Ascension Through the Abyss

Some people may be somewhat confused about us. And we understand.

We speak of ascension. We speak of divinity, of the sovereign soul rising in resplendence like a sun reborn. We whisper about godhood—not as some unreachable flame on a distant altar, but as something latent in the marrow, waiting. We speak of power, of awakening, of becoming more than mere flesh and breath. And then—

Then we write of blood and bone. Of shadows summoned in silence. Of curses like thorns curling around fate. Of exorcisms, bindings, and rites that burn the tongue just to speak them. We write of the Left Hand, and the black candles flickering in underground temples. And yes, it might seem like a contradiction. One moment, we sound like sages chasing stars. The next, like witches raising storms from grave-dust. So you ask—who are you, really?

It might seem like we are split in two. Like we dance back and forth between sanctity and sacrilege with no clear footing. But this is not madness, nor confusion. This is not performance. This is not a mask for sale.

This is who we are.

You see, we know the darker ways so well because that is where we began. That was our baptism: not in holy water, but in the abyss. Not with angels singing, but with silence watching. The Left Hand Path—the path of self-deification, of will forged in isolation, of trials that cut until you shine—we walked it first. We studied its spirits, its keys, its poisons and its poisons-that-heal. And we learned. Not to be evil. Not to destroy. But to know—to wield, to endure, to transmute.

And yes, those writings are popular. People are drawn to danger, to the forbidden, to the heavy velvet of the night. So we write about it, deeply, thoroughly, honestly. Because others might speak of it like tourists. But we were born there. We have tasted its iron.

But that is not all we are.

We also speak of the Right Hand—not the moralistic prison some imagine, but the sacred path of refinement, of discipline, of harmony. We speak of balance, of alignment with celestial order, of rituals that cleanse and mend. We speak of light not as a blinding force, but as something that reveals. Something that warms. Something that clarifies.

And sometimes, we walk the middle. The spiral path, the winding road, the place where shadow and light hold hands and do not argue. The place of the alchemist, who knows that gold is born when opposites cease their war. That’s what we aim for—not purity, but totality.

You see, we are not divided.

We are a bridge.

We are the silence that holds the scream. We are the fire that purifies and the fire that consumes. We are the star and the pit, the balm and the blade. We are the morning crowned with dusk.

Our work may seem contradictory to some. But to those who understand: it is a tapestry, not a fracture. A weaving of all currents—dark, light, and everything that shimmers in the space between.

We are not confused. We are whole.

And godhood is forged in every aspect of that wholeness.

And so we return to that question: why both?

Why dance with angels only to later sip from the chalice of demons? Why speak of divine ascent and soul-radiance, only to then draw sigils meant to bind, to banish, to burn? Why invoke the names of gods with incense and reverence, only to turn and whisper to the dead beneath moonless skies?

Because we refuse the lie of separation.

You see, many paths teach that you must choose—either light or shadow, right or left, above or below. But we have walked enough of those roads to know: division is illusion. True power is not in choosing a side. It is in mastering the whole. In owning every fragment of yourself—every luminous dream, every snarling instinct, every divine longing, every mortal flaw.

We are not interested in half-truths.

We do not seek the light because it is “good,” nor do we tread the dark because it is “edgy.” We walk them because both are real. Both offer gifts. Both offer trials. Both carve you into something more. And when you take both into your being—not as enemies, not as phases, but as limbs of the same body—then you begin to understand. You begin to change.

This is why we write the way we do. One book may teach you to call on stellar forces and align with your higher self. The next may plunge you into Necromantic rites and the art of curses. Both are valid. Both are necessary.

Some people write to appeal. We write to reflect. To show the reality of a complete path—a path that is not sanitized, not marketable, not palatable to those who only want what comforts them. Our path is not soft. But it is true. And it is yours, should you dare to walk it.

We speak to the ones who know that godhood is not about pretending to be flawless. It is about becoming whole. It is about taking up your shadow and your light, not as masks, but as weapons. As wings.

We do not contradict ourselves.

We complete ourselves.

So if you see our pages veer from the solar to the lunar, from the sanctified to the profane, do not mistake it for confusion. See it instead as constellation—the pattern that emerges only when the stars are all seen together. The map of a soul becoming more than it was.

We are not half-made. We are not lost. We are becoming. And we are doing so in full.

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All of our writings, including our blog posts, are copyrighted to us (Rheiner and Vanessa Le Roux under the pseudonyms of Baron and Baronessa Araignee) and our business Araignee Arcane Services. Our writings are original and not copied content.

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