“On the Origins of the Hinterlands”
Fathermonk Nagleharne Besswitch of Color
“On the Origins and Creation of that Cursed Realm Known as the Hinterlands (and Diatribe about What can be Found There), relayed by Fathermonk Nagleharne Besswitch of Color, the one of the Third Fraternal Order and Wearer of the Red, Bearer of the High Stick, Overseer of the Culpitus, One of Priestly Castings, Prayer of the Anointed Joints, Blesser of Inepts, Leader of Bewildered Trunks, Main Branch Artery of God’s Leaf, Taster of Pies, Liver of Pack Sea Dwelling and affectionately known as “The First To Do It”, in this our Season of the Darkened Iris Leaf:”
“There incorporate a most unusual catastrophe, an earthquake of devils that erupted from the ground beneath, a geologic history as it were, that subsided the Roost and Roots of God’s Trees and sent many down the Hell Beneath, the Darkened Abode, the Sent-Hell of Catastrophe Bleak, the Rockened Hell where they all go to die and suffer for all Hell Eternity, and the ground it opened up and there upon a wind from the Moon swept down and iced it the rocks that shattered from underneath, there in the Hell Pits, the Demoned Spawn, the Hell-Within-It, the Wreath of Flame, the Fire Rook, the Poisoned Guard Drake of Dragon Cold, the towering mountains that there formed then swept back up into the Heavens and there cooled, there iced, and there so far up and upon the earth’s mantle crust that it touched the Moon from whence it was born. The coldness of ice, the coldness of its breath alive, but none to be lived and seen there upon it was born the snow of the mountained rock, what we call that barren waste, that winded howling hell that now forms the barrier reef of our World, and that which keeps us within and without, that which borders us and is where we know of our limits. The Hinterlands we call them, peopled by many demons that were wrought from below, that which the Devil himself had wrenched and pulled from the flames of his own beseechings, the cauldron flame, the Star which betrothed them, the God’s Inner Breast of Howling Winds, there now reside in the mountainous wretched cold of that place, that other world, that far beyond that few ever have come back from, that is our guarded beyond, that place of misery that is our hell now, hell on earth, and it be no trick to say it be cursed upon it, and all who go do not come back, and if so, it be rapt with forked tongue and devil’s claw, it be a damned soul, one so cold, yet from the historics, a flaming beldue of cannoned black, a sinful troit, a burdened caste, an evil man.
This is the Home of the Hinterland, this is the Home of the Bedeviled, this is the Abode of the Dark, not the hell fire of deepened ashe that belongs to the Womb’s Belly. It is of the cold stuff, the icy bewitched, the snowed-in that bedrazzles one to the Hellbrims, and look ye that can take you there? The Rowman himself, that demon tricksy, that bedraggled hellion, the one whose face one cannot grasp as you enter his boat, who takes you across seas to it, to Hell, that across the oceans damned, the oceans deep and dark, the hell caverns ye shall cross over with the wailing hens of wrought wights.
Climb it, climb it well, the peaks of that far off oblivion, for it shall take you naught but to a heller Hell than one can ever imagine it…”