#black cilice

[blastbeat]

black metal-vinyl: black cilice - “transfixion of spirits”. released via iron bonehead productions in 2019. this is a copy of the 2020 repress.

[altar-ov-plagues]

Black Cilice

[akesius]

Black Cilice - A Corpse, A Temple (2011) - The Gate of Sulphur

[bebemoon]

look for the name MARY GRACE (requested by @ratsandfashion) | enfants riches déprimés layered muslin baby doll dress w/ red text embroidery along skirt (s/s 2o22), brokenheirlooms (on etsy) handmade black onyx bead and blood red glass bead garnet rosary necklace w/ antique doll inside sacred heart pendant, dark tales "floating candles" limited halloween edition eau de parfum (frankincense, linen, candlewax, amber, violet, moss, vanilla), antique victorian-era lace-up black leather heeled boots, antique prayer book w/ gilded page edges and side lock (locking mechanism is missing) (c. 191o's), antique cilice and fabric belt choker (instrument of penance) (18th cent.)

[michanvalentine]

Brain: What if Vincent, like a good man who must atone, possessed instruments of penance such as cilice and flail hidden in a briefcase? What if Yuffie found about it? Me: Yuffie burst into the room. She was wearing a leather corset, fishnet stockings and black heeled boots. In her hand she held a riding crop. Vincent swallowed.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"There's no point in playing dumb. I know you hide the penitent master's kit under the bed!" replied the ninja; and the gunslinger kicked the briefcase hidden underneath "So let's stop talking and let's try to make everything more... interesting."

Having established this, Yuffie pulled some handcuffs out of her neckline.

"Vincent…" she continued, shaking her head "You were a really, really bad child… are you ready for your punishment?"

At the word "punishment" Vincent Valentine felt he could not refuse.

Brain: That's not what I meant.

[radiopuertodelmetal]

Black Cilice

Raw Black Metal

Portugal

[talesofmetalandmagic]

BadThingsHappenBingo – Episode I

@badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: League of Legends (Shurima)

Characters: Emperor Omah Azir, Xerath (+ extras)

Prompt: forcibly stripped

Synopsis: Azir is kidnapped and taken to the same sandstone cave where Xerath’s father was killed during his servitude. Xerath makes it clear once and for all that Azir isn’t worthy of being called a god by removing the visual symbol of his power: his golden armor. 

Take that helmet of his, thief girl, and run as fast as you can. When I'm done with him… there will be nothing left but that. Azir clings to the last words he's heard as if to a raft. He feels like he's truly submerged in the stormy sea – he can't see anything, with that fucking hood on his head – and at every curve of the dunes he walks on he sinks on a breakwater higher than the others. Up and down, without respite. If Xerath hadn't sealed his beak he would have vomited all over himself three days ago. The changing temperature is the only way to recognize the passage of time. During the day the sun weighs on him like a leaden cloak, and he has so much sweat on his feathers that when he ruffles it off he finds even more sweat on him just from the gesture. At night a chill falls to lose his mind, and Azir is almost grateful to have to walk again, and again, and again: the constant movement helps to keep warm. Perhaps this is the punishment Xerath has in mind. Dragging him in a procession of shame around his native territory, turning his golden armor into a humiliating cilice. No way, though. He is Omah Azir, emperor by right of that same land on which he sheds blood and sweat, and Shurima itself will take her revenge as soon as he's free from that torc. May he torment him, subjugate him, have fun playing tyrant: he shall have the last word, and he'll wear that armor with the pride of his house. The days of sweat pass, and so do the nights of trembling: and finally, while Azir's bleeding paws settle on a stony and dusty ground, two hands tear the hood from his head and a sun knife burns his eyes up to the nape of his neck .

Sivir isn't there, is the first thought that crosses his mind. She must have escaped, yes. Any alternative would hurt too much, and it is not possible that his descendant is naive. May Xerath face him: he's an adversary on his level. The same man holding his hood in his hand, a burly middle-aged fellow with ashen-white eyes, rips the clamps from his beak. Azir stands firm, he will not moan in pain for that worm Xerath. He won't admit that he would give anything for a glass of water, a bite of banana and honey, just to be able to sit down. That beautiful Ascended body is not born for humiliation. And Xerath is there, lifted into the air like a comet, the chains on his formless body quivering like endless lightning. He's so close that if he were untied he could slap him. -How are you feeling, Imperial Majesty?- He seems to taste the contempt dripping from her lipless face. He can't even hate him on the same level, not Xerath: he's made up his mind that he's in charge, that he's in a position of superiority over him. Azir would spit on his face if they were on the same level. "Fine," he replies. -Better than you will be when I reach you.- -Talk, always talk. I'd shut your mouth again if it weren't more right to teach you to shut up.- -You can't silence an emperor.- Xerath throbs, the chains tremble. He can't figure out what he's thinking, without a face to look at. Xerath had beautiful eyes once. They were so black, from pupil to iris, that they seemed to be getting bigger all the time. -I'll think about it when I have an emperor in front of me. Now take off his armor. Show me the feathers.- The hand of the man with the ashen eyes moves towards the buckles of his breastplate. Azir snaps: he reaches him under the chin, with both fists, and the bones of his chin crumble under the skin against his knuckles. The man falls on his back, stiff as a boulder. A pool of blood slides down his chin, and his white eyes remain open, empty, without light. -Don't touch me!- Azir widens his eyes, bares his teeth under his beak. They're all going to end up like that: may they try, may they try to despoil the Emperor of the Sands. -No one dare touch me!- Two other men grab his arms, tug at his cloak and the flaps of feathers at his wrists. Hands go up against his legs, squeeze his thighs until they tear the skin. They don't see me, they don't realize. Azir pecks the neck of the man to his right, but his hands are gripping the fabric. He feels the grip of the cloak loosening, the armor lightning. -LET ME GO!- Two slender hands cling to her wrist, tight like the coils of a snake: then a clink resounds against the sand, and a young woman with short hair kicks her gold cuff, making it disappear in the sand. Azir lunges, claws without seeing them, pecks left and right. -I will have you all crucified, leave me!- -Oh, Azir. You still don't get it.- Xerath towers over him like an obelisk, his eyes of light curling into a smile of pure joy. -You lost.- A moment later lightning strikes: Azir has time to close his eyes before squealing.

When Azir opens his eyes, his mouth full of bile, he is floating somewhere above the men of Xerath, a foot away from the scorching sun. He opens his beak to breathe: pain pops in his ribs, neck, up and down his arms and legs. Let me go: he moves his lips, but his voice does not come out; his throat burns as if he's been screaming for a whole day. He coughs, blinks, turns his head this way and that as if he were hooded again. Ten, twenty, a hundred hands hold him up as if to carry it in triumph. His dewclaws are swollen with flesh, a drop of blood runs down his neck. He cannot see him anymore: but he's watching him, he knows it, he wants it. A gust of wind caresses Azir's face and chest, moving the feathers. The feathers… no, no. The hands that hold him slip away from under his back: Azir tenses in anticipation of the blow. His back scrapes against the sand, his head tilts back. When he touches his forehead she realizes that one wrist is bare and one cuff is undone. -How dare you…- The sand seems to slip away from under him. He gets on all fours, pulls himself to his feet without resting his knees on the ground. When he stands, claws planted so as not to fall again – an emperor on his knees, that would be all that's missing – he sees the men who dared to touch him, a perfect circle on all sides, some bleeding from their bellies, some from their limbs, a woman even from the mouth. Only the first to touch him, the one with the white eyes, lies motionless in the pool of his blood. Azir, as bad as it is, draws relief. I can still fight. Then the two before him move away from each other, and Azir sees behind them the heap of gold beside Xerath, and on its top the spread wings of his breastplate. And under the shin guards and leg loops, two hanging rags that had once been his cloak. To preserve him from nudity remain the purple under-tunic, now smeared with a disgusting paste of sweat and damp sand, and the only cuff. Azir clenches the fist he's attached to. He will fight to the last jewel, and if he loses it will be a hard-earned defeat. If they didn't have that traitor's magic on their side, he would have killed them all already, and without breaking a sweat. -I am Emperor Omah Azir, and I will fight to the last for my dignity.- -You will give that to me instead, Azir. Even that. You no longer deserve any jewels.- The wretches step aside as Xerath passes, as if he were already the emperor. Come come. You will see what awaits you. Xerath is all armor, but there is a core in the middle of the chains. He's not as smart as he thinks if he's got a weak point left. Azir hides the cuff behind his back and raises his bare hand into a dry punch. And something clicks inside Xerath.

The light burns like fire against Azir's face. He sees sky, sand, sky and sand again; and even the sand burns, scrapes against the flesh like the sharpest of knives, while he rolls against the dune and lies back with his face immersed in the dust. Get up. You can fight. Pull yourself up. The sun beats down on the feathers, but Azir feels chilled. Xerath is upon him, his chains creak, the energy where his heart used to be keeps popping in that same way. It can not be. Get up, pusillanimous wretch. Azir raises his feathered head, shakes the dust from his feathers and eyes, rubs his face with his hands – two bare hands, feathers and feathers and nothing else. It's over. The white-eyed men and women arrive shortly after, like a swarm of ants. Two of them take his limp hands like rags and lock them behind his back with heavy iron handcuffs. Others gird his ankles with a chain an arm's length, to the end of which is attached a stone the size of a watermelon. Azir drags himself into a sitting position and yanks, to the last drop. He can only tilt his head and see the tear in the undertunic, from which a few feathers dangle. My armour. He had never looked at his body without it. He looks like a hawk, but he doesn't feel like a bird of prey: he's thin, small, ragged. Wrong. -Xerath, you..- -Shh, shh. Let me look at you… - It almost seems to him that those engraved eyes widen, joyful, scrutinizing his sanded and tattered feathers as if there was nothing more beautiful in the world. -Humiliated, dirty, clad in rags. I could make statue of this, to look at you for eternity.- -That armor belongs to me.- he hates how the sand runs through his feathers, rough as a curry comb. He feels like scratching himself, but he'll hold back. He's not a flea-ridden mutt, he's an emperor. -That body doesn't even belong to you. But we've only just begun, Azir. You will have to suffer much more than a striptease in the sunlight.- Azir drags himself to his feet again. He broke a spur nail, leaning his foot on it hurts, his right arm pulls the cuff against him, and the sprout of a lump is growing at the back of his neck, but he stands upright like a worthy Emperor of Shurima and looks up at that shapeless face with all the hatred of his nakedness. -You will pay for it, Xerath. Look me in the face. I am the glory of Shurima, don't mess with me. You will pay dearly.- -I've been paying all my life, Azir. Now stop.- Xerath glows like a nova, but Azir doesn't look away. This is the last time he humiliates him like this.

[whatodoo-austria]

Black Cilice, Sanguine Relic, Gates Of Sleep - Vienna, Austria | 25 May, 2024.

Find out more / Get Tickets now.

[snett]

black cilice are gonna play where i live but it's in the middle of my exam period :((

[blastbeat]

black cilice live at escape, vienna (25-05-2024). all my pictures of the show on flickr.

[altar-ov-plagues]

Black Cilice

[macchinesemplici66]

Top 25 del 2022 Questo è quello che ho ascoltato di più nel 2022, il meglio per me. In nessun ordine particolare. Ci saranno sicuramente cose migliori che non ho ascoltato. Obskuritatem – Arogantni Nihilizam - Dead Meadow – Force Form Free - Pink Mountaintops – Peacock Pools - Chat Pile – God's Country - Midwife – Live At Nová Libeňská Synagogue - Michel Cloup – Backflip Au-dessus Du Chaos - Cor Veleno, Tre Allegri Ragazzi Morti – Meme K Ultra - Tomberlin – I Don’t Know Who Needs To Hear This… - Nidernes – Beyond The Gleam Of Nightsky - Nefarious Scenarios - DEMO MIXTAPE I: CRIMINALIST - Nu Genea – Bar Mediterraneo - Tenebrositas – Terra Miseriae - Black Cilice – Esoteric Atavism - Brant Bjork – Bougainvillea Suite - Kaos – Chiodi - Messa – Close - Misþyrming – Með Hamri - Big Thief – Dragon New Warm Mountain I Believe In You - Seremonia – Neonlusifer - Wiegedood – There's Always Blood At The End Of The Road - Mesmerism – As Angels In A Night Of Lead - Cold Gate – Cold Gate - Francesco Di Bella – Play With Me - Run The Jewels – RTJ Cu4tro - The Heads – Under Sided (20th Anniversary Edition) #top25 #aoty2022 #macchinesemplicitop25 #macchinesemplici #blackmetal #stoner #metal #psych #americana #dub #singer #hiphop #rap #indie #enjoy (presso Macchine Semplici Headquarter) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cm7nOe4oOLH/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[twistedisciple]

Starter for @cursedbluebird @sweetroyalberry @arcaeda @breidabloom

The stench of sulfur was back again, a fine perfume over a more nauseating one: the syrupy sweet of not just one decomposing body, but an entire room full of rot. A low ceiling of earth and stone pressed down on it as if to keep it locked inside, like a crypt, or a mausoleum, erected to hold the dead in a world of their own. Or to promise that the living that had stepped foot into this forbidden realm would soon join them, barred from any visible escape. If the poisonous air did not corrode the physical body, then the mind would go in its stead and finish the job. The stagnant silence in dim-lit dark whispered futility; death would soon wake to grant them mercy.

The rattling of a dozen heavy, rusted chains heralded its arrival, and from bones and rotting blood rose a creaking giant painted in the palette of twilight and bruises, leaning heavily upon a massive, rusted cleaver for leverage. The stale air stirred with it, perhaps for the first time in centuries, and the stench of death swelled like a wave to crash over the party of breathing trespassers. Hunched beneath the ceiling, its tumorous back mere inches from mold-dusted earth, it turned deep-socketed eyes and a false smile of lipless teeth soundlessly toward them. A challenge, albeit a patient one. To the dead, there was no such thing as time; it was the living that had to contend with its relentless flow.

Death had grown to be something of an old friend, perhaps not for all of those who trod the fallen path, but for Griss, who had seen the faces of his own companions (however tenuously they could be called such) on bent and bloodied bodies, who had marched alongside an entire army of them like an imposter, who knew one day that his lord would call him, no longer satisfied with blood, to make devotion’s ultimate sacrifice, and who flirted with it, teased it, taunted it to take him sooner, it was always there. A ghost. A goal. A god. A lover. The dark did not scare him quite like its absence did. He bared his teeth back at it, eyes aglow with elation like the shimmer of fresh blood in lamplight.

“First a wedding. Now a funeral,” he cracked the silence with a sharp, one-note laugh, echo swallowed up by the wet walls and congealing floor. The absurdity of the joke elicited no reaction and the giant stared back with vacant, cloudy eyes. At least the tuxedo was gone - before Griss had managed to stain it, too - and what he wore now was more akin to his usual attire: cloaked but bare-chested, spiked cilices around wrists and ankles reminders of the inferiority of mortal flesh, and a leather-bound book in his left hand. A quick run through its ancient pages revealed lines of text similar to Nova’s, but there was something sinister about it, too. Something hungry. Only one way to figure out what.

Griss 10/10HP critically hits (auto) Golden Lich 15/15HP** with Aureola [Rolls: 12 + 4 = 16 & 5 + 4 = 9, -8/2HP + 8/2HP = -8HP; Golden Lich 7/15HP**] Griss loses -2HP from recoil [8/10HP]

Two blasts of light exploded in quick succession, one after the other, throwing sharp shadows behind the hundreds of bodies that covered the floor. Striped and smoking with black burns, the giant staggered back. With its skeletal hand, it carved grooves through the multicolored fungus growing over the wall, and opened its cavernous mouth in a mighty roar.

Golden Lich 7/15HP** hits Griss 8/10HP with Echoing Groan [Roll: 14, -3HP - 1res = -2HP; Griss 6/10HP]

Griss lifted his arm to shield his face, but the magic cut him all the same. His wrists bled beneath their bindings, new lacerations opened across his chest and torso, but the red was so bright and beautiful that for a moment it mesmerized him. He laughed as if in a daze. His own blood. Finally. Finally. Finally. Finally. Expurgation for the rite of death.

His allies no longer existed in his world, if he had them at all here at the final frontier. Dropping his arm from in front of wide, unseeing eyes, he fervently dragged another spell from the pages of his book, almost impatient, almost desperate. The cilices dug their spikes deeper into flesh, and the blood ran thicker, spilling to the ground beneath his feet in loud drops.

GALEFORCE: Griss 6/10HP critically hits Golden Lich 7/15HP** with Aureola [Rolls: 20 + 4 = 24 & 16 + 4 = 20, -8/2HP + 8/2HP = -8HP; Golden Lich 0/15HP**] Griss loses -2HP from recoil [4/10HP]

“HAHAHA! This is the moment I’ve been waiting for!” The dream was forgotten. The illusory nature of the realm, the exercise, the monastery, all shadows behind a manic haze. Lord Sombron called him. One final sacrifice. His body would be his.

The giant fell to its knees with earth-rumbling weight, catching itself with the cleaver plunged through a mountain of decay. Then with groaning, popping joints, it thrust both its hands into the ground, releasing a blast of miasmic smoke.

UNBEATEN: Golden Lich recovers HP [15/15HP*] and gains +1 magic and +2 speed Golden Lich 15/15HP* uses Living Death Griss 4/10HP loses -3HP and is inflicted with UNDEAD [Roll: 4, 10/10HP]

The world fell away. Griss felt himself falling with it, through a hole, down a well, deeper and deeper, giggling, laughing, praising his god with incoherent prayers, grateful, terrified, crying — what of Lord Rafal? Lady Nel? — still laughing. Praying. Praying. Praying.

He stopped falling.

The world was a distant square far above him, like the mouth of a well or some deep cavern. All he could do was watch, vaguely aware that what he saw was still through his own eyes. But his body was no longer his.

So this was how it was.

And for perhaps the first time in his life he was afraid of the dark, because the dark here was a yawning void enclosed around him. Because for the first time in his life there was no pain. No salvation. No god. Only himself in infinite nothingness. And there was nothing he could do about it, trapped and helpless, behind the eyes of a puppet.

Sisyphus [Team 12 Gold Round]

[albumarchives]

Black Cilice | Nocturnal Mysticism (2016)

[bruderdeslichtsblackmetal]

Monolithic black metal enigma Black Cilice premiere the new track

http://bruderdeslichts.com/monolithic-black-metal-enigma-black-cilice-premiere-the-new-track/

[dustedmagazine]

Black Cilice — Esoteric Atavism (Iron Bonehead)

Iron BoneHead Productions · Black Cilice - Channeling Old Power

“Beyond the Veil” is the first song on this new LP from Black Cilice, and the phrase will do for a sort of mission statement, for the music’s aesthetics and for the listener. The Portuguese project seems to be among those black metal bands that really mean it, so its negative affect is intended as a vector of spiritual transport, opening portals to ominous, nefarious zones of horror and damnation — not necessarily Pandemonium, or rural New Jersey, but you get the idea. Those same sounds present the casual listener with a set of challenges: how to penetrate the deep murk of the recording, its strangely brittle pummeling and all the warping, pulsing waves of what must be guitars. There’s music here, after a fashion, but it’s almost entirely buried beneath a haze. A veil.

Given Black Cilice’s chosen genre, that’s sort of the point. A lot of raw black metal sounds like it has been recorded in someone’s musty toolshed with crap, third-hand equipment. Going beyond those too-refined conditions, Esoteric Atavism seems to have been captured on a taped-over Maxell UR 90 (some of you know…) with a barely functioning boombox, positioned in a sub-basement adjacent the one in which the band played — a thick cement foundation between them. Lo-fi? This is no-fi, a purposeful intensification of early Scandi black metal’s preference for production techniques that might make the music sound closer to death. Black Cilice appears to be less interested in the romance of utter destruction, and more engaged by the weirding possibilities of cultic experience. Songs are titled “Triumph over Eternity” and “Spiritual Poisoning”; those could be playful representations of mortal dread, or they could be paradoxes, suspending final conclusions in favor of suspension itself — a blankness, a void. 

Even for a self-consciously extreme version of what some folks insist on calling extreme music, Black Cilice makes difficult, disorienting sounds. It’s easy to get lost in the filmy miasma. You think you’re listening to “Atavistic Reconnection” (nice title), but you find that you’re actually halfway through “Towards Transcendence.” Perhaps that’s the desired effect, a sort of ritual hypnosis, a trance. Many listeners may encounter something different: a flattened and ultimately tedious stream of vaguely discernable noise. That noted, anyone with an interest in how sound and texture can involve each other in synesthetic confusions may wish to see where Esoteric Atavism can take them. If you have black cowls and candelabra set up nearby your stereo equipment — well, here are your weekend plans. 

Jonathan Shaw