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Bellohim, Oil on Canvas. 80x60cm

The scent of saddened-bliss lingered within his daub chambers. Two pairs of marching shoes were left at the foot of his bed, newly made and polished. Bellohim had worn-through another set of soles after a score of marches, they armoured them the best they could, lest they fail at their task, but the marches were too much even for the most well crafted pair.

Transfixed in the shoes, he grabbed at his flesh, feeling the guilt which sleep had extinguished until now. Bellohim suffered from an egregious dilemma. He had partaken in pleasure for his office of several years. This was unforgivable… Sinful.

His placement in the Moriters enclave was one of holy penance, a place where his birth body could be best used in Her service and Her service only. The Moriters needed someone who could not enjoy the marches, Bellohim had seemed ideal. His locomotion was excruciating to himself, four feet with joints that burned and cracked with every step. A torturer that felt such pain as his victim was needed. It kept unclean minds far from such responsibilities. Knowing his ailments, he was sent to march.

He knew the wrong of it, but he adored the marches. The tears and suffering of elseone resonated such beauty within him, as if they were singing their most raw passion just for him. Remorse encased his mind, his position needed doing but could not be enjoyed, he felt twice-sinful. Even the pain the marches brought to his own body were no deterrent to his bliss. The palaver of martyrdom... It filled his innermost with such immense light as Mother herself could not—

He stopped, skin spreading cold from nervous compunction, as if stone flooded his veins. Realising his profound blasphemy, a vague whimper left his lips. Such... He thought such preposterous insanities. Unmoving, he pictured Mother's everbliss and cried.

He knew the evil of it. He apologised to Mother between sodden sobs, heavy moisture beneath his eyes. But he could not change how he felt. Hard as he may try. For try he did, every day; before and after duty. During it however, blinding ecstasy fogged reason.

Today Bellohim tried once more. Gently picking each shoe, he dressed his feet with the leathery shells prepared by his superiors. Outside his windows, he could already hear the pleading gurgle of the martyrs to be. It had to be done. They were here to be marched on and marching was what he did. Tying the last knot he stood up and walked outside.

The stretching path of the march seemed empty and much darker than usual. His eyes were shaded with indoor gloom, but once adjusted to the rising sun, he knew what he saw. Bodies. Like olives in a harvest basket they pressed tight on eachother. The road had martyrs beyond the horizon, beyond sight, a thousand thousand stretched and tied to each other. Their eyes facing down, in communion with dust and dirt. Cloaks covered the martyrs-to-be a dark hue which in turn camouflaged the earth beneath, for hundreds of paces… What enclave was this that deserved such a march? Or worse, what enclave would have donated itself to be walked upon such? The thought ingrained itself on Bellohim's mind and would not erode.

He looked at Ritus, his immediate superior and often counsellor, searching for an answer; knowing none would come his way. This was a preposterous task. This march could not be. It would be days before he was done. But, but… The thought of not marching was just as insane. He wondered at what could propel such thousands to repent into a march. Perhaps… If so many had decided, it could only be right. But if all of them decided some blasphemous insanity to be righteous, would numbers make it so? His guilt filled sobs creeped closer as the confusion of consciousness and teaching bled each other.

At the end, self serving pleasure won again and with a gentle push from Ritus, Bellohim walked down the road. With the ritual bells ringing behind him he stomped noses, thighs and hands alike. Crying himself away from the pain his own legs caused him, Bellohim hummed at the tempo of the agony bellow. His face, bliss incarnate.

—

Day twelve thousand seven hundred and seventy eight of Bellohim's life.

A Moriter marcher.

‡

Thank you for reading,

Sanctvs Daniil Abrëv

Varkïen of Bloodvvörth

The Hermit & Chronicler

#art #artists on tumblr #baroque #chiaroscuro #dark art #horror #occult #painting #tenebrism #fiction #oilpainting #oil on canvas #original art

[vortvs]

Confessionaria Meryam, Oil on Cotton Paper, 10x20cm

Confessionaria to those who wish to speak their blame, the blessed Meryam listens.  

Another lifted one turns their back on her, redeemed only in their mind. Her eyes close, fighting the fatigue of endless confessions. In search of wakefulness she inhales the heavy incense that burns throughout the cathedral. Awareness floods her senses once more, dust motes stab at her perceptiveness. Feeling the world's secrets a thought away, she wonders at the muteness of their bable. 

Embarrassed by her own weakness she displaces her mind from the evil she can't help carrying, focusing instead on the complex halo behind her, before engulfing thoughts in silent contemplation. She readies her hand and with a gentle bow signals for the next sinner to approach; the burdened penitent lays their hand on her monstrous-delicate fingers, breaking their secrets into sand. 

Listening with all senses, she notes the scent and palpitations that accompany what is said by those in need. Their dancing veins tell stories of nervousness and shame. But truth is in the river flow.

Meryam's centre of thought shifts inwardly, erasing reality. The mournful sobs of this poor soul reverberate within, causing a tight sadness. Her hand closes around the gentle digits of the sinner before releasing them. Their maldoings are now hers to carry. They’re free from burden so they can err again.

She blesses them in Mother’s name and lets them leave the nave. 

As they turn their back on Meryam, tears flow. The wet lines dampen her black gown, but in the shaded enclosure of the Confessionaria, none notice. The area around her eyes darkens from coalesced stigma.

Inhaling the incense she focuses on the halo behind her, she readies her hand and signals for the next penitent to approach.

‡

Gaius Helen Mohiam was on my mind throughout this painting. But needing a purpose in my world, the Enclave that exists in order to alleviate the burden of reality came into existence. Their members, attuned to the suffering of others. Empathy is a good word to describe them. They listen and forgive. Without shaming or judging. True christianity in a way.

Thank you for reading,

Sanctvs Daniil Abrëv

Varkïen of Bloodvvörth

The Hermit & Chronicler

#art #artists on tumblr #baroque #chiaroscuro #dark art #horror #occult #painting #tenebrism #fiction

[vortvs]

Nicosh, Oil on Paper, 21x30cm

It was his turn. Excitement in the common routine was hard to muster. Yet, every fourth day of the moon cycle Nicosh felt utter elation. Today was his allotted day. He wondered at the myriad goods his blood might be used for, but never knew for certain the final end of his moisture. It was not his place to know. The Cruor Enclave kept the outings of every drop in vaulted books. Nicosh was curious but didn't care all too much.

Looking down he saw the previous wound was beginning to heal. The vast hole on his chest had turned the scabs black and hard. Not wanting any inflection he left them alone, itching as they might. No matter, they were to be torn before long.

In the usual small room, Nicosh waited. He had mixed his life fluids with the blessed water countless times within this damp chamber. His veins pulsated visibly, in both hands and neck. He knew of the pain that was to happen. The sharp lance was to be thrust in no time. He slid into position, exposing his back to the dark floor.

Without a sound, a glint flashed beneath him. A sharp gasp reverberated the room as his eyes focused on the infinity beyond the ceiling. A pain too great to contain ignited within, forcing tears and cries to escape his body.

His muscles rippled from the immense strain. Nicosh fought the ungodly hurt, until at last, he felt the familiar wetness trickle down the spear onto his chest. He ceased the fight and relaxed, letting the lance that pierced him take his weight. The water of Mother, entered his body through the impaled wound on his chest, its coldness merging with his inner warmth. Dripping after a time in holy union through the gash between his scapulae unto the clay vessel beneath.

Pride and elation manifested within, he often felt like this during the procedure. Having Mother's own waters within him was too big a gift to even comprehend. How could he be worthy of such honours? Then as reason clawed its way back, he knew every child was worthy.

With his vase nearly filled, the Cruor physician entered the room to relieve Nicosh of his holy duty. After covering the clay jar the physician leaned over him. Supporting Nicosh's body, he thrust the remainder of the lance through, immediately applying the alms to the wound.

Too weak to think with any purpose, he saw blurry mists and vague sounds. The clay pot stained with himself came into view. Nicosh touched his face, his blood in communion with Her water. He smiled, ashamed to do so. Leaning on the physician he closed his eyes. After a time he felt softness under him. His bed. Leaving consciousness behind, Nicosh cradled his bleeding wound and slowly drifted to sleep.

‡ 

Thank you for reading, Sanctvs Daniil Abrëv Varkïen of Bloodvvörth The Hermit & Chronicler

#artists on tumblr #dark art #oil painting #horror #baroque #painting #art #tenebrism #macabre #occult #odd #chiaroscuro

[vortvs]

Irtha, Oil on paper, 30x42cm

Within her abdomen, gentle sloshing sounds lullabied the empty road. The well had been full today, which made the journey back harder and more blissful. She thanked Mother under her toiled breath, thankful for the gift. It was a blessed day. Irtha dragged her enlarged stomach with some difficulty. Leaving a long, if subtle, indent on the dirt path as she trudged her way home.

It had been over a year since she had seen so much water. She'd even gone back home to fetch the clay vase, for blessings once full. For blessings... if she was to be so lucky as to see one of the arutimus, wonder past her dwelling. They had been a progressively rarer sight, draught had a way of banishing life away, even devoted life such as missionaries.

Regardless, she knew why she was here. No one would or could, make her leave. Only Mother, could perhaps dissuade her resolve.

Back home, Irtha put down the vase in a wood box, so not to tip it by accident, and went to the stone reservoir were she had birthed, in secret, her own children. She had no knowledge of anyone else who had done such a thing. But dared not ask anyway, for fear of unknown rules or swift retribution by forgotten Enclaves. She was afraid, but devotion had never left her.

She regurgitated the plentiful water unto the tank, filling it nearly full. But she knew it wouldn't last, their thirst was unending. Within a few hours the reservoir would be half drained. For Irtha's twins had a strange porous skin, not once for the last three years had it stopped absorbing moisture. She had failed to bring water once, and they nearly died from the violent convolutions that followed. She swore never again to see them suffer such.

Once empty of water herself, she left the tank and dropped on the floor wanting for sleep, exhausted. Ripples and far away sounds reverberated her dreams.

Waking suddenly she looked at the window. Morning, she thought. It was time to leave once more. She opened the door and began her walk towards the well...

‡

I've been assaulted with a myriad of ideas that need rendering in painting. This is one of the most interesting ones, I think. The fact she choses the unending toil, plus her extreme anatomy makes this character one of my favourites so far.

Thank you for reading,

Sanctvs Daniil Abrëv

Varkïen of Bloodvvörth

The Hermit & Chronicler

#anatomy art #oilpainting #art #macabre #chiaroscuro #dark art #tenebrism #horror #occult #baroque #painting #artists on tumblr