The Church of the High Cross

07/25/2026

And it came to pass that there dwelt within the Golden City an Artificer of great renown, unto whom came a deceiving spirit, whose name in the ancient Aramithrian tongue was Pag. Subtle was he in speech and clothed in the likeness of wisdom; and he said unto the Artificer, “Behold, I shall fashion for thee a blade without equal beneath the sun.” Then spake he greatly concerning the strength of its core, the rightness of its balance, and the perfection of its grip, though no blade had yet been wrought.

And the Artificer waited. Many seasons passed over the desert, and messengers went forth from the City, saying, “When shall the promised work be delivered?” Yet ever did Pag answer, “The design is perfected, the materials are gathered, and but one final labor remaineth.” Thus did years consume years, and generations wax old beneath the shadow of his promise.

Yet no hammer rang within his dwelling, neither were his hands marked by toil. His workshop was empty, his storehouse bare, and his craft was only this: that he divided one promise into many, so that its fulfillment might ever appear near, yet never come to pass.

But there arose keepers of the testimony, who preserved every boast, every excuse, and every assurance that the work was nigh unto completion. When the first tablets were broken, they copied the words upon new stone; and when the ancient paths were swallowed by sand, they marked the way anew. Thus could the deceiving spirit not flee from the witness of his own mouth.

Therefore saith the Teacher: Judge not the work by the confidence of him who promiseth it, but by that which his hands have delivered. For the Artificer remaineth within the Golden City, the testimony endureth, and the blade was never made.

And beyond the uttermost dune, the deceiving spirit whispereth still “Soon.”

06/05/2026

And the spirit of Lord our God of Whacks went to The Wall, the land that separated the path of hajj to our Holiest of Meccas and Narnia. And in that place Armageddon cried out. A multitude of masses, both the righteous and the wicked, the faithful and the heretic.

And as the sun set, holy labor began. Once more the rite of Ditch began. And therein the Spirit of the Lord our God of Whacks found his Prophet on the Right Flank, shield in his left and wrath in his right.

And this was pleasing to the Lord, for they from the realms under the phoenix, and those from realms bereft of white light, did purge many sins.

05/30/2026

And now a reading from the Beatitudes of Whacks:

Lands that burn and the sky stay red
Sand in the teeth, only rocks for a bed
Gold in the haze and the war bells toll
Whacks most holy, let the flanks be rolled

Grind eternal, shiny and gold
Run that flank where the hot wind rolls
Faith in the Whacks, phoenix fire in the soul
Golden city callin, shiny and gold

Fighters to the line, boards strapped tight
Righteous basking in the white light
War bells ring and the false hearts fold
Golden City sent her best, blood and gold

War bells crack through the furnace wind
Turn and burn by the Eldar of Flame
Black smoke parts and her banners show
Shiny and gold through the furnace smoke

Left side dust, right side flame
Run that flank in the holiest name
Judgement rolls like the Night Train
We walk that fire, shiny and gold

Walk through the blaze where war winds howl
Dust on the lungs, but the faith stay bold
Whacks most holy, white fire in the soul
Gate by gate, we grind eternal

Run that flank, let the dry earth shake
Faith don’t rust and the line don’t break
Blood runs hot in the desert forge
Whacks most holy, call in the poles

Ash on the tongue and the steel still sings
Blood in the dust where the last bell rings
Black smoke lifts and the war signs hold
Golden City’s mark, eternal shiny and gold

05/25/2026

04/26/2026

Wokou, paradise isle
Now ash upon the pyre
Her Faithful Children walk the Earth
Bearing wrath against the Scourge

Wokou, paradise isle
Now flame within the choir
Her Faithful Children raise the cry
And cast the Scourge in fire

There was an Isle where the Rum Tub shone
Far from the poison, far from the throne
Wokou rose green where the warm winds rolled
A paradise held by the faithful of old

There was laughter there beneath Phoenix sky
Sacrament poured while the bright waves sighed
No Scourge in the cup, no rot in the name
Only Wokou enthroned in the old world flame

Then came the Box with its poisoned breath
Speaking soft in the house of rest
Pharisees smiled with a serpent tongue
And the old Isle darkened under the sun

The Scourge took root where the faithful drank
Black smoke curled from the riverbank
Wokou heard what the false ones claimed
And the heart of Paradise answered with flame

So Wokou chose what the weak would fear
Set flame to the cup and the poisoned cheer
Better ash on the holy shore
Than Scourge-fed rot in the Rum Tub's core

The Rum Tub cracked and the black smoke climbed
Phoenix light split the poisoned sky
Better ash in the teeth of the sea
Than Paradise chained to heresy

From the ruin came the Children of Flame
No shore behind them, no peace in their name
Ash on their hands and the old oath sworn
They walked from the Isle where the fire was born

Across the realms, through the smoke and rain
They carried Wokou in blood and flame
Where the Scourge took root, they answered the same
No Paradise lost while her children remain

Faithful Expat Children
Servants of the Whacks
Wokou's flame before them
No Scourge can turn them back

Faithful Expat Children
Walk the Earth in wrath
God of Whacks before them
Dead Scourge beneath their path

04/26/2026

Deus Vult Altum Crux

Blessèd are they who dwell within the Golden City’s hush,
Deus Vult Altum Crux
Blessèd the ears that bear the thunder of the holy noise,
Deus Vult Altum Crux
Blessèd are board-bound fighters, girded, unadorned, who walk the narrow aisle of righteousness.
Deus Vult Altum Crux
Yet in the vaulted shadow every oath is weighed,
Deus Vult Altum Crux

Blessèd are they who step right,
For darkside burdens shall be stuffed and sealed.
Deus Vult Altum Crux
Blessèd the hands that whack, yet speak no boastful tale,
For unto them the right flank is granted field.
Deus Vult Altum Crux
Blessèd the masters of the hidden sign and tag, hashtag dojoshots
Deus Vult Altum Crux
For from the Grand Master’s veiled approving nod
Deus Vult Altum Crux

Blessèd are poles, the great swords, and they that crieth red, For sins are purged where crimson warnings run;
Deus Vult Altum Crux
And blood of flurbs, as parable and sign, Is spilt then washed beneath the rising sun.
Deus Vult Altum Crux
O Sancte Arthon, custos Crucis Altae, Teach us to stab where our flow gleams too bright.
Deus Vult Altum Crux
Blessèd is the ditch, for in its lowly throne We grind Eternal, Shiny, and Gold;
Deus Vult Altum Crux
That way be sanctified through dust and strain, and enter Gates of Donkholla
For light breaks through the patient stained-glass fire, And names return that we had cast to night.

Deus Vult Altum Crux

04/19/2026

Years passed on, with the falling away of the pharisees, those who drank from the accursed box, and those who would pervert that which is holy, those that sojourned in our Holiest of Meccas enjoyed an era of peace.

And verily did the Prophet feel the weight of those years, still given to Grind Eternal, Shiny and Gold, but weary in flesh. So the Messenger of the Lord our God of Whacks descended to those hallowed halls wherein the Prophet abode.

"Prophet, the miles have been long, and you have been a faithful servant. The Lord sees your faith and recognizes the conviction of your service to the Holiest of Whacks. In Holiness, you must once again venture out to the lands bereft of the White Light."

The Prophet looked upon the Messenger and scoffed at the command. "The miles have been long, and the toll steep in price. How does the Lord expect his servant to purge sins in the ditch? Why has our Lord who walked with Arthon's belt not yet raised the next generation who can carry forth the Hate of the Saints Trinity?"

The Messenger drew a parchment from under his robe, holding it outstretched for the Prophet to take. "Donkholla's doors are not yet open to you Prophet. Whilst you still walk the earth, you will carry forth word of our Holiest of Whacks, the most Sacred of Shots, the Blessed Blow. You witnessed first hand the Hate of the Saints Trinity. You know of the battles waged upon the mountain climb next to this sanctified city. So go North to the wall once more, thus is the will of the Lord your God of Whacks."

And with that, the Messenger vanished into the halls of the Golden City, leaving the Prophet to prepare once again to enter the Rites of Waaagh.