There were joints, but there was no displacement. Yanchal Krimeli saw dust and traces of legends past, but there were no legends on the map; for whom or for what? An abomination!

Before him stood a most disfigured being, one of coal and the deepest minerals of our Earth, a creature of the night gone into hiding, hopefully for time eternal; but not so: folded as a blanket, there were some and some others, some as layers, som as people, some as lawyers, who were they and for whom did they work? They were not for Krim; he was not for them. It is not a straight value – as much is certain. Recent events, did however bring to question and consideration the very essence of truth and the falsability of truthness: if nothing is, then what is not?

The taste of the tamed and awful. The crimson oxen! At what shalt one look at? Twisted creatures of nature – behold thyself – look no further! And thus did Yanchal look himself in the mirror, and indeed he did gaze into eternity; for nothing would mirror such a face (or fate) as his; the very damnation: an ungodly being in an ungodly world – no sanctuary would be granted, even beyond the pearly gates yonder.

And then the great wall descended upon Yanchal himself, and Yanchal ran into the darkness along the long and forsaken road along the mountain in which he had looked and forgotten, but the mountain had not forgotten Yanchal. “Stare into me! Face me, face me you becursed being, you blessed born of the light! I am the darkness of the mountain, the chains of the earth!” And Yanchal did not stare, merely smile, and he walked further and did awake many a demon of Satan.

So he ventures on; gazing into orogenies of the forgotten past; the chain building events that never will be remembered nor witnessed in evidence nor quasitruth or real thruth or the given circumstances. There is no truth, only the truth which one can gaze upon but not grip, and behold – the Beast as if frozen and freed; forth sprung a most hideous dweller of nighttime: the idea of our salvation and the basis of God – ungodly as Messiah and doomed as Metusaleh to weakened age. It is no thing on which we lightly speak in circles of Mystics, but in times demanding, we kneel and yield: I shall tell you of the ancient roamer; the wanderer (and harbinger) of our sorrow:

The void granted him no sanctuary – “there shall be no rest for the wicked on earth”, and wicked he was, that raven of old revenge. That which has no beginning will have an end, but Krim is not of beginning, nor of end; Krim is forsaken; Krim is the ingredient – “the forisiack and mohemiack – call your curtain upon me, gruesome beast!” Cain! Cain! I call you! Empires may wax and wane; yet did the struggle of Krim and the Ungod remain unresolved – no man would interveen without total destruction of his own and only soul – and hither and tither did they roam in battle; ravaging the villageside and many a field of harvest. Fold thy barins! Crack and fault! There is no direction in which you can thrust, only the web which the spider does not crawl nor reside in; for as long as the cobweb remains virtual, remains Krim – that which has been for a very long time.

Thus we conclude; grab thine sword and man the ramparts! See now that the Ungod is upon you, and fight with the Deep Krim of the Mountain!