Darkness Comes

I am the one who rapes your daughters. I am the one who shoots down your sons.

I am the one who forces your fathers into submission. I am the one who prematurely kills your mothers.

I am the one who looks away out of convenience, and the one who takes away with impunity, not care.

I am the one who's atrocities are too numerous to count, too details and varied to tally, and too widespread to stop.

I am the one who haunts the dreams of the oppressed, the voiceless, the hopeless.

And yet, why shouldn’t my eye turn to you, those who have unleashed me? Why should I stay my hand for you, those who have foolishly freed me?

Do you not also have daughters?

Do you not also have sons? 

Will your fathers not crumble beneath my greed?

Will your mothers’ wombs not still bleed?

When your victims are gone, fed to me by your fury, I will be too large to contain, too powerful to be tamed.

Will you then look at me with fear and disdain as you try vainly to kill me with your weapons? 

Did no one tell you that bullets cannot defeat ideology, that violence does not destroy itself? 

Did no one tell you that all those who would have stood to protect you now lay slaughtered at your feet, at your behest and ever urgent request?

When I come for you, do not look on me with surprise and outrage. Do not look within me for mercy and compassion. You, my liberators, have shown me the way, and it is my joy to reap what you have sown. 

The Old and Noble Art of Necromancy

They are all around us; hiding in the shadows of once-busy streets, clinging to objects from the past, and unsettling us in the small hours of the night. They hover, seen and unseen, around us, and send chills when their matter collides with ours. Many disbelieve, but that doesn't change the reality of the situation.

The living need Necromancers just as surely as the dead do.

Necromancers of benevolent alignment dispel spirits and help them cross over, make peace with their deaths, and forgive those who wronged them, and so keep them in this plain. They wish to ease the sufferance of those past, and reconcile the dead with those who continue in their stead.

Necromancers of malignant alignment bind and hold spirits here, using them as guards for place or objects, using them for personal vengeance, and as sources of energy for other magickal works. It is highly irregular for malignantly aligned necromancers to hold power for long, as Spirits do not suffer the living to mistreat them without repercussion.

Rarely, we find a Necromancer of truly neutral alignment, one who plays by both sets of rules, yet is owned by neither. These folk tend to be rarer solely because they do not advertise their skill. Often, these types are seen as selfish- binding and releasing spirits as it suits their purposes, calling back those who have gone on for information unobtainable through more conventional means, and crossing over spirits who cause more trouble than they are worth.


The Old and Noble Art of Necromancy is often seen with fear, misunderstood in it's greater aspects by those who wish to believe the dead loath the living and envy them their mortality. Those who live in fear of the Art of Necromancy fail to see the practicality, and indeed, the beauty of bridging the plains between physical and metaphysical.

Rare a gift in the olden days, Necromancy has been watered down through the ages to be commonly known as mediumship. While not as potent, it is none the less useful a tool for those following a benevolent path. Few are gifted with true control over the spirits, however, and it is perhaps for the best.

None the less, those wishing to follow the path of the Spirits need simply atune themselves to the hidden rhythms of the night, when spirits more comfortably roam our cities and poke at our dreams.

The Snakes of Ireland

I saw him, and immediately I panicked. As he passed me on the busy street, he smiled and nodded, completely oblivious to what I was feeling. Why should he care, though, when he was likely unaware of who he was?

I smiled back nervously and tripped, sending my purse flying. He stopped to see if I was okay. I cringed instinctively from his hand as he helped me back to my feet.

"Thank you for your help." I said. He handed me my purse.

"You're welcome. Are you sure you're okay? That was quite the tumble."

"Yes, I'm fine." I pulled my purse against my body, hoping he would just leave. Thankfully he did, somewhat reluctantly, and I escaped the street. Ducking into a cafe, I hoped the caffeine would stop my trembling hands. I had an important presentation today, I didn't need him to destroy it.

"Patrick?" The barista called. My head shot up, searching the crowd. A middle-aged man claimed his drink. My heart-rate lowered. It wasn't him. I retrieved my coffee, and pulled out my phone. Dialing, I heard a familiar, comforting voice on the other end of the line.

"Hello?"

"Annie, it's me. I saw him. Maewyn. He's come back."

Silence, then finally, "is he aware?"

"No, I don't think so. He was wearing a collar though. He's a priest."

"Always with the priests. I suppose his job isn't done yet."

"We can't keep this up. It's been centuries, and he still comes back. I refuse to die again, because of him."

"You won't."

Annie hung up. I took a deep breath. Annie always had a plan, and this one had been in the works for over a decade. This time, we'd get him first.

*****

She looked so innocent, so young. Such a shame, really, that it always came to the same patterns. The snakes had to be eradicated, though.

She was the first. Always the first. I suppose switching it up would keep things interesting, but ritual was important. Killing was unfortunate, but necessary. Those who wouldn't convert had to be killed. God demanded it. Or, at least His earthly representatives did.

I flipped open my phone speed dialed. Two rings, and the line was open.

"Found one. The Blue Robin, east side of town. Approximately five minutes."

The call ended. I began to backtrack leisurely, following her as she exited the cafe and spoke on the phone. I smirked. It was always the same game. After centuries, they should have learned, but alas, simple minds for simple folks.

Her call ended, and she rounded a corner. A taxi pulled up beside her as I came up on her, and the door opened. She looked at me moments before I pushed her into the car and shut the door. Terror splayed across her pretty face before a black-gloved hand pressed a cloth to her face.

"The pit awaits you, Snake."




This is a work of fiction. It does not reflect the ideas or views of the contributors to the Dreamers Imaginarium. In fact, there is an awesome article that explains why the Snakes=Pagans idea has no actual basis, despite attempts to connect symbolism.