The Black Arts
The Black Arts: A Forgotten Rite
In the shadow of the Hollow Peaks, where no birds sing and the stars burn dimmer, stands the shattered sanctum of Aetherion, last bastion of the Order of the Veiled Flame.
Once a place of light and learning, Aetherion fell into secrecy when its scholars sought to pierce the veil between life and death. They abandoned the teachings of the Twelvefold Path and turned instead to the Black Arts—a forbidden weave of time, spirit, and void.
On the night of convergence, when the blue moon bleeds through the cracks in the firmament, the remaining Initiates assemble in silence. Their faces are cloaked in shadow, not for modesty—but because the rites they perform unmake identity.
At the highest tower, the Magister Occultis chants in a lost tongue, hands raised over the Codex Umbra, an ancient tome bound in skin and sorrow. Beside him, the Scribe of Echoes captures every spoken spell, for these incantations cannot be written by mortal hands—only remembered by the soul.
Below, the Novice Acolyte studies fervently, their hands trembling not from fear, but from the weight of understanding. Each line read costs a memory, a moment from childhood, a name once loved.
And far to the right, standing motionless, is the Warden of the Gate, clad in ceremonial robes and armed with the Void Halberd, forged in the last light of a dying star. They do not speak. Their oath binds them to silence, for the Gate only opens when blood is paid.
Tonight, the Order seeks to awaken the Lurking One, an entity lost in the folds of time—neither god nor demon, but something older. Something forgotten on purpose.
As the ritual crescendos, the sky begins to tear. Stars twist. The stones hum. And in the depths of the sanctum, the air turns to whispers.
What they summon may grant wisdom eternal…
Or consume them whole.
Medium: Watercolor on Paper
Size: 18 X 14
The Black Arts: A Forgotten Rite
In the shadow of the Hollow Peaks, where no birds sing and the stars burn dimmer, stands the shattered sanctum of Aetherion, last bastion of the Order of the Veiled Flame.
Once a place of light and learning, Aetherion fell into secrecy when its scholars sought to pierce the veil between life and death. They abandoned the teachings of the Twelvefold Path and turned instead to the Black Arts—a forbidden weave of time, spirit, and void.
On the night of convergence, when the blue moon bleeds through the cracks in the firmament, the remaining Initiates assemble in silence. Their faces are cloaked in shadow, not for modesty—but because the rites they perform unmake identity.
At the highest tower, the Magister Occultis chants in a lost tongue, hands raised over the Codex Umbra, an ancient tome bound in skin and sorrow. Beside him, the Scribe of Echoes captures every spoken spell, for these incantations cannot be written by mortal hands—only remembered by the soul.
Below, the Novice Acolyte studies fervently, their hands trembling not from fear, but from the weight of understanding. Each line read costs a memory, a moment from childhood, a name once loved.
And far to the right, standing motionless, is the Warden of the Gate, clad in ceremonial robes and armed with the Void Halberd, forged in the last light of a dying star. They do not speak. Their oath binds them to silence, for the Gate only opens when blood is paid.
Tonight, the Order seeks to awaken the Lurking One, an entity lost in the folds of time—neither god nor demon, but something older. Something forgotten on purpose.
As the ritual crescendos, the sky begins to tear. Stars twist. The stones hum. And in the depths of the sanctum, the air turns to whispers.
What they summon may grant wisdom eternal…
Or consume them whole.
Medium: Watercolor on Paper
Size: 18 X 14
The Black Arts: A Forgotten Rite
In the shadow of the Hollow Peaks, where no birds sing and the stars burn dimmer, stands the shattered sanctum of Aetherion, last bastion of the Order of the Veiled Flame.
Once a place of light and learning, Aetherion fell into secrecy when its scholars sought to pierce the veil between life and death. They abandoned the teachings of the Twelvefold Path and turned instead to the Black Arts—a forbidden weave of time, spirit, and void.
On the night of convergence, when the blue moon bleeds through the cracks in the firmament, the remaining Initiates assemble in silence. Their faces are cloaked in shadow, not for modesty—but because the rites they perform unmake identity.
At the highest tower, the Magister Occultis chants in a lost tongue, hands raised over the Codex Umbra, an ancient tome bound in skin and sorrow. Beside him, the Scribe of Echoes captures every spoken spell, for these incantations cannot be written by mortal hands—only remembered by the soul.
Below, the Novice Acolyte studies fervently, their hands trembling not from fear, but from the weight of understanding. Each line read costs a memory, a moment from childhood, a name once loved.
And far to the right, standing motionless, is the Warden of the Gate, clad in ceremonial robes and armed with the Void Halberd, forged in the last light of a dying star. They do not speak. Their oath binds them to silence, for the Gate only opens when blood is paid.
Tonight, the Order seeks to awaken the Lurking One, an entity lost in the folds of time—neither god nor demon, but something older. Something forgotten on purpose.
As the ritual crescendos, the sky begins to tear. Stars twist. The stones hum. And in the depths of the sanctum, the air turns to whispers.
What they summon may grant wisdom eternal…
Or consume them whole.
Medium: Watercolor on Paper
Size: 18 X 14