Siraath

© 2003 Alex Davis
All rights reserved.

The sun's last embers concede to the horizon, and the grey falling of darkness unfolds. With this moment I light the final candle, open the pages of the worn book. Its smell is musty, old. In the dim light I can make out the symbols, and I begin to read them aloud, barely comprehending the sounds I create.

Trhare uoaqa ygata kldese reztov
Uetfe lirhga fdakku otredc
Grtak porraye loknai enhdasp
Koea siraathene gtakna xoexatl...

The incantation completed, I lie down upon the bed, running my hands up and down my flesh. This could be the last time I know my physical form, a gift to the opening night. The pages of the book close of their own accord, the movement causing one or two of the flames to flicker low. A rush of sound seems to burst through the doorway, the walls. It grows darker outside, and I prepare myself for the coming.

I am the great snake that offers temptation to weak humanity. The paths to sin are opened by my hand. I am the guide to the joys of both suffering and pleasure.

The calling comes in the dusky hues of evening, a hissing, faint in a world of sound. The ethereal speaks to me in my own tongue, and I pick out the words carefully. Watching the door, I see vague shapes sliding beneath its frame; one slips through the keyhole. They are serpentine, oily black, sliding elegantly toward the foot of my bed. Their coming brings no fear to me.

I am the gateway to eternity, the journey that ventures to the outer reaches of misery and arcane pleasure, the plane in which all secrets may be known, where righteousness and malevolence become as one.

These tendrils of night climb, reaching toward me as though with serene love. Their touch upon me is hot, scalding, burning away the flesh. Their liquid touch wanders across my body, exploring me sensuously. I feel their pleasure, brought forth in my agony. Holding back my scream, I try to accept this gift of esoteric pain.

The disciples of my way shall accept death without terror, without uncertainty, for these feelings are sacrilege. These primeval worlds are beyond notions of being, and all such obsolete thoughts must be forgotten.

As the vile balm of night eats away the old flesh, I know acceptance awaits me. I hold my arms toward the sky, seeking you, the way to temptation. The blood begins to explode from my body, an offering to you. Casting aside this exhausted being, I let the words pour from my lips until they are drowned out by the midnight serpents crawling into my throat, filling my lungs with the viscous essence of Siraath...

Dtreq phlaveta aareth lnsu
Ghtesc xedokka bejjo desrh
Pyuun keshataa trgeska
Siraath- Predeste sthona cxelta...

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