The Binding

Surrounded by bruised, pregnant clouds, Baphomet loomed obsidian against a midnight sky. Its horned helm scraped the heavens casting a shadow hungry enough to swallow the moon, which hung low, a bloated eye weeping eerie pale light across the mountain top. Wind smelling of dust and forgotten things whipped tendrils of ivory smoke from censers held by the acolytes, their forms dwarfed by the unholy grandeur. One whispered, "Is this enough, Brother Azrael? Will the binding hold?" Azrael's voice, thin as frost, answered, "If not, this altar becomes our pyre, brother. Pray the mountain whispers secrets only we can hear.