Wonthelimar
Casus Infernalis  
Volumen I



Ultramundis Altior Caelum


Índex


Page      3 / Episode I…………………..Wonthelimar / Styx

Page    15 / Episode II………………….900 Hundred of Darkness

Page    29 / Episode III…………………Casus Infernalis / Lete

Page    35 / Episode IV……………….....Marielle meus Spiritus

Page    40 / Episode V…………………..Ultramundis / Acheron

Page    72 / Episode VI………………….Ibics Ring / Phlegethon

Page    85 / Episode VII………………....Wonthelimar / Cocytus



“Ultramundis Casus Infernalis”


Episode I
Wonthelimar / Styx

Wonthelimar, holding Persephone's hand, crosses the abyss of the Styx, the vast shore where he will find Persephone's sacred groves; he will discern towering poplars and willows bearing prophesied, dying fruits. There he will dock his boat on the shore of the most hidden ocean, heading for the drenched oikos of Hades; there in the Acheron the river of Hamas and the river of lamentations meet, gushing forth in the Styx, which gather me at the foot of a rock and its roaring waters, there My Marielle rests, bound with willow branches, tied to her brushwood with Beelzebub's twigs.

When the ship arrived from the confines of the abysmal ocean, in the city of the Cimmerians, where the sun never rises and is shrouded in darkness, I will cautiously follow one of the tributaries that lead me to the Underworld that Circe had indicated to me.

From Erebus at that time will emerge the souls deprived of life, betrothed, young men, long-lived with a thousand sorrows, tender Muses gone there with their first condemnation; many Hoplite soldiers wounded by bronze spears, warriors who gave their lives in battle with their bleeding Xiphos. They approached in a great multitude, each from one side with a horrifying clamor. I, Wonthelimar, seized by the livid fear of the Infernalis, ordered my steed to follow the points of the dark sunset that are gathering the cattle that are slaughtered by cruel bronze, resting in the world, without letting them reach the torrid blood until speaking with Tiresias, towards the blind canons of my prophet of Thebes.

It would preexist the Ultramundis and the contingency that teleported it from thousands of years stored in its ******* Godmothership; such a Dryad that, asleep in the gravitational graphics that it held out to them from the annals of the 5,000s, of cultured ruggedness and nefarious slumber that transported them in shreds of the figurative tributary, coveting to awaken its Celestine part of an extreme, strenuous suffering from the dormant, potentially expectant Paleolithic. They flow back from an arid awakening of their doomed and inert constituent in sniffed-out, univocal belligerent virginal materials, which, spirited, were jealous from the steep decanted cliffs, climbing into Celestial Paradises that were opening, sad-faced, gurgling in imbalances of lushness and pertinent shyness. Brilliant columns and balustrades will glide through such saturated imbalances and river strata, linking to contracted biological messages… not yet incited! Totally far from the fleeting tremor of gravity and its lifeless trance its lucid revival choked, dozing in juxtaposition against the lap that converged between the blinded flanks of the eyelid of stone azure and earthy silicon, a tangle of lost silences and seas of the braided talented ellipse of the stunned darkness.

Wonthelimar awakens from a thunderous dawn and from the poisonous cessation of its frightened period, just as the favorite Ibex had been in its line of disoriented role. Thunders in poorly delayed have illuminated sufferings that are born from his shoulders barely able to go intuiting to harass him and go conceiving of reuniting him from gestated pastures, and forces to meet with the sustainable humanity of the Canonized Petrified Mammoth or of huge colonies of Vampires that will fight on the bed of a dim Jurassic light decimated by ruined Corinthian dynasties.

Never will there be left behind more sackcloth or midwives who will go to mourn him, nor caustic reasons from the anti-specimen that cautiously devolves from the fleeting Sauter like a skilled Vampire who appears ankylosed from his biomechanics. Lightning flashes radiated between swollen pilasters and ideologies from a stuttering with nuances of a compromising Being struck down, incontinent to deprecate, drinking from the scented threshold between the stench and hieratic anabaptized waters of blunt skilled hands and uncrossed consecrations that visited him, falling from an animal profile, like a divergent ruler in his frivolous, cloying grotto of a defective past, aspiring to issue a new law to sustain him.

I was a brother of Admiral Horatio Nelson's illegitimate son at the Battle of Trafalgar; Josiah Nisbeth was my cabin boy, and he was my confidant when I was able to speak to him once after Horatio Nelson was wounded at Santa Cruz, during a night landing. Josiah saved his life, since he was my friend. I witnessed strenuous efforts to stop his bleeding, which was usually understood to involve manipulating a tourniquet, but the endearing thing is that it was from a palisade that was lost in fiction, being floating timbers from the Trafalgar fleets that had been smashed to pieces. It could have been an act of anonymity, but as it could have been a son lost at sea picked up by Aphrodite giving him tasks to fulfill, being Deimos who intervened in personification of Nelson's terror towards the Franco-Spanish soldiers, not conceived by Josiah Nisbeth in Trafalgar by not participating in the battle, I was a classmate of Admiral Nimitz's son in Midway, Chester Jr Nimitz, of whom I had exclusive attention when he said goodbye to this world with his wife; I Wonthelimar received him in my arms in this way taking him safely to Chauvet, I was seconded by Vlad Tepes who keeps him honored with his episode of a heroic family trunk, just as he saved his son, Îngeraș from his own Wallachian vampire subjects, protecting him from the thirst of bloodthirsty that had been unleashed among them. I stood on the deck of Vlad Tepes's ship, able to see the oozing of a dissolute world oozing from its bilges; I was an animal in Tel Gomel that on its side behaved after morbid barks to the divergent screams of slaves on the Clippers through torn seas, denoting that the ocean lives in its frustrated springs with such morbid obsession... alluded to the shepherd Jethro in Madian; with such bravado of raising licentious shells for the nations that lived execrated and the expectations of the forearm of the libertarian Executioner. This is how rivalry arises in the Hundred Years' War, being able to resist stinging fearful wounds in my cervical-dorsal, clinging to another equal who was pierced by a ****** dagger through his ******-ventral canal in Poitier and Agincourt. Here is my dexterous pen or quill, writing with the meager light of my lapsed candle, unbridled by what it will see in the Grisels; perhaps in the Griselles of Orleans or from where I was able to shield myself from the struggles of Frederick I Barbarossa, appealing to a mechanism of the forearm that decides whether to dare to live or ****, residing in the aforementioned moral paradox, which does not pivot by destroying, but rather fluctuates in its counter order like the thousands who were massacred in the Crusades in the buttresses very close to Moriah.

I have lived desolate for millions of years in total darkness, or rather in the depths of the Cave of darkness where the lost glory of Salvation resides. I have millions of Bat Colonies that depend on me, all covered like species of Madian to cure them of their glaucoma, of buried Saracen mothers with their open wombs wanting to resonate in the salvific lights shrouds of their fallen sons in the Crusades between West and East for the three years from 1093 to 1096, or the Third Crusade three times being of Frederick Barbarossa. Perhaps they are electrographic war neurosciences that experiment from the brief field of the visual range of every Crusader soul that tries and tries again in the visual fields that have been eaten away by the Evil Hemispheres of the Seventh Station of Sorrows; jagged by their fragility at the Seventh Station of the octagonal Way of the Cross, where seated on the Throne, everything is finished in the Second Crusade, just as Jesus falls for the second time, showing his extreme weakness and the weight of the suffering he carries upon himself. At this station, we reflect on perseverance and God's help in rising from falls, both physical and spiritual, perhaps distant from the Menorah or Teshuvah, mostly rusted by Louis IX of France; at the Eighth Station of the Way of the Cross, Jesus comforts the women of Jerusalem. At this moment, while Jesus carries the cross, some women are weeping for him. Jesus tells them not to weep for him, but for themselves and their children, because if they treat the "green tree" (Jesus) like this, what will happen to the "dry tree"? Perhaps this eloquence speaks of the matriarchs, abandoned and resigned in their homes awaiting their beloved Templers, who ended up signing the Treaty of Tunis, granting trade rights to non-rebellious Christians. With such pretension, having revealing territorial permutations, the Crusaders returned to Europe after the arrogant death of Louis IX, presuming to place snowy ribbons on the heads of their condemned.

The hypotheses will be political, foretold of a cerebral, non-political act, rather a feudal believer-skeptic. Wonthelimar has been a witness to this, which later leads him backside, escaping from the Quentinnais family mausoleum, taking him missing from his beloved Marielle. A scientific expedition managed to declare that MRI scans have proven that the act signed by the Papacy before starting the Crusades, already displayed heavenly icons of the Green and Dry Tree, growing from the dry autumn tree that Pope Urban II instigated with the Crusades in 1095, during the Council of Clermont, called on the Christians of Europe to recover the Holy Land from Muslim hands, marking the beginning of the First Crusade with the phrase "Deus vult!" God wants it, but not from a dry tree or Vel Arbor Arida!

I have been captive to heartbreaking voices with enriched ****** fields, while I saw the great armies fleeing with weak aesthetics of a perception, whose plasticity was accentuated with the identification of wounded souls that came for its asylum, here in Chauvet where all its magnetism attracts us from the common brawl, carrying the material on their backs like Atlas, the titan whom Zeus, the supreme god of Olympus punished in a terrible way for rebelling against the gods and against the established order: condemned to hold the weight of the world for all eternity on his shoulders; Perhaps carrying the imprisoned souls they carry within their inner world, resisting him even with their deep and high-pitched shrieks, piously chirping at them and letting them fall upon Hydor and not the fiery roar of Hephaestus, like mournful stars swaying in the house of Fire of his forge, where he worked with metals and created objects for the gods, often located in the volcanic heart of the island of Lemnos.

My Germanic roots make me tremble, abandoned by wicked solitude with few populated doubts, by a heritage where prehistoric fetishes speak with their orientation of images that carry within me, like an Atlas-Ibex confined in exile, yearning to live millions with its archetypal falls, and ambitions like trivial years of lateral syntax of Casus Infernalis that bustle more than a trunk where the digital index goes to contact the dome of the Sistine Chapel and its apostolate. I feel neither cold nor hunger, but if I beg in predictions to heal the one who supplanted my prophetic nurse Amalthea, to see him face to face like the brilliant Sun of Lemnos, attractive where I could forge myself, as if it were the sagittal cut in the murals of Chauvet and the Sistine Chapel as the Last Judgment as divine intelligence that takes away and then grants with its golden chisel or brush of the Archangel Saint Michael amidst the hives of Cherubs, making a delay in the unrevealed Mysteries of Michelangelo Buonarroti aspiring to be a Seraph.

Horses emerged from their confinement, their crimson-colored adornments clinging to the Corpus, which was described as millions of years old, from the same externalized Corpus, since the noble first piece was fragmented from the flashing Genesis. Distrustful and subtle materialized bodies could be seen emerging from this Grotto, some were mounted on their horses, thirds represented from the total of thousands of animals that could not endure the light of Day, making Night another dimension of day that was not, for night sheltered animals that could not endure night as a frontal vision that made them heirs of the nights without having a single day passed. It was random, with the probability that it owed to fluctuations that could never harmonize night with day, leaving in its only sample empty caverns where those who could not grasp the horn of the primeval Aurochs of an indivisible Torah were distributed, leaving them with the penultimate luminescence that could barely be placed in the surprising mud-covered hooves, perhaps of the nubile rhinoceros that dared to cross the fortified walls of the great fortress of Castel Sant'Angelo, originally called the Mausoleum of Hadrian, a preeminent military stronghold in Rome. Originally built as a mausoleum, it was transformed into a defensive fortification during the middle Ages, playing a crucial role in protecting the city. Its original design, along with defensive modifications, was transformed into formidable structures symbolizing the power and preservation of the papacy. Here is the sign that reveals a careful examination, of this species among species, lifting the veils of a surprising episode.

It would be the sixth day, just as in Genesis full of nascent beings of a living being in a morning that refused to be of the Day, but rather of the evening of black birds that upon raising from the sixth day the image perched on the backs of beasts. Wonthelimar was a witness to the declared tablets of Genesis that one day saw him born, being a fundamental piece of the poured out expression of the Shekinah (or Shejiná, שכינה in Hebrew) refers to the divine presence or the glory of God in Jewish theology. It is associated with the manifestation of God's presence in the world and, often, with his dwelling among people. They were the first rows of biomechanics that were compensated by the Equines that tried to revive them from the Crusades as an exceptional Universal rule. Casus Bellis proclaiming the liberation of Jerusalem, from the barony of Wonthelimar, that this lack of foresight in supplying the Crusaders was causing the arrival of such a large number of crusaders from the west, causing tremendous damage to the food and crops of Constantinople. The Emperor of Byzantium was transferred to the distant Bosphorus Strait, bordering, according to the testimonies of those hosted by Chauvet, located in Asia Minor, and to the field of Kibotos (called Civetot by the crusaders). For their part, the crusaders separated and began to plunder fields, wandering in the territory of the Seljuk Turks, around Nicaea. Wonthelimar greatly estimated how much affront could be estimated by having to argue having to move through so many sewer passages and disturbed geographies as the event of ghostly banners surpassing them in the Battle of Dorylaea, diluting the Turkish borders even before reaching Jerusalem. I was the deponent, here my jinxes commemorated the pacts in Avignon of incorruptible supplies that were generously diverted by Klaus Rittke; formerly patron of the Cathedral of the same place. A large number of civilians have circulated distributing the Bread and Wine of the year of our Lord 1099, God is ours said the Ghost of Adhémar next to me, declaring sacred wines to the deceased with the golden chalice and protective layer of poisonous fires of the pagans, running from the fractal of 1098 with the judicious ghost resorting to lighting the candles of sparks of the reduced pagan hell-lit, and plump emulators paralogizing their severed heads between slices of limp ardors of exsufflation of Raymond of Saint-Gilles who smiled suffocating from the chalice, going by supernatural emanations of the Adhémar confluence with the similar hemp of Raymond Bragasse; Dominican cleric who substantiated the coexistence of the Ibex Wonthelimar Ultramundis, this gifted and visionary Demiurge who emerged from his kneeling knees under the patronage of a vain mortal. Raymond Bragasse, after being expelled by Beelzebub, alluded to saying, believing himself to be Lucifer in the sackcloth of Atlas, ****** with the indecency of a despot, Zeus transformed into his iron plumage, tracing the cremations of those who were his deceased soldiers and honored by the forges of a soldier who emerged from the dissipated dreamscapes or dream worlds of Hephestos.

From the pillar with such a visionary spear…, as a Hellenic who fought at Gaugamela would say, I utter, saying that only from the most harmful and most kindly evil sieges do we become pious, that neither Akkadians nor Phoenicians will go searching the Dorus towards the encounter with the filial trunk of Noah, as a Semitic Akkadian people, at the free will of the nautical Phoenicians speaking with the underlying languages of the Semites also attached, who lavished crowning Canaanite visions currently prescribed to them by Wonthelimar of Bishop Adhemar, judging themselves to be children of all those who fell in Jerusalem.
My Casus Infernalis is the poise of a truly villainous revelry, I only have the droppings of my Chiroptera being supplied by Vlad Strigoi from Transylvania, who with Cave Faith and replenishment had their shelves decreeing Vespasian's survival tactics as emperor, using effects to govern and consolidate his power. Among them, highlighting his skill in his intendance and finances, his ability to end trances and his ability to promote the construction of great government works that colossally benefited Rome perhaps captivated by Apollo, to whom he erected a colossal statue that would later serve as messianic inspiration for his son Titus, destroying such catharsis in the firewalls of Jerusalem arranging tunics with their purple stripes that were invoking the esteemed Zeus, deifying the nine lunar days that would remain to have the visions of my advocated Demiurgy, authorizing the preexistence that was being formed with the channels of living Medieval Europe and Judah with its vibrational entity. Great influence of the Visions of the Bishop of Adhémar suggested walking barefoot around the perimeter of the walled city for three days and three nights, just like the prodigious mitzvah of Joshua in Jericho. Intrinsically, the memories of Greece and its ancient polis were being collected in the Chauvet Cave until July 15, 1099.

Wonthelimar was part of this Crusade under the command of William of Embriaco, a prophecy that Vlad Tepes had announced to him in the cockpit of the Strigoi Frigate, from the moment he set sail with his ship from Hormuz, to later join the Genoese forces, marking the first contingencies with effective seafaring reactions to approach Egypt, Ashkelon, and from there, Judah. Throughout that same afternoon, the night, and the morning of the following day, the crusaders unleashed a terrible massacre of men, women, and children, Muslims, Jews, and even the few Christians from the east who had remained in the city. Two thousand Jews were locked in the main synagogue, which was then set on fire. Vlad Tepes levitated from ships, fighting over sulfur fumaroles, hovering over the palisades that were being dismantled to later build the turrets of the illustrious fortifications of Jerusalem. He did not participate directly in the Crusades, but he saw himself as a crusader in his fight against the Ottoman Empire.

Vlad Strigoi says: I was regent in the Principality of Wallachia, incredibly we boasted with Wonthelimar conversing in extended days of who would finally survive whom or how incorrupt we would be over the millennia. A resplendent Ottoman convert was revived in my chamber, which still remains intact as it was from the monastery of Snagov, where we both also resided in a great monastic millennium that made us confreres, Wonthelimar and I played Karniffel shuffling with the German, French, and Romanian symbols. We also went elbow to elbow around the lame one who escaped from the fox and the goose that wandered, breaking the board when we were cooking, and we emptied the glasses with goat's milk and blood from his internal jugular, covering two inches of his clavicle. The crypt, which was commonly referred to, remains intact until Wonthelimar set out to search for Marielle in Gaul, after escaping the inquisitorial armies of Frederick I Barbarossa. He was able to attest that Marielle's death in the Mausoleum of the Quentinnais would be revived in the blazon hanging from Barbarossa's banner or ancient Vexillum, which struggled to keep her cadaverous body intact, only to understand and observe that it wasn't so much her heart, torn out by Beelzebub, that it shone brightly, more in conformity with a tender heart before an execrable banished soul. I am from Wallachia, and I have little and short-sighted knowledge of the descendants of my 3rd lineage, in this attribution of Count and Prince Vladislaus Szekys. As precocious children, Wonthelimar and I played at being active monarchs, courting the good harvests and inheritances of my predecessors and successors, since they have not enjoyed the privilege of outliving me, but I have outlived those who were and will be. In 1456, I returned to Wallachia after assassinating John Hunyadi, thus beginning my reign, but never ceasing to be a Wallachian Prince. This is where Wonthelimar and I agreed to never separate from each other in the distance, making the decision to visit him every winter when Wallachia, in solidarity, would cooperate by bringing them provisions, and my faithful 23,000 soldiers who would take territory with their colony of Bats, where I would settle permanently after being assassinated by feudatories of the Turks, soon after I was betrayed in such an instant that Wonthelimar could receive me in his arms.

I have been enthroned in Chauvet, I have been a Wallachian in exile, seizing the Principality of those who belong to Chauvet, united to the Casus Infernalis of Wonthelimar; now I am the delirium of the most beautiful, acclaimed, and venerated by the Demiurges of the Etréstles of Kalavrita, of such a magnificent ethopoeia or detailed description of the soldiers, clean-faced, without crests or allegorical protections. Sometimes we sing in unison with the wind Pontias, believing I have returned to the Saxon and Transylvanian regions of my own Dracula; I have attended more than poorly to what should be the overcoming of such holistic deaths, reviving from isolation, from none of which I could soothe my pains. The Pontias of Nyons reminds me of the Austru blowing over the canopies of Orion, on warm summer nights, sponsoring plumes with eight-pointed stars and a ruby in the center, with seven horchata pearls and five crowned, like worthy apexes of defeating a Habsburg.