oak and the ax

steve’s middle name is spelled G-R-A-N-T but it’s pronounced ‘trouble’

I have grown small and shrivelled

Razor teeth, tear into my heart;

A battle of the empty rattle, dirt

Through my fingers but nothing

Has grown here for years, seek

The shelter of an oak tree, we

Both yearn for sleep, we both

Fear the axes that follow.

Sunday Respite - The Fighter’s Galleria

If the entire scope of all Fantasy RPGs were the geology of one planet, and all the individual features and facets of the pass-time were crafted into a single piece, then the Fighter would be the bedrock foundation of the world. There has never been an edition that I have played where a Fighter was a poor choice for players stumped for character inspiration. They’ve forever been the stoic anchor around all adventuring parties all-too familiar with violent conflict. They are always found taking on the greatest foes and most gruesome of monsters with the grandest of weaponry and an indomitable grit matched only by the battle cries burning at their throats.

The Fighter is my favourite D&D class and archetype. The reliable ballast standing tall, guiding the wind-swept ship that is the adventuring group through the tides and storms that rise and crash at any occasion. They are the tried and tested, experienced, by-the-book warriors of the world who put guards and brawlers to tears with their mastery. Magic may not be ringing in their ears and biting at their calloused palms, but they trade Spell DCs and handfuls of fireball damage dice for the only number that matters; body count.

Here are five items that should at least get a veteran monster-slayer and dungeon-delver through an afternoon of simulated bloodshed, if not the best half of a week.

Shield of Saint Corvid’s Bell

This broad, square shield of thick, curved brass - scarred and misshapen through age - could take a ballista barrage like a castle takes a warm summer’s breeze. It weighs as much as a good-sized dwarf and is just as flexible. The metal of the shield was sourced from a legendary church bell, one as large as a farmhouse. The bell collapsed from its tower when the cathedral that housed it was razed in war. It was a wound felt by every citizen, regardless of faith, for it was as much of a symbol of their culture as it was for their gods. That same spite and defiance was crafted into every one of the dozen shields cut from its hide. When struck in battle, the shield chimes, low and with unearthly depth. When struck four times in succession, the shield bellows with enough strength to pull the weapons from its attacker’s hands and the ground from under their feet.

Two of Many

These blades are double-edged and straight-spined with a cross guard thick enough to protect the wielder’s knuckles and finger bones from any wayward, parried strike. Forged into the pommel on each is a golden band with the carvings reminiscent of traditional rings of inheritance - gifts which descend through generation after generation of the family name. Looped through the rings are decorations from their former wielders; torn scraps of military banners, simple religious pendants, and peculiar trophies from extinct beasts and creatures the world across. The ancestors follow their children wherever they may fight through these implements. When the inheritor successfully strikes the same target with both of these blades, they find that an ethereal copy of the swords the hold appears, mid-air, and follows up the attack with one of its own. If that strike also lands, then it is proceeded by yet another, and so forth until one misses its mark.

Woodskin Axe

This woodsman’s axe appears to be an insignificant feature in the standard households of the world. It has a palm-worn grip that fits onto a chipped axe head of dirty steel that has chewed through hundreds of trees over the decades. The runic inscriptions along the haft are ancient dwarven, yet badly translated and written by the unsteady hands of an aging amateur. The true power of the axe is that it can cut through wood and bark like any blade would do through naked flesh. Whether it be a standing oak, drawbridge door, or head of a wandering treant, the axe will break it without splinter.

Basilisk’s Lick

The Basilisk’s Lick is a broken dagger with a crooked blade of just over one inch, severed off at the half length. It is clearly rusted over with the dirtied specks of age dating it backwards a good half a century or more. However, the reason why caution should be practiced when handling the weapon is not for fear of tetanus or infection. The meekest of nicks across the flesh can cause the skin to blister over in a stony blotch as the recipient is partially petrified. Each wound suffered stiffens the joints and dulls the efficacy of reactions for hours after the initial incision.

Flail of Empires

This flail has a gem-studded handle, spiked with thorns of iron at the top and base, and a chain of glistening squared links. The head is an iron cylinder which branches off with a dozen wicked, six-inch spines. When span around the head to build momentum in preparation for attack, the chain will clank and rattle like those of a draw-bridge being lowered over a castle moat. Every six seconds of constant spinning, the chain will extend another five feet in length, increasing its range. This will continue, foot by foot, until the wielder can no-longer maintain the spin or it collides with an unbreakable item. It was named the Flail of Empires when a legendary tribal warrior took up the flail along with blessing of the god of strength against a rival army, all by herself. This new power allowed her to spin the flail without end, and so she slew dozens of the approaching enemy from atop the peak of her hill on the battlefield before they fled, defeated, and with the legend of the Flail and its chain that could stretch an entire empire upon their terrified tongues.


Pixie x


Żmija’s guide to Slavic faith: part 2, main Gods

so, my friends, the time has come I finally got around to making the second part, this time about main male Deities in slavic paganism. Bear the first part in mind when approaching my description - or sometimes, to some degree, interpretation-  of Old Gods. Many differences, many varying ways to understand and worship them. 

The Gods and Goddesses are accepted as those that have been actually worshipped by slavic pagans when they’re confirmed by two or more preferably independent sources; when there is a source that out of the blue presents difficult to verify new names of gods etc (as Jan Długosz did, for example) its genuineness is doubted.

Authors and historians I rely most heavily on are Gieysztor, Brückner, and Strzelczyk.

Gods listed here will be desribed in greater detail in their own, respective posts.

Perun (Перун; Perkun) - one of the main Gods of slavic pantheon; God of Lighting and Thunder, and God of the Sky; Giver of Rain and Storm; the one that throws the blinding bolts upon our earth - the place where the bolt hits becomes sacred. Perun is the great balancing force for Veles; he’s the warrior, he’s the one that Overlooks, but also the one who Punishes (”hits” as his name shows - linguists agree that the first part of his name is widely recognized in many indoeuropean language forms as meaning “to hit”; and that it’s his name that influenced words like polish “Piorun” - lighting bolt). Oak is his sacred tree, and the Axe of Perun his symbol and weapon.

There is a belarusian tale described by Gieysztor that shows the nature of Perun and his everlasting fight/conflict with Veles.

Veles (Велес; Weles) - another main God, the second part of the neverending conflict - or balance - that affects the slavic faith to a great degree. God of Magic and Witchcraft, Oaths; Underworld and Afterlife, but also the God of Wealth and Merchants, Art and Crafts. Connected to cattle, mainly through linguistic connotations; called the Horned God; While Perun punishes the oathbreakers with “death by their own weapon”, Veles punishes them with terrible diseases - a death with no glory. He’s associated with the slavic Żmij, and just like Żmij, interpreted either as benevolent - or the opposite. Still, held in great respect, and worshipped. 

Sometimes, Veles is associated with another Deity - Triglaw/Trzygłów, the Three-headed God.

Svantevit/Świętowit - God worshipped by the slavic tribe of Rani, the main God of Arkona, one of the most known and most important sacred places of worship for Slavs; he was connected to magic, horses, warriors and war. He was shown as having four faces, and overlooking the whole world; the one that Rules and Overlooks, brings good crops and good health. Wine was crucial for his rituals - many of which are well described in sources and offer a great insight into Old Faith.

Jarilo (Яри́ла; Jaryło) - the God of Spring and Fertility; young and fair, he brings sun and soft wind, and the rebirth of nature when he comes back, riding on his white horse ; he’s the one granting good vegetation and good crops. But there is another association which hides in his other name, Jarowit - and shows him as a warrior and fighter, and his white horse not as a docile animal, but a warrior’s mount. Through this, he’s also often associated with Svantevit.

Svarog (Сваро́г; Swaróg) - associated with Swarożyc and Radogost, God of Fire also connected to Sun as the “heavenly fire/ fire from the great sky; often treated as one and the same with Dażbog, the Sun God, and many scholars assume it’s the same Deity but with a different name, worshipped by different tribes (always remember the issues I described in the first part of the guide). These Solar Gods are often connected, sometimes by familial ties, but also treated as one: Gods of Fire in all it’s form (Fire, Sun, Hearth, Smith’s fire )

I hope these short and simple descriptions of main male deities of Old Faith might serve as a good source of general knowledge for beginners interested in slavic faith. More info on every one of them is coming in the next posts, just like a description of other deities!


Headcanon: What Pokémon characters would smell like

Professor Sycamore: A cafe, pastries and a hint of Cigarette smoke.
May: Aeropostale perfume and grass.
Archie: The Ocean.
Maxie: Burnt wine.
Professor Oak: Hard candy and the Wal-Mart produce aisle
Red: Air.
Blue: Axe body spray covering sweat.
Professor Birch: Firewood and Distress.
Professor Elm: Pencil shavings and baby wipes.
Professor Rowan: Original Old spice, Rum and old books.
Brock: Playground rocks.
Wally: Hand sanitizer and Laundry detergent.
Misty: Chlorine.
Giovanni: Cats and cigars.
Barry: Five Alive.
Hugh: Weeb.
Professor Kukui: Coconut sunscreen.

My girlfriend @redoodle made this happen, go check out her art~

Enslaved by Kings and Dragons- Mobile Master Post


“Lost traveler, you say.”

The king of Mirkwood smiles kindly down at you, but his gaze is ice. The guard hands him your knapsack, and your heart sinks. You had tried so hard to hide it from the guards before they cornered you deep in the forest. He casually loosens the drawstrings, and scatter the contents of your bag onto the stone floor. Emeralds, rubies, and diamonds clatter down the steps. You swallow hard.

 ”…I can explain-” The guards grab your arms and force you on your knees.

“You have quite the nerve, stealing from me.” He reaches down and retrieves a glittering emerald. “Do you know what I do with thieves?

[Read More]


"Undress me." 

Thranduil’s voice is soft, but his command is not. You take away his empty wine glass, setting it aside in case he chooses to have more. You stand on your tiptoes and gingerly unclasp the brooch at his throat. It is beautiful, heavy and cold in your hand.

Smaug would give a scale from his underbelly for such a treasure.

But you no longer serve Smaug. The King of Mirkwood is your new master now, and he is eyeing you with cool impatience. Hastily, you put the brooch away and begin unbuttoning his tunic with nervous fingers.

[Read More]



The King of Mirkwood hands you a glass of wine. It shimmers under the torchlight, the color of blood and fire. You have had wine before. Thick and sour, served in jewel-encrusted goblets, under the watchful eye of your previous master. You can remember the glare of his bright amber eye as you obediently downed goblet after goblet, until the world swirled red, gold, and black. You would dance for him, his fiery breath against your bare flesh.

[Read More]

FLASHBACK #1         



“Open your mouth.”

Thranduil brushes your lower lip with a glistening grape, and pushes it into your trembling mouth. It bursts, filling you with a gush of tangy sweetness. You are sitting across his lap, leaning against his arm. He twists another grape from the stem, and gently presses it against your mouth with his thumb. His expression is cool, but you see the simmering in his eyes. You part your lips slightly, accidentally flicking his thumb with your tongue. His lips curl into a half smile. He slowly pushes the tip of his thumb into your mouth, feeling the soft wetness of your tongue swirl about him.

[Read More]


A shadow hangs over you. It is one of guilt. Of Desire.

Galadriel’s gaze is piercing, but the King of Greenwood is not fazed. He is used to her prying at his mind like a nosy woodpecker. He takes a slow sip of wine and meets her gaze with an icy one of his own. She smiles slightly.

She clouds your thoughts. She has bewitched you.

“She is none of your business.” He says quietly. “What is it that you want? You did not come all the way to my realm just to play mind games.”

[Read More]


Cumber was waist-deep in the river, his dark hair plastered against his face. Glistening beads of water slid down his broad, muscular chest, leaving trails of silver down his abs. In the light of the setting sun, he was a gleaming god of a man: Ageless, chiseled perfection. He swept his hair from his gold-flecked eyes and caught you staring. He smirked at you. You smirked back.

 ”I’ve told you before. It’s unlady-like to stare.”

[Read More]


Cumber’s head was buried into his arm, pressed against the wall. He hissed through gritted teeth as if he were in pain. His eyes were closed, his body slicked with sweat. His shirt was tossed carelessly on his bed. His trousers were bunched around his ankles.

You bit your lip and smiled to yourself.

[Read More]


Chest pains. The little devil had faked chest pains and deliberately grabbed his hands and pressed them against her. It had been a struggle, but she finally released him. But not before she caught in his expression his painful awareness of her warm softness.

Cumber buried his face into his hands, trying to ignore the dull throbbing in his head and loins. A whole day he wasted standing under a waterfall, trying in vain to chill the flame that she had so carelessly ignited. And now it was night. The burning was unabated, and the dull haze that had filled his mind grew thicker by the minute.  

Her teasing could not have come at a worse time. The full moon was out, and the beast within would overtake him tonight. Smaug was a sick opportunist, and it would take advantage of his weakness. He was not certain if he had the strength to stop it.

[Read More]


“What sort of barbarians are the Mirkwood elves that we keep prisoners as slaves?”

Legolas is leaning in the doorway with a scowl on his face. Thranduil turns from his maps and arches an eyebrow.

“…That ship has sailed months ago.”

“Then unsail it. Send her back to her people.”

[Read More]


Cumber’s fingernails dug into her flesh as he pounded into her with the madness of a thousand sleepless nights.

Cumber… From her slick, swollen lips his name was a fervent command he could not disobey, a breath of sweet oxygen stoking the embers of his desire to feverish new heights. She moved with him, her heart-shaped ass slapping viciously against his thighs as she welcomed him deeper with every thrust, every grind.

Love me, Cumber…

[Read More]


You rage against the darkness, fighting with the very fiber of your being as it drags you through the woods towards the oldest tree in the forest. Leaves and branches whip at your face; your arms are scratched and raw. But it is the guilt that eats away at you and leaves you cold and aching. The axe in your hand is blunt and unwieldy, the crude handiwork of orc. The darkness had you pry it from the carcass of a rotting spider, knowing that magic alone cannot pierce the ancient bark that houses what it desires above all else.

[Read More]


Such sadness for one so young, it whispered in your mind. I can feel your heartbreak through your fingertips.

You stared deep into Cumber’s crystal, mesmerized. The beautiful, smoky sphere was perfectly smooth and warm to the touch. Sweet, hazy numbness tingled through your fingers and rolled through you like a shimmering mist. You welcomed it, letting it draw your pain from your heart like one would draw venom from a wound.

[Read More]


Thranduil feels the axe slam into his side. The dull pain knocks the breath from his lungs and he staggers against his bookcase. Who dares put an axe to his tree, in his forest? Blind rage is quickly replaced by chilling suspicion.

It is not just any tree that groans under the gouge of the axe. This tree is dear to him. Precious. He had cast the ward over it himself.

There can only be one reason why someone would put an axe to the mother of all oaks in his forest.

[Read More]


Cumbersmaug was the runt of the litter, hovering between sleep and awake in the warmth of his jewel-encrusted egg while his brothers and sisters breathed little rings of flame playfully at each other. They had hatched weeks ago, hanging off their mother’s long, slender neck excitedly while they waited for their baby brother to finally come out and play.

Gold and silver await you, my little Cumbersmaug, his mother whispered lovingly in firesong, curling her tail about him. A world of treasures await you in this wide, wide world.

[Read More]


The night she broke into his treasure room, the eternity Thranduil had resigned himself to fell away. His heart seized. His soul sang like he had been doused in starlight. He heard himself speak, but he barely knew what he said. From the soft blush of her cheeks, the nervous flick of the tongue across perfect, pink lips, the shiver of pinpricks dancing across her arms, he knew she was meant to be his.

[Read More]


Your Master’s passion was fire, his will cold, unyielding iron. Ambition burned brilliant red in his eyes; he took what he desired with brutality, sapping the very essence of what made something precious and grinding it beneath his heel when he was sated. He cared not what you were. Who you were. If you had a purpose, he would use you. If not, you were not worth keeping alive.

[Read More]


Her mouth around his fingers should not have thrilled him like it did, sent butterflies dancing in his chest like it did.

“Touch me,” she breathed, her tongue soft and slick against his fingers. Her eyes were pools of wanton lust.

“…You dare command a king? Must I remind you who is your master?”

Thranduil’s throat was harsh and dry. Her mouth was hot and wet. Her dress fell from her like petals, pooling around her ankles. The flush of wine clung to her skin, running delicate bumps down her graceful limbs. His heart slammed against his ribs beneath the warm pressure of her palms. His entire body hummed as she slid her fingers gently to his shoulders, clasping behind his neck. He choked on his breath as she drew him in, her supple flesh pressed against him like they were cast of the same mold. The ticklish heat of her tongue slowly lapping against edge of his ear, from lobe to sensitive point. He bit his lip so hard he bruised.

[Read More]


Cumber’s eyes are black and dead, his shoulders hunched forward in harrowing defeat.

Cumber. Smaug. They were one and the same, the two sides of the same fiery coin. All these years, he has been lying to you. The wine, the collar. Everything.

How you had sobbed into his arms, clung to him as a child. He was your protector, your guardian. You remember when he almost drowned saving you when you were caught in undertow of the river you promised never to swim in. The big, warm hands that bandaged your scraped knees, that wiped the tears from your eyes when you cried. They were drenched with the blood of your family.

[Read More]


A single strand of hair infused in dragonlust, steeped in fire and Anath’s own secret concoction. The very catalyst that spawned the series of inevitable events, a downward spiral that lead to this very moment.

Mirkwood is a wasteland of rubble and ash. Smaug is missing.

And what of Cumber.

Cumber is gripping your shoulders, his haggard face inches from yours, icy blue flame curling like smoke from his lips. His eyes are dead and unseeing, but he senses you all the same. He slams you against the wall, a desperate, wounded beast.

[Read More]


It should have been his mouth she kissed so urgently, his name falling so desperately from her lips.

As Thranduil watched her, he remembered the cruel suppleness of her flesh. Remembered the intoxicating scent of her, the taste of her. He remembered how perfectly she molded against his flesh, how she trembled beneath his fingertips. How she clenched around him and pulled him into lost oblivion.

[Read More]


Gnarled branches covered in sickly moss loom over you like outstretched arms. Twisted vines scrape at your boots as you stumble through the depths of Mirkwood. You scarcely know what it is you’re doing. There are thousands of orcs between you and Mount Doom, and if what Anon said is true, the Dark Lord has returned. You have no plan, no idea how you’re going to make it to Mount Doom in one piece. All you know is that Cumber is lost, and you have to bring him back.

[Read More]


The Brown Lands. The Dead Marshes. Battle Plain. Udun. Isenmouthe. Jagged words on a faded map that do little to capture the vastness of absolute wasteland between you and Mount Doom. You are out of food, and there is nothing but dead bark and poisonous mushrooms in this part of the forest, the evil of Dol Guldur poisoning everything in the vicinity.

You have gone too far to turn back now. You know the elven king still waits for you in his woods; you can feel the pain of his gaze lingering on your skin. But how can you turn back now?  How can you face his love when your heart cannot abandon Cumber? Your heart is raw; you cannot love both. That is not how love works. Yet to choose one over the other would kill you.

[Read More]


“You think you have won! You think you have won the Dark Lord’s favor!” Anon hisses in your face, flame curling dangerously close and singing your hair. “You are NOTHING! He will grow tired of your shallow soul, your mortal flesh. You shall wither with age, and when he has no use of you, he will throw you to his orcs!”

[Read More]


Legolas had been a lonely, quiet child. High elf by blood, Silvan elf by upbringing, he was too high-born to be truly accepted by the Silvans, yet too wild to be included in the company of other high elves. Disruptive, his tutors complained to his father. Untameable.

A part of him reveled in the knowledge, that he was not truly so high-born after all. That his mother’s Silvan blood flowed through him, gave him an edge that made other high-borns uncomfortable. And yet another part of him felt that his Silvan blood was what kept his father distant, kept him from connecting as he would have if Legolas were more like him.

[Read More]


“You have prevailed, Sauron,” Thranduil says slowly, stepping forward. “But it is not her you desire. It is the might of Mirkwood unified with a dragon that you want. Release her, and the might of Mirkwood is yours to command.”

He falls to one knee, and offers his sword to Sauron.  “For her freedom, I pledge my allegiance to you.”

How easily the Elven King submits. You have been preparing for this, haven’t you. To surrender it all. For her.

A cold smile plays on Sauron’s lips as He takes Thranduil’s sword and casts it aside. He draws iron-tipped fingers through Thranduil’s hair, as if caressing a pet. Then He wrenches his head back, eyes gleaming with hungry hellfire.

I see you, Thranduil, Sauron rasps. Beautiful creature filled with vice, with obsession. You of all people know how I savor the corruption of elves.

[Read More]




Philosophy of The Swastika - Essentials of Hitlerian Faith

Image by me, text by @sneeringimperialist

A solid introduction to our beliefs is long overdue, many misinterpretations and ignorance abound. Here I shall attempt to correct this, posting a brief summary of the core points and values of Esoteric Hitlerism, as well as explaining the difference of it to those who view faith through an Abrahamic lens. Lets just jump right in.

Veneration of Life

“I am in love with the beauty of life that I behold in animals, and would like to behold in man also, but simply cannot”

We hold nature to be something profoundly sacred and are filled with a deep, spiritual love of animals and plant life. We do not hold it beneath us, as the materialist does viewing nature as mere resources for exploitation, nor the Abrahamists who while viewing it as God’s creation, nonetheless relegate it to a role of distant, secondary importance behind man and his soul. To us, a mighty, beautiful oak or noble forest stag lies higher on the hierarchy than a broken and degenerate man. If put to choose between the two, I would take the axe to the man before the oak, for the oak fulfills it’s natural role whereas the man has shirked and ignored his, and is therefore inferior. The destruction of the natural beauty of our lands, as well as the cruel and disgusting treatment of animals in the modern age is as much a crime warranting death as facilitating the debasement of our race.

Aryan Tradition

“And in the heart of Northern Europe, there has awakened a heightened racial consciousness, the same racial soul idea taught by Zoroaster”

We know ourselves to be part of the last still surviving branch of the great Aryan migrations of pre-history, the European peoples and the Pagan faiths we found in Roman/Hellenic, Celtic, Germanic and Slavic civilization were but one of three branches originating from our spiritual and material birthplace of mystical Hyperborea, the other two are ancient Aryan Persia and India, and their spirit and beliefs we find in Zoroastrianism and Hinduism are as near to us as Odin and Zeus are. We mourn the loss of our blood kin in Persia and India, who have forever perished in the midst of racial pollution and the corruption of our faith through it’s blending with the Semitic and Dravidian elements of those lands. Yet we take warning from their fall and resolve never to allow such a thing to happen to this last, and most recent Aryan civilization in Europe. And indeed, once we have cleansed and defended Europe we shall raise the banners once more and pour over the mountains and plains as our ancestors did to reclaim those ancient lands and rebuild them anew in likeness of our kin who came before.

The Racial Soul

“Soul means race seen from within and conversely, race is the external side of a soul”

Spirituality and religion is inseparable from race, and we discard any notions that one universal faith may encompass every race on earth. To us, the negro, the semite and the mongoloid have fundamentally different spiritual worldviews and any mixing of their beliefs with ours is as abhorrent and destructive as the mixing of blood. They simply cannot perceive and understand the world in the same way that we do. Any universalist doctrine, whether religious or secular must be ruthlessly resisted by us if we are to survive as a people, whether it be the recent human-rights oriented democracies or the old Christian Church. We must instead, reach within our blood and find once more that eternal transcendent, life-oriented impulse originating in Hyperborea and awake our race’s faith once more.

National Socialism

“Someone once asked me what attracted me to National Socialism, I replied without hesitation; It’s Beauty”

National Socialism is the violent resurgence of the racial soul and Aryan spirituality in the modern world against the forces of decay and disintegration. Nowhere else in history has a single nation and era seen such a pure and true resurrection of our people’s way of life. It brought forth all that was healthy and noble, restoring our people in Germany to the highest place of honour without contaminating it with the baggage, sentimentality and lies of the past. It was a total revolution in every sense, both in the way it structured society in accordance with the traditional model and in it’s worldview with the exaltation of the racial honour and purity in accordance with the iron laws of nature as it’s highest value. National Socialism to us, is a holy, all-encompassing way of life that excludes everything else, we demand of ourselves and others absolute loyalty and embracing of it as truth.

Adolf Hitler

“Hitler is a medicine man, a spiritual vessel, a demi-deity or, even better, a myth”

Adolf Hitler is far, far more than a mere man, a mere politician, a mere organizer and revolutionary. He is something beyond human, an avatar of cosmic Aryan spirituality chosen to set the stage as He-Who-Comes-Before-The-Last, to give us the final form of our people’s faith so that we might recognize The Last/Kalki when he emerges from the mists of time carrying sword and flame to put an end to the dark age. To hear him speak is not to hear one man’s beliefs and words, but to hear an eternal, ancient collective voice speaking from beyond the material world through him to us. As an individual, he occupies the highest place of reverence and honour in our hearts, second only to Kalki and the eternal Aryan myth he embodies. He is forever and ever, the leader and high priest of our people from beyond the grave until the coming of The Last.

The Jew

“Our dawn will shine when new and mightier flames spring from the chimneys of Auschwitz as Jews and their servants are hurled into the fire below”

The Jew is the spiritual antithesis of the Aryan. As the Aryan serves life and life-oriented ideals, the Jew serves the forces of decay and disintegration. The Jew elevates himself beyond the natural order of things and indeed, seeks to destroy that natural order along with everything that is beautiful, true and noble. He delights in corruption and debasement, to see a people reduced to money-grubbing materialism, to see nature destroyed to make way for his own petty desires and ego, to pull and rip at life until nothing is left but a thread. His end state, his dream of earth is a vision of a blasted, industrial wasteland with feral tribes of mongrels squatting the ruins reduced to primitive cannibalism, finally conquering all that was above him and bringing it low. As such, every Aryan is obligation bound to root out and exterminate this disgusting race from the earth, even if it will take us centuries we will hunt them down to the last vile nest and rid this world of them. They are our enemies, forever and ever and no mercy is to be afforded to them at all.


“Through the flames of the Great End, into the sunlight of the new Golden Age" 

The Final Victory. Esoteric Hitlerists believe in the prophesy of Kalki, the final avenger of Aryan peoples destined to lead us in the apocalyptic final battle of the Kali Yuga and emerge triumphant over the vast horde in service of the forces of decay, and usher in a new age of light and peace for our people, cleansed of filth and alien elements. He is truly a god-man, purity and perfection taken form. He will unite our peoples, reclaim our ancient lands and will raise long-lost Hyperborea from the sea as his divine seat and kingdom. We cannot yet envision nor comprehend the details of his coming, however it will be a total transformation beyond description. Sieg Heil!

Originally posted by celticanglopress

We’re organizing a group for projects, education and research. Message me or @sneeringimperialist if you are interested.


The Earth is my mother

The Sky is my father

The gentle rain is my sister

The raven is my brother

My colors are blue and gold

My card is the Magus

The axe is my weapon

My shield is of oak and iron

My blood runs red in my veins

I am prepared for battle

Meet me in Valhalla this day

We shall drink with the Gods


My Animal Crossing Villager photoshoot!

Featuring BIG Darkmindedsith as Professor Oak and Todd Snap (behind the camera)

Also there’s supposed to be a spider on the ledge in the net photo, but it didn’t come out as well as I thought D:

The Copse

Submitted by: http://hematitecucurbita.tumblr.com/

The copse sat central in my old suburban town, an untouched spot of the old forests. Last remnant of America’s ancient wood. On maps, it was the dark core of a bruise, the town its paler rings. Oaks towering high as four homes stacked, a maze of roots and trunks, easy to be lost in. Leaves choked the sunlight from above, so even at high noon, that copse was a dark, black-green mire, the color of deep set grass stains. No grass grew, no flowers. Its smell was mulched dirt and sticky sweet sap.

It was a place for children to wonder at, to poke around clean cut edges, marvelling at where manicured lawns merged to shadowed, knotted dirt. It was a place for illicit rumors at barbecues; did you hear Susy and Paul went in there last night, some people have no shame. Lies, of course. Not even the adults liked to go in.

Children would play in it, but never for long. There were no breezes, no animals. Every murmur, step, breath, the silence took offense to. If we giggled during church, the priest would stare at us, brow low, so we knew we had done wrong; making noise in the copse was like that. Every oak glowering, scorning, but their heavy, solemn age was more imposing a threat. In there, I felt cold egg slime pour down my spine, the prickling sensation of being watched. I doubt I was the only one. No one, not ever, entered past dinner, not even on a triple dog dare.

The copse was forgotten when I entered middle school, overwhelmed by geometry, and crushes, and schoolyard gossips. Until, one day, I was called a coward for not asking out May. Stewing in frustration and hormones, I saw father’s axe. Chopping my name into one of those oaks would show them. Even Mary would be impressed.

The first whack chipped the bark, and jarred my bones. So, putting my arms into it, turning and heaving, I swung until a notch appeared. Could already feel the pinch of new blisters on my palm, and sweat beading, and a freezerburn coldness. Mid spring, sun high, and the cold was cutting through my shirt, biting my teeth. The oak was bleeding, wine red, thick and slow.

A ram, a boulder, something, barreled into my side, pushed me into the dirt inside the copse. The axe was kicked away. Stamping, crunching steps around me, straddling me, like a prancing horse, but there was no panting breath. I tried to turn over, raise my arms, kick it off, but as I lifted my head, a cold sharpness struck my cheek, left a burning trail to my lip.

Then it was gone, and I was alone in the cold, green darkness. Rising on shivering legs, every nerve tingling, adrenaline licked. There was nothing around but me, and the oak I had cut. Its bleeding had stopped.

Cheek stinging, axe lost, I left, shooting glances over my shoulder until the copse was gone. At home, mother went into a fit tending to the gash on my cheek, and trying to wash the red from my shirt. No one asked about the axe. Later, much later, on a cloudless day, I went back to find it. One tree, I think the same one, had a light red streak across it, like the scar on my cheek.

Used to wonder why no one had cut down that old copse; now, I prefer not to think about it.

Credits to: http://hematitecucurbita.tumblr.com/

Enslaved by a King- [Melamin, My Love]- Thranduil Fanfiction

Thranduil feels the axe slam into his side. The dull pain knocks the breath from his lungs and he staggers against his bookcase. Who dares put an axe to his tree, in his forest? Blind rage is quickly replaced by chilling suspicion.

It is not just any tree that groans under the gouge of the axe. This tree is dear to him. Precious. He had cast the ward over it himself.

There can only be one reason why someone would put an axe to the mother of all oaks in his forest.

Legolas runs breathless to the doorway, clutching his side. “Ada, did you feel that? What is happening?”

Thranduil makes no answer, his mind racing a mile a minute. It can not be.

“Sound the horns,” he said calmly. “I want every Mirkwood elf withdrawn to my halls for protection. I will see to the disturbance myself. Do not, for any reason, come after me.”  

The darkness wields the axe with your trembling hands and hacks at the tree mercilessly. The impact rattles through your frame with each deafening blow. The darkness is swollen and brimming with your misery; your struggle is nothing but a weak whine against the roar of its will.


it breathes with every shattering blow.

Death upon all.

The gash oozes gold with running sap. Gold, like the glint of firelight against his cobalt eyes, the color of his hair in the morning sun. Such beauty, even in its destruction.

Your king will bleed scarlet, like the berries he is fond of weaving into his crown. He will be just as lovely, with a dagger in his hand and a hole in his chest.

The darkness drops the axe and stretches your fingers into the seeping wound of the tree. You feel something icy in the warm stickiness and pry it out with your fingernails. The moment it comes loose, the tree shudders and creaks. It topples, smashing the trees in its path with an ear-splitting roar. It had been a good, wholesome tree, standing for eons in silent vigilance over its treasure. It had shielded the ring and its innocence from all corruption. Until now.

The ring is small, the emerald sparkling with the flicker of every leaf, every blade of grass of Middle Earth. It is set in mahogany, intricate wooden claws keeping the gem locked in place on carved foliate. It is just as beautiful as the darkness remembers it to be, humming with raw, untainted power. It is still young and unfinished, quivering delicately in its uncertainty of its full potential.

The darkness has waited for so long for this moment. It coos to the ring, whispering its influence like poison seeping into a well. It shares vision of conquest in the name of fire and iron, of total annihilation and the rebirth of a new world. The wood blackens as if burned, and the emerald gleams with a deeper, sinister hue. The ring is corrupted, and anxious to please its new master.

The darkness slips the ring over your finger, and it fits perfectly, as if it were carved just for you. In a sudden surge of power, the darkness envelops you like a shroud, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your heartbeat slows, your eyes roll back. You feel yourself shrink away, sucked into a vortex of thoughts and emotions that are no longer your own. You spiral deeper and deeper, until you are but a shimmering speck lost in neverending night.

Ancient evil rises from the ashes of what you were and takes your place. Gone is the weepy human girl. You are darkness. You are power overwhelming. No longer a shadow fighting for dominion, you are living, breathing force with the power of life and death at your fingertips. You feel the thrum of life about you, the steady beating of hearts and chlorophyll and sap and blood rushing in and out of stems and veins in a million living creatures. The ring feels it too, and draws the vibrancy from all around you and infuses it into your flesh.

The trees shrivel and shriek, their branches straining against your will. Then they are dried, dead husks, their leaves falling in clumps of brown and black. Cold, lifeless creatures of fur and feather litter the barren wasteland at your feet. They stare unseeing at you in silent horror. Everything is quiet and still. You are dripping with power, electricity shimmering downs your limbs.

Today Mirkwood. Tomorrow Lothlórien. Then all of Middle Earth will fall.

“…What have you done?”

You whip around, and are face to face with the King of Mirkwood.

He is beautiful in his disbelief, thick lashes framing wide, wide eyes. A crease is carved between his eyebrows, his lips are thin white lines of anguish. He is shaking, every breath he draws like a dagger to his heart. You recall the sweetness of his lips against yours, the surrounding warmth of his embrace as promises were whispered between you under the witness of a million stars.

Forever, he breathed.

Foolish king. As if such promises could ever be kept.

“I knew you would come,” you giggle. You trail your fingers suggestively down the cracked, withered bark of a nearby tree. It falls rotten under your caress. “You could never bear to be apart from me for long, Melamin.”

He stares at you, his gaze piercing into your soul. His features harden as realization slowly sinks in. He knows just how deeply he has been betrayed, how blind he has been all this time.  There is no how or why. Not when his woods have been laid to waste. His jaw is clenched, his gaze dark with bloodlust. His words are slow, his breath ragged and broken by grief.

“…Did the dragon put you up to this? Or is it that foul creature, Cumber?”

“The dragon and his half soul have long since turned from their One, true Master. They will soon learn to see things my way; I possess what they consider a treasure beyond all the riches of Erebor.“

Thranduil flinches at your words. He is at loss, stripped of his most precious. Despair flickers behind hollow eyes. You have taken everything from him, and you will take much more.

“I have plans, Thranduil. Wondrous, wondrous plans of fire and decay. Surely you will join me in ushering the new Middle Earth, one paved with blood and bone.” You reach out to touch him, and he swings his sword. The blade freezes a hair away from your bare, exposed neck.

“What’s the matter, Melamin?” Your mouth stretches into a huge grin. “You do realize your hesitation will cost you?”

With a flick of your fingers, you hurl him against a tree. He smashes into the trunk with a sickening crack.


The soldiers of Mirkwood have arrived, their arrows straining against taut bow strings.

“Not another step, human, if you value your life!”

The air crackles with dark electricity as you lift them all in the air with your power, slowly crushing their hearts from within their chests. Their screams feed your bloodlust as their lifeforce tingles up your arms and into your heart. You are wrapped in a haze of ecstasy in their deaths. With every sacrifice, you grow stronger, until you are omnipotent. No blade will cut you now, no ice nor fire will affect your being. The world is a haze of ash and dust. You no longer see the faces of the living, only the bright burn of life in their hearts.

A young elf leaps from the trees with his sword drawn. His heart beats with vengeance and vitality.

“How valiantly you defend your king,” you breathe. “I shall ensure you a swift journey to the Hall of Mandos.” You laugh. With a twist of your wrist, you draw a cloud of dark electricity. You will snuff out that light in his being, and consume it as your own. Before your spell can reach its mark, a brighter, deeper flame jumps in front of the younger elf, taking the brunt of the spell.

Thranduil glares at you with a hatred you did not ever think him capable. Then his eyes roll back, and he falls limp.

“Ada!” The elf screams, shaking his father. The young elf is Legolas. You pause, the need for death resonating within you, pounding with the force of a million drums.

A burst of light crackles through you like lightning. The girl within has re-emerged from the murky depths of the subconscious. She is screaming, clawing at you with renewed fervor. You have never felt such wrath, such determination like the one searing through you. She grabs your wrist and twists at your fingers. You wrench from her grasp, beating her down with your usual taunts and ridicule. Yet this time your words only enrage her more, feeding her disgust and hatred of you and giving force to her will. She snatches the ring from your finger and hurls it, far, far away.


Your power dissipates from you like bees from a beehive, the glow of a million lives you have stripped flowing into the air above you. You must reclaim the ring! You did not get so far only to be thwarted by a pathetic, useless girl you so easily dominated-

Legolas smashes his fist into the side of your head. And all goes dark.

You wake chained in Thranduil’s dungeon, your arms cuffed behind your back. The taste of starlight and vomit burns in your throat. The elves must have tried to force starlight upon you while you were unconscious. You snicker to yourself. As if starlight could drown out the shadows of Dol Guldur. You have no intention of releasing your host. For the briefest of moments, you had tasted victory. None stood in your way of ultimate dominion. Yet swithin a second she snatched your future away from you.

She will pay dearly for what she has done.

The dungeon door swings open. Thranduil enters, leaning heavily against his staff. The elf must have a hide that rivals dragonscale, to survive such a blast from you. You feel the rush of relief from the girl, and you crush it.

He has come to end you for your betrayal, you rasp silently. See how he carries his sword at his waist.

For the longest time, he stares at you without speaking. You can almost feel the shudder of his broken heart. Slowly, he holds out his hand. The charred ring lays in his palm, the emerald gleaming wantonly under the torchlight. You instinctively lunge for it, but your chains jerk you back. He closes his eyes, his expression stricken.  

“You have slaughtered my men. Desecrated my woods. You have made a tomb of my Realm in your lust for power. The Silvan elves demand blood, as does my son.”

“Then give it to them,” you breathe. “Or shall you seem weak and useless in their eyes?”

He slams his fist into the dungeon wall. He grabs your face and brings it close to his. His hands are shaking.

“Is there no shred of remorse? All that we have built together, all that we have nurtured-” He chokes in mid-sentence, unable to contain his sorrow. He searches in vain for answers, yet only cold, familiar darkness stares back.

He releases you, and for the first time since you have known him, you see that he is defeated.

“If you will not dwell in our past, then neither shall I. Your fate is tied to ruin. I will not allow you to drag Mirkwood into further calamity.”

He knocks his staff against the iron bars of the dungeon, and guards appear, holding a familiar gold circlet. It is Smaug’s enchanted collar. The girl within shrinks back, cowering. She cannot return to Erebor. It is a fate crueler than death.

He takes the collar, running his fingers along the hefty metal, tracing the jagged black speech carved into the surface.

Please, the girl within cries. Don’t you see it’s not me? Please don’t make me go back!

For a moment he hesitates, as if he hears the voiceless pleas of the girl. Then he reaches and snaps the collar around you. The weight is staggering, and you shudder at the familiar grip around your neck.

The girl utters a gut-wrenching cry, and is silent. Thranduil has abandoned her. She has been betrayed.

“I want you gone,” he says coldly. Only his eyes betray his violent emotions. “There has never been, nor ever will be a place for you here.”

[posted 4.3.14]