Little girls ran around the circular room dressed in bright, flowery attire – the serpentine designs on their garments seeming to swirl and morph into varieties of diffuse, protean images as Wella sat, immobilized, strapped with leather thongs upon a large and gleaming black-painted chair in the center of the chamber, fastened with innumerable instruments of bondage upon that horrific throne, terror-forged within the most insane and blasphemous nether-regions of the astral plane.

He, himself, naked and thoroughly exposed – being most vilely penetrated from below with a strange apparatus and silenced from above with a translucent, seemingly living, rubber-coated restraint which covered his mouth and, through the auspices of a sinisterly-placed insert, prohibited him from hardly any movement in that region leaving him, to a markedly increasing degree, choking – choking on his very own spittle, incapable of draining in the natural fashion, thus, draining down his own throat, causing his chest to convulse as the fluid seeped down into the passages of his lungs in pain-filled spasms.

The eyes of the girls seemed to, increasingly, take on an inhuman appearance, widening and eyeing him, coyly, with the appearance of calves as they spun, faster and faster, in widdershins, through which his hallucinatory vision seemed to take on the shape of a non-differential stream of colors, shapes and brief ascertaining of individual figures, careening ever-faster in a left-ward circular fashion, blearingly and increasingly non-comprehensibly present in his most certainly incomprehensible state of bondage.

An explosion rent an opening in the space on the wall opposite of him and through that opening came a woman who both seemed old and young – brittle yet pliable – a crone and an untouched virgin all the same. A shapeshifter. Alternating her appearance between that of a human girl, that of a human (if transgressively so) old crone of a female, that of a faceless vinyl and leather-clad horror whose sex could not be readily ascertained by any human comprehension.

The being manifested drew from a thick and brutal belt a long, willowy, yet threateningly thick wand-shaped instrument and waved it in a quick, downwards, left-turning fashion in the direction of the rent from which she had entered. The rent closed. First, leaving a pulsating seeming scar then, a vague trace of structural damage and then, so quickly in fact, nothing at all. It turned, in its last, sexless manifestation, toward him, the clicking of its sadistic boots echoing ever and yet ever closer towards him in his bound domicile.

With a slow and predatory gesture she lowered the wand to his naked core, pressing upon the area of his solar plexus. His own physical, life-blood, flowed, in reverse current, out from his veins, draining from his heart, into the instrument of torture which she wielded and, as the draining commenced, he could feel and see with sickening observation his veins collapsing and blackening, the path of collapse spreading out from his solar plexus toward the extremities of his body.

The entity lifted its wand-shaped instrument and swirling, crimson-colored filaments could be seen dancing upon its tip – the shaft of which seemed to gleam with an overly full, overly sensual texture, being filled with his living essence, prior to replacing it into the slot on its belt. From the area where the little girls were dancing, now appearing as simply a dangerous swirling mass of blurring colors, came the sound of thousands upon hundreds-of-thousands of layered and diverse voices. Some deep, commanding, exhorting – some screaming, hideous, insane – some pleading, crying, begging for recourse and others simply giggling, screeching with a blasphemous and horrid glee.

Wella felt the chamber begin to fill increasingly with the unmistakable scent of expanding ozone, like one would smell when standing upon an open field as formidable thunderstorms approached. Both inserts penetrating him from above and below began to enlarge themselves upon telepathic command of the entity before him, pushing him toward an ever increased state of violation. The myriad restraints holding him, tightened.

The vinyl and leather-clad horror pointed with a long gloved finger toward the swirling mass and spoke in a non-gendered robotic voice yet filled with cunning.

“Those are the ones that you summoned in the ritual – the ones that you desired to enter you through invocation. Now you shall experience the breakthrough which you have so long sought.”

A snap of her fingers and the swirling entities in their circular composition began to close in upon the area where he sat immobile upon his throne of torment as the inserts began to move further and further inward, causing blazing and mind-shattering pain along with the burning sensation of his now collapsed-veins, spread like worthless black tributaries of a dark sea across his physical frame.

The entity before him began to levitate into the air, above and beyond the swirling mass of entities bent on permanent intrusion and, for a moment, in a lightning-flash of acute clarity, he could see himself outside of himself in his genuine stature as he now existed – a starved, emaciated and naked being – alone – lying, in fetal position, in a small metal cage on a strange, remote and alien planet millions of universes away – a vast black and star-filled sky threatening from above and an oxygen-deprived harsh and alien atmosphere oppressing him from all around. That was all that remained of his old self, his root identity before the split – what now inhabited his physical body and the comportment of the same was yet to be seen, however, from the nature of the entities who now intruded, the insightful should begin to come to certain conclusions.



While officially a separate organization, the Tempel acknowledges its ties to the Order, and credits the ONA for much of its terminology and mythos. Certainly, the Tempel ov Blood enjoys the greatest notoriety of any organization or nexion affiliated with the Order of Nine Angles. Openly antinomian, the Tempel presents itself in its texts as a hybrid between a traditional Satanic coven and a (religious) militant order. The Tempel is based in the United States and makes no overt claims to having an international presence – yet a critical survey of online sources indicates that some of its texts have been translated into Portuguese (indicating either a following in South America and/or Europe), and that the authors of several of its texts are based internationally. While it has produced a number of sought-after texts through Ixaxaar and other publishing houses, most recently Liber 333 in 2013, the Tempel maintains a relatively low profile. Its semi-official website and official Tumblr site (‘Nightmover’) identify the Tempel’s purpose as: ‘a Nexion to the Dark Gods as well as a guidance and filtration system for aspiring Noctulians.’ For those seeking a harsh alchemical change into the Transcendental Predator based on a synthesis of Sinister Hebdomantry and Vampirism…[to] create a New Being capable of bringing about the “Day of Wrath” spoken of in the Diabolus Chant.’ The Tempel’s writings clearly indicate a literal belief in the Dark Gods and Vindex mythos (discussed below), and a strict adherence to the Seven Fold Way. Further, the Tempel distinguishes itself from the ONA with its unique vampire current (as hinted in its name), and promotes the evolution of its members into a new predatory species referred to as ‘Noctulians’. According to Tempel leadership, ‘[Tempel ov Blood] has traditionally had a strong focus on harsh ordeals and enacting acts of infiltration, psychological operations, etc.’ Clearly, where many mainstream nexions do much of their work in text and virtual space, the Tempel shuns these media of communication, and focuses rather on taking physical, tangible action.

SOURCE: Excerpted from “Mysticism in the 21st Century”, Sirius Academic Press 2014 (ISBN 9781940964003) in an electronic version of the third chapter published online with the concurrence of the author at Regarding David Myatt


001 (2)

All old and outmoded forms of the body and psyche must be discarded. The spirits of the Undead Gods must inhabit a new vessel which has been cleansed in the holy fires of ordeal, trial and hardship.

Old and unproductive neurological imprints may only be erased through exploring the shadow-self of the world and one’s own psyche and body. Exploring and learning to use the dark, hard world as one’s arena of operations. The earth (“tue sunt caeli, tua est terra…”) is the working arena of the Holy and Immaculate Satanists and Vampires of the TEMPEL OV BLOOD. Via the Tempel, you will, if you are part of said temple, be aided in the eradication of the chaff from your being. You yourself must be willing to step into the caustic and sinister black flames of change.

This change will be enacted (amongst other methods) via SHOCK, TRIAL, ORDEALS AND TORTURE OF THE MIND AND BODY AND SOUL. You must effectively die to the self and the ego of which you now consist to step into the glorious undeath which you seek. You must feel and experience firsthand the glory of horror and the purity of pain. Transformation must be enacted if you wish to reach into the higher stages of BREAKTHROUGH and beyond…

SOURCE: Excerpted from “Discipline of the Gods”, originally released in “Discipline of the Gods/Altars of Hell/Apex of Eternity” printed by Ixaxaar Occult Publications, Tampere, Finland 2003 and limited to 333 copies. Rereleased in Liber 333, CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, 2014 (ISBN-13: 978-1492282204, ISBN-10: 1492282200)


GULAG “BLACK LODGE DISCIPLINE CENTER” presents a hideous inaugural power electronics delivery and the first audio project internal to and authorized by the Tempel ov Blood. A harsh sonic delivery, GULAG is spearheaded by a Commissar of the TOB and features liberal samples of actual correctional punishments, abuse and forced worship recorded within the TOB’s Black Lodge Discipline Center.

“When she thought she could not possibly take anymore of the beating, the person doing the whipping exchanged the thick leather strap for a long metal cane that looked to be made from some sort of antenna. The consistency was thin and extremely whippy and as he began driving it into the ruined flesh of her backside with an ultra-fast “swish, swish” her bruised skin began to break and tiny red rivulets of blood began dripping down the back of her pale white legs.

“There is only one person who can give you relief!” shouted a stern voice broadcast from some speaker high above her. “There is only one person who can make the punishment stop!” The swish swish of the cane continued, her legs now covered with spiderwebs of dripping blood. Bluebird cried and began whispering to herself like a mantra, barely audible under her breath, “Commandant, commandant, commandant.” Swish, swish, swish. Scream, scream, scream.

“Only one person can make this stop, only one person, but if it is her will then you should allow it to continue, will you allow it to continue?” The metal cane continued to rip into her backside and her screams began anew. “Answer us, will you allow it to continue?” Beneath the strange luminous light from above one could see small specks of blood flying into the air from the ferocity of the lashing as the metal instrument unmercifully punished her exposed flesh. “Answer us, answer us!”

Through the confusion and the horror Bluebird managed to let out a screamed answer, driven by pain and whatever strange drugs she had been dosed with earlier. “Let it continue, commandant, let it continue! Punish me, commandant, punish me!” The disembodied voice high in the ceiling changed from that of a male to the hearty laughter of a woman, echoing strangely. This must be the voice of the commandant herself thought Bluebird, her eyes lolling wildly, her tongue involuntarily protruding from her mouth in some heathen symbol of prostration. Oblivious to the metal cane which continued to beat her, she began crying in devotional ecstasy at having heard the voice, and then she too, like the voice from the speakers, began to laugh.” – IRON GATES, 2010



Luke and his associate now made their way into the mountains in earnest, driving out of the rather small yet densely populated apartment complex, through the intersection of the main road and into the quaint and more expensive area populated by nearly-acre sized lots with individual houses that was the entry-point to the mountains which towered ahead of them in all of their dread expectancy.

The Blood Mistress has stayed home, now domiciled safely within the confines of the apartment – a decision which Luke believed was in fact not by any stretch of the imagination chance, nor related to her rather abrupt and sudden announcement that she had started to feel ill.

Her stated reason seemed only titular at best and was not confirmed by the predatory gleaming of her eyes nor the lustrous nature of her formidable visage as she repined upon the large leather couch facing opposite the central altar, a thick bullwhip grasped in her hands which she idly twirled as scenes depicting chaos and madness played absently upon the screen of her and her associate’s shared computer located in the corner, beneath which a cat sat contentedly but also possessed with a certain knowing menace and patient expectancy.

Luke had grunted with effort along with his lone travel associate as they had loaded the black SUV with the usual tools of the trade – large black plastic cases which held meticulously the gleaming oiled semi-automatics and associated clips, along with travel-sized clear plastic totes which contained small cardboard boxes of ammunition – the boxes themselves in various states of wear and tear but the bullets within as clean to their purpose as they had been upon their day of manufacture in whatever obscure Czech factory had been their origin.

He had no conscious reason to believe that perhaps the effort of that relatively small physical exertion had effected him more pointedly than usual. Him and his associate had as the case may be been occupied to no small degree with arduous physical training in the several gymnasiums located only a brief couple of miles away beyond the security checkpoint and the rows of chain-link fence that marked the unmistakable line between the civilian world and the area outside – though most of the inhabitants of the town were sworn personnel on the other side of the line. His evenings had been also occupied arduously, though in a somewhat different but no less demanding sense as to his physicality – the long sessions staring before the black mirror as pints of blood dripped from the lacerated arms of him and his associate, the alcohol and opiate-laced libations before the altar – the open welts upon the back and legs still in pain and disrepair long after the Blood Mistress had replaced her whip and the sounds of her satanic mirth had subsided, only the phantom memory of her cackling piercing the hours of cold mountain morning.

Yet still, a fell awareness began to dawn upon him as he loaded the last of the ammunition into the back of the SUV, its covering closed with an economical click by his associate who made his way to the driver’s side door. A memory of a certain silt at the bottom of his supplemental beverage which was prepared and quaffed with regularity by him and his associate every morning – a certain burning in the throat afterward which seemed incongruous to the same beverages that had similarly been imbibed, morning-in, morning-out, each and every morning since his stay, on assignment, within that very particular and peculiar fastness within the Alleghenies.

The Blood Mistress, despite her alleged sickness, has prepared the beverages that morning, the least she could do for her two associates after all – one intimate, one sent from afar and with a perhaps suspicious agenda. Luke looked up from the side of the vehicle, his travel companion already ensconced inside and cranking the ignition. The Blood Mistress looked down toward Luke – his eyes now bloodshot and somewhat vacant – her tonic having visibly been successfully administered. Luke looked upward with a dreadful apprehension as she smiled, taking a long drag from her cigarette and leaving behind only a swirl of foul-smelling smoke, quickly dispersed and dissipated in the blowing mountain wind. – Tempel ov Blood, 2015



It was with a heavy heart yet one filled with dread expectation that Luke left the confines of the apartment, the more than somewhat grotesque and overbearing ridges of the beginning mountains careening like some ever-seeing and fell spies in front of him – between him and they only a few sparse miles of flatland before the expanse of the regional mountain range sprang up suddenly, thousands of feet in height and containing within many untold secrets and many chances at untimely death. Such untimely death, either administered via the auspices of the treachery of nature itself or via the hands of his associates within the clandestine organization whom he believed might choose – at any presentable random juncture – to push him over the edge, not in the figurative sense, and, by so doing, to propitiate whatever noxious deity was presently being worshiped in the region.

His beginnings within the clandestine organization had been sealed with such a different consciousness of what was to transpire in the future according to his expectations then. Many overtures had been made concerning the concept of a shared honor amongst subversives – similar to the presumably cherished (yet seldom practiced, as he had learned historically from his time in university) “honor among thieves.” Some had fed a similar line in terms of “solidarity” during his early tenure – though the term left him with a dirty taste in his mouth, due to its obvious leftist connotations. But this had all been, as the case may be, long ago – and as well – administered under deucedly false pretenses.

He, like many others, had been fed a certain agenda and certain rules of engagement under increasingly fraudulent auspices – the classic “bait and switch” – so beloved of legitimate cult groups whose upper sectors possessed a sociopathic tendency unsuspected by those who chose to subscribe themselves to the same. How horrible it was – yet enlivening beyond any situation that he could have experienced otherwise, and that he well knew – that all was not as it seemed within those circumstances which he now found himself inextricably situated. Standing upon the terrace he never fathomed what would occur within the figurative (and perhaps soon, literal) oubliette. He would find out however, soon enough. From the upper window of the apartment he had just departed he heard a maniacal laughter that made him shudder involuntarily – it would be a long day ahead. – Tempel ov Blood, 2014



The scorching punishment of the Blood Mistress began almost immediately as the iron doors clanged shut behind her two acolytes who watched, anonymous behind black balaclavas, as the ultimate member of their temple began her grim work upon that night that had been planned for so many months and – for her – so many years ago – far before the onset of the presently unfolding event, that living, writhing testament to that which they – those tempters – had sought to offer – and to that which for she, especially, had increasingly represented the turning point in the summoning of the denizens of the Abyss into physical manifestation upon the earth.

Years ago she had, while in the locale of a mountain fastness, engaged in an ordeal of a vampiric nature with two of her kindred. Outside the bleak winds of the Alleghenies blew down from their craggy peaks and thunderstorms, drifting with a sickeningly and intimidating quality, slowly drifted forth from the beyond that presented itself a mere few miles’ distance from the site of their working.

Despite all these atmospheric distractions the three-fold internal unit set about its esoteric task, after a long fifteen-hours of acts forwarding real-world evil in the flesh, one of which involved significant security work alongside a nearly domiciled compatriot – a meeting, swift and soon over – one lounging, attempting to be inconspicuous against the side of a newer-model SUV while the other clandestine organization member went about his business on the inside – deep within a converted basement that had been refurbished for the purpose of certain activities of a less-than-legal trajectory.

As the time slowly passed the man standing guard outside the car and residence stared into the careening mountain passes which presented themselves across the horizons of the myriad posh and modern-living homes which drew down upon the slope of the hillsides surrounding the mountains. He could feel the thickness of the humidity drifting off the mountains, a stark contrast to the dryness which regularly plagued the area much to the chagrin of the local farmers and their crops – the latter which had been a source of great consternation in lieu of the drought that had been ongoing for nigh a decade at the time.

Luke tapped the battery of his cellular telephone – a burner – which he had obtained on his transfer flight over from Washington Dulles Airport. It had been the wee hours of the morning yet he had found one vendor open for business amongst the sprawling concourse, who had sold him both the phone and several hour-long prepaid cards with an advantageous lack of the usual paperwork once Luke had flashed a wad of cash and a few choice bills appropriately set aside to seal the bargain – the middle-aged Indian-American quickly nodding in a look of recognizable acquiescence as he processed the transaction – off the books, as it were.

Standing next to the glistening black SUV, Luke could see that no calls had been forthcoming as of yet. He awaited the one from his clandestine organizational handler, who had proffered the funds that had made the trip to West Virginia possible yet who also had a hidden agenda – often verging in injurious directions – said directions which Luke himself found himself increasingly under the potential outcomes of the same. Would he stay and continue the infiltration without further output from his handler or would he continue and see what transpired amidst the somewhat recalcitrant WV sector who he had been told – or at least, led to believe – were inveigling themselves in some collusive scheme of which the organization needed actionable intelligence on – and fast.

A few bars of connectivity and Luke made an outbound call not to his handlers – who would chaff at the as of then unnecessary contact, but with his mate – some several-hundred miles away – whom was complicit in spirit and act with the course which he had chosen to take in pursuit of the sinister destiny which he, and those of his kindred, expected to fulfill – regardless of the costs.

A fuzzy clip of interference following the somewhat too-fast ring-tones and he was connected – a brief conversation in which he was able to only describe his physical surroundings, giving some sense of the width and breadth of the land while carefully concealing the nature of his current whereabouts – the import of the same and the actions which were presently taking place upon them still vague speculations on his part.

Only a few minutes seemed to pass once on the phone with his consort of some years before he spied, peeking out around the edge of the four-by-four, his local host emerging from the luxurious hard-wood exterior doors. He had a smile on his face. That was good. It intimated that the first phase of their plan, procurement of due funds, was established – the means and methods of which were only best left to speculation.

With a brief nod of affirmation and one reciprocal emanating from his partner, the duo entered back into the SUV and with an intent-fully fast – yet expert maneuvering, as to not draw undue attention – left the housing complex with all modicum of speed.

Back at the regional headquarters, the Blood Mistress sat cross-legged upon a couch of deep leather chanting the names of that black god which was the patron deity of their temple – sibillating the names of overarching deceit, continual espionage and fanatical martial prowess which marked the summum bonum of the rank-and-file of the clandestine organization and even moreso for those who inhabited positions at the helm of the same.

She had been entrusted into a counter-intelligence operation against their recent guest – by unknown but verified higher-ups in the clandestine organization itself. She did not know whether or not the situation was reciprocal – whether or not she would find herself in the position of a double or triple-agent before the espionage at play reached its height – yet she had been given clear directions. Hellish pawns were moving across the chessboard and only the devil might know where the pieces might lie, in that predictably horrific end. – Tempel ov Blood, 2014





“Dying moonlight framed upon dark walls Throughout this black home the silence is deafening None can hear what echoes from within But I can hear the endless screaming Behind the locked door.”


The message came to her non-verbally via the auspices of conventional hearing, instead, entering her mind through an intrusion into her very root consciousness itself – telepathic communication which first took the sounds, inaugurally, of screaming machinery being churned into itself, harshly, insanely, but which, through some esoteric fashion, transformed itself – within her mind – to words which she could somehow understand.


Huge, thick rivulets of deep crimson, blood, elixir, dripped down the pointed chin of the alien’s almond-shaped face – from a thin, slitted mouth, behind which only small, sharp and predatory fangs could be seen.

Eyes, black upon deepest black, unchanging, uncaring, unmerciful – and indeed, undead; gave no indicator, no solace, no indication of any emotion, of any mercy – of any empathy remotely related to the “understanding” which marks the exchange between human betwixt-human and, which in her case, had apparently become a standard now obsolete.

Atop his head was perched a curious item, a broad-brimmed felt hat, possessed of a high crown, pinched symmetrically at the four corners. On the center front of this hat was emblazoned the numerals three-three-three which appeared black, yet thick and pulsating, as if the numbers themselves had been imprinted onto the accouterment with blood, obtained via some foul, evil and torturous practice and – no doubt – culled from, perhaps, the most innocent of victims.

Seemingly pixelated images began to burst into her vision, her eyes rolling up into their sockets, images that seemed alien to her own earth planet, in quintessence, yet were possessed with strange shapes that seemed to resonate with her despite their bizarre nature – and – indeed – the trauma-laden nature of their delivery.

The alien rubbed a skeletal finger, dripping with the blood of the little girl’s parents, across it’s military BDU jacket, which hung relatively limp against it’s emaciated, undead frame. In his other hand he held a crystal tetrahedron, drenched in blood, which pulsated with pale, disturbing light.

Embroidered upon it’s right chest was the legend “GREY” – apparently, it’s surname. A strange geometric symbol, which the little girl would, later, learn to be the insignia of a group called the Order of Nine Angles – dedicated to opening up portals to other worlds and bring in Acausal, Dark Gods, through catastrophic acts of terror and profuse bloodshed, was pinned in medallion form upon it’s left.

The sound of several booming male voices, yet too deep in metre to be human at all, began to echoe out from the corners of the room, sounding a sinister chant unlike any that had been heard prior upon that earthly terra firma, each voice seeming to hold within it the inconceivable potency of every evil act, every horrific deed, every act of disruption, terror; cruelty and deceit; manipulation and inducement to insanity that she could imagine that they had done; that sinister chant could be felt upon their breath from afar, like a cold shade.

“AGIOS O BUDSTURGA!” screamed Drill Sargeant Grey.

Drill Sargeant Grey fingered the long disciplinary paddle attached to his utility belt, drilled with holes to reduce wind resistance and cause additional blistering and bruising, with no discernible emotion upon his face. Emotions has been killed, burned away – burned with the infernal fire of Satanic ordeal, Satanic trial and the uttermost limits of transgression of human laws in every moral sense.

“To those outside it is a simple construction of wood But those inside know what is truly in store… Behind the locked door.”