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Beyond the emerald blooming meadows of Elstree forest and past the vile swelling of Death's Stench, five cultists, adorned in robes bearing the embroidered insignia of a skull with green ooze seeping on the back, gather around the fervent flames of a beaming fire. Breaking through the creeping of a claustrophobic fog and the overbearing blanket of midnight's sky, the sparks that dance between these individuals act as sole provider for visibility whilst the moon retreats further and further behind the clouds. Beneath the hoods of their robes, the cultists stare grimly, in turn, at one another with wide eyes as the crackles of rotten wood that harbor their accompanying flames slowly burst and split away to break the deafening silence.

One of the cultists, leader-apparent of this gathering, pulls a large, squirming bag closer to himself as his companions kneel before the fire. Self-surrendering themselves in a gesture of devotion for something that may have watchful eyes and ears over their mortal plane of existence, the cultists begin to chant but a single word in unison, over and over again, as though dictated by the escort of a marching beat.

"Nalzaxx... Nalzaxx... Nalzaxx... Nalzaxx..."

The leader of the cultists reaches into the bag and a wild crescendo of pained, weeping and frenetic whaling flows from inside. He yanks out a terribly wounded pig, previously stolen from the Dewy Swamps, with apathetic, reckless abandon. As the creature pleads for its life the cultist draws it closer to the flame before reaching into his robe and retrieving a vial of green liquid.

"O Nalzaxx, Lord of Pestilence! Spread your plague across these lands of Illarion and put an end to this blight of mortality!" He proclaims to the wind as the shadows beneath his eyes grow deeper with the help of furrowed, heavy brows that compliment the many crevices around his glazed eyes.

In a final heinous act, the leader cultist forces the vial of green liquid down the pig's gullet before throwing the sacrifice to the flames. Sparks burst skyward with its hope of escape as the helpless, lame sacrifice struggles and yelps until its last breath.

"Nalzaxx... Nalzaxx... Nalzaxx... Nalzaxx..."

These are the eyes of the pig forced into open flame- nature’s intent twisted by foul rite. Call it a curse, call it what you will, the earth yields bounty or plight. The seeds of our own ambition and destruction sown long ago. Woven into the threads of destiny, divine chance, only few are born or reborn with inner eyes wide open. Those to bear will seek endlessly their own despair. There is a pain worth enlightenment. Not by the gods’ will, hallowed order of light, but by mortal fabrication. Single drops of blood from past to future present were and are to be the rains to nourish darkened fields. No sacrifice too small but devotion we seek.

From realm to realm and across the world some names are written in ink to be remembered forever. Hail the hero, damn the wicked and blasphemers. Wisdom of the ages, fickle vestiges. The occult needs no written word to remember their mortal progenitor. His name echoes in the collective, laced in their prayers. He who deceived and blessed, a sovereign mind took what was given and did ascend. Laughing flames danced, a trick of fervent mind or things to come?

Five amassed for pestilent sacrifice. They chanted his name from the earth to rise in a harmonious beat. Over and over the thrum undulated from the smolder of pit fire to silence the night. Nature fled, knowing well the name and the aura of his grip. Past the reach of sickly light, the deathly shadows became an oasis. Beyond the notes of his name and crackling green fire an eerie silence steals the hour.

"Nalzaxx... Nalzaxx... Nalzaxx... Nalzaxx..."