I: The Hammering 

The mountain looms in the clouds above. 
Although of the earth, it stands with 
the gods. It was so easy to stare at screen 
while all outside was in vibrant green. 
So I fed the mind while body withered away. 
Now I put one foot before the other and a 
journey begins. The hammering of my heart, 
the great flesh anvil. The same redfire heart 
with which this life is forged thunders with the 
thrill of the unknown path—Thor’s hammer 
pounding against my chest. The terror that 
succeeds the shapes/Surrounding in the 
forest mist./The air that fills with mythic 
taste/Which binds to me from heart to fist. 
And when I re-emerge and leave the 
fog with the trees the thoughts I’ve won are 
seared to me forevermore. The hammering of 
my heart, the great flesh anvil. The same 
redfire heart on which all myth is born flares at 
the distant scent of laurel wreaths, heaves at 
the sight of a newfound path—Lugh’s fire 
roaring within my chest. 

II: Vernal Rains 

Here sits our hundred ‘lectric years in the 
shadow of chthonic millennia. Is this progress? 
As we sit our waking hours in worship at diode 
altars. Diodes only displace darkness; they 
never illuminate. You! who would choose the 
dark so the sun might burn even brighter as it 
soars. You! who would lose the brightness of 
the diode to regain the night and its lore. Your 
season is nigh. I can feel it on the wind. I can 
smell the chthonic climes as the vernal rains 
begin. You! who would spend waking hours 
with life immense in passion, pulse, and power. 
You! who would walk through hexadecimal 
thunder with the will of the advancing hunter. 
Your season is nigh. I can feel it on the wind. I 
can smell the chthonic climes as the vernal 
rains begin. “Every age has them. Every age has those 
who learn to thrive like sovereigns. Who walk each step 
with the fire of life, aware some days burn brighter than 
others. Who learn the landscape of the time. Its hills, its 
valleys. Who learn to navigate it with precision. With 
passion. With pulse. With immensity of spirit.” 

III: Another Journey Begins 

I walk the banks of the stream of electric 
thought. I cross to the warmth of where 
I once was. I look down to see a sixfold 
flame in hand. Sing me the dark songs 
of Chthonia. Sing life immense in passion 
and pulse. 

I am the snow that falls: incessant, relentless, boundless. 
I am the rain that whips: raging, cleansing, cool. 
I am the sun that burns: awakened and scatt’ring the clouds. 
I am the heart that heaves: renewed, thundering. 

Sing me the dark songs of Chthonia. Sing me the song 
of Metachthonia. Sing me life immense in 
passion and pulse. 

I am the river that swells: incessant, relentless, boundless. 
I am the dam that bursts: raging, cleansing, cool. 
I am the stride ahead. I am the journey that begins. 

You! spiritwalker, igniter of the sixfold flame—you! 
who breathe the essence of fire and exhale the 
chant of life. You! Who rend the earth and 
snow beneath your feet as you hurl yourself 
through endless miles of trails—to the summit 
of your pursuits. In mist we walk through the 
lands of Metachthonia. From mist we emerge 
and build the fires of old Chthonia. 

And the fires burn bright, 
All across the earth, 
For any who wish to find them. 
For any who wish to find them. 

For the fires burn bright, 
All across the earth. 
One foot before the other, 
And another journey begins. 

In mist we walk, we sovereigns of old Chthonia. 
From mist we emerge, crowned sovereigns 
of Metachthonia. Rule on into the dusk.