Coming to the crest of a hill, they are at the foot of a Great Temple. The doors are open and prostitutes walk freely among statues of Archangels and Saints. As they walk between vestibules, once Holy but now hanged with curtains to hide the daily trade of the Women and Children who live here. In room after room the once grand temple is now in squalor. Statues lie smashed, great fountains used as toilets and everywhere Pharisees stalk the corridors looking for victims to bleed for their own profane alters. Madness scratches the minds of the chosen and unchosen alike. A crawling and burning urge to squeeze the life out of themselves and others for an absentee God who is represented by liars, swindlers and the most depraved of the religious scum stalking this world.
Wailing Drunks left bloody and broken lie at the feet of Cutthroats who gather at the grand doors to the inner sanctum. Trying to enter the sanctuary, they are accosted by Ruffians who are dressed as Angels in golden armor, with clubs and spears. One of the Criminals tries to drag Dorotea off into the shadows and this starts a great butchery between the companions of Dorotea and the Cutthroats.
Hermes smashes faces open with a Mace of Light. Artemis slaughters these Madmen with arrows. Ophelia mauls attackers like a starving Tiger, leaving arms and legs in puddles of scarlet. Dorotea herself hacks her attackers into pieces, splattering her face into bloody warpaint. There is silence for moments before a great roar comes from the eves. Pharisees and their armored “Sicari” Thugs come running towards the companions.
An eternity goes by with clanging of swords on metal helmets, spears tossed into heads shatter skulls. Arrows penetrate eyes, swords cleave off hands. Exposed bones and steaming organs bloom forth from open wounds. Pink lungs flutter in last gasps as broken open ribs shudder. Sounds from inside the great doors leave the companions of Dorotea in shock. Sounds like horde of ravenous beasts bang from behind the doors.
Regaining their composure, wiping down blades and washing their faces. The screaming from inside has died down but still shadows of violence within come from under the door. Growls and sounds of bestial slaughter come to an end. Persephone looks to Dorotea, “Are you ready?” Dorotea nods and at once all her companions charge the door, blowing it from the hinges and laying low the Ghastly Ghouls who were behind it.
Inside in the dim light, the din of flesh ripping and bones being torn free from joints has come to an end. A great multitude of Lost Souls stand, motionless save for heavy breathing. Beyond on a raised Pedestal are a Sickly Boy and a Ghastly Woman. A Retarded Child wrapped in gleaming gold silks, cuddled up to a Morbid Glutton with eyes of spiteful hate, a laughable Vile Harlot in scarlet robes.
The Lost Souls surge forward, their eyes white and skin burned black from endless centuries living in smoke and sulphur. A tumult of violence is unleashed at Hermes, Persephone, Artemis and Dorotea plunge into battle. Bashing the brains from the unholy, spilling putrid blood and knocking eyes free from their hateful skulls.
After an eternity of stabbing, smashing and slashing through these unworthy feral Ghouls, none stand. All defeated in a writhing mass of bodies left restless even with fatal wounds. The Damned have no mercy in killing, they just scream and wiggle limbless stumps until splashed with sacred oil and incinerated before the silent Fisher King.
The companions are all in awe that the famous, all powerful God of renowned, who it was said to be the equal of all the old Gods combined, is a sick child. Half blind and suffering regular convulsions, too mentally stunted to do more than groan and drool in the arms of his fat whore mother. The child wrapped in the finest scarlet silks and spotted furs looks malnourished, eyes milky and mouth agape in a half sleep of near death. His skin black like the darkest obsidian.
Covered in festering wounds and pink scars on his close cropped hair and face, sightless eyes crawl with flies. A malnourished but hansom child. A life that would never be, strangled out by the crimes of his massive pale prostitute mother beside him. Shrouded in Purple and Gold, her panicked eyes darting for help. Her goons lie eviscerated in the hall, she howls for some savior, the last thing she would do is admit to the perversity she has wrought on the innocent, acting as the regent to the mindless child… the Fisher King.
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The Vile Harlot whispers hateful accusations and lists of those to be killed in her mentally challenged Son’s ear. Who despite being almost unable to have any independent thought, is the most powerful psychic in the universe, melding reality from his horrible mother’s spite and schizophrenic persecution mania. She twists his fingers and digs her nails deep into his hand as if this abused child will snap into action from his drooling and semi comatose state.
It is a farce, the world has been mutilated for centuries based on the whims of some disgusting criminal who groomed her son to corrupt time and space with abuse and evil magic. The Epoch of the Fisher King is a puppet regime of this nasty prostitute who answers to the evil sorcerer King Sorsos, the ancient demon worshipper and necromancer.
Artemis, seeing the truth of what has swept over the world, sending unrest and an age of insanity looks to Persephone, who looks to Hermes who looks at Dorotea. She understands what must be done, freeing this innocent child from the misused mantle of a God.
Dorotea raises her sword smashing the Fisher King who disappears in a flash of smoke and shrill shrieks of the slimy prostitute. Holding up scared arms carved with curses in the magical Enochian language of John Dee. The Vile Harlot screams, “Wait! I am the Queen, a Prophet!”
Hermes with his new golden radiance of a holy Angel of Death strikes the Harlot deep in the chest with his Scythe, obliterating the spine and protruding from her back. No death only more obese blithering. Artemis takes a Golden Arrow from her quiver, taking a powerful pull, striking 3 arrows at once in the Harlots eyes and center of the forehead. Where the third eye would be located in a spiritual being, surely to cause eternal death, it does not.
The Vile Harlot points a clawed stubby finger at Persephone and is about to hurl some accusation or insult. With uncommon vitriol The Goddess silences her with violence. Persephone pulls the three arrows out, that also breaks the Harlots cheek bones, nose and upper mandible free, revealing a chasm in her skull where a face once was holding the power a glimpse of the swirling supernova.
The Gods gasp, this should not be. Persephone divines a gout of blue flame from the heart of a fallen star and strikes it deep into the hallow skull of the Harlot, dripping magma and burning atoms of the stuff creation and destruction are made of. It does not stop the Harlot from waving around spastic and belligerently.
Persephone dashes another white hot bolide of starfire into the chest cavity of the morbidly obese monstrosity, a witch of the cruelest order. Profanity made flesh. Again no end to this madness. Hermes says, “This is unnatural, some kind of inverted physics is at work in this profane Homunculus.”
Dorotea not gasping the gravity of this false being with a God in its thrall is just tired, her feet hurt and her own mental anguish makes her want to scream and run and fall into a pile to cry for her own life. Takes her Golden Sword and slices off the Head of the Vile Harlot with an intense scream of rage and pain, decapitates the head from the shoulders of the Vile Harlot, then running away in tears. Leaving it to roll to the feet of Artemis teeth still gnashing, who holds it up to Hermes and says, “One of us is behind this, this is the power of a God in the wrong hands.”
The Gods Hermes, Artemis and Persephone join their spiritual form in a triangle of idle primordial forces, creating a rip in the universe of not just heat but also the inverse, the gripping cold of a blackhole around the Harlot who is still screaming and wailing. Joining hands in complex mudras, opening their third eyes into three fiery rays of death. They join hands, encircling the Harlot. Cosmic intensity flashing white and black, turquoise and magenta. Crying out sacred words of power, creation and destruction, with a boom of tearing time and space, great flash of light from their eyes, fries the flesh of the Vile Harlot into ash like paper in the wind.
Leaving this place of the sick and tormented. Dorotea sees the Heavens have opened up. Where once were scenes of butchery and torture, suffering and disease. Now there are happy children, dancing holy men freed with their wounds, fathers once executed and rotting on walls come home bathed in pale blue light of redemption. The Lepers and Syphilitic now healed, free and whole again.
Where once they were blind with missing noses and eyes, black limbs from gangrene, now there is a vitality and where fountains once overflowed with stink and plague. Crystal waters of healing spring from the ground. Corpses and body parts littering the walls and hillsides now bloom into flowers and trees of plenty.
The city of Jerusalem is freed from false doctrines and repressive dogma. Free to live how they please after 1000 generations of torment has come to an end. This was once the seat of Solomon in his human form, long since torn from the kingdom of wisdom and truth to a shunned place to suffering and abuse.
A new era of truth is possible with the false God cast out. The Temple is rededicated to the Goddess Cult. The priesthood of the false God dismissed and jailed. Resurrecting the ancient pantheon of the Canaanite people. Feeling a joy, Hermes takes to the sky on golden wings, soaring above in a radiant morning light after years of dark skies. Artemis and Persephone smile at Dorotea, a rare moment of serenity after centuries of misery and misrule.