Words of the Hidden: Behind the Facade

The so-called orthodox can persecute us all they want. It does not matter, for they are wrong. Where they see Gods and holy canons, we see a cult of oppression with crumbling palimpsests in their hands. They say they care about the old ways, but we remember what they have left behind.

We remember our own fathers and mothers, each sacral-in-spirit, for they are the ones who made the world. When the Eight retreated into their own planes, our star-shaped and beautiful ancestors, the Acharyai, faced Mundus. We remember the halcyon days of splendor, before the coming of blood-stained kings, where we stood as One, undivided by false notions of privilege.

Then there are the Others. The Psijics are the most powerful, but the lesser ones dwell in the hidden, invincible to the untrained eye. You see them if you know where to look, and how. The Crocodiles of the Graddun Swamps, the Coral Syndicate, the Veiled Dagonites, the Limacine Cultists, all these are thorns in the eyes of the zealots. They pretend they do not exist, yet never cease their eternal hunting. The zealots are blind but raging, sword-dancing with eyes closed. Their days shall end as well, one day.

We bow not to any lord or title, but purely for our Dead and the Welwa, sacred ravagers and harbingers of ineffable petrichor. We stand naked in the mud, callipygous and bronze-kissed by the rays of Magnus, stretching our hands towards a purple sky. We are beautiful, and we are glorious.