the shield and mail removed. 
There a land of maidens singing, 
crowned in hair of gold and faces fair 
Adorned in blue and grey and green. 							

V

An age of darkness yet all the brighter,								
A time of greater sons of men. 
Of chapel walls whitened, 
of fires warm and pastures tilled. 
An age of wood and stone! 									
Of errant men and warrior kings.							
There, beyond the age of strife, 
beyond the broken sword and helm, 
beyond the galloping horses pale, 
beyond the perils of forgotten days 								
when lords of men return again.									
There! There! There shall be my home and hearth at last! 
In the age of peace, the age of hearths. 
There before before the ages last.

Far Beyond the white willow gorge
lie the likes of lost souls seeking rest.
Living, though not breathing.
Heavy, yet still weeping,
for they feel only the folly of
unspoken sins of antiquity.

Further still than beyond the white willows
lie the sundered, shallow minded sons.
Feasting forevermore on 
their tables of broken glass.
Still more they are and forevermore one.
Hung upon their gilded gallows they so 
Wholly embrace,
till they find their rest among the stone
of a stainless baroness.

Further still beyond the gorge
in the land of mist and mellow lore
lie the doomed and dismayed daughters.
Ones of rest and written lament.
Lament! Lament of sable veils and
cabarets.
Rest now, dear daughters of
abandoned dismay.

Beyond this gorge lie the ruin of 
Friends and countrymen.
Our bloodied sons dead upon
our beaten battlements.
Their hands outstretched for 
deeds undone.
The chilling flames of
forges and bellows rung.
The pages of untold epics,
Frayed and forgone.
Left lonesome upon their 
frayed lines of poetry.
Awaiting the wall of flame and after this,
Absolution of all Things.

Epitaph

And Thus I saw this world reborn,
Not by kiss of flame, but water.

I.

Thrice down the mountains fell!
Twice the flames did so consume.
And once did indeed metal meld.								5
Nevermore would beauty brightly bloom!

Down the valley to the sacred gorge,
A discussion of solace amidst enlightened snowfall,
a fall from the forays of that sacred somber shore.
Nevermore, nevermore would be this land consumed!					10

In darkness, nay, twilight did rest our fathers’ doom.
Fate shattered for the sake of the divine reveal,
placed as lanterns in the heavens beyond our prisons
forevermore fated to follow that ancient creed.

Thus was I, mortal, though merely man.							15
Strewn of bone and flesh, but betrothed to mettle.
Not by whims of fate, but choice of mind.
Forever forward in flight from time.

Rest we did upon golden chariots.
Praising and worshiping from impure hearts.							20
Clad in purple though crowned in red.	
Therefore we rode, regal, yet still dead.

Beaten! Oh so terribly strewn,
forsaken by our brothers’ bonds.
Bloody, battered, oh such mystic soldiers of abuse!						25 
So we died forgotten, but not despised.

II.

A thousand years we slumbered
and a thousand more we did.
Through Age of Sword we wailed
whilst the age of Empire came,								30
We watched your temples burn and 
Cities reside. We lingered in our
Languish as we watched our sons 
fall forever more into dark and flame.

III.

Recede we did upon our Epitaph,								35
“Forevermore” we once did declare:
Ourselves gods, though gilded, 
Made merely of flesh and bone.
Send us then our writ!
Gods we wish to be and nothing more.							40

Reduced we are upon our myths, 
forgotten save by mortal fingertips
Daring, nay, desiring to make mockery.
Our wanton lust for forbidden sensory:
to dine in our halls of divine debauchery.							50

IV.

Thus I am, truly a mortal.			
Living, breathing before you.
Seeking, yet still believing.
Hated hereafter by golden gods.

Here, at the end of times,									55
Listening, though dreaming,
Watching, though not weeping.
Awaiting that which I know to be:
The Epitaph of Man upon me.

Thus, I wrote and nothing more!								60
Upon the pages of history, I am no more!
Beloved, but still forgotten,
Watching the sun set softly 
as the cleansing rains did come.

I watched the heavens crash around me.							65
I felt Gaia move and tremble.
As all things flowed freely,
and so the world was baptized.

Thus  indeed the world did die,
Thus I saw all things close.									70
Gone forever from antiquity,
Consumed, though unassimilated.

And, as I felt my heart wither,
I saw a new age draw nearer.
Though gone I may be,									75
For one day, when souls read of me
They shall see my very own Epitaph:

“Thus I saw this world reborn,
Not by kiss of flame, but water.”

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