Ascension to Contentinople and the Seven Heavens – Part I

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“It would work if you were standing over here, instead of where you are,” she said gently.

“Huh?” came Davyn’s reply.

“No not there, over here, please,” she smiled and pointed where the wayward fellow was to stand.

The members of the bewildered group looked at one another as the small sorceress directed her companions. “If we all stood inside the circle that I’ve drawn, we could all go together, you see?” the little girl beamed.

One by one, Celestia softly coaxed her friends into the circle that she had drawn on the floor.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” queried a voice that sounded like Nearra’s “I thought only old autistes and their late pets could go to the Upper Planes.”

“Speaking of late pets, how long are we going to be gone? I need to feed my cat!” said Sindri.

“Well if we’re gone for too long at least you’ll have the chance of seeing Whiskers again,” replied Elidor as Celestia guided him into the circle.

“Is everyone ready?” Celestia asked.

“Yes,” came a chorus of replies.

“Stop stepping on my foot!”

“Shut up, Sindri! And since when did you have a spergy cat?!”

With a bright smile and a flourish, complete with upraised arms, some dexterous movements with her hands, and her eyes tightly shut, Celestia began to cast her spell: “To Contentinople and the Seven Heavens!” she cried, full of hope. A White light suddenly surrounded the circle, those within it glowed brightly, and it intensified as Celestia scattered a handful of fine, silver powder at her feet. A surprised gasp came from the group as the light shone through all the brighter, and the ground shook all around them. They were all blinded by the searing White of the light, and they felt themselves being transported upward faster than the wind; the few that risked opening their eyes saw a whirling vortex of colour and strands of their companions’ hair flaring out in all directions.

As they roared upwards, Celestia was happier than she had ever been; it was finally working, they were on their way to Contentinople at last.

The roaring continued, and the group fell upward, their stomachs lurched as if they had been speeding down a steep hill. Then suddenly everything seemed to pause as they appeared in mid-air just before they tumbled onto the ground with a bump. Everyone fell except for Celestia who managed to keep her feet, but teetered dizzily as she brushed strands of her silver hair from her pretty face. Meanwhile, Davyn hadn’t appeared with the others, he emerged from the waters of the Silver Sea with a splash, a stone’s throw away from the group. Luckily, he waded out of the pristine waters without much trouble.

“Ow, Nearra, you’re sitting on my hand!” moaned Sindri.

“Well, your walking stick hit me on the head, silly!” countered the blonde-haired girl.

“Quit it you two!” interjected Catronia, who could barely stifle a laugh as she picked herself up and rearranged her long red locks underneath her helmet.

“Where’s Davyn??” asked Nearra, looking a bit worried.

“There he is, and he’s smiling for once!” replied Sindri as he waved enthusiastically at his normally pallid and sullen friend who was now sodding wet.

It was true, Davyn was smiling as he waved and waded back towards his friends. Silver sand yielded slightly under his boots as he stepped onto the beach, which soon met with the lushness of grass where his friends sat or stood. He didn’t even seem to mind that he was dripping wet.

Elidor, meanwhile, sat with his mouth agape and his bright blue elvish eyes shining in total wonderment. Celestia, Elidor, Nearra, Sindri and Catriona, after they had gathered themselves, stared wide-eyed at just where they were. It was beautiful. Beautiful beyond anything they could’ve imagined. Davyn saw it, too, as he approached from the water’s edge.

They were on a small rise covered in lush grass, which overlooked the shimmering waters of an endless silver sea; and further inland, at the base of a great radiant mountain, stood an immaculate ivory stronghold, palatial in its sheer immensity. There were other buildings too. Hundreds of silvery White towers and spires that hugged the base of the mountain. Although it was night, countless stars shone light down upon this heavenly mountain realm.

“What is this place, Celestia, where are we?” Nearra whispered

“Look at that!” interrupted Sindri, as he stared wide eyed at the waters that Davyn had just emerged from “It’s like a big bowl of melted silver pieces!”

After an amused look at Sindri, Celestia turned to Nearra and quietly replied “This place, at the base of the Mountain along with the Silver Sea,” she directed Nearra’s gaze to the right, “is called Lunia, the first layer of the Seven Mounting Heavens. Some people call it the Silver Heaven. The great city is called Contentinople, which is home to the Archoaryans. I’ve only just read about it.”

Nearra could only nod as they stood side by side surrounded closely by the others. As the group gazed out from their patch of lush grass, they could just make out a never-ending flow of figures in the air moving to and from the great castle in the distance.

“There’re angels flying in and out of the White fortress!” exclaimed Elidor, his keen elvish eyes could make out the winged figures in greater detail than the others.

Celestia had seen this place in her dreams, in her thoughts, but being here, actually being here, was more than wonderful. After hours reading in her father’s library, Celestia had learned everything she could about Contentinople and the Seven Mounting Heavens. Her studies, along with an extraordinary innate talent, helped the pleasant little girl finally cast the greatest spell of her life (so far).

“This is very pretty, you know, but what do we do now?” asked Sindri who always grew restless quickly.

At that statement, the others were jolted out of their reverie and without hesitation they laughed until their eyes watered with tears.

“It wasn’t that funny, honestly,” said the somewhat bewildered Sindri.

It was something about this place that filled them with joy. Something that Celestia knew might happen, but couldn’t have been sure. “Maybe if we walk this way,” Celestia said after the group had settled a bit, “toward the Citadel of the Stars in the distance, it’s the highest building in Contentinople; we’ll be able to see some interesting people.”

“How do you know all this?” asked Catriona. “How do you know where we should go?”
Celestia looked away, distantly, and shrugged: “I can feel the meme magick beckoning to us. It’s time to go.”

Celestia started walking off toward a goal that only she vaguely knew about, and with a few dubious looks at one another, the rest of the party started up after her.

Despite the perpetual night in Lunia, the small band of young adventurers could make out their surroundings thanks to the starlight. The Citadel of the Stars, which acted as a hopeful beacon to all good creatures who looked upon it, loomed up ever higher as they approached the wondrous city of Contentinople. The constant stream of what seemed to be angels could be seen high above them.

Suddenly, from amongst the angels, came a pair of large shapes that flew toward the group of young travelers. They seemed to get larger as they swooped towards the group. They were sword arcoaryans, winged angels that helped to protect Contentinople from evil outsiders. They had large wings, handsomely rugged masculine features, and if they had stood on the ground, would have been over ten feet in height. Celestia and the rest of the group stopped in their tracks as the heavenly creatures quickly descended toward them. The two winged angels landed simultaneously on the ground, shook their enormous gossamer wings and studied the young people with an intensity that couldn’t be matched. An aura of benevolent power surrounded them that the young visitors could feel.

“We have been sent to accompany you to the Citadel of the Stars; Barachiel, Arcoaryan Paragon, Lord of the Silver Heaven, Ruler of Contentinople, and Messenger of the Celestial Hebdomad, wishes to hold audience with you there,” intoned one of the angels, his deep voice pleasant, yet powerful.

“I never knew that the people in heaven would be so serious!” exclaimed Sindri who promptly received an elbow in the ribs from a glowering Catriona.

At that Celestia stepped forward, her White robes fluttering slightly in the wind, bowed and said “Thank you lord arcoaryan, my friends and I would be honoured to meet his grace, and may Heaven bless him.” The companions looked at one another as they weren’t accustomed to Celestia speaking in such a confident manner. She was normally so quiet.

“Who is this and what have they done with the real Celestia,” whispered Elidor into Nearra’s ear.

She just ignored him and decided it was time to pinch herself. “I don’t remember bits of my past, but I’ll certainly remember this,” she said to herself.

The two angels motioned for the group to carry on their way and took up positions on either side. “The Wardens of Contentinople have been watching you from some time now, little one. They were probably secretly hoping that you would find your way here on your own. Our Lord, is far too busy running the affairs of Lunia and heralding the messages of the Hebdomad to venture to the Materiel plane, although he is quite capable in that regard,” said the angel who had spoken previously. He had to look down over his shoulder at little Celestia, who was listening ever-so intently. She had to jog along to match the lengthy stride of the angel.

“Please, sir, who are the Wardens?” asked Catriona who was remarkably relaxed for someone who cared so much for the Safety of her companions.

“Your friend could answer that question just as well as I,” replied the angel who motioned to Celestia that jogged at his side.

“Celestia blushed slightly: “The Wardens of the Seven Heavens observe the Materiel Plane, our homeland in other words, from afar, from here. They’re said to be bear-like and fierce in the protection of the heavens and all good content. They guard all the entrances and hold all the keys.”

It wasn’t long before they could see the Citadel of the Stars in greater detail. The group, Elidor especially, could now see that the walls were made of White marble. The huge main gate, emblazoned with the image of a contented frog, was open; in flew hundreds of angels with bright wings and beautifully fair features, many of them carried trumpets.

“Why are there so many that carry trumpets?” asked a wide-eyed Nearra as they neared the gate.

“They are trumpet arcoaryans, who act as heralds throughout the planes. They come and go with new content and arrive with podcasts for Barachiel, Ruler of Contentinople, Lord of Lunia,” explained one of the angels.

“Could some of them been to our home town, on the materiel plane?” inquired Sindri who was certainly far from bored now. “And how does a Heb go Mad, anyway…??” The second part of Sindri’s question was stifled by one of Catriona’s gauntlet’s as she tried her best to keep anything idiotic from leaving Sindri’s mouth. It was a full-time job.

The large angel smiled for the first time since their meeting. “It is possible.”
Nearra, Celestia, Catriona, Elidor, Davyn and Sindri looked quite out of place walking through the gates of Contentinople with their two towering escorts. Other angelic creatures were there as well: shining bronze figures in brilliant armour carrying huge swords that flew without the aid of wings; flying orbs of light; flying archoaryans who carried great hammers that were surrounded by what seemed to be a vortex of parchment pages from excellent effortposts; and other heavenly creatures with buck teeth, flappy tails, and dingo babies. Such hustle and bustle of a wondrous sort had never been seen by the companions as they walked through the great gates. The flapping of wings, laughter, the blaring of podcast trumpets, conversations in a melodic lilting speech all together produced a wonderful din.

(credit: Mundilfury)

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Plasma Cannon Diplomacy – Part I

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Sectarian violence is a terrible thing. Negotiating the once quiet streets was a nightmare now whether it was on foot, by car or on a scooter. It didn’t matter. Things had a habit of blowing up around you. Bullets tended to greet automobiles as bored gangsters got in a bit of target practice just for the hell of it. Like the streets of Sarajevo decades previous, snipers had taken up positions in local high-rises and were now targeting civilians trying to go about the daily business of living.

Multiculturalism, in part, had been a vain attempt to put a happy face on the importation of ethnic conflict. Mountains of evidence were ignored by the multi-cultists: ethnic massacres in Rwanda; the apocalyptic disintegration of the former Yugoslavia; the ever-volatile Middle-East; the systematic sexual assaults perpetrated by swarthy Muslims in Rotherham; decades of vicious black on White crime; the Dindu-Kebab War of 2018; not to mention low-level ethnic strife in American and Canadian neighborhoods between rival crews. No, it wasn’t happening, they said, turn a blind eye and watch some more electric Jew. Race didn’t matter either: everyone is the same. It didn’t make one iota of difference if the people occupying your neighborhood were from ancient European stock or from the Gaza Strip, they said. Multiculturalism had made the West descend into a war of all-against-all. Many ignorant multi-cultists remained ignorant of the true plan whilst the Machiavellian types knew exactly what it would mean: the demographic dispossession and displacement of Whites. This was an attempted genocide. If only someone had been strong enough to declare that this was a majority White country before it was too late. If only someone hadn’t been a craven coward, a shill, or a cuck this could’ve been avoided. If only someone had declared that the policy of inviting the world whilst invading the world was absolute insanity.

British, Canadian & American veterans of (((neocohen))) instigated wars, along with their compatriots from allied countries, were used to the prospect of roadside bombs and contact battles with roving bands of insurgents while they motored down urban streets; but they hadn’t counted on that here in North America. Not in their own homelands.

Unbeknownst to the feeble local authorities here, in what used to be one of Canada’s most prosperous cities, Whites had decided to carry out their own patrols. Enough was enough, they had to do something to curb the victimization of true citizens. The best way to counter ethnic gangs that felt they were the new power in town, that they didn’t answer to anyone, was violence. Controlled, efficient violence. Typically, the roving bands of counter-insurgents decided that they would roll up and down major thoroughfares in their vehicles looking for contact and responding with overwhelming firepower. An operation they called Mad Max. Today, however, one such group was on a special mission. They were the noblest of true heroes who were focused like a laser beam on the task at hand.

“No, Lauren Southern IS hot,” retorted Slug from the backseat of their up-armoured SUV.

“But she had her eggs cryogenically frozen in 2022, dude, that’s degenerate,” countered AxeInTheDeep who was looking intently out the window.

“Irrelevant, besides she’s just preparing for Taylor Swift’s eugenic program, which might just save the White race,” said Slug, stubbornly.

“Would you two shut-up and stay focused? We’re entering hostile territory,” interrupted Johnathan Boone’s gravely voice from the driver’s seat. “Scan your sectors.”

“Yeah, pretend we’re in Los-fucking-Angeles, goys,” called Charlie Hammer’s subtly accented voice from the passenger seat.

In the backseat, Slug and Axe lowered their windows and readied their autoguns as they sped past derelict buildings and stacks of burning tires. The muted staccato of distant automatic weapons fire flooded the vehicle’s interior. Charlie checked the GPS to make sure they were on track as Johnathan kept his eyes on the road.

Slug decided it was time to check in with headquarters. “Alpha Hotel to Echo Bravo, Alpha Hotel to Echo Bravo, over.”

“Alpha Hotel, this is Echo Bravo, go ahead, over,” replied a pleasant female voice.

“Jess, this is Slug checking-in. How’s our signal?”

“You’re on-line and looking good, you’re about 10 kilometres from the no-go zone now. I’ve got a good feed from your roof-top camera too. Just be cautious, there are some random dindu-kebab patrol vehicles in your area.”

“Roger, thanks Jess, we’ll keep our eyes peeled.”

No-go zones had come to Canada after the opening of the borders without restriction in 2020. What was once a European phenomenon had come to the Great White North in a big way. North America had its share of ghettos, that was for certain, but these were different. The European no-go zones began as ethnic enclaves in otherwise prosperous cities like Paris, London or Brussels. They were almost exclusively populated by dindu-kebab migrants from North Africa, West Africa and the Middle East. These areas were characterized by high unemployment and lawlessness. Gangs of feral foreigners dominated these suburbs and made their livelihoods selling drugs while at the same time looking for authority figures to throw their allegiance behind. Hence the overwhelming popularity of fire-breathing imams that were fresh off the boat. During the initial asymmetric clashes between these invaders and the White population of Europe, authorities marveled at how well armed insurgents could appear seemingly out of nowhere to wreck havoc on soft targets. The no-go zones were the key to the terrorists’ success as they acted as logistical hubs and havens for fighters complete with stockpiles of armaments.

“Echo Bravo to Alpha Hotel, my satellite feed shows an enemy vehicle closing in fast on your location, over,” interjected Jess hurriedly over the vox net.

A civilian pick-up truck suddenly appeared in Boone’s rear view mirror. “Affirmative, Jess, we have company. Technical at six o’clock, closing in, looks like they have a heavy weapon on the back,” intoned Boone’s gravely voice. Technical was a designation given to any civilian vehicle mounted with a heavy weapon of some kind. They were makeshift but dangerous none-the-less.

“It’s being manned by the no-go zone’s finest dindu-kebabs,” said Axe excitedly as he peered through the reinforced back window. “It’s sporting a fifty calibre on the back, for sure.”

“I’ve got this one, goys. It’s time to try out one of our new toys,” called Charlie from the passenger seat. He began tapping furiously at his laptop to activate their vehicle’s hidden roof mounted surprise. With the whirring of servos, a hidden compartment on their SUV’s roof slid back to reveal a swivel mounted plasma cannon. “Haha, yes, this will do nicely. Ever since Home Hardware got into weapons manufacture, they’ve invented some doozies. Come to papa-Charlie, dindus.”

The rapid-fire snap of the technical’s fifty calibre barked at them as the vehicle’s gunner started to fire wildly. “Plasma coils are heating up nicely,” observed Charlie as he took aim with the weapon through his laptop’s interface. A computerized voice mechanically stated that the plasma weapon was ready to fire . “Here we go, goys, firing now!!” yelled Charlie. The plasma cannon thrummed loudly as a super-heated ball of goopy blue plasma erupted from the weapon muzzle. It shot through the air and struck the technical head on, square in the front engine block, and exploded in a brilliant flash of light that completely immolated the enemy vehicle.

“Holy shit!!”

“They didn’t even have time to yell Aloha Snackbar,” said Johnathan Boon in his characteristic deadpan.

To be continued…

(credit: Mundilfury)

An Apocalyptic Commute

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The wind, the rain, the water on concrete, fire and smoke, all blurred as he shouldered past the faceless walkers. Blood on his face, he was running through the street. “Damn it, fuck.” He spat. No one cared. A few spared him a glance as he rushed by toward the train station. Lowering of social trust came to mind, all of a sudden. “Fuck.” He swore as the maglev train sped off. He missed it again. “How many more times can I be late for work?” He thought as he stumbled towards the pay as you go medkit at the other end of the platform. Please insert credit card to access. He fumbled for his wallet, dug out a credit card and swiped the magnetic strip across the archaic reader. Access granted. The medkit popped open, he grabbed a package of gauze, tore the wrapper and pressed it to the bloody wound on the side of his head. “Ahh,” he sighed. He hadn’t been attacked in awhile, but it was his reddish blonde hair that made him stand out in a crowd, maybe that was why. He didn’t even bother pushing the emergency intercom button.

It had become increasingly rare to see Whites in the urban zones; they had fled in large numbers as immigration was opened up without restriction in 2020. “It wasn’t their fault, they see me as privileged…right?” he muttered to himself as he looked at his iWatch while pressing on his wound. The next 88 train wasn’t due for another 14 minutes; he was going to be late again for sure. It was a tough job market out there too, ever since privilege legislation was passed, things had been difficult, he couldn’t afford to lose this one.

Suddenly, he heard a distant explosion that rocked the downtown core, he instinctively covered his head with his free arm before looking towards the source of the blast. He couldn’t see anything from the platform save a small mushroom cloud that had resulted. Some of the commuters surrounding him were perturbed by the sound but most were completely inured and unmoving. It was just a consequence of life these days along with the low-level beheadings that were constantly occurring across what was once known as the Western world. It was something people were just supposed to live with. A moderately sized throng of blacks were excitedly jumping up and down at the prospect of another disruptive explosive device spoiling another school day. “Why are they so happy? It’s not as if they were going to learn anything anyway,” he thought. Sirens wailed in the distance.

He activated his inner ear audio implant to check the local news. It was a typical weekday: an explosion downtown, political graft and corruption juxtaposed with sportsball scores to ease the pain. His head wound was bleeding stubbornly; I’m being literally and figuratively bludgeoned to death, he thought. His audio implant suddenly issued a painful burst of static. A voice replaced the drone of the daily news: “The war for your cerebral cortex has been played out in the realm of ideas,” said the voice. “You’re not alone, fam.” intoned the next sound bite. “White Genocide is real, and it’s happening now.” Someone had hacked into the digital radio feed and was broadcasting a series of dissident voice samples, sound bites and captures. Now this was out of the ordinary. “When you have massive amounts of propaganda accompanied by phenomena, you’re in a state of warfare. Hostile elites have made a move against YOU!” “Jews are an ethnic mafia that we can’t live with.”

He looked to his left and saw the number 88 maglev heading towards the platform. “I am Lauritz von Guildhausen and zees are meine minutes.” “Say hello Marcus” “Hi everyone, what’s going on?” “Let’s put a bookmark in it.” “We the Right Wing now.” “It’s perfectly legitimate for Whites to articulate their own interests As. A. Group.” “I think we’re going to need a bigger oven.” Another burst of static returned his audio feed to the normal news band. He’d never heard anything like that before.

The 88 stopped at the platform with a hiss and the side doors slid open. He pushed through the crowd as the train disgorged a horde of black and brown faced commuters. Another burst of disruptive static “visit the rightstuff.biz.” He luckily found a seat and slumped down wearily with his hand still pressed to his head.

“Are you all right?” called a pleasant voice. He looked over to his right at the pretty blonde girl sitting next to him. She shone like a beacon of light in a sea of dark faces.

“I’m good, thanks, some migrants decided to enrich my commute and I’m having trouble with my ear implant this morning too. Have you ever heard of the Right Stuff.biz?”

“Yes,” she whispered excitedly, “I took the red pill, I’m based.”

“Cool, I’ll have to check it out,” he replied. “I’m Mike, by-the-way.”

“I’m Jess. It’s nice to meet you, Mike” she said.

The 88 sped along as the sun came out, what a lovely day.

(credit: Mundilfury)