d'Krulius Thoroth | d'Doxail Horst

By C. C. Celestine

The d’Doxail Horst is a philosophical understanding of man without nature. The study of life is the focus of all faith. The greatest of all men stood before us in their vestments and stole. Their thoughts, their prayers are the signifying gasp of ancient wonders. They explained to a mere serf.
For we are endlessly hungry.

If God is great, can He not be cursed? Should the duty of man be to worship a God of Sin to be free from it? to be better than a God? For man is endlessly hungry.

To answer that question is to accept the reality in which we live. For if God is all, then he is as equal to man by being the creator of virtue and sin. For if God is of the mind, each emotion is God; Anger is God and Love is God. The duty of man is to achieve balance in the cosmic duality and to achieve betterment over God.

One worships God to be a better form than what came before.

From faith, perfection, and balance, we can only hope to achieve within ourselves something greater.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. C. Celestine
• Release date: Jan 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005983512

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C. C. Celestine

d’Krulius Thoroth

Copyright © 2022 by C. C. Celestine

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

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Contents

I. POISE OLIBRONE

d’Krulius Thoroth

d’Doxail Horst

Prologue

II. THE FIRST BOOK OF MALTHUS, CALLED RIKOR

Chapter I

III. THE SECOND BOOK OF MALTHUS, CALLED KILSK

Chapter II

IV. THE BOOK OF PRAYER, CALLED PUSUL

Chapter III

V. THE BOOK OF EMBLEMS, CALLED ENFLAN

Chapter IV

VI. THE THIRD BOOK OF MALTHUS, CALLED SORA

Chapter V

VII. THE FOURTH BOOK OF MALTHUS, CALLED GLEETH

Chapter VI

VIII. THE BOOK OF WISDOM, CALLED WAIK

Chapter VII

IX. THE BOOK OF ACTS, CALLED ATHST

Chapter VIII

X. THE FIFTH BOOK OF MALTHUS, CALLED ASKAR

Chapter IX

I

Poise Olibrone

To Our Father, bless His name.

d’Krulius Thoroth

d’Doxail Horst

d’Doxail Horst

The Devil’s Horns

Prologue

The study of life is the focus of all faith. The greatest of all men stood before us in their vestments and stole. Their thoughts, their prayers are the signifying gasp of ancient wonders. They explained to a mere serf.

Each chronicle passed from generation to generation. Each singing tide as a monument to their ideas. The thought provoking, the awe-inspired told these tales.

It was a hint of self-enlightenment to what they crave and what they have set forth.

Old kings fade, new civilizations rise in a monument to what came before. A ruin of a long gone past. A testament of what was. It is the chain of being which binds the many.

The events before and after the birth of great men provide us with answers to the questions we linger in our mind. These questions are our appetite and these answers are what we feast.

For we are endlessly hungry.

In the wake of constant struggle, a voice whispered from the bellowing wood and into the minds of man. The Divines of the Earth; The pure and the corrupted.

The d’Krulius Thoroth. From the fairest prince to the lowly peasant, the Order stands. Its words reap our souls fortune. Its visions send us forth. On an endless crusade for self-revelation before a crashing tide of struggle. For if we are made in the image of Gods, is He too not sinful?

The manifestation of all that is, all that was, is the omnipotent livelihood of a Patron. Rooted in historic civilization, the only constant in man is our coin of fate.

Our sin. Our virtue.

If God is great, can He not be cursed? Should the duty of man be to worship a God of Sin to be free from it? to be better than a God?

A reflection stands before man itself.

It is a reflection of the corrupt nature in which reality resides. All things in divine faith are born from a duality of the cosmos. In the primordial chaos, a providence of life and death birthed itself from the void.

In their guise, all the wise and godless will be consummated. From the days of the slaughter. Their eyes sought destruction of the incurring judgment. For Her words spoke. For the Beast roared famished. For all the might of the Craftsmen and the Star are thus destroyed until that day.

Send onto the realm of the rock, their ideals are mysteries. For they are spirits of the flesh. Evil spirits upon the earth, and on that earth they must dwell in the rotten caverns. Evil spirits consumed them

A city built upon the text of ancient men who swore to find their balance. This is their Order, this is the mark of life. For the duty is to serve the wisdom in all things. For that judgment is the right way.

In the crown of the past, they will rise. For they will carry me back home.

It is the way of virtue. The way the God’s burned and battered.

They knew the worthless ones and yet, revealed none without sacrifice. In the hardness of your hearts, you have made it known your vengeance.

In His seed, the Lord of Lords, the God of Gods, the tower before the Throne of Rock we will rise. His glory will stand unto generations.

For He allowed the masterpiece to be burnt, and from the destroyed, all were bound in His domain.

From His call, the bells of the great monoliths ring. We are but the gentry in which our lives are of constant disrespect before the Father. Our Father. Summer will fade. Winter will dawn. It is the cycle of all. In the air we breathe, we are subservient before the champion of slay.

For one to be free, one must remove their Devil’s Horns.

II

The First Book of Malthus, called Rikor

The Allers Oscillation

Chapter I

From the petulant curse, the existence of pain derives from the greatest pleasures that man can face. With a smile and affection, Our lives teeter on the boring expanse of an unknown reality.

Because man is born from a fertile womb. In the garden he wandered freely. Because it is a primitive beast perched on the ground of its birth.

In the wake of cosmic dismay, the truth of generations has been shattered. In the last hope, She has become the shadow of Our gaze. They were forever linked in the goal. It was born from the feeling and has become Our only need.

The need that every man and woman has sculpted. Some say that the truth is what creates a goal. Man is the result of His design. His intervention in the interference in the life of all things.

But for life, we cannot assert the purpose of His purpose. His intention seduces us. We can only glimpse it because He alone carries the inevitable truth of Our great confession.

To speak evil of the ways of God, that is faithful.

For He is betrayal. He is unrighteous. Yet, He is all we crave. He is Our promise. He is yourself.

A systemic folklore of maiden truth born from inner worship.

The decadence that He allows is but part of the ultimate confession. For we all stem from Our very soul. In that darkest dungeon, religion is practiced by a few.

They stem tied down upon ancient vessels that carve and crack the fabric of long forgotten roads. For we were hurt. We were broken. Yet in that call, the compromise had reached us.

The half-blind, so they call it, are but the creation of stupor that stands before Man itself. Lucid history forms the backbone of Our creation. Of the All’s creation. From serf to merchant, from bishops to high kings, we are all at the early stage of judgment. Our collective fate is waning on crusade.

It will boil into rotting corpses before feasting crows. What for what? What legacy is there to a man dead in mud?

The Guard or so they call it. It sat on the edge of a frontier while the ancients clashed. It would become an aristocratic conspiracy that shattered the state of what He forged. The First Father. This stems in contrast to what is perceived about Our world creator.

For if Man is free in his mind and body; He can surely make the attempt to resist such bounds? A guard has no place, but to defend. For it is a fallacy. It was a ruin that we tell ourselves to encourage a face free from the chaos We were birthed and what We make.

Two kings within Man clash. Their cohorts march across the river that stems Our very soul, and battle for the dominance of what is but mere ruin. When man is born, He is impure. He is of Her bond.

Our bulwarks are of Her impure intent.

A goddess-daughter, who, in Her fathers will, took occasion to pour the vice of man. The flesh you call a temple, is rendered in unity with the corruption that prevents Our salvation. For attempts can only be made by man to cleanse the pollution.

And the very guard who sits idly by, watches in amusement. A face of smirking grandeur as the smoldering ash of burning embers lay upon the rotten corpses that lay from river bank to the rustic seas of expanse. The revolt can reach Him. In the sounds of clanking iron, broken bones wail out in the screams of dying men.

And yet, He does nothing.

The siege engines of fate crash again and again. For the battlements of kings stand to test the fortune of their foe. And yet, He does nothing. Wives see their children torn from their breast. Their birth being used for the endless slaughter against the poor. And yet, He Does nothing.

He Is nothing.

But for man, He is what they crave. The eyes of all people are upon us. God’s created paradise and so we bow. We falter to speak. From their actions to their voices, they cry out to him in song and prayer.

He fails to be tarnished, even as a martyr king they celebrate his joyful dominion over Their struggles.

The drums of His voice echo through the clouds.

The rain brings forth the day in which all life calls home. In His breath, the coursing air brings forth the blood that breeds life itself.

Without His embrace, We are but nothing?

We are of life and death, good and evil. Curses were turned upon each of us.

From the God’s own words, they beacon harmony and peace, but are written in blood and cinder.

For in His folly, man was born. His one regret.

We are doomed to be forever lost. From screech, the drums of his voice echoed among us.

Death became a necessary end. It rises. It shall be met. For in Our despised gazes and hallowed voices, we accept despite Our cry. Yet, even if one is to perish, their story will not be forgotten.

For the truest warriors of Our world are never forgotten by their own kind.

Those vulgar, sweet, hateful, and caring. They mark the beginning of us.

For in the nature we came, we return to it. For when Our mother called, we dream of that beautiful city. Their calls of wealth are holy. For all is His, For all men are prized. All actions are honored.

And yet, we should have been cast.

Slaves to dark and malicious intent that breeds the decay of Our bonds. Our very souls were stolen. Yet, what is so simple in life?

For life is met with the ash of burning desire. Man, festering in his wants, his needs, and his pleasures, became a spectator of life.

To escape from the suffering. The conquering forest that formed the great river must be broken. From heavenly sphere to cosmic wonder, man reaches for more than he can understand.

In man’s image the world is shaped. From sword and shield, to brick and hoe, man shapes the world once destined for the rule of Gods.

Their providence long reigned, and in its place, the destinies of man sheltered for rebirth.

In Their treason, before the Sun, radiant in its warmth, is quiet and forever stationary, the clouds holding back its powerful gaze. That was then, when mischievous Gods ruled the depths of the land.

The lost eternity, manifested in a body of hatred. From this world, we were purged and before we stood in cleansing fire. A world of cinder.

Those who saw the skies bleed, were titans before the solar abyss. For they cleansed all that was an affront to His power, His prestige, and His birthright.

Upon the frost blade, born in blood we touched the bloodshed, the planet was left desolate.

The light returned to the world in the First Age, the First of the righteous arrived in the name of salvation.

Blessed as the children of the Father. Our Father. The fire of His heart beats within all.

For Man can sympathize with all, including the suffering of all.

In the beginning, the darkest age of time dominated the conceived reality in which we call Our own. The heavens, the dirt, all that is and ever existed in the Primordial Chaos in which Our bones were birthed in ever raging fire.

This was chaos. A Pandemonium of cosmic wonder and cosmic horror. If a mere man stands before it, its mind will shatter and break into a thousand glass shards to never recover from the watchful eyes of what reality shall be and forever has been.

From this ire, the divine cult was birthed from this chaos. In their body, true intelligence was born before barking cosmos. For in the First Age, prosperity began. Behold the voice that called in the dark. Behold Azen, the God of Order. A God of being which shall sing in the halls of great men through the eons.

From a tainted womb, he was birthed alongside his counterparts to play a role in which all humanity shall recall as Our birth.

For He was birthed in a burning rumble. A struggle of the four who form the greatest of Pantheon. This was the Fate of the Gods. A name which ironically bastardized man.

In His image, Nito was birthed from the Craftsmen, the Watcher, and the Order. Each born from the Incandescent, the cosmic awakening. It too roared. It too hungered.

For in its feast before the void, each was God sent.

In their means, the realm was His. A realm of barren rock, a monument of creation before all that was none. But despite his wonder. His wish. He lived in jealous anger.

Balar crafted his realm of the trinkets of the underworld. Halls of gold and silver. Mighty forges of iron and steel.

Atya. A summoning choir of arrogance and illusion, who filled his days with growing perversion into the reality which Azen declared