The void blooms, and Samael is Nyarlathotep, shadowed wandering king. A crown, a silver piercing thorny crown, frames his face, studded with bulls horns, and there is a black star imploding on his face. He smirks at me with razor fangs, his long Slenderman limbs drenched in blood, and pops an apple into his serrated smile then crunches down on the tender flesh of doves.
The Pale One judges. He sits atop an iron throne in tefillin and blood drips from his mouth and gaping face wound. His claws and feet are crimson in gore, and as he shape shifts in nocturnal delights, I chant the wings of Lovecraft wrapping around me.
Lilith is the Hairy one, goat Seirim from waist down, dancing with curling horns and smelling like sex. The black snake of Samael and Yog Soggoth the Mother of a Thousand Young, Lilith Shedim, delight in wicked cavorting. Demons swell from his seed and her womb and the evening is lit afire.
