| GARGOYLE |
| How many years have I crouched upon my haunches on this corbel, overlooking the roofs of this tiny village? Who knows; who tracks time but mortals? I have borne the winds great gusts, with its once refreshing, but now fetid, breath. As well as the torrential rainstorms , which have lashed about my face, mocking my immobility. But I endured it all with indifference, for I am imperturbable. I am a sentinel placed here centuries ago, by men long gone, for a purpose long forgotten by their scions. Forsaken, but undaunted, I continue in my service: the duty of guarding these creatures from the ever-present cloud of Darkness, which hovers over their fragile little heads. Waiting for a chance to slip into this plane from its nether-world of chaos; to wreak havoc and obfuscate the eyes of the masses with its visions of wickedness and self-importance. Preying first on the weaker minds, whose already opaque eyes will be the first to be blinded by its lies. Those that are strong willed, and resist, will be struck down like bothersome pests, not to be tolerated, much the less feared. Thus, I await the day, with much anticipation, when my companions and I shall answer to the call to battle the legions of the Dark. Only then shall we have fulfilled our promise to the long-forgotten masons of our visage. |
| SATANIC SONATA Inspired by the the composition 'universal", by avant-garde violinist Eyvind Kang |
| I. Prelude: It is dusk in the cemetary, and the griseous skies are growing darker. Indifferent to the chiding and supplications of their guardians, as well as ignorant of their desecration, a brood of small children play amongst the cracked, crumbling tombs, and dance on the eroded slabs in youthful defiance of decrepitude and death. II. Summons: In another more remote and ancient part of the grounds, anguished souls wail in unison as they are summoned from their graves; voicing a singular wrenching scream as they are sucked into a hole in the unconsecrated ground. A long-shanked and sinewy devil, with a mannish head, grins a toothy smile, as his yellow eyes stare into the space between the licks of flame, which lap the perimeter of the pit. Keeping his perch on the shoulders of a headstone, he scrapes and scratches a tune on a fiddle made of coffin wood, and strung with the innards of a sinner. He sits still as stone, grinning all the while, and staring, as his bow arm flails madly at his sepulchral instrument. Facing him, on the other side of the abyss, is a stout little fellow with bovine features, and stubby horns. In his chubby hand, he holds a horn hewn from the skull of some magnificently large, yet unidentifiable, creature. His eyes are closed, his expression serene, as he purses his slobbery lips, protrudes his nappy paunch, and bellows his bassy dirge. III. Nightfall: The skies begin to blacken with nightfall, as well as from the smoke caused by the sporadic dowsing of the flames by a sudden rain. The fiery diablerie proves to be a match for the precipitation, however, as the blaze continues to rise from the bromine catacombs below, and the devil's tuneful profanity relentlessly lacerates the peaceful slumber of the goodly dead. |
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