Sunday, 23 February 2014

Die Schwarze Sonne Scheint!



A few weeks back I submitted this article to Max Musson of the popular Nationalist website, Western Spring. I wrote it specifically at his request. But inkeeping with the character of a man whose sole concern seems to be the amassing of wealth in order to undertake unrealistic objectives requiring resources and comrades of wealth and integrity in numbers we are unlikely to see before the cataclysm, he shied away from posting it without giving any reason. He likely though my article unimportant, incendiary or simply contrary to his ideas of Nationalists multiplying in number finding wealth from nowhere and pleasantly twiddling their thumbs while the rest of the nation collapses and we are left miraculously untouched. The time may have passed for this articles immediate relevance, or it may not depending on how things go for Pravy Sektor but here you go:

In the beginning the protests in Ukraine baffled us all I imagine. I am sure most of us were familiar with the George Soros' backed Orange revolution of 2004 and knew of Ukraine and its people long being used as the gameboard and pieces of the mutual antipathy felt by Russia and the EU. The sight of the circle of twelve white stars on royal blue flown by crowds of Ukrainians, will have had the same effect on you as it had on me, utter revulsion.
I had consigned the whole thing to the compartment of my mind containing the Norwegian sheeple singing a pro-multiculturalism chorus in response to being called brainwashed idiots and Manchester United signing Fellaini, but the events of the past few days have led me to do more reading on the matter however. The trade deals offered by the Russians and the EU were the start of these protests last year, undoubtedly agents of the Jewish Global domination played a part in inciting public protest against the rejection of the EU's wondersful in the short-term offers and a slap up meal today for ten years of poverty never fails to entice the enthusiasm of a crowd. But remarkably the bulk of these protests took place in Western Ukraine.
Historically Western Ukraine  has, since the Jewish Bolshevik revolution, been a bastion of Ukrainian Nationalism. It was here that men like Stepan Bandera and the men of the 14th SS Division "Galician" were drawn from, who stood against the Communists and suffered heavily at their hands. Strange then that the region would have such strong support for the EU then, you would think.
Across Europe, the people who wake up in the morning, switch on the TV, perhaps have a little bit of breakfast before heading off to work, talking about last night's TV, perhaps the football, working at various levels of effort to fill the coffers of wealthy Capitalists, being rewarded with fiat money to buy new television sets, new Nike trainers and sugar heavy foods and going home for a night of television, tutting at the news and physical and mental laxity, see only the easy rewards as the ones worth having. Comfort for themselves and their families are the only pressing concern and the Panem et Circenses that keep them in chains are their only strong devotions.
As a result all of Europe, including the Ukraine is currently under the spell of Jewish lie merchants and has only an interest in financial comfort, trinketry and flashing screens filled with poison directed at the heart of their race. So it makes sense that most in Ukraine, even Western Ukraine the people are happy to be used as pawns of the political elites of the West, so long as it fills their bowls in the short run. But the point of this article is not to lambast the "sheep" of Europe, the masses of our race and likely the majority of future Europeans in a free and Aryan Europe.
What spurred me to read into the Ukraine, it's history and the reasons for the protests, were the sight of the Celtic Cross on the shields of the protesters who were throwing Molotov cocktails at the police of the Ukrainian ZOG. It seems like those whose motivations are flimsy are easily pushed aside by those who have the love of their race at their hearts and a brick ready to be thrown in their hands.
In the past two weeks, it has been Ukrainian Nationalists who have been organising the increasingly violent protests against the Ukrainian police and it's Jewish-Muscovite supporting government. As you can read in this article http://europeanmediacentre.wordpress.com/2014/01/22/nationalist-revolution-in-ukraine-nationalists-currently-winning-the-battle/ the protests have been repurposed into an open revolt against Jewish control of European nations and an attempt at National Liberation by our Ukrainian comrades. This should be exciting news for all of us.
Amongst the men that stood against Jewish Bolschevism during the last war were, Germans, Danes, Ukrainians, Hungarians, Italians, Swedes, Spaniards, Portuguese, French, Estonian, English, Dutch, Latvians, Russians, Albanians, Irish, Flemish, Wallonians, Norwegians, Croatians and Belarussians, all Europeans, all Aryans and all comrades.
But yet, worryingly, so far there has been little in the way of pan-European co-operation. There have been alliances of political parties, handshakes between officials and the occasional guest speaker but so far the ghost of the heroic Waffen SS, and the idea of a European people united against Jewish tyranny has remained uninvoked and dormant, ever waiting for Europe's future heroes to take up the Hakenkreuz banner once more.
What we are hearing off today in the Ukraine may well be the opportunity for that ghost of Pan-European warrior brotherhood to be revived and I urge the British Nationalist community to organise and prepare to help our comrades in the Ukraine. I urge all fit, healthy European Nationalist men of military age to consider our duty towards our Ukrainian comrades and that should open warfare exist between Ukrainian Nationalists and the Jewish puppet regime governing Ukraine, to consider that to be a declaration of war between all European Nationalists and the Jewish puppet governments across Europe and to reenforce our fighting men wherever they are the most active and strong.
As it stands the men of Ukraine have seized the initiative and have reportedly amassed stocks of weapons http://world.time.com/2014/02/04/ukraine-dmitri-yarosh-kiev/ in preparation for the coming conflict. We do not have an Adolf Hitler to lead us, nor do we have uniforms, tanks and aircraft but we have brave men prepared to fight for the fate of the Aryan race and we owe it to them to stand by their sides. I urge those of us who can to do everything in their power to forge links with our Ukrainian comrades, and prepare the way for the arrival of British Nationalists into a future conflict there. Our older men have the means but not the fitness to fight, our young have little to no means and are plenty healthy and willing to. We all have our part and I hope this article has encouraged everybody to think about theirs.

Heil Hitler!

SerpentSlayer

Wednesday, 5 June 2013

The Devil



The Devil, El Diablo, Der Teufel, whatever you wish to name him, he is the bugbear of the Abrahamic religions, he is the threat that keeps the ignorant loyal to the god who presumes power over all. He is the combined imagery and exaggerated (to absurdum) values of the Pagan gods, the demonisation of all that comes from the European soul.

His form comes from Faunus, his love of decadence an exaggerated form of the personality of Dionysus.

He represents the 'other' of Christian myth, the example of how not to serve the omnipotent Abrahamic god.

We are told that our pride, our will to avenge wrongs, our yearning to become greater and so on are 'sins' and that they empower this evil being and alienate us from the greatness of god (who is to be seen as the ultimate good). It has always struck me as odd that an all powerful god, such as that featured in the middle eastern slave religions, is so concerned about any affront to his name, and that his word is the be all and end all. To laugh at this god or to take humour from any of his dictations or actions, is in the eyes of his followers and of his network of priests, reprehensible.
As Nouvelle Droite founder, Alain de Benoist put it "Beware of the god who cannot laugh"

I recognise this being as either minor spiritual power who allows his ego rampant or the projection of a people enslaved to their own egos. Either way he is a being that encourages to give up all ideas of freedom and to bind us all to his better judgement. He will take care of us so long as we do as we are told, much like a pimp, a Mafia don or a tyrannical ruler. In effect he is the very Devil that is used to scare people to him, he is the slave master.
 
We see similar logic in today's society, so long as we accept cultural Marxist ideas and doctrines. So long as we abandon our land to the forces of Globalism and the destruction wrought by aggressive aliens unwanted in their homelands , so long as we forget all personal liberties such as free speech or the maintenance of arms, so long as we do not oppose the rape of natural resources in our lands and abroad and so on.
We see the Nationalistic, anti-Globalist and Anti-Zionist forces as akin to the Devil (who has now lost power, Communism having no need to maintain any form of traditional moral code, it having degraded rapidly since the 19th century) where once Pagans and innocent women were burnt and hanged by the church, men and women are detained and persecuted for questioning the entrenched ideological 'concensus' of the media, think tanks and so forth.

The true meaning of this article is indeed related to the fifteenth card of the Major Arcana of the Tarot deck, featured at the top there, look closely at the card. You will see the horned devil, representing materialism, greed and giving into our every desire, you will also see a man and a women (the lovers of card VI of the Major Arcana) both bound to him. Of especial note and the reason why this has relevance to the modern world is that neither resists or even looks uncomfortable. Both are comfortable in their slavery.

In our ancient European faith we are told to aspire for greater mastery over the self, the runes contain every mystery of the universe as known to us and we are urged to find it in our own selves, overcoming our own egotism and our fear of the unknown to learn these mysteries. Likewise too in the course of understanding the cards of the Tarot (or Tarock, as I prefer being an Anglo-Saxon) we learn of the mysteries of life and the progression from slave to master of his own universe, we become more godlike even. I can understand why this puts fear into any being or race that wishes to enslave us.

Instead of learning our ancestral ways and being taught to love heroic warriors, wise rulers, our people, our families, our land, we are instead taught to love the gold of the enslavers and material objects of no real worth. We are taught to shop, to buy trinkets and expensive baubles, we are taught that these things will not only make us feel better, but by possessing them we ARE better and of course the wealthy men and women who encourage this are to be idolised above all (i.e celebrities)

At no point agree we ever encouraged to yearn to become OURSELVES better. To be better able to take criticism, to become unafraid of death and hurt, to become a better person for those around us, to become a better asset to our folk. These things are anathema to the race world-eaters that offer us gold and comfort in exchange for our freedoms and our status as free men. Instead we aspire to be granted scraps from the lords table for our compliance, for our stupidity and our unquestioning ego that is happy to be called 'tolerant' and 'modern' rather than risk it all to regain our dignity.

In much of our folklore gold and especially rings are used to bind others to some terrible force, we have had this in our collective subconscious for time immemorial and yet we are still bound just as surely. We had one Sigurd/Frodo last century but still the gold hoarding dragon remains unslain and we rejoice in our service to him and in the defeat of our would be dragon slayer all the time. The vast majority of our folk do not have it in them to resist this slavery, the weakest through love of materialism and the stronger through fear of defeat and of not being strong enough to take the flak that will come their way.
I think in light of this, the more leaderlike amongst us, the more godlike, usually Nordic-Aryans have to shoulder a greater burden and become the slayers of the wyrm, as my 'SerpentSlayer' moniker alludes to, we must become our own saviour as European heroes have done since the first age.

We must suppress the negative voice in our minds that tells us not to get out of bed to run because of the rain or that the beautiful blonde woman at the bar will not be interested in us (because obviously they all want black men, of course, the TV said so!) or that any form of action will be futile. We must become comfortable with ourselves and not in the hippie multicultural sense of the words, we must cut out our own weaknesses and learn to master ourselves, as my brother taught me that in order to use power tools, as with riding a horse or wielding a weapon, we must have mastery of them, we must first conquer ourselves and learn increase our strengths and lessen our weaknesses.

Once we do this we will be able to speak from our hearts, to not fear scorn or the opinions of others, to care not about our standing in a society bought by stolen wealth and to be concerned with cultivating ourselves as true Europeans and as the sword bearing heroic warriors and shield maidens of old.

I have intentions on running a series of articles that elaborate on this very theme, the cultivation of the self, examples of our heroes and historical examples of how societies have been bought and destroyed by gold and by tyrannical modes of though, and their source. Keep tuned, and if you have anything you would like to suggest just leave me a comment or drop me an email.

Waes Hael
SerpentSlayer, F.F.F

Remember- In darkest night, the strongest light, shines the most to show us all, the fearful host amongst our kin, under our skin, the rot set in, fed by gold and enmity old and that importantly, we cannot let them win (literally, we cannot, it is impossible, think on this!)

Thursday, 16 May 2013

The Mad Minute

An English soldier surveys no-man land for signs of enemy activity.

I have been away for nearly a month now but I have been busy. It seems my will to comment on current affairs has pretty much died, or at least it is asleep. for now.
My artistic instincts however are undulled and during this time I have composed several poems, wrote a short story or two and even begun a novel. Following is a brief piece of fiction I wrote several weeks ago, it is technically classed as flash fiction, and it recounts not more than a minute in the life of an English soldier of the Great War on the receiving end of an enemy assault:

The Mad Minute
By SerpentSlayer

For a minute I sat crouched in the shallow trench, my ears still ringing from the blast. I went as if to grab another clip for my rifle's magazine but I found that my hand shook too violently to articulate well enough to do it. I was done for, I knew my rifle was empty, I knew my bayonet lay bent and broken on whichever part of the floor, wherever the blast had threw it and worst of all, I knew that the rest of my section had fallen, every man other than myself had been taken by Jerry's artillery shells.
As the roaring and shouting of battle-cries became louder, I found that every breath seemed longer and longer and every shout of 'Gott Mit Uns!' became ever more drawling and slow. As the approaching wall of sound stretched and grew louder, my mind seemed to become clearer and I was at ease in the hell that I found myself in. I took my last clip of five rounds from the pouch on my right hip and thumbed the .303 rounds into my Enfield rifle, I discarded the strip of metal that allowed them to be loaded swiftly and pushed the bolt forward. As I did this it dawned on me that
crouching in an inconspicuous position as I was, I would not be seen. German soldiers began to reach the trench. I could see the shadow of the tips of their pointy helmets to my left.
When the first Pickelhaube wearing head turned towards me, the hollowpoint round that blasted his skull into shard came completely unawares, the heroic triumph was still written in his face as his body flopped to the ground. Two more of the Hun made it into the trench, leaping with their bayonets fixed and their eyes filled with fury, both turning towards me with a vengeful look as they took in the sight of their fallen comrade. My next shot, with my rifle cocked as the two sets of Prussian feet touched the ground, rang out loudly, this second .303 round claimed one of the Hun, with a blow to the chest, he was barely a boy, his face bare and his eyes wide as he fell clutching the hole where his heart used to be.
The other German, an older man with a thick red beard charged at me, angry with grief and a tear in his eyes. As if by instinct I had lifted my rifle by the upturning of my left hand and held it as a club in anticipation of the bayonet thrust that was finding it's way towards me. I sidestepped and hammered the butt of my rifle on to the benthandled bayonet the Hun had fixed to his rifle and almost as if one action I sent the butt of my Enfield right into his cheekbone, shattering blood, bone and meat into the air. As the bearded German fell, I noticed more Germans that had filed behind him into the trench. My rifle still in mid swing as it was, was useless to me and I was helpless to stop the shot that filled my lungs with blood. The world was brought back into focus, the flat mud puddle of Belgium, the sounds of explosions and battle-cries, the German and English corpses strewn around the trench, I screamed inside as I fell on to the earth. And yet another white man fell in the mud of Flanders, joining the thousands who had fell before, another faceless tragedy.

-Dedicated to all the European soldiers who fought in the Great War 1914 to 1918-

Saturday, 20 April 2013

Happy Birthday Adolf Hitler!

 
On the twentieth of April in the year (of the common reckoning) eighteen-hundred and eighty-nine a baby boy was brought into a world undergoing a cultural high point. The great civilisations of Europe held control over most of the globe, scientific discovery was abounding, industry was booming and many of the great cultural works of our known history were produced.

This young boy grew into a man who saw Europe torn apart by a bloody and pointless civil war, taking an active part in his nation's struggle he earned the two highest awards for bravery his country offered and was wounded several times.

After the war he found his nation beset by political and economic turmoil, he actively fought the threat of Communism and ousted the men who would have used his people as walking piggy banks. This man died defending his nation from Communism, if it were not for his efforts, Western Europe would likely have fell to Communism also.

On this day I urge you all to honour the F├╝hrer, Adolf Hitler, and thank him for saving us from a nightmarish existence, few of us today can imagine. Communism survives in a changed form and endeavours to tear away all of our natural rights in the name of security and ideological conformity, look to this man and we will learn how to destroy it.

Happy Birthday Adolf Hitler.

N.B Sigurd's day is only three days away, use the day as an opportunity to celebrate the shared legacy of all Germanic peoples, be they English, Danes, Norse, Swedes, Germans, Dutch or Scots!

Thursday, 11 April 2013

A Guest Article from SerpentSlayer

It never occurred to me to post this before but this is an article I wrote two weeks ago for the Tameside Citizen blog, not geo-political but instead an article I hope encourages my readers to get out and about and enjoy our landscape:

http://tamesidecitizen.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/a-guest-article-by-serpentslayer.html

-SS

Wednesday, 10 April 2013

Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead!



I fear I may have contradicted myself again, it was my intention to post more regularly here and yet again dear old Cronos has seen fit to allow the past two weeks to skip by without any considerable notice on my part. As it is I feel I must post here now while this realisation is fresh.

On Monday an old lady died, and much has been made of this. As somebody who has long felt the legacy of Margaret Thatcher, being born during the twilight of her tenure and witnessing successive governments continue in much the same vein, I feel that I must comment on this. Margaret Thatcher was a lower middle class woman born into an affluent Southern English village and given every advantage in life. Yet somehow after de-industrialised large regions of the country, this woman took it upon herself to lecture the poor about 'getting on their bike' and thus abandoning their once healthy communities in order to find any work they can. This woman painted herself as a traditionalist and a patriot and yet was instrumental in our further integration into the EU and despite her assurances otherwise, took no step to reduce the catastrophic immigration into this country.

What is more her lies took the National Front from almost certainly winning seats in parliament to absolute decline in terms of public support!

The woman was Globalist through and through, a big believer in putting the rights of wealthy business owners before those other own people and while I allowed myself some joy in her passing, clearing out my store of traditionally made English ales as I did, I know that their is no great reason to rejoice. The woman ruined large parts of Northern England and they have never recovered, she reduced the working class to what they are now, Jeremy Kyle watching, track-suited Chavs with no hope of anything better. This woman was a blight on our country, and any flag waving on Thatcher's part will not convince me otherwise.

May her corpse be gnawed for an eternity.

Friday, 29 March 2013

My Unconquerable Soul

"Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be, 
For my unconquerable soul."

-Invictus, W.E Henley

Invictus is a favourite poem of mine, it is certainly one of few poems I know that has really inspired my own work. Today, after the realisation that in order to keep this blog going, I am going to have to pay more than lip service to it, I have decided to start posting regardless. What brought me to this conclusion is the subject of today's article.

I was born prematurely, in the cold month of Aquarius, allied to the element of air through classical astrology and tied to the suit of Swords (conflict, physical, mental and spiritual) in the standard Tarot deck. I was born to a poor family in a rough area, weaker than your average, skinny, pale and sickly, but with gifts that took years for me to discover.

The gifts I was given allowed me to learn all I could about the world I was born into, what had brought it to this point and why obsessed my young mind and continue to do so. I was gifted at playing with words, making jokes and became popular with my school mates regardless of my advanced intelligence and weakly build. I strived constantly to become better, to learn more for myself and to overcome what the gods had allotted me.
 
By the time I had grown into an adult I had become a loner, a deep-thinker, an ideological rebel who retained few of his friends from childhood. I discovered the truth behind Adolf Hitler's warnings of a dreadful force threatening to envelop the world, a twist in the tale of time that had so engulfed my mind. I drifted, in an attempt to find purpose and belonging, comrades with whom I could resist what the world had become. I had hoped to find people with the same insatiable fire for overcoming the odds that I always had, I hoped to find the same spirit encapsulated within the poem, to find men and women driven by the pull of adversity.

But find them I did not, and I grew disillusioned with the self-proclaimed standard-bearers of National Socialism. They lacked any true sense of vision or any strong plan or means to put their will into effect, they were not prepared the mammoth task they felt was their job to do.

Feeling that all was lost in politics I instead embarked upon an attempt to join the Army, to turn myself into the warrior I felt I needed to become. It was a sincere effort spurred by a lack of anything to fill the void in my life. It was not to be, my self improvement had never taken the form of physical exercise and though my training made me fitter and stronger, I was attempting to join at a time of peak interest in the forces, and places were limited, standards were raised to a point that this once wimpy nerd felt that he faced a mountain. I resigned my efforts.

Then a twist of fate happened, at some point I must have sent a text message detailing my interest in a patriotic political party, because sometime after the European elections I found my door knocked upon by two of it's activists. I became heavily involved, convinced that this party would chase the moneylenders from the temple. The people contained within it were less distanced from society than the other groups I had aligned myself to but they seemed to know what they were doing. It was an honour to stand in that metaphorical shieldwall with them.

By this point I had resigned myself to the idea that I was on my own in my outlook, that men who grapple with fate and forge their own destiny through the power of their own will were long since a memory. I believed that I must bend that party to my own will, over many years and eventually lead it against the forces of Globalism, with the British people marching proudly behind me.

But, revelations abound, as that party sunk I grew closer to a party-comrade who had always fascinated me. A man of mystery, of few words but with a profound understanding of everything he spoke. A man loyal to the ideas of National Socialism, who revered Hitler every bit as I did. He was intelligent, well spoken, but never one to seek the limelight. I always felt like this man was watching me for something, some quality he was desperate to find there.

This man last year, borrowed me a book. It's name was "The Forgotten Soldier", in this book I saw untold horrors and hardship, my mind hardened. I saw proud men ravaged by war, for four years standing proud against a materially and numerically superior enemy on their home turf. I accepted that I myself, despite being working class and unemployed, was living a life of luxury, a life of scarce meaning.

At the end of last year this same comrade arranged for me to be present on a trip to the war graves of Ypres as part of a delegation to the European parliament. The first night I spent in the pleasant and very European market town of Ostend, chatting up lovely women and becoming insanely drunk to the point of sickness, the next morning could not have been more sobering. Having had little sleep, the overcast day I spent staring at multitudes of graves of brave British and German soldiers, lost to the inhumanity of war, felt like a dream. Drifting around the endless stones marking the boys and men slain in the muddy flat plains of Belgium (all too obvious on that rainy day) I was filled with an empty feeling.

I felt like the hardship I had previously known paled in comparison to the suffering of these men and men like them in Europe's other bloody wars and massacres of the twentieth century. That night was far less exuberant than the last, I spent it under the bridge at Ypres town centre, under the arches marked with the names of those whose bodies were lost to the mud of Flanders, watching with hundreds of others as the nightly remembrance ceremony took place before me.

This experience changed me more than any other experience had ever managed. I became more sombre, outwardly I was still the same witty and silly character but much more serious in my outlook of the world. My school friends who I had retained due to close bonds began to seem ever more distant, more alien, as if they had not grown and yet they were tied down by the trappings of adult life in a Globalised world. I grew apart from them more and more as the months grew on and my mind hardened more and more.

Atop Bleaklow Moor
 
This year something interesting happened, the prior mentioned comrade who I shall refer to as 'Kenobi' for the remainder of this article, invited me for a hike in the Peak District. My first hike, to Black Hill, was on my 23rd Birthday, there I experienced my first true taste of wilderness and the possibility of a simpler living, seeing the abandoned quarry in the hills made me think of Edoras, and the other towns of Rohan from the Lord of the Rings. My Pagan soul burned bright with the idea of living apart from civilisation.

My next trip took me up the cliff face of Bleaklow Moor, with lingering ice. That day I truly conquered the elements, stared death in the face and resolved to carry on. I had thought Kenobi to have gone mad, to have lost control of his senses, my mind narrowed by the impossible rock face of ice and loose rock that I had not expected to be climbing that day, in fact it was a test of my resolve.
I faced a sheer cliff, hundreds of feet from the ground, covered in ice and terror gripped me.
It took all my resolve to keep calm and slowly find the slivers of solidrock that I could hold onto.
After we reached the top, we walked for miles through dense moor covered in deep peat and animal traps. We crossed icy streams and hopped from hill to hill. I had invoked the gods that day, specificly might Thunor, to keep me strong.

Some time later, the All-Father came to me, not in a dream but in person, in the dark hours I saw his face, fatherly watching over me as I had slept and disappearing in the seconds after waking. I began to understand fully what had been guiding me, and to what purpose Kenobi guided me. Coincidentally, not many days after this I was asked back to Black hill by Kenobi, even snowier than before and deliberately taking the harder and steeper path to the top. I found myself cat crawling at fast pace up snowy hills and deliberately sliding hundreds of feet on my frozen arse for the pure joy of it!

During this trip something finally 'clicked' inside me, as I marched down hill, feet sodden and legs aching in the afternoon sun I finally felt like a warrior. What about this walk compared to, say Bleaklow, that changed me I do not know. Perhaps the bus ride home, reading poetry and exchanging smiles with a long-legged chestnut-haired goddess in a mini skirt also had an effect but ever since I seem less hesitant, more confident. In the past I had been wary of water on my face, squeemish about heights and generally a wimp, I had shirked my writing and found other things to do, I had found excuses not to exercise, where there was no good reason not to.

These past two days since I have found myself able to write at will, to the highest of my standards and with no fear of writer's block spoiling my efforts, I had found myself able to do things, hard things, with barely a protest in my mind against them.
 
I even wrote a ten page guide to writing poetry that I will further expand upon and perhaps eventually publish!

I feel that have truly become a man, that the disparate and conflicting threads of my mind have found common cause and created a greater being. I have many to thank for this, most of all myself, the gods and 'Kenobi', who I would like to give my thanks to especially.

I hope this article inspires you all to embark on a quest to conquer yourself, mine continues still, one can never fully delve into the reserves of your own self.

To conquer our foe, we must first become ourselves unconquerable. As our souls are the only permanent part of us, that remains consistent throughout our lives we must exercise it first and foremost.

Until all our souls are unconquerable.

SerpentSlayer