Satan is the archetype of the untamed wilderness. His is the skies. His is the earth. He is no stranger to intrigue, espionage, genocide, violence and nuclear war. He is the possessor of secrets. He is the guardian of the occult. He is the master of Awe and Derision. Satan – whose word is CHAOS.

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)

O Felix Culpa: The Tempel ov Blood courtesy Nameless Therein



A vampire is capable of a hatred unbound, possessed of predatory instincts completely unleashed because the vampire – unlike the cattle of the human-based left-hand path – is not beholden to the sort of restrictions that concern the “high-minded”, effete proponents of a so-called left-hand path deracinated and declawed from all that which would in essence facilitate a transfiguration toward the state of apex predator.

Real-world evil, criminality, espionage, terror. These are not “catch-phrases” but instead very emphatic suggestions – several or all which much be met, all interlocking, to whet the blade from which the inhuman predator – the vampire – will begin to determine what is indeed actionable from the standpoint of the undead elect.



One of the thin, wasp-like arms of the commandant reached down to finger the leather nursery strap that hung upon the black webbed utility belt that encircled her waist. Bluebird’s eyes widened for she began to see that many more instruments of torture and pain hung from the commandant’s belt and she knew in a moment of revelation that as she herself possessed an instrument in the likeness of the commandant’s own punishment strap and the administration and authority that such designated she soon would possess those other devices and mechanism of pain and verily be privy to all that they represented. As the commandant fingered the strap, her other hand raised and a long finger extended pointing into the distance – pointing beyond the image, beyond the regional headquarters – into the area of the unconquered region into which Bluebird, Britta and a wide cross-section of the organization’s military force would be penetrating now only a few hours hence.

A small filament of smoke began to inexplicably emanate from the extended finger of the commandant and then becoming a small cloud, iron grey and sootish black, which hung in the air. Within it could be seen the crackling of lightning and the sounds of millions of mechanical devices smashing and grinding into one another could be heard emanating from within. As the sound began its harsh rapport hot wet tears began to flow down Bluebird’s freckled cheeks, for she knew that this sound was the voice of the commandant herself.

The grey black clouds began to part slightly then and the light within them grew more pronounced – where the rent was made visions began to appear, cascading one upon the other in breakneck speed, yet Bluebird retained each one in its entirety – every aspect and import that was meant to be relayed by the commandant comprehended. In her visions blood spilled in waves upon waves, pools of blood in which the enemies of the organization drowned in abject despair. She saw her own martial forces, her units that marched beneath a pale blue flag bearing the black outline of a human figure from which expanded a starburst extending outward from an area between the heart and throat. She saw herself, radiant upon the back of an organizational tactical vehicle, standing aloft as winds carrying upon them spectral wraiths composed of yellow poisonous gas and before her alien figures, identities entirely obscured inside hazardous material suits, spreading out over a ruined landscape filled with screams, sobs and faces that had begun to melt into themselves.

Both of the girls visions slowly faded to black and fitful sleep came upon them. As the embers of the fire beneath the propaganda image of the commandant began to burn low the cult recruiters softly quietly moved about these two platinum graduates of the commandant’s training center. The needles and wires were removed from their wrists, restraints undone and their naked bodies gingerly lifted up withdrawing them from the metal inserts which had penetrated them. Small beds had been prepared, beneath the ever-watchful image of the commandant, and the two naked figures were wrapped in rough-hewn blankets and allowed to rest if only for a few hours. Outside of the bay doors of the loading area a reddish orange sun began to rise from behind the heavily wooded hills of the border region and somewhere in the rebel territories a cockerel began to crow, the unknowing herald of a bloody dawn.

SOURCE: Excerpted from BLUEBIRD – the second installment of the post-apocalyptic trilogy authored by the Tempel ov Blood that began with IRON GATES.

A thirteen year-old girl in a futuristic setting after a year of rigorous cult programming and systematic abuse at the hands of a brutal paramilitary organization finds herself installed as a deity representing the embodiment of chemical and radiological warfare in a disease-ridden DMZ-type border area between the paramilitary organization with whom she enlisted and the gateway to areas of unknown nuclear-war devastated territories from which she came.

BLUEBIRD – forthcoming from Martinet Press in 2016.




“One common function of trauma-based mind control programming is to cause the victim to physically and psychologically re-experience the torture used to install the programming should the victim consider violating its directives.” – Ellen P. Lacter, Ph.D., Mind Control: Simple to Complex





The commandant standing on the bed was of super-high rank, wearing a pointed black helmet of fine mesh and one bleak bar of horizontal goggle lens and erstwhile garbed in a shining black outfit of skintight design and unknown fabric origin. Her large breasts shone like bleak and deadly moons encased in the shining black fabric, one of her waspish and skeletal hands carefully holding a vial containing a green poison liquid, her other clasped triumphantly on the bar separating the bed from the cab of the military automotive.

Her waist bore a thick nylon utility belt with a harsh nursery strap hanging to one side along with implements such as night sticks, restraints and then, in the other, a bleak, long-nosed pistol in a stellar black holster. She was of the elite of the elite, a god in the flesh, the touted female known as the commandant – never seen but worshiped throughout organization-run territories as a black mistress of death, destruction and imploding schizophrenic blood lust – creeping like a mustard gas mist across the destroyed and devastated plains of a post-nuclear hell.

SOURCE: Excerpted from IRON GATES by Tempel ov Blood, published by Martinet Press 2014 (ISBN-10:  0692306587, ISBN-13: 978-0692306581) IRON GATES is a sci-fi horror / post-apocalyptic novel, detailing a bleak view of the spiritual horrors of the world-to-come. Set seventy years after a worldwide nuclear conflagration, IRON GATES allows the reader a sight into a nightmarish landscape populated by even more nightmarish characters in a hideous future which leaves little to the imagination. Brutal and unsparing, it is not suitable for readers under 18. Readers should be advised of extreme graphic content.

Graphic collage Commandant commissioned by the TOB and rendered by the artist and Satanist Erica Frevel. Original of this collage will be available for purchase directly from the artist in future and the image itself to feature in future published material set in the world of IRON GATES and published via the auspices of Martinet Press. More Art of Erica Frevel can be accessed at The Art of Erica Frevel as well as on Cargo Collective and Instagram.




Authorized and produced with the full concurrence of the TOB these official support patches are for those in allegiance to the ghastly blood pool, the Undead Gods, and ‘evil without limits’.

Durable construction, woven black field with TOB crest fully embroidered in white, black border piping and iron-on back adhesive for ease of application.

$10 USD including free shipping worldwide. Multiple payment options accepted. Released via the auspices of Martinet Press, orders fulfilled and shipping directly from the Hinterlands. Inquiries send PM or write to: martinetpress@protonmail.ch



‘Veni, omnipotens aeterne diabolus! Agios O Gaubni…’

The incantation became louder until Algar was shouting the name. ‘Gaubni! Gaubni!’

Then a silence that startled Vitek. He could not see Algar’s face as he stopped and turned in the clearing but he heard the hissing and saw the hands raised like claws. The long, bony fingers grasped Vitek’s neck and the strength of the arms pushed Vitek to the ground. Algar sat on Vitek’s chest, slobbering and laughing while his nails tore the flesh on Vitek’s face.

The spam of struggle did not last long as the fingers snapped the neck. Possessed, Algar loped awkwardly out of the wood. Thurstan sat hunched in the back of the van and Algar stared at him, dribbling like an idiot while in the distance a dog howled.

Algar was struggling to control the chaos which had possessed him and direct it to bring another death when he heard the voice behind him. ‘Come to me, come to me!’ the melodious voice said. Algar turned to see the leering face of a multitude of witches. Then they vanished. But another voice ame from the trees behind him.

‘You are my gift!’

He did not look, but the power of the demon he had invoked was sucked from within him to form a hideous face whose rows of teeth gnashed before the mouth opened to spray Algar with fetid breath. Then it was gone, sucked into the trees and down into Earth bythe power o the long-dead leering witches.

‘You are my gift!’ the voice repeated.

SOURCE: Narrative excerpted from Temple of Satan. Graphic from a recent mid-December self-criticism session, courtesy of clandestine organizational personnel and photographed at an undisclosed location in the United States of America.



Atop a tower, the heights bearing an altar built of the charred bones of molested children – expertly removed from their bodies after years of service to the black master, within that horrid and blasphemous arrangement is housed a beacon – a point of call – a drawing point for the horrific spirits which lay beyond the backwards darkness whose only purpose is torment.

As swirling clouds amass across an iron sky of incomprehensible wilderness – so bleak, so barren, a rent tears forth from betwixt formations in the black firmament and the evil spirits who have been trapped within since time immemorial usher forth.

Only by the machinations of the black wizards of the citadel have they been granted entrance – only through the unbridled terror unleashed by shock troops bearing the ensign of the commandant, a promise of absolute fealty by dint of their atrocities.

Espionage, fear, conspiracy and repression have gathered themselves together and it is through that bleak fasces that the Undead Gods have been allowed their return – through those auspices the Final Harvest – sickles crackling with bluish electrical light, black almond-shaped eyes emitting radiation under whose glow life suffers inserting themselves for the reaping.

SOURCE: Lyrical excerpt from an untitled piece by clandestine organization center. Graphic depicts ZE77 effecting her application to the TOB, courtesy SUBAGENT SPECIALIST ZE77.



“First there was the collapse of civilization: anarchy, genocide, starvation. Then when it seemed things couldn’t get any worse, we got the plague. The Living Death, quickly closing its fist over the entire planet. Then we heard the rumors: that the last scientists were working on a cure that would end the plague and restore the world. Restore it? Why? I like the death! I like the misery! I like this world!”

SOURCE: Graphic imagery courtesy SUBAGENT SPECIALIST XR20. Quote excerpted from the script of CYBORG.