NUMB, half asleep, and dazed with whirl of wheels,
And gasp of steam, and measured clank of chains,
I heard a blithe voice break a sudden pause,
Ringing familiarly through the lamp-lit night,
“Wife, here's your Venice!”
I was lifted down,
And gazed about in stupid wonderment,
Holding my little Katie by the hand—
My yellow-haired step-daughter. And again
Two strong arms led me to the water-brink,
And laid me on soft cushions in a boat,—
A queer boat, by a queerer boatman manned—
Swarthy-faced, ragged, with a scarlet cap—
Whose wild, weird note smote shrilly through the dark.
Oh yes, it was my Venice! Beautiful,
With melancholy, ghostly beauty—old,
And sorrowful, and weary—yet so fair,
So like a queen still, with her royal robes,
Full of harmonious colour, rent and worn!
I only saw her shadow in the stream,
By flickering lamplight,—only saw, as yet,
White, misty palace-portals here and there,
Pillars, and marble steps, and balconies,
Along the broad line of the Grand Canal;
And, in the smaller water-ways, a patch
Of wall, or dim bridge arching overhead.
But I could feel the rest. 'Twas Venice!—ay,
The veritable Venice of my dreams.

I saw the grey dawn shimmer down the stream,
And all the city rise, new bathed in light,
With rose-red blooms on her decaying walls,
And gold tints quivering up her domes and spires—
Sharp-drawn, with delicate pencillings, on a sky
Blue as forget-me-nots in June. I saw
The broad day staring in her palace-fronts,
Pointing to yawning gap and crumbling boss,
And colonnades, time-stained and broken, flecked
With soft, sad, dying colours—sculpture-wreathed,
And gloriously proportioned; saw the glow
Light up her bright, harmonious, fountain'd squares,
And spread out on her marble steps, and pass
Down silent courts and secret passages,
Gathering up motley treasures on its way;—

Groups of rich fruit from the Rialto mart,
Scarlet and brown and purple, with green leaves—
Fragments of exquisite carving, lichen-grown,
Found, 'mid pathetic squalor, in some niche
Where wild, half-naked urchins lived and played—
A bright robe, crowned with a pale, dark-eyed face—
A red-striped awning 'gainst an old grey wall—
A delicate opal gleam upon the tide.

I looked out from my window, and I saw
Venice, my Venice, naked in the sun—
Sad, faded, and unutterably forlorn!—
But still unutterably beautiful.

For days and days I wandered up and down—
Holding my breath in awe and ecstasy,—
Following my husband to familiar haunts,
Making acquaintance with his well-loved friends,
Whose faces I had only seen in dreams
And books and photographs and his careless talk.
For days and days—with sunny hours of rest
And musing chat, in that cool room of ours,
Paved with white marble, on the Grand Canal;
For days and days—with happy nights between,
Half-spent, while little Katie lay asleep
Out on the balcony, with the moon and stars.

O Venice, Venice!—with thy water-streets—
Thy gardens bathed in sunset, flushing red
Behind San Giorgio Maggiore's dome—
Thy glimmering lines of haughty palaces
Shadowing fair arch and column in the stream—
Thy most divine cathedral, and its square,
With vagabonds and loungers daily thronged,
Taking their ice, their coffee, and their ease—
Thy sunny campo's, with their clamorous din,
Their shrieking vendors of fresh fish and fruit—
Thy churches and thy pictures—thy sweet bits
Of colour—thy grand relics of the dead—
Thy gondoliers and water-bearers—girls
With dark, soft eyes, and creamy faces, crowned
With braided locks as bright and black as jet—
Wild ragamuffins, picturesque in rags,
And swarming beggars and old witch-like crones,
And brown-cloaked contadini, hot and tired,
Sleeping, face-downward, on the sunny steps—
Thy fairy islands floating in the sun—
Thy poppy-sprinkled, grave-strewn Lido shore—

Thy poetry and thy pathos—all so strange!—
Thou didst bring many a lump into my throat,
And many a passionate thrill into my heart,
And once a tangled dream into my head.

'Twixt afternoon and evening. I was tired;
The air was hot and golden—not a breath
Of wind until the sunset—hot and still.
Our floor was water-sprinkled; our thick walls
And open doors and windows, shadowed deep
With jalousies and awnings, made a cool
And grateful shadow for my little couch.
A subtle perfume stole about the room
From a small table, piled with purple grapes,
And water-melon slices, pink and wet,
And ripe, sweet figs, and golden apricots,
New-laid on green leaves from our garden—leaves
Wherewith an antique torso had been clothed.
My husband read his novel on the floor,
Propped up on cushions and an Indian shawl;
And little Katie slumbered at his feet,
Her yellow curls alight, and delicate tints
Of colour in the white folds of her frock.
I lay, and mused, in comfort and at ease,
Watching them both and playing with my thoughts;
And then I fell into a long, deep sleep,
And dreamed.
I saw a water-wilderness—
Islands entangled in a net of streams—
Cross-threads of rippling channels, woven through
Bare sands, and shallows glimmering blue and broad—
A line of white sea-breakers far away.
There came a smoke and crying from the land—
Ruin was there, and ashes, and the blood
Of conquered cities, trampled down to death.
But here, methought, amid these lonely gulfs,
There rose up towers and bulwarks, fair and strong,
Lapped in the silver sea-mists;—waxing aye
Fairer and stronger—till they seemed to mock
The broad-based kingdoms on the mainland shore.
I saw a great fleet sailing in the sun,
Sailing anear the sand-slip, whereon broke
The long white wave-crests of the outer sea,—
Pepin of Lombardy, with his warrior hosts—
Following the ****** steps of Attila!
I saw the smoke rise when he touched the towns
That lay, outposted, in his ravenous reach;

Then, in their island of deep waters,* saw
A gallant band defy him to his face,
And drive him out, with his fair vessels wrecked
And charred with flames, into the sea again.
“Ah, this is Venice!” I said proudly—“queen
Whose haughty spirit none shall subjugate.”

It was the night. The great stars hung, like globes
Of gold, in purple skies, and cast their light
In palpitating ripples down the flood
That washed and gurgled through the silent streets—
White-bordered now with marble palaces.
It was the night. I saw a grey-haired man,
Sitting alone in a dark convent-porch—
In beggar's garments, with a kingly face,
And eyes that watched for dawnlight anxiously—
A weary man, who could not rest nor sleep.
I heard him muttering prayers beneath his breath,
And once a malediction—while the air
Hummed with the soft, low psalm-chants from within.
And then, as grey gleams yellowed in the east,
I saw him bend his venerable head,
Creep to the door, and knock.
Again I saw
The long-drawn billows breaking on the land,
And galleys rocking in the summer noon.
The old man, richly retinued, and clad
In princely robes, stood there, and spread his arms,
And cried, to one low-kneeling at his feet,
“Take thou my blessing with thee, O my son!
And let this sword, wherewith I gird thee, smite
The impious tyrant-king, who hath defied,
Dethroned, and exiled him who is as Christ.
The Lord be good to thee, my son, my son,
For thy most righteous dealing!”
And again
'Twas that long slip of land betwixt the sea
And still lagoons of Venice—curling waves
Flinging light, foamy spray upon the sand.
The noon was past, and rose-red shadows fell
Across the waters. Lo! the galleys came
To anchorage again—and lo! the Duke
Yet once more bent his noble head to earth,
And laid a victory at the old man's feet,
Praying a blessing with exulting heart.
“This day, my well-belovèd, thou art blessed,
And Venice with thee, for St. Peter's sake.

And I will give thee, for thy bride and queen,
The sea which thou hast conquered. Take this ring,
As sign of her subjection, and thy right
To be her lord for ever.”
Once again
I saw that old man,—in the vestibule
Of St. Mark's fair cathedral,—circled round
With cardinals and priests, ambassadors
And the noblesse of Venice—richly robed
In papal vestments, with the triple crown
Gleaming upon his brows. There was a hush:—
I saw a glittering train come sweeping on,
From the blue water and across the square,
Thronged with an eager multitude,—the Duke,
And with him Barbarossa, humbled now,
And fain to pray for pardon. With bare heads,
They reached the church, and paused. The Emperor knelt,
Casting away his purple mantle—knelt,
And crept along the pavement, as to kiss
Those feet, which had been weary twenty years
With his own persecutions. And the Pope
Lifted his white haired, crowned, majestic head,
And trod upon his neck,—crying out to Christ,
“Upon the lion and adder shalt thou go—
The dragon shalt thou tread beneath thy feet!”
The vision changed. Sweet incense-clouds rose up
From the cathedral altar, mix'd with hymns
And solemn chantings, o'er ten thousand heads;
And ebbed and died away along the aisles.
I saw a train of nobles—knights of France—
Pass 'neath the glorious arches through the crowd,
And stand, with halo of soft, coloured light
On their fair brows—the while their leader's voice
Rang through the throbbing silence like a bell.
“Signiors, we come to Venice, by the will
Of the most high and puissant lords of France,
To pray you look with your compassionate eyes
Upon the Holy City of our Christ—
Wherein He lived, and suffered, and was lain
Asleep, to wake in glory, for our sakes—
By Paynim dogs dishonoured and defiled!
Signiors, we come to you, for you are strong.
The seas which lie betwixt that land and this
Obey you. O have pity! See, we kneel—
Our Masters bid us kneel—and bid us stay
Here at your feet until you grant our prayers!”
Wherewith the knights fell down upon their knees,

And lifted up their supplicating hands.
Lo! the ten thousand people rose as one,
And shouted with a shout that shook the domes
And gleaming roofs above them—echoing down,
Through marble pavements, to the shrine below,
Where lay the miraculous body of their Saint
(Shed he not heavenly radiance as he heard?—
Perfuming the damp air of his secret crypt),
And cried, with an exceeding mighty cry,
“We do consent! We will be pitiful!”
The thunder of their voices reached the sea,
And thrilled through all the netted water-veins
Of their rich city. Silence fell anon,
Slowly, with fluttering wings, upon the crowd;
And then a veil of darkness.
And again
The filtered sunlight streamed upon those walls,
Marbled and sculptured with divinest grace;
Again I saw a multitude of heads,
Soft-wreathed with cloudy incense, bent in prayer—
The heads of haughty barons, armed knights,
And pilgrims girded with their staff and scrip,
The warriors of the Holy Sepulchre.
The music died away along the roof;
The hush was broken—not by him of France—
By Enrico Dandolo, whose grey head
Venice had circled with the ducal crown.
The old man looked down, with his dim, wise eyes,
Stretching his hands abroad, and spake. “Seigneurs,
My children, see—your vessels lie in port
Freighted for battle. And you, standing here,
Wait but the first fair wind. The bravest hosts
Are with you, and the noblest enterprise
Conceived of man. Behold, I am grey-haired,
And old and feeble. Yet am I your lord.
And, if it be your pleasure, I will trust
My ducal seat in Venice to my son,
And be your guide and leader.”
When they heard,
They cried aloud, “In God's name, go with us!”
And the old man, with holy weeping, passed
Adown the tribune to the altar-steps;
And, kneeling, fixed the cross upon his cap.
A ray of sudden sunshine lit his face—
The grand, grey, furrowed face—and lit the cross,
Until it twinkled like a cross of fire.
“We shall be safe with him,” the people said,

Straining their wet, bright eyes; “and we shall reap
Harvests of glory from our battle-fields!”

Anon there rose a vapour from the sea—
A dim white mist, that thickened into fog.
The campanile and columns were blurred out,
Cathedral domes and spires, and colonnades
Of marble palaces on the Grand Canal.
Joy-bells rang sadly and softly—far away;
Banners of welcome waved like wind-blown clouds;
Glad shouts were muffled into mournful wails.
A Doge was come to be enthroned and crowned,—
Not in the great Bucentaur—not in pomp;
The water-ways had wandered in the mist,
And he had tracked them, slowly, painfully,
From San Clemente to Venice, in a frail
And humble gondola. A Doge was come;
But he, alas! had missed his landing-place,
And set his foot upon the blood-stained stones
Betwixt the blood-red columns. Ah, the sea—
The bride, the queen—she was the first to turn
Against her passionate, proud, ill-fated lord!

Slowly the sea-fog melted, and I saw
Long, limp dead bodies dangling in the sun.
Two granite pillars towered on either side,
And broad blue waters glittered at their feet.
“These are the traitors,” said the people; “they
Who, with our Lord the Duke, would overthrow
The government of Venice.”
And anon,
The doors about the palace were made fast.
A great crowd gathered round them, with hushed breath
And throbbing pulses. And I knew their lord,
The Duke Faliero, knelt upon his knees,
On the broad landing of the marble stairs
Where he had sworn the oath he could not keep—
Vexed with the tyrannous oligarchic rule
That held his haughty spirit netted in,
And cut so keenly that he writhed and chafed
Until he burst the meshes—could not keep!
I watched and waited, feeling sick at heart;
And then I saw a figure, robed in black—
One of their dark, ubiquitous, supreme
And fearful tribunal of Ten—come forth,
And hold a dripping sword-blade in the air.
“Justice has fallen on the traitor! See,
His blood has paid the forfeit of his crime!”

And all the people, hearing, murmured deep,
Cursing their dead lord, and the council, too,
Whose swift, sure, heavy hand had dealt his death.

Then came the night, all grey and still and sad.
I saw a few red torches flare and flame
Over a little gondola, where lay
The headless body of the traitor Duke,
Stripped of his ducal vestments. Floating down
The quiet waters, it passed out of sight,
Bearing him to unhonoured burial.
And then came mist and darkness.
Lo! I heard
The shrill clang of alarm-bells, and the wails
Of men and women in the wakened streets.
A thousand torches flickered up and down,
Lighting their ghastly faces and bare heads;
The while they crowded to the open doors
Of all the churches—to confess their sins,
To pray for absolution, and a last
Lord's Supper—their viaticum, whose death
Seemed near at hand—ay, nearer than the dawn.
“Chioggia is fall'n!” they cried, “and we are lost!”

Anon I saw them hurrying to and fro,
With eager eyes and hearts and blither feet—
Grave priests, with warlike weapons in their hands,
And delicate women, with their ornaments
Of gold and jewels for the public fund—
Mix'd with the bearded crowd, whose lives were given,
With all they had, to Venice in her need.
No more I heard the wailing of despair,—
But great Pisani's blithe word of command,
The dip of oars, and creak of beams and chains,
And ring of hammers in the arsenal.
“Venice shall ne'er be lost!” her people cried—
Whose names were worthy of the Golden Book—
“Venice shall ne'er be conquered!”
And anon
I saw a scene of triumph—saw the Doge,
In his Bucentaur, sailing to the land—
Chioggia behind him blackened in the smoke,
Venice before, all banners, bells, and shouts
Of passionate rejoicing! Ten long months
Had Genoa waged that war of life and death;
And now—behold the remnant of her host,
Shrunken and hollow-eyed and bound with chains—
Trailing their galleys in the conqueror's wake!

Once more the tremulous waters, flaked with light;
A covered vessel, with an armèd guard—
A yelling mob on fair San Giorgio's isle,
And ominous whisperings in the city squares.
Carrara's noble head bowed down at last,
Beaten by many storms,—his golden spurs
Caught in the meshes of a hidden snare!
“O Venice!” I cried, “where is thy great heart
And honourable soul?”
And yet once more
I saw her—the gay Sybaris of the world—
The rich voluptuous city—sunk in sloth.
I heard Napoleon's cannon at her gates,
And her degenerate nobles cry for fear.
I saw at last the great Republic fall—
Conquered by her own sickness, and with scarce
A noticeable wound—I saw her fall!
And she had stood above a thousand years!
O Carlo Zeno! O Pisani! Sure
Ye turned and groaned for pity in your graves.
I saw the flames devour her Golden Book
Beneath the rootless “Tree of Liberty;”
I saw the Lion's le

Vernarth says: "Give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!"

Wonthelimar from the Boedromion brought the arrows that Zefian brought, they brought the sleeping bodies of winter to the lap of the spring Boedromion, crossing the lines from spring to winter in the cycle that went directly to the Mercurial Ambrosia of the Cinnabar. Were they discreet detached arrows that he had thrown into the sky and did not return? but if in the rooms, and in the animalism stages that made the duty of rejoicing at the ****** of the Telesterion.  Wonthelimar being once more re-looted, before starting the works of the temple of the Megaron Áullos Kósmos, he returns to the cavern of Chauvet Wonthelimar. It distanced itself from the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree, originating in the arrows of Zefian, to mark the new cardinal points of the zenith, starting with the first two arrows that are placed in the bowstring, each one belonging to trajectories from north to south and the other two that were again violated with the arc of the stormy East, to launch the arrows from east-west with limits of southern magnetism. He carried in his belongings "The Iberian Rings", which would be the migration to the cardinals and points where the Megaron of Vernarth would be exactly, arguing that the phalanges of Zefian would be ordered in Syntropia and organic chaos in Patmos, Pythagorean proportions would be made, in essences of numbers that idly advanced in the temporal steps of Wonthelimar that mobile became of religious arrows and of the Mercurial Ambrosia of the Cinnabar, to help him with the most insightful points of the Constellation of Capricornus.  Zefian's tendency was one of evident delight after the bowstring being pulled, for phantasmagoric existence; presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for late courts imposed from a cosmos, which was directed by committing itself to its will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating to associate with hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychology of the dreaded in-between-tale alive that boils back in the arrows that had not yet fallen, and did not know their whereabouts. Like plates or serial hosts that were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the Duoverso contravened organic, vigorous and in anti-scorch to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in eonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities to vast volumes of light-years.

From the medrones that grow in the Nyons massifs, the Seven Ibic Rings were established.

Ibic 1: "The first was from the initiation of Wonthelimar and brought purity, for all who needed him and were visiting in the dark, and then he would find the light when he left the cave alive if he was accepted."
Ibic 2:” He was guided by Vlad Strigoi in the priesthood center on his shelves with the Chiroptera, and in excess of the mercurial ambrosia for the purpose of energizing the Tsambika Cinnabar.  Having all the protocol of Transylvania and eternity with the waters of Antiphon Benedicts”.
Ibic 3: "From the Eygues, the waters evaporated for healings of the tormented initiatory processes of raising the four Arrows of Zefian, to indicate the zenith of the Megaron."
Ibic 4: “This ring was from the antlers of Wonthelimar, here they wore the oikos or threads of Gold from Orphi, for the Himation and investiture to anoint the body of Vernarth, bringing the aerial atmospheres of the Alps and Ida as a complement to Mycenae- Aldaine ”.
Ibic 5: "This piece of metal speaks of the fifth plasmic element that would contract the universe and the Hyperdisis galaxy, to elevate it to Vernarth's neurological and Duoversal hyper brain twinned to the Mashiach."
Ibic 6: "It is the sixth piece of crowns of Kafersesuh, bringing the pollinations of the Lepidoptera, for the central stage of the investiture under the gloom of Hellenika and Theoskepasti."
Ibic 7: “It is the grave voice of the Cinnabar and the Antiphon Benedictus, together with the Lenten fast of all the hoarse voices, which inquire about the true phoneme and photon of divine mass light, to build the Áullos Kósmos. From here the purification will go up in synchrony through the final growth medron, up to the millimeter shoulder of the square meters assembly, which will illustrate the Megaron´s Acrotera  "

Ellipsis - Parapsychological Regression Marielle Quentinnais year of the Lord 1617

Wonthelimar was transmigrating to Chauvet, but the Pontias wind carried him from Nyons to Avignon, encountering filigree by Raymond Bragasse; a Former Dominican priest of Cathar descent. He always drenched himself in the estuaries of the Rhone, which came from the Saint Gotthard massif; being master and lord of dreams and of the breaking curses of the despicable administrators of the house of God, and of the Antipopes in Avignon.
Wonthelimar heard voices from some parapets babbling in the parapsychological regression of Vetnarth, on August 4, 1617, when Klauss Ritkke was found cleaning the main stained glass window; he heard heated dialogues between a Friar and a Gentleman, who was once an assistant to the clergy. Klauss could come closer and hear his conversation more clearly, until Friar Andrés, muttering, demanded indulgence from Raymond Bragasse, one or the other.

Raymond Bragasse Says: “My lord Wonthelimar; what grace has brought us together here in the middle of the Pontias, between hopes and reforms!”

Wonthelimar responds: "Your flight is a spell of the grace of André Panguiette, who will find us again. How many times with hope I fought to reform you Raymond... Oh Virga ac Diadema  sed Diabolus...!! Oh, ****** the devil smiled...!!

Raymond replies: “It is a major question to live if in something I have failed, take me to the sulfurous emanations of Hell. But my faith lies moldy at the bottom of the sea, a sacred myth of my truth..., and of my beloved Marielle...! There are fifteen thousand demons that possess my body... fifteen thousand demons for attacking the sacred mystery of the Holy Rosary...! Marielle was my light, my Edenic Eve, an admirable land. Now, she is my spell, my stubbornness or my constant sharp bleeding, without knowing where it has to pass...? I still remember that night, that gloomy night, renouncing my final vows of faith and the consecration of my soul. I broke my ties and ecclesiastical chores, all for Marielle, a noble descendant of the Quentinnais. I would never believe such regret in my destiny. I did love her, but her misfortune knew me. When I approached the edge of her house that night, I entered through the kitchen window. All were asleep, except for the albiceleste reflection of the last death throes of the deadly round of Quentinnais Mansion. I was thinking of rescuing her and saving something from those cheeks kissed by me, but her heart disease dried up his heart and her lungs. It is still possible to recall the last roses that I brought into her hands, they danced with her along with the hymn and the old dirge of the sleight of hand made by the monk, along with the cartomancy plays settling the minute of taking her into darkness, with her beautiful bare feet. What a pain, I could not rescue her from her, and death was dispossessing her! Her parents hated the mere fact of having her heart ruled by an impious priest, so I turned to the pagan and dark gods, to heal Marielle, and her heart to transplant it for mine. Since that day, I continue to burn in a polysatanic hell, to take out the little breath of goodness, and seize the transparent liquids that plague her existence and her serene metallic Diadem..."

Friar André Panguiette upon learning that his great friend possessed by the Devil would fall into some endemic evil infection...; Evil endemic to his love, he crossed himself when he saw that he became a horrible being. The jumbled leaves in the garden were transformed into Bible sheets torn from their bindings and fillings, the wrinkled ***** Saints slid down their columns, the sky proclaimed hemorrhages and the wind oozed foul gases, which in the firmament sprouted in clots of clots on the Papal House of Avignon. Fray Andrés, threw the rosary on the neck of the possessed person, and asked the Demons who were they most afraid of...? The demons answered this question, screaming and falling vertically down the central nave... they went down and flew!

Wonthelimar induces: “From that moment, you and Marielle would cross their gazes closely and love each other. In the following minutes of Pentecost, the two of them went alone to sit on the bench on the banks of the blessed wind that caressed their profiles, as if plotting to unite one with the other. Raymond effusively kissed her; he drew her to him, believing he sensed an eventual and sacrilegious separation from her. This is how it happened when François Quentinnais surprised them...:

François Quentinnais: With this example, you have provoked my anger Marielle...! Hundreds of men like me would react like this when they saw my daughter in the arms of whom until recently, she was hugging God!

Marielle: Father, I beg you for mercy, Raymond of precept sent a letter renouncing his vows!

When the soul of Marielle was entrusted, Raymond escaped seconds before shattered, he did not tolerate the nonexistence of Marielle; vegetating rotten grass of the estuary, emerald swallowed by fire. In a purely inorganic state, Raymond walked away from the mansion, walked through the leaden mountains, and on the cruise he walked through the walnut trees in whose scarlet pods the intense cold of the esplanade howled. The almond trees cracked a baritone muezzin, which one day he wanted to go there, but could never reach the east. His beard reddened, his nails were like ram's horns, and his also reddish hair at the ends of it had black tulips. His clothes turned gray just like his eyebrows, and his breath smelled of nurse sewers of the black plague, the dry flow of his voice announced monosyllables, thus he purged his pain from town to town, from house to house, everyone quarreled with him, and then they were exasperated by kicking him out. Until in June 1617, caravans of people started from the southern town of Avignon, escaping the flames of angry soldiers of the crusades. The fleeting townspeople carried on their banners the inscription... INRI. On the other side, they carried the cross and a colorful coat of arms that in the lower corner said Siccidemy. Then, there Raymond opened his bruised eyes, unable to contain the recovered memory of him, between gunshots, screams, sobs, and screams, the hundreds of steps that were heard around him, led him to tear and save his life. In an instant of stillness, he found himself surrounded by people until one of them took him into his arms to hydrate his mouth. We are Albigensian, and you... Who are you?

Raymond replied: “I fled in search of a miracle that could save a beloved being. I used to call myself Raymond, now I don't know what name to go by. I fled, but I had to face the situation, even having acted behind the back of the Church”. An Albigensian says: “The clergy have also believed that our sect has acted behind the back of the Church. However, his powers and his government have registered absolutism within Christendom”. Another Albigensian says; “We seek the establishment of ancient Christianity, we deny the existence of purgatory, the importance of rituals, clerical organizations and the possession of goods by the clergy. And for this reason, we have been expelled from our lands, from our homes, our children have paid for the Sacred Inquisition, in the hands of those who one day... baptized with blessed water”.

It was on June 18, 1617, the Albigensian fugitives were besieged in Montlimar. The Argentine crosses gleamed like dogs eager to bite the enemy. The open-minded Albigensians gathered together with Luzbel, who floated on a calypsigenic cloud. Raymond and the others piled up essences in the fuels to start the pact, after this event François Quentinnais answered negatively, and strongly took her daughter by her hand, pulling her sharply to the float. The horses slip their hooves before the sloping pastures carpeted by tiny Calypso flowers; the mayoral pressed his thin lips, also raising his shoulders, so as not to hear the despotic cries of Monsieur François. As for Reverend Raymond, he could be seen crying silently, accompanied by late halos of the luminosity of the final and sad day. Sorrows and regrets dislodged his bones that underwent violent arthrosis, populating his body in a sedentary lifestyle and irritation. I myself say Wonthelimar, I am the one who carries Marielle's love in me, I am your Raymond. Remember that night that...: "When the monk retired to pray, you stormed the bedroom, and uttered Marielle..., Marielle:," wake up, in vain I fear to leave without your divine voice. Marielle, what do you have...? I don't think your father's impure will blind your eyes to not see me, or he ripped your sweet voice to not name me...? ".

The Albigenses resigned to the spell, their adherents had largely been reduced, only ten or twelve remained. That later they fled from Montelimar escaping to the west, crossing the enchanted Rhone. The Siccidemy troops mutilated the last demonized Albigensians; nothing would help for their lives, everyone would bleed except the group that fled with Raymond. For several days they wandered the Cevennes plateau, provisioned themselves in Montpellier, and arrived in Carcassonne on July 20, 1617. Little could they remain here, since the congregation of Santo Domingo, without distinction, attacked the population decimated by the crusaders? What a regrettable exodus for Raymond with his black flock fleeing from where his feet laid hope! Twenty-two days of bitter flight, and everywhere the crosses, until Raymond decides to separate and go back to Avignon. He takes a  sailboat off the shores of Narbonne in the middle of a stormy gray day, in his bitter journey he dreams of being born again and having Bethlehem as a lineage, on July 23 of the same year, he lands in the waters of Marseille. When he was discharged from the port, he undertook a light journey to Avignon, near Arles, thousands of fellow citizens started from the hosts of King Godfred of Bouillon, the nobles cooperated by revealing the mobs that gathered in the city, the Hussites, and the Waldensians; Iconoclast heretics, fighting fierce battles. The crusaders took the offensive and tried to prevent them from burning their sacred images, which had already been torn to pieces throughout Gaul. Raymond, distant, helped the most serious, he was afraid of being confused by one of them, it was better to hide in the Cathedral of Arles. Upon entering, he felt a dizzy ***** that shone timidly in the hands of his performer... it was a little girl who, when looking at him, named him Dionysus..., demi-god, save us! Raymond fell into a daze, and falling into a dream that told him of barbaric actions, with masked fellow citizens lying neutral in their gestures, and suddenly angels revealed to him that they were looting the pantheons of Avignon, to burn the rosaries of the saints. Bereaved in their graves, some Albigenses exhumed the bodies of relatives related to the Clergy.

Raymond was sweating his hands and forehead, he struggled to get to the Quentinnais mausoleum, straining his precognition, he crossed the interdepartmental courtyard, he continued to haunt the packed pyramidal cypress trees and suddenly a lion-faced him dealing with a snake; with the symbolic image of the Quentinnais. He saw the slab desecrated, on whose horizon his Beloved Marielle slept. His skin prickled... it was the Iconoclasts avenging their own, with strong breaths he squeezed his hand, wanting to wake up... so it happened, he got up pushing the crowds that were holding him back, but his strength was growing. He rode a roan steed, in three bridles that he gave him he flew towards Avignon; his mount seemed to be a hot air balloon that flew with great dynamism. Raymond in his own painful station would moan his hand, his eyes; his legs creaked like the legs of the Pegasus that carried him fast.

Ellipsis Second Sequence Mausoleum Quentinnais

Finally, he arrives in the second parapsychological sequence, noting that Avignon was in ashes, takes the reins and immediately goes to the Quentinnais mausoleum, upon arrival, he appreciates several Albigenses committing crimes, dismounts, and runs screaming towards the defilers; he faced them with stakes, some demonized had to cut their throats, arriving in time to defend the remains of Marielle. For long hours he was with her alone, thinking about what to do, Raymond knew that he could not revive her, so he had no more redress than to invoke Luzbel, who this time revealed her true and evil personality as ruler of the evil spirits.

Raymond: Dear Luzbel, millions of Canaanites looked up at the altitude representing you; today I will do the same from here and beyond the solid roof of the mausoleum! Bring Marielle to life, come and twist her cheeks, since without her! I have had to live all this to protect myself from suffering. Since Pentecost, he hadn't been physically close to her. Now I need her... well, I lynched her...! Beelzebub making him believe that she was Luzbel, ordered him to extract her heart!

Beelzebub: “In Montlimar, I saw volcano crests arrive in such failure of my envoys. But it will not be repeated, and for it to be so, I entrust you to take out the heart of your beloved and tear the eyes from her that saw your gaze. Then open your chest with this dagger, I will draw your blood and heart, to moisten the heart of your Marielle. And finally, I ask you to bring a lip to me to enchant her lips in lilies. "

Raymond: “opinion accepted... that's the way I'll do it!
Being dominated by the spell, Raymond abided by every step dictated by the supposed that Luzbel lived difficult moments since he was a good day, but so many thousands of years of living in darkness, and in the midst of punishment that violently changed his mind. Justo Raymond carried the body in his arms so that the ritual would culminate. Luzbel snatched his beloved from him and with laughter he vanished.

Beelzebub says Mortal fool! Don't you see that I am Beelzebub; chief of the evil spirits and the guide of the Albigenses, Hussites, and Waldensians? Never invoke me in the Mausoleums, here betrayal triumphs. Now a Quentinnais will be my image on earth, giving her the doubt of doing well for many centuries.

Beelzebub took his beloved away, leaving the rosary wrapped in soft tulle next to the scapular in his hands. Raymond cringed in pain, and in an act of madness scratched his face. Poor Raymond, he told himself...!  That in himself he found no reason to live. He left the mausoleum at dawn looking around every corner in case he saw Marielle lost in his sight since recently. He was exhausted; he remained after the confession that was delayed too much because the events that took place in the Pantheon, in a way pretended to be the events that Raymond inexhaustibly narrated. And in a way, he feared for his life at that time unknown, by the mouth of some hidden place they documented his bitter inability to do well, and that he would fall under Raymond's curse. At this moment, Raymond lay lying on the banks of the Pantheon, from that day on, he did not know about the days, he only existed at night and he did not socialize with anyone, his madness sowed hatred for everything sacred and infernal, he dealt with the Holy Rosary found a magical find, until one day a new one reached her ears; she was referring to some crusaders who had intervened in Jerusalem when it was invaded by Saladin. A certain Frederick Barbarossa was drowned in Sicily by..., "Wonthelimar", who with the Diadem of a woman Seized the island of Iconium. This was the other new one that enlivened his spirit. This greatly surprised the worn Raymond, suspecting that the kidnapper of his beloved might be in cahoots. And as the news continued to hear her, it was said that her sacred beliefs allowed her to continue undercover, in order to continue for a long time, even in the other attacked city that would be Nice. He signed to the limit, for centuries that will serve us in future generations…, suffocating the iconoclasts.

The poppies moved from north to south through the Provencal regions. The oceanic eastern Gods Makara's in tumultuous pyramidal ships descended legions and escorts, to aid Raymond's farewell at Nice. At twelve o'clock at night, the prophetic edict of the Lord would be fulfilled, here the last words of that chimerical episode were received, and he feared that until then a first descendant of Raymond; he became a statue in ignitions of the reborn underworld. The Diadem will be transport and refuge, as for Wonthelimar he said doubtfully…; I think he is nothing more than the deviant Beelzebub, who with optical retractable eyes, in Montlimar disguised the initial in double V..., Wonthelimar, but I was wrong! Wonthelimar already transmigrated to Raymond, staying on the banks of a stream, with nausea he regurgitated his underlying spirit state from the lyrical crust. His mouth unsheathed the most diverse and heterogeneous chronolites; Parasitized dust in pieces of temporary stone, flowing in disciples, quarantine fragments, in marriages by sinuous water. Raymond slapped his thighs in anticipation of throwing up there. His blatant, incisive alienation took over his will, with inherent crickets singing to her in isolation from him, shining his conscience, and residing in the grace of the Holy Grail. The conquest of the earthly system amputated the Andromeda Amygdale; Constellation-illusion and spouse of Perseus, who is mysterious vehicles of the solvent Grail, kept him tied to Raymond. Deafening roars erupted from the earth pits, and the mass of the mountain hung above the trees, pseudo purple and violet rays bombarding sarcophagi all over Nice.

Wonthelimar: “Since this day I have been boiling in a polysatanic hell! The Ibex picked me up from the surroundings of the Pantheon and the Quentinnai mansion, where I have never been a human again, only an Ibex in the Chauvet cavern. Thanks to the herds of goats that adopted me that I have been able to bear their pain by taking refuge in the darkness of all times, which never transpires in the past, present, and future? Now I have come in this re-location, to reorder Vernarth's parapsychology, which you are too, and who has never been able to overcome the pains of love, even beyond pale death! "

From that moment, the shadow of Heracles is seen among them, encouraging them to be part of the gods, and of the feasts of the beautiful Ankles of Heba. Thus the words redecorated them both amid the thick fog, in Avignon. Afterward, Wonthelimar left and left Raymond to continue in Marielle's darkness to the end of the world. The blister day and the scorching night, thought one of the other in constant profit, for the good of finding them in the Kalijoron..., the well of the divine light of Eleusis, for those who rest in naive peace in the face of cunning, and the decorum of the gentle dialogues in the comedies of the exceptions, after crossing the Nile, with tributers collecting the faults of the gods, or else with horrific screams that would make them prey to an imaginary Gorgon.

Wonthelimar was now going after the “Íbics Ring”, which were left in the Chauvet cavern, by some Iberian tribes of the early Neolithic age, who were on their way out desecrated the cavern with ****** in the orbit of the Ortho Heliacal. From here, in the last goal, they reach the darkness where the vampire bats were terrified to see them with their eyes in mercurial ambrosia, which enveloped them with the gums in each one as they approached in the sound of night hunger arrests, next to the betrothal death brought by the darkness of the Strigoi, in lost wanderings of their wills following the search for the panescalm sheds, which carried human chiropterans for the regions of Transylvania, subjected to distinctions and exactions of Climate Changes. From here the bronze spear Dorus of Vernarth would go to the right hand of Wonthelimar, to shield him, and to put celery-foot feet on the ineffable Kanti steed, with certain renown of Eacid of Achilles stirring up hops and low bottoms of the mineral aquifer at the base of the den. In a quick figurative gesture of Achilles, Wonthelimar passes his right hand over his nose, noticing that lights trickled from the Auriga and the Automedon that came by order of Drestnia to provide aid to him, and to rescue the Iberian Ring Eagles, to transport them to the cove of the Mound of the Profitis Ilias.

In the eternity of the noise, Vlad Strigoi is in solidarity with him and gives him lightly from the bottom of the final flow of the bilges of his panescalm, condensing air of Gaseous Gold, in Pan-Hellenic regions, and in the Valdaine regions sixty-seven kilometers from that mountain area very close to Avignon. The infected zones of physical virtue were divided into micro-regions that were compressed before Wonthelimar merged into micro space within the cavern, to abandon the burning furnaces that came alongside his interpersonal goodness, in the metaphysical transfer of darkness, and of the wicked gentlemen drawing him towards the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, so as not to be attracted as a human to ******-emotional implications or manipulations, who will snoop in growing voices in the voids of the cavern, and in the failing anxieties of the pompous and ancient effigy tarred from Hades. Wonthelimar limps superlatively with some nervous leave, but eager to apprehend the Ibic Rings. After the Benedictus antiphons were seen coming out of his chest, they were iridescent in magenta and mordoré for those who are ibex, always hiding under the goat epidermis, sponsoring happiness practices, one and the other after their vicissitudes in a cyclical mystery classroom. On the plains, you can only see haze and the experimental change when leaving everything in the hands of those who die without rainwater and bagel, in the most absolute solitude, amidst rocks that will never and never be reconverted, less into mid-plains giving terrifying compliments on flower baskets that stink of wandering Wonthelimar clones… not being!

Wonthelimar with Kanti, they emigrate from the cavern of Chauvet in their reminiscences, standing out from the voids and invocations of Raymond in unfinished by filling space in the hearts of both. Heading southeast towards Patmos with the Ibic Rings on his bracelets, wrapped in Vernarth's Himathion for his investiture!

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.