Eques Obscura

This region, once shared by tribes of Atfalati hunters & gatherers, wapato farmers, and Gothic missionaries; the sister-land of Merlin’s band of warrior-druids - all who wander from out of state hang their heads and express the excessive gloom of grey and weepy skies, our expansive forests and dark, antagonizing woods and wetlands. In the middle of this black forest-swamp where the ghosts of the Pacific graze; in with the morning fog and out with the evening chimney smoke, are the white robed monks living off the land.

Just as we press and pull for reps until failure, so too do we sing, pray and recite the Psalms. We thumb through Saint Michael beads calling on Lordships, purifying, illuminating, perfecting - until failure.
You will fail, and you will die. We’ve found irony and patheticism outside our boundaries. One doesn’t have to travel far to reach the city which boasts the most brothels and breweries per-capita, one of the highest suicide rates, and a drug traffic boom. This is the place where the last Wild-West outlaw was gunned down following a brutal jail-break. Not over Texas beef. Not on the Wyoming plains. Not at a California gold mine. No movie or song was written about it. But it happened right here. We know that to be good cops, we must be good outlaws. And now Saint Michael, with grim armed men - faces set like flint, have this place surrounded again.

In everything there is a trinity that shows how the most fundamental elements are related, and a crux where it all comes together to Truth. It’s no wonder why the Holy Grail becomes the relic and symbol for men of orthodox faith and courageous action. Life and death, friction; it is the blow Macbeth was to deliver in his plot to assassinate the Scottish King and take the throne - the be-all-end-all. It is the Truth God transmitted to man in action: receiving the blood of God, giving our blood for God; love, birth, the Mass, blood martyrdom, dying in battle - life and death - the friction we live; this straight and narrow path. Macbeth would press and pull to failure. You will fail, and you will die.

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Of, for, and to those off the path, we say nothing. We will not speak. We will not write. We will not publish criticisms or corrections or argue that this is the way. Scripture states that for everything there is a season. The time to refrain from embracing is upon us once again. The time for hate and war draws more near. The time for evangelization has long since been over. It warms our hearts to hear the Devil tell the truth, and with poise we watch dead men as he leads them off trail. We are the silent monks of the Chahalem, the ghosts of the Pacific. We owe scoffers and skeptics no debate, and we give them none. Men did not invent the Truth, it’s artifacts nor the way to them. We are the eques obscura - the dark knights of our Sherwood Forest. The Cross and Chi-Rho our holy runes - we aren't the architect. We come together at the crux of the sword and banner where the chalice and skull lie together - life and death. We are the sons of vim and vigor and this is our colosseum. We are the dead collectors, and this is our graveyard.

Get the Grail.