Ars Philtron: Concerning the Aqueous Cunning of the Potion by Daniel A. Schulke

By Daniel A. Schulke

The paintings examines "Wortcunning and Sabbatic-alchemical gnosis as manifested during the medium of potion-making. Its textual content treats of the 8 central Sabbatic-alchemic philtre varieties, their pharmacoepia and formula. Evocations to points of the Sabbatic Guardians Lilith and Cain also are given to empower the revelation and reification of the Philtre Arcana." the writer used to be a pal of the past due Andrew Chumbley, and is shortly either the Magister of the Cultus Sabbati, in addition to the Verdelet of the culture. it's from the Cultus Sabbati, in universal with Chumbley's "Azoetia," that this booklet attracts its concept.

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Extra info for Ars Philtron: Concerning the Aqueous Cunning of the Potion and Its Praxis in the Green Arte Magical

Example text

He was a night-stalker: like Jack the Ripper, like Gilles de Rais, a living embodiment of death, a wraith with a human face. He was a haunter of sleep, and an awakener of terrors. The people below him could not know his face; nor would care to look twice at him. But his stare caught them, and weighed them up, selecting only the ripest from the passing parade, choosing only the healthy and the young to fall under his sanctified knife. Sometimes Mahogany longed to announce his identity to the world, but he had responsibilities and they bore on him heavily.

Catch an Express to Far Rockaway. Home in an hour. Neither Kaufman nor Mahogany knew it, but at 96th and Broadway the Police had arrested what they took to be the Subway Killer, having trapped him in one of the up-town trains. A small man of European extraction, wielding a hammer and a saw, had cornered a young woman in the second car and threatened to cut her in half in the name of Jehovah. Whether he was capable of fulfilling his threat was doubtful. As it was, he didn’t get the chance. While the rest of the passengers (including two Marines) looked on, the intended victim landed a kick to the man’s testicles.

Maybe he smelt the sudden gush of tunnel-air, and registered that the noise of wheels was momentarily louder. But he chose to ignore it. Maybe he even heard the scuffle as Mahogany subdued the youth with the spaced-out stare. But the sound was too distant and the promise of sleep was too tempting. He drowsed on. For some reason his dreams were of his mother’s kitchen. She was chopping turnips and smiling sweetly as she chopped. He was only small in his dream and was looking up at her radiant face while she worked.

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