The Vampyric Vespers
by Noctambule

Hearken, O ye who are my people, and
give ye ear to my words. For I desire Wisdom
and my heart seeks to find understanding.
I am smitten with the love of Wisdom, and
I am constrained by the cords of understanding;
for Wisdom is far better than treasure of gold
and silver, and Wisdom is the best of all
that hath been created on the Earth.

Now unto what under the heavens shall Wisdom
be compared? It is sweeter than honey, and
it maketh one to rejoice more than wine, and it
illumineth more than the sun, and it is to be
loved more than precious stones...it is a source
of joy for the heart, and a bright and shining
light for the eyes, a giver of speed to the feet,
a shield for the breast, a helmet for the head,
chain-work for the neck and a belt for the loins.
It maketh the ears to hear and hearts to understand,
it is a teacher of those who are learned, and it is
a consoler of those who are discreet and prudent,
and it giveth fame to those who seek after it.

And as for a kingdom, it stands not without Wisdom,
and riches cannot be preserved without Wisdom;
the foot cannot keep the place wherein it hath
set itself without Wisdom. And without Wisdom that
which the tongue speaketh is not acceptable.

Wisdom is the best of all treasures. And
because of the wickedness of those who do
real evil, the righteous are praised;
Wisdom is an exalted and a rich thing:
I will love it like a mother, and she shall
embrace me like her child. In the eternal time
of the lord and lady, so shall Wisdom reign.

And true Wisdom may be found in the Blood.


Wisdom. Eternal life. Days without end.
Does not a pope in Rome promise the same?
Perhaps Bijoux did not fully comprehend
these concepts, yet her own blood came
to understand Sheba's Song of Songs across the
centuries and their stories will be told again...
for Noctambule, the One who Walks in the Night
has returned, and this Hallows' Eve is the Hour,
and the days ahead are the Time...our time, dear
friends of the Moonlight, for how else might a
candle shine if not deprived of the Sun's rays?

We are no longer the Misbegotten, but those
Begotten of the Divine...and our deeds shall
be as flames of fire, whose heat resurrects
the Immortal Phe-nix and makes us Gods.

The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.

William Shakespeare
The Merchant Of Venice
Act 4, scene 1