Pilgrimage to the Iron God

The city is grit, discarded trash, and slush from the premature snows that fell down in the brisk night. People are miserable, horns act as a channel of rage for the small souls behind their wheels, and I am numb.

For I am making a journey this morning, to test myself against the cosmic chains of this earth, or to break myself on the altar of iron that I willingly seek out.

It has been said by many that the iron never lies, and that the iron is not your friend, and with this I wholly agree. Mankind has tied its fate to the Iron God, and in more ways than one it has forged us more than we have molded it with our finite, paltry hands.

The Iron is more than a hunk of metal, it is a sentient image, a sacred implement, and He has naught to do than test us. Whether in the shape of crude spears, bloody swords, the sights of a gun, or the barbell plate that so many of us modern barbarians seek to prove ourselves by.

The Iron is old, and His patience is as unshakable as the roots of mountains and His might is as unstoppable as the roaring seas. But He waits. He waits in silent halls, meditating on the will of men, a small thing to be played with, tried, measured, and ruined if they are unworthy.

You see, it is by His strength that we measure our own, and as soon as we approach the Iron Temple we will be welcomed and tried as faithful, or be known for our iniquities and be cast aside into the heap, until we humble ourselves with ritual and sacrifice and are able to approach once more, ready and willing to worship with those who have ascended the mountain.

I have been unfaithful, and I have wavered, as we all have. We are mortal, after all.

But on this crisp, autumnal morning, while others seek out vainglorious pursuits or sit uncaring about their lives and abilities, I recognize the need and the call of the Iron.

I understand that weakness begets weakness, and if I were to die today or in a hundred years, I would rather approach Father Death with a renewed strength in my limbs and a reawakened Fire in my belly. I refuse to be cowed into a straw death, whether of the spirit or of the flesh, and I will climb the mountain once more to be met at its peak by glory.

I conclude these words with those of Paul Waggener, a man I find to be extremely influential and valuable on my path of growth;

“Your regrets will be all those things you didn’t do.

All the I Love You’s you never said.

All the hours you bartered away for more money, only to have a half-full wallet and an empty heart.

Each and every time you said “no” to life and “yes” to servitude.

If you didn’t do it for the story, what the hell were you doing it for?

If there’s nothing to talk about at the end, how the hell will you be remembered?

Life is sweetest when Wild and Free-

For only Death is Guaranteed.

XCII”

(Quotation by Paul Waggener for Operation Werewolf, “Only Death is Guaranteed” )