LAKES OF FIRE

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For those who possess the grim yet fanatic will and determination to do so there is little that cannot be experienced in the furtherance of the dictum “evil without limits”. This is the slogan by which the clandestine organization – the TOB – goes about its business.

This is the vector by which the harshest entities of hell can be entreated – for nothing less than committed, continued evil in the flesh, real-world evil enacted again and again – will attract the sort of dark forces for which only the genuinely select truly seek succor.

Speculations of the mind among the pseudo-LHP mean very little at the end of the day, the specious and ultimately irrelevant pseudo-intellectual ‘musings’ of the fiat literati and, to whatever level, deeply-entrenched in the furtherance of agendas that seek to restrain – rather than unleash – the dark potential for evil amongst mankind, what to speak of seeking for transformation into that which lay beyond.

We tell you this – you ‘virtual’ Satanist milieu – you ‘principled’ half-hearted filth of the would be which will never be:

For every minute you spend in inertia there are individuals on-the-ground, here and now, enacting deeds which transgress not only the tiers of the acceptable which you, in falseness, conceive, but regularly the laws of the land – for our enemies are higher.

For every word you expend – futile and cast to the wind – there are individuals and individuals acting in concert – conspiracies afoot and in process – doing that which should not be done, will not be done – except by the most hideous in intent and brutal in constitution and ideology.

In the second-generation rank accouterments issued to clandestine organization personnel at the level of AGENT at that time and as a reminder and request to that specific internal organizational demographic there is the phrase “WHAT WILL YOU BRING US TODAY?” emblazoned in stark relief upon the scene of ravening wolves consuming human flesh, human lives – turning life and more abundantly into ruin and doom.

If you are willing to proceed along paths which entail real risk – not in a fiat way but rather according to the stringent requirements of an actual institution, requirements inclusive, then reach out – in action – and join us. For we are interested in real blood, in real terror – in real furtherance of “evil without limits.”

For those who have not brought sustenance to the clandestine organization, the blood pool – yet also seek us on the periphery, sans the grim will necessary to bring about a profound confrontation with the undead who compose our number – then we say verily depart from us into everlasting fire, for there you will meet us also – for it is in those lakes of flame that we reside.

SOURCE: Image anonymously sourced. Text courtesy clandestine organizational center circa March 9-10 2017 ERA HORRIFICUS.

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WORLD OPFER – A GUIDE FOR INITIATES

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INITIATORY CRISIS:

Genuine initiatory crises are absolutely necessary for the creation of the Noctulian and the entrance into the undead state. The silence of dwelling in the eye of the storm, a symbolic representation of the undead state that is Noctulian existence, can only be attained by traversing the path of harsh, brutal ordeals that are the hallmark of our alchemical change process. Like when approaching the eye of a hurricane, the winds of ordeal and forced transfiguration will become harsher and more intense as one approaches the eye. It is only through real, genuine initiatory crises that one can reach the Noctulian state. The initiatory crises that are prerequisite must include real tragedy, real horror and real testing. This is not simply promethean overcoming, as the Noctulian is not simply an aphorism for the Satanic Adept.

The current of the Tempel ov Blood is very specific and involves treading a sideward path towards a paradigm of existence that is alien and inimical to the cosmic life force.

Transformation necessarily must be perverse and filled with elements of Terror due to the fact that the entity that emerges after breakthrough is an abomination in quintessence, rather than being the ‘next rung on the evolutionary ladder’ per se. Specific methods of self-engineering must be employed to produce specific entities.

For many, the harshness and the absurd nature of pursuing the alchemical change process according to the Noctulian standards will be too much to bear. There are many groups and systems available for those who wish to follow a more humane approach and we do not dissuade those who are better suited for an alternative method to go their own way. However, if one wishes to aspire towards the Noctulian state, if one wishes to enter into the TOB Blood Pool, then discipline and fanatical commitment to our way must be adhered to. If you fail, you will face the inevitable torture that comes with associating with the blood currents of the TOB and embracing the Abyss – if you succeed you will also face the inevitable torture that comes with associating with the blood currents of the TOB and embracing the Abyss. One may decide to no longer embrace the denizens of the Abyss, however, the denizens of the Abyss, once contacted, will persistently be interested in embracing you.

A bleak path lies before you, strewn with the blood of those that have gone before. Advancement in the path involves an increase, not a decrease in the awareness of Darkness.

BLOOD FEEDING:

All aspiring Noctulians must feed. Upon what do you feed? The blood essence of humans. One may consume the blood essence of the human herd via direct draining procedures while disembodied in the astral state. One may also consume the blood essence of a human via sympathetic contact, sight and touch. What is the grim secret to this Wamphyric Art that is often denied by other vampiric orders? It is the fact that engineering pain – physical and physical – real evil deeds done towards a specific target in the flesh to put it plainly, is very useful in releasing the flow from your human victim. Coercing your victims into states of psychological stress – or even psychological terror – psychical pain – or even physical pain – will work wonders in allowing you to feed heavily upon them. This blood essence – once consumed – will attract the denizens of the Abyss and they – via inducing insanity in the initiate and allowing the initiate to peer through the horrid vortices of the void and backwards darkness – will aid in your transformation. Employing black arts methods for harm should be used in tangent with blood feeding – this means employing curses as well as more practical methods. A TOB initiate is encouraged – and expected – to curse and feed indiscriminately.

THE BLOOD POOL:

When one enters into the Tempel ov Blood one becomes part of the TOB Blood Pool. What does this mean? It means that the blood that you drain from humans is in like manner drained from you – by the Inner Family of Noctulians higher in the hierarchy. The pinnacle of this feeding process is the Blood Father of the Inner Family. The Blood Father is a vortex that twists and distorts the blood currents and then channels this downward towards the larger TOB Blood Family. His black hand is upon you and his touch drains you of the blood essence that you have culled from humans. He is a vortex that twists and distorts the blood currents. His mercy is the blood currents that have been twisted and distorted which he sends down as a rain of astral energy only to those of the TOB – those of the Family. This blood essence, rather than simply being vitalizing (as is the blood essence that you, the initiate, cull from the human herd), is possessed of properties that coerce transformation and transfiguration according to Noctulian principles. The rain of mercy from our Blood Father aids in the creation of the Noctulian – in tangent with practical acts of evil done in the world – and the pains and rigors of ordeal and initiatory crises. This is one of the essential secrets of the alchemical change process revealed.

SOURCE: World Opfer – A Guide for Initiates first appeared first appeared in False Prophet: Internal Journal of the TOB Issue Number 1 (privately issued) and reprinted in Liber 333, CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, 2014 (ISBN-13: 978-1492282204, ISBN-10: 1492282200)

A DREADFUL APPREHENSION

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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

FOCAL IMPACT

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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

INTO THE HALLS OF GIANTS

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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