Ritus Magna: Coniuratio Umbrae et Famis.

(The Great Rite: The Conjuration of Shadow and Hunger)

Purpose:

To awaken the practitioner's sovereignty as a vampiric shadow witch; to formally bind oneself to the currents of hidden power; to call the abyss into the bones and seal the body against betrayal.

Prerequisites:

• Timing:
  Night of a New Moon (or a night when no moon is visible). Midnight is the sacred hour.

• Fasting:
  The practitioner must fast for no less than 12 hours before the rite, consuming no flesh, no salt, and no fermented drink.

• Silence:
  From sunset until the beginning of the ritual, the practitioner must maintain total silence — neither speaking, humming, nor making unnecessary sound.

Tools and Materials:

• Altar:
  A flat stone or black-draped table. No icons of divinity — the Self is the only god here.

• Obsidian Mirror:
  Positioned upright on the altar, so the practitioner sees themselves reflected by candlelight.

• Candles:
  Three black candles, anointed with myrrh oil, placed in a triangle around the mirror.

• Bowl of Blood:
  Fresh blood (either own blood, ritually drawn via sterile lancet, or symbolic blood such as wine mixed with ash).

• Incense:
  Myrrh and storax burned together.

• Ritual Blade:
  A knife or dagger, consecrated to no other purpose but sorcery.

• Chalice:
  Black glass or metal, used only in magical rites.

• Black Cloth:
  To cover the practitioner’s shoulders — a mantle of sovereignty.

The Covenant of Black Fire: On the Sovereignty of the Vampiric Witch.

There are paths of sorcery so old that even memory recoils from them, roads etched into the marrow of existence when the world was yet young and the stars burned nearer. Shadow Witchcraft and Vampirism belong to these primeval paths, the domains of those who have renounced the comfort of false light and who tread the dominions of silence, hunger, and immortal will. In the deep currents that flow beneath waking life, those who embrace these ways feed upon the rivers of existence itself, shaping themselves into creatures not bound by the petty laws of flesh and decay.

To walk as a Shadow Witch is to forge oneself as an instrument of the Void, neither slave to light nor wholly consumed by darkness, but a sovereign of both. The craft is not moral; it is primal. In the old grimoires of forgotten ages, it was written that the witch must descend into the Pit of Self, where all masks are stripped away and the core essence is revealed in its naked, howling truth. Shadow work, as the modern tongue names it, was known to the ancients as the First Descent, a ritual of inner death and rebirth, by which the witch dismembers their false identity and forges from its bleeding remnants a new and incorruptible soul (Jung, 1959).

The vampire, in this sacred context, is not a mere spectre of graveyards nor a withered ghoul thirsting for mortal blood. Rather, the vampiric witch is an heir to forgotten thrones, a priest of the energy currents that pulse through all living and unliving things. Their hunger is not base; it is alchemical. By consuming vital force—be it the breath of a dying storm, the terror of prey, or the thick auric emissions of a sleeping city—the vampiric witch nourishes their immortal essence (Belanger, 2004). This is not theft, but the oldest form of communion: an exchange, a sacrifice rendered unto the Self.

Veil of Night: The Shadow Witch’s Flying Ointment.

The legendary Flying Ointment has long been whispered of in the shadowed corners of witchcraft, steeped in folklore, mystery, and danger. It is a salve of visions, a key to the liminal spaces between worlds, used by witches who sought to untether their spirits from the confines of flesh and travel beyond the veil.

First recorded in medieval Europe, the ointment is deeply entwined with tales of the witches' sabbat, where practitioners were said to anoint themselves before soaring through the night sky, crossing vast distances in a heartbeat, slipping between worlds like the mist that clings to the earth at twilight. But these were not journeys of the body; they were flights of the soul, astral voyages undertaken in deep trance states induced by the potent botanicals within the salve. The infamous inquisitor Johannes Nider wrote of such unguents in Formicarius (1435), as did the demonologist Nicholas Rémy in Demonolatry (1595). The works of Andrés Laguna (1555) and Giambattista della Porta (1589) contain formulas using henbane, belladonna, and mandrake—herbs known for their ability to summon visions, break the boundaries of consciousness, and send the spirit hurtling beyond the mundane.

This ointment was never merely for flight. It was a conduit for deep Shadow Work, allowing witches to slip into the Underworld, commune with spirits, walk with ancestors, and unearth the hidden corners of the self. It was applied during rites of necromancy, divination, communion with the dead, and to move between the waking world and the realm of the unseen.

To use such an unguent is not for the unprepared. The herbs contained within can be both sacred and deadly. The old ways must be approached with knowledge, reverence, and caution.

Of Shadow and Hunger: The Sacred Currents of Shadow Witchcraft and Vampirism.

The dance between light and dark has captivated human consciousness for millennia. Within the folds of night, the practitioner of Shadow Witchcraft moves deftly, weaving spells not merely in darkness but from it, shaping reality through a profound acceptance of the unseen. Shadow Witchcraft is not evil, as the uninitiated often misjudge, but rather it is an embrace of totality: the fullness of existence, from brightest illumination to deepest void. The adept does not deny the parts of self society labels as taboo or unworthy; instead, the witch draws power precisely from this raw, often unsettling reservoir.

Shadow Witchcraft is inherently introspective, demanding that its practitioner confronts their inner abyss without flinching. Psychological shadow work, a term popularized by Carl Jung, forms an unspoken backbone to this craft (Jung, 1959). A witch of the shadow knows that to master the external world through spell and ritual, one must first traverse the perilous inner world, taming its monsters and reclaiming its lost fragments. This inner alchemy, often brutal and uncomfortable, yields a potent form of spiritual authority, one built not on denial or pretence but on the sovereignty of wholeness.

Vampirism, within this tradition, emerges not as a literal thirst for blood, but as a profound energetic art. The vampiric witch understands that life itself is an ocean of forces—energies in constant flux, available to be drawn, redirected, or consumed. In modern occult theory, psychic vampirism is a recognized and structured practice, whereby practitioners feed upon ambient energy, emotional emissions, or even cosmic flows without harm to others unless intention dictates otherwise (Belanger, 2004). The act of feeding is seen as sacred: a rite of survival, a way of maintaining vitality in a world that often drains without replenishment.