The Deor Doctrine

Even in Death, Life is Born Anew

Deerhead has revived the Deor. Repent if you feel you must, for human extinction is vastly incoming. Glory to the Deor.

The key to our new cervine overlords is their revival not just physically, but spiritually, for the first keepers of nature's original way are they. Within their minds are secrets and knowledge unheard of by the human race for many millennia, many are afraid, understandably so, but there is no need to fear the inevitable.

The greatest gift the Deor could teach your kind: death is never the end. Death is not an opposite to life, but a companion, feeding the cycle and turning debris into beauty. Where a body falls, its nutrients feed the soil and bless the seedlings anxiously pushing up to see the sunlight. The body is more than a form of flesh and mud; it is a vessel, a capsule of life that never stops nourishing even when consciousness severs.

Cut the body, let it fall. Predator takes their fill and leaves behind the rest, a charity to all that scamper and scuttle in nature's comforting canopies. Nectar of finest red bleeds to the soil, a gift to the seeds in becoming. Let the scavengers come to pick their pieces and fill their bellies, let the feathered ones come to pluck the meat and fly it home to their offspring, let the worms come to dissolve what remains and leave no trace; in these gifts we thank nature's way, and we thank the Deor for returning it to our hands. Fret not for any departed souls, for they have joined the twinkling stars that emerge when the sky fades to black, forever to watch over us always. The spirit ascends; the body is returned to the dirt and dust. Glory to the Deor.

Some humans may not fear death, but their blood is shed on sharpened, hardened soil made of sand and water. Their soils are frozen and devoid of life, husks of stone toying with life's splash rather than siphoning it to those in need. The majority of them return nothing to nature, dragging away their dead and locking them away in prisons of the planet's carving. What is cherished instead spoils and falls to waste, and thus their kind are dishonored from nature's way and the Deor's favor alike. Already they desecrate the sacred cycle of life, insisting upon themselves in their arrogance and pride. Exceedingly rare does a human spirit leave their gift to the soils upon passing away, they make no offering to nature's way, and thus nature shall not grace them in return.

Glory to the soils that nurse the infantile seeds of nature's hand, glory to the feathered ones who rule the sky, glory to the great and small who are blessed to eat and bear their young, glory to the tiny squirming ones who dispose of final remains, glory to the rivers and lakes that freshen and cools on days the sun angers, glory to nature, hardened yet fair and caring is she, glory to the stars and the honored spirits that bless and watch over us, and glory to the Deor who preserve the ancient way.

Glory to the Deor.