Symbol of Baphomet - The Dark Goddess


Balocraft of Baphomet

Gruyllan’s Tale

Although he did not know it then, the prepossessing half-timbered large Edwardian house that he passed – a quarter of the way up Trevor Hill – would be his final destination. But, sweating profusely in the hot mid-June Sun, Gruyllan gave it only a cursory glance, and continued along his way, cursing the lateness of his train and oblivious to the exclusive properties that lined both sides of that steep upward lane which gave splendid views, to the West, of the Stretton valley, of Caer Caradoc, Hazler Hill, and of The Lawley, beyond.

He had been given only an ordnance Survey map reference, and a time, and his assumed lateness and the memory of the beautiful young voluptuous woman combined to make him walk faster until he was almost running.

She had leant toward him, so that he could see down past her cleavage to where her large erected nipples strained against the thin fabric of her low cut evening dress.

“Meet me here,” she had said, and pushed a handwritten piece of paper toward him, making sure her fingers touched his as they sat in the Tempus bar of The Station Hotel in now faraway York.

Even now he seemed still able to smell her scent, and, as he reached almost to the top of that lane he could see his destination ahead: the summit of Haddon Hill beyond the scattered grassy often wind-swept links that formed the highest Golf Course in England.

So he struggled on in the heat of that late afternoon; a young man dressed incongruously in black, seeking Satanic initiation. And when – clammy from sweat, breathless, and pleased – he reached his destination among the sheep-cropped grass and heather of those Shropshire hills, there was no one to greet, to meet, him. Only the breeze, that – warm – did little to cool him, and the westward vista of South Shropshire valley and hills. No beautiful woman, naked, to open her legs enticing as she lay with him to seal his oath by bodily fluids, exchanged. No words of Initiation to echo, Satanically, in his head.

You the nameless are here to give yourself to us:
To seal with blood your oath
To we your new family in this
Our Nexion to Bride-Mother

Instead, only the wordful, wyrdful, wind. Sun, thirst, heat; the exhausted tiredness of disappointment where, under the blue sky, he sat down alone on that hill. Had it all been a dream, or some jape? Hope bade him stay – for half an hour, then more, until – nearly two hours later as the Sun descended, clouds came – he stood to walk, wearily, away. There would be no lips, rouged, to touch, kiss. No tongue to taste and toy with. No breasts to touch, feel; no nipples to lick, suck and chew upon. No moist, warm, furrow to plough; no painted finely manicured nails to clasp his shoulders as seed was sown. No scent to suffuse his senses as bodies meshed with sweat suffusing them.

It was painful, leaving, while her image, her scent, her promise, lingered in memory within his head. But he left, nevertheless, and it did not seem to matter to him that he had memorized their – her book, The Grimoire of Baphomet – given, the day before, in that Bar when first he saw her, enticingly waiting.

There had been e-mails, of course, exchanged – for weeks, beforehand. Questions asked, and answered. No real names given, required, presumed. And then that meeting, arranged. He had spent the days, before, trying not to hope too much, and failing. Hope of a sexual initiation, with a young woman, of course. Hopes of joining a secret elite. Hopes of lust, joy, danger; a new and darker way of life.

There were stories; almost urban legends. Many warnings from Undergraduate friends who shared his Occultic interests, though not his inclination toward Baleful Arts. “The ONA?” they would say, mixing incredulity with censure. “They don’t exist”, one said. “Avoid them; they’re hard-core; dangerous; criminal; immoral; they practise human sacrifice,” said another. “They’re a cult; they have these hard, brutal, tests – if you fail them, you become an opfer for their Black Mass,” opined another. “They’re evil; I mean – really evil; subversive…” said the fourth, and last.

Painful, leaving – but by the time he had arrived back at the small unstaffed Railway Station, to sit on a half-vandalised wooden bench, he was happy, again. Exhausted, hungry, thirsty, but happy. For it was all a test, he knew – or, rather, he assumed it was a test. The first, perhaps, of many. So he would re-apply; and wait, for it was a test, just a test, he kept repeating to himself, and he was still thinking this – idly smiling and idly feeling, knowing now, how stupid, how studently stupid he was to wear black clothes – when the Shrewsbury bound train arrived to disgorge a few motley mundanes.

He rose to move toward a still open train-carriage door. But an elderly women, tweedily-dressed and carrying an umbrella, smiled at him and blocked his way. He tried to deftly swerve around her, as a young athletic man could, but she was too quick, for with a flick of her umbrella she tripped him up.

“How clumsy of me,” and she looked down at him, sprawled on the platform. “Do please forgive me.”

“No, no – it’s perfectly all-right,” he replied, somewhat clumsily rising to his feet where she still stood blocking his way to the train.

“I imagine, ” she said, in her smiling grannyesque way, “you are in a hurry to board the train.” But she made no move to move aside. Instead, she said, “Such a lovely town, this. Do you not agree?”

“What?” And he was about to smile, politely, and turn toward the carriage when he sensed the strangeness of the scene, as if it was some dream of the previous night, half-remembered and still a little haunting. And so he let his train depart.

“There is a quite lovely tea-shop, just around the corner,” she was saying, and so he walked beside her, silent, up the slight incline toward the tree-lined road, until she said: “How very perceptive of you.”

“Have I passed, then?”

“You are quite thirsty, so let us have some tea – and cake – and then talk, a little more.”

The tea-room – atop a cluttered, dusty, antique market – was small, quite stuffy, and quite full, and he sat still and waiting despite his rather nervous anticipation, and he had consumed two pots of tea before she spoke again.

“I imagine I am not what you imagined,” she said. Then, before he could reply: “But yes, you are correct.”

“You’re an empath. So, you would have passed me by had I decided not to re-apply.”

“More tea?” she smiled.

“No thanks.”

“There is another test…”

“Of course.”

“But first – go here, now, where we await you.” And she pushed a handwritten piece of paper toward him, making sure her fingers touched his as they sat in that stuffy tea-room in sunny South Shropshire.

He left then, enwrapped in her – their – scent, to walk through that small town oblivious to everything until he came again to Trevor Hill, snaking upwards as its lane did from, and to the right of, that narrow road that led to Cardingmill Valley.

The house, on the second corner of and set back from the hilly lane, seemed almost to grow out from the ground, its black-painted timbers mirrored in the wooden verandah that surrounded its south side and overlooked the terraced garden with its large century-old tree of Oak. Several stone steps led to the large front door and he was about to tug on the cord to ring the antique brass bell when the door opened.

His memory was there, before him – the beautiful young woman whose crimson lipstick, fulsomely applied, matched the colour of her dress, and she, wordless, led him into the cool if dim interior, along a tiled floor, and up an oak staircase to a spacious high-ceilinged curtainless room of parquet floor whose only furnishings were a chaise-longue and a marble mantel above the Coalbrookedale fireplace, and which held a large clear quartz crystal tetrahedron.

The door closed slowly, silently, behind them and it did not take her long to remove her dress. She was naked beneath it.

“Veni omnipotens aeterne diabolus!” she lisped, to supinely wreathe herself around, upon, the chaise-longue, and he, eagerly stripping away his earthly coverings, obliged to lay upon her and enter her warm moistness as her crimson painted nails sank into the flesh of his shoulders to draw forth fresh blood.

Her sibilation was almost silent but it beat upon the tympanon of his ears –

You the nameless are here to give yourself to us:
To seal with blood your oath
To we your new family in this
Our Nexion to our Bride-Mother

He was soon spent, drained, unused to such female – almost feline – ferocity, and she turned him over to lay upon him to lick his shoulder wounds.

So she whispered to him his appointed task, his test, and waited while he – enwreathed in his sweat and hers – dressed himself before taking him down to the cellar. The tools, the instruments of death and slaughter, were there, in plenty, and he watched while she placed her chosen items, and bundles of money, into some nondescript suitcase. Then – a silver chain with sigil pendant of Baphomet placed around his neck; a kiss, tongue seeking his; her still naked body pressed to his. A promise that he could – should – sow his seed within her again, again, again. And then he was out, dazed, back out into the bright day of light to walk with heavy suitcase down the hill.

There was no train at the Station; no elderly women to block his way when train arrived. Only the journey, the long journey of no doubts.


She was never there when each evening he returned to that cocktail Bar, hoping. Never there, red lips touching Champagne flute; never there to take him to her suite where he would lay upon her.

The money certainly helped – to ease his pain of separation and his preparations, and he worked assiduously, planning, enticing, ensnaring, while maintaining the appearance of a student life. The mundane he selected was eager, willing, as well he might be, given Gruyllan’s weeks of preparation even before that wyrdful meeting, with her.

So Peter The Mundane sat with him in that vulgar bar of Vanbrugh College, anonymous in their student anonymity, while darkness came to the world outside. Thus Gruyllan The Cunning continued to weave his web of lies, and the younger student listened, weakened as he was from netorrhoea spread by specious sites, from abstractions believed, and the money Gruyllan had lavished upon him.

“In every war there are casualties; collateral damage. Anyway, they’ll be plenty of time for the area to be cleared. Just remember, those there in that place on that day are flunkies of the repressive, immoral, State. Waiting is defeat, and the State isn’t simply going to collapse; it’s got to be pushed; the capitalists are vulnerable, and one of their weaknesses is the confidence that the money markets require. Dent that – get them into a state of fear – and you’ve got them ready to topple. Keep them wondering where and when we’re going to strike next…”

So Gruyllan talked, and Peter The Mundane listened. Talked of the struggle; of Bonanno; of the need to inspire others; and when they parted, hours later, each to their own student rooms, Gruyllan knew Peter was primed.

A few days, and they were in a rainy London, with the mundane carrying a large, heavy, rucksack. It was a symbolic target, near the Bank of England, and they shook hands before Gruyllan left, ostensibly to telephone a warning. But the timer, unknown to that mundane, was set for only a few seconds delay so that he had walked only a few paces away before the bomb exploded.

There was bloody carnage. Bodies, buildings, damaged, And around, among, the dead, the dying, waiting demonic shapes gathered, unseen by any mortal mundane eye – shapes feeding on, upon, the pain, the suffering, the deaths; transforming the life-force – leaking, leaving – into new life, Their life, as one more portal opened, allowing other shapes to eagerly egress forth. Agios o Baphomet, Your Balocraft be done, Gruyllan intoned from his well-kept distance, and smiled, knowing a reward awaited.

He was correct about the reward. She was there – when he, hours later, safely arrived – to take him to her spacious high-ceilinged curtainless room of the parquet floor. And when his passion spasmed in its ending, her almost silent sibilation beat upon the tympanon of his ears –

Our being takes form in defiance
Of mundanes.
In you, of you – we are.
Before you – we were.
After you – we and you shall be, again.
Before us – They who humans cannot name.
After us – They who will be, yet again.

There was a feast of welcome, in the Sitting Room below; family to meet, greet. And – most of all – deeds past and future waiting to be toasted, planned, and told. For Vindex will, must, have her baleful day.

Anton Long
121 Year of Fayen

Symbol of Baphomet - The Dark Goddess


Silently, unseen, They come ashore in various places, there from Their restful lair beneath such offshore sea as hides Them. Come ashore, to especially seek out the young, the vulnerable, whom they entice to suicide, to murder, and to death, and whom they sometimes steal, alive, and breathing, for it is the acausal energy, the very animator of mortal human life, that They, these shapeshifters, need, acquire, at the very moment of human dying when such humans give up such mortal limited causal lives as makes and marks them as but temporary mundane vessels for that acausal energy that is the essence of Their very Cosmos.

Thus did some few of Them for well over a year set forth across the Bristol Channel to come ashore near Ogmore-by-Sea and thus did They entice with Their wiles, Their chants, Their sexual shapeshifting enchantments many young people, male and female, with visions of the real eternal life in the acausal world to come where all would be pleasure and joy and freedom from illness, death, and sadness. Thus did those humans, young and mostly inexperienced and sad with the problems of their lives and of the world, willingly and often almost with gladness give up their own mortal living. And thus were these acausal shapeshifters – that strange and alien race of living-acausal-beings – there at the moment of such human mortal death, stealing, snatching, containing, or imbibing, draining, the acausal life-energy that left those young and human ones in that the last moment of such mortal human causal life as made, and as marked them as, human.

For They – these visiting acausal-beings of unformed chaotic darkness – lurked not in the shadows of our world but in those hidden angles, that nexion, between where our three causal spatial dimensions met and meets our one linear dimension of a so slow and so dreary causal Time. Thus can and thus did They in one instantaneous moment of causal Time reach forth to snatch their prey, unseen, unheard, unsmelt and unfelt, by humans: by all but those few of we, the vessels, who possess that special, peculiar, that magickal, empathy: that esoteric-life which takes our mortal, human, being out away from a safe, tame, mundane and human existence; out away from the conventions of the causal into the very living-being of that limitless eternal acausal Cosmos, unseen, untouched, unvisited, unknown, except to they those few who willed or unwilled – in dreams or through a Dark and Sinister Magick – ventured forth or explored there and who never returned quite the same; if they, those venturesome vessels, ventured to return, at all.

Silent, unseen, Their own Earth-bound place of unwilling dreary rest was beneath the sea near the shore of that westward English town whose long curving sandy beaches – on sunny and not so sunny days – would often be alive and festered with living happy humans. And it was there to their lair where They these shapeshifters returned replete with victims dragged living, dead, or dying.

Thus it was by that shore where she, the strongest most determined of Her kind, was waiting – DeepSpace-dark and almost transparent – as the clear night sky shed light from a waning moon in May. Waiting, there, as the incoming tide covered those mud flats beyond that curving sandy beach and where the sea, flowing, fractured such moonlight as seeped down seaward down and briefly to make flashes, pulses, of almost incandescent iridescent beauty on and just below that English tidal shore.

She: waiting, for her much needed food. Waiting, for some human unsuspecting – the younger the better for thus full, replete, with such acausal energies as gave to them those humans such causal life as ambled them along their causal-spaces. She; waiting – for someone unsuspecting to walk alone along that moonlit shore when she would and so swiftly pounce to drag her prey away; back, down, under that sandy-muddied water to where Their lair existed, waited, and where she would feed until satisfied replenished renewed replete, and sated; able thus to change, to live, to shapeshift again in those causal Spaces that had somehow trapped her, and her travelling curious if predatory shapeshifting kind.

And there would be no evidence for meddling, curious, human vessels to find. For the body, the life, of the prey would be gone, leaving no trace, as the sea would leave no trace with its flowing soundful tidal tideful ebbing. No trace, of what few marks she and her kind might have made as one more of those the half-struggling because caught was dragged down to drown where the shallow inshore sea met the deeper sea of that unseen because shapeshifted lair.

No, no evidence; no dismembered corpse to float – bloated and bitten – back at high tide. No bones, brains or flesh. Nothing ever to be returned, leaving perhaps perchance only one more disappearance, unnoticed, or perhaps always unexplained. No, there would be no evidence for those human vessels to find: for she and They would devour or use them all: every ounce of human brain, muscle, organ, flesh; every drop of plasma, fluid, blood; every inch of marrow, sinew, bone. Needed, required, as They needed the very acausal life-force that seeped out from such vessels as and while they, those humans, cried, spluttered, gurgled, and died: food, energy, to maintain such forms as formed Them, there as They schemed, plotted, lived – and dreamed as They dreamed – of how to find a way back to the home that was Their home: there, where the acausal dimensions kept them replete with Life and ageless amid that Time that was Their time.


The nearby town, the sandy shore, the coast, even the sea, was not, of course, Their choice. But it would do – for now, as it had done, for nearly a decade after They, these travellers, had somehow in some way become sealed, trapped. Thus had they lived, but only less than half-alive, there on that water margin that somehow marked one meeting of such so different worlds; there, beneath the water where the lowest of low tides gave way Westwards to deeper sea as the mud-flats at its edge gave way, East, to that curving sandy beach, play-thing for many of that modern causal species, Homo Hubris.

Once, perhaps two hundred years or more ago, the town itself might have had much to commend it: a small fishing village of mostly small cottages built from locally quarried stone, rising above one rocky and one sandy cove. And even when the railways brought prosperity and building – with houses spreading steadily down and beachward from the rocky northern sea-front beneath that Iron Age fortified hill – there was a Victorian attractiveness, of sorts, two Piers, and a visiting still discerning almost always impeccably dressed clientèle.

But now: now as the tide of causal Time had marked and passed a new century, the town, easily accessible by hubrismobile from both motorway and road, had grown eastward and southwards to attract an entirely different cast of human vessels. Commuters, to work in the nearby larger towns and that city to the North; and young, mostly playful, things who could be found in the early evening or the night, often in large gaggling groups, thronging to and from the many Bars, Clubs, foodful places, and those dealers in drugs, which had grown, arrived, to serve then need them. And come the light of morning, some such young playful thing might be found beach-or-bench-a-sleeping – while jabbering querrelesome Gulls jabbered and jibbered – there where the mile-long promenade rose above that sandy shore. Humans, vessels, lost but found: surrounded, perhaps, as such young mortal causal beings often were, by discarded bottles, hypodermic needles, or squashed empty cans of beer. No wonder, then, that fights, and stabbings, became such a regular occurrence, so that as Dusk descended or another wearisome working day ended, regular Police patrols, a pair on foot, or cased within cars, egressed forth: pride in a stabproof vest; egressed, much as throbbing music seeping unslyly out from buildings when freshly falling night came to only half-cloak them, those vessels, for Homo Hubris, clubbing, favoured bright street-light.

But it was not only warmful night of Spring, Summer or Autumnal seasons that brought and caught them. For even the typical bleak dreary windy rainy Winter did not deter as it settled down there upon that modern haven made for Homo Hubris.

Synchronicity, or not, it was one such bleak dreary English Winter day that brought Elena and her two friendful-lovers to the town. For there had been a dream, one night, to both startle and awake her while her two lovers slept. A dream of such a mysterious, such a sensual, such a voluptuous woman as made her – there on that sandy moon-hewn beach – strain to reach out to touch and kiss her. Then she was running, after her, down toward where the flowing sea fractured such moonlight as seeped down briefly to each wave to make flashes, pulses, of almost incandescent iridescent beauty on and just below where that night of the highest of high tides only a small strip of sand was left exposed. Then she was in the water, kissing this not-quite-human woman of such beautiful beauty. Kissing, kissing, touching, fondling, entered and being entered, naked body to not-quite-human-body, fingers lips hand to moist cleft: until her lungs, her whole body, her very being, became filled with life – a stellar supra-personal un-dimensional life – and they two became, were becoming, one, there, where she became so briefly joyfully transported to that new beauteous formless living that awaits. But it was then and there as joy overcame her that the strange not-quite-human but warmful soft woman left, came out, from within around her, and a deeping sadness arrived to enter her – an uneerie, wordless, crying shrieking sadness that in its inner silence seeped in then out from her own new now strangely watery flowing fracturing body to become a part of her own weightful human feelings. A sadness so bleak – desperate – that she cried, and cried, and could not cease her crying until suddenly she awoke to lie rigid, unmoving, lest the love, the sensation, the beauty, the life, of that woman left her. And it was there as the sweat of the dream dried in the cooling breeze from her bedroom window that she sensed, knew, felt, touched and tasted the wordless straining silent longing of her new if strangeful lover: that longing to return to that wyrdful haunting acausal beauty that was her – now their – home: light-less, timeless, space-less, endless, and totally bereft of any and all denseful causal form.

Thus, and slowly, very slowly, she gently awoke the two that, with her, formed the empath that they were, so that they – her male and her female lover – would, without a need for words, see, smell, touch, feel and be what she had seen, smelt, touched, felt and been in those so fleeting moments of her just past dreaming and joyful joining. And afterwards, as they lay supine, entwined, and almost exhausted, each one of those three knew exactly what it was that they must do.

[Note: The next part of this story will appear here soon, AoB]

Anton Long
120 Year of Fayen