#metalion

[joinmewithsuicide]

Euronymous and friends.

[sorecutz]

I just really can’t fckn draw comics + draw in digital so yeah……………

[lords-of-mayhem]

Lords Of Chaos is such a funny movie actually because THIS look when Varg went on his whole "posers claiming to be satanists when all they wanna do is drink beer and have a good time"???

[the-old-mayhem]

Quite a few prominent black metal musicians were involved with the film production. When surveying the list, it’s interesting to note a number of prolific characters who’ve been both privately and publicly denouncing the project – all the while, as it turns out, simultaneously collaborating with them.

– I can’t really speak for anyone but myself, and even that’s hard at times… but when people realised this movie was going to be made, with or without anyone’s consent or involvement, they probably tried to make the best out of it. Like death, it was bound to happen no matter how much one tries to avoid it. So, even if the film is a bunch of bullcrap, I’m sure some changed their minds along the way. We all remember how upset Necrobutcher was about it, but, in the end, a lot of naysayers ended up involved. I really don’t care, people can do whatever they want." - Metalion, Bardo Methodology no6

Part 7/7 of LOC posts 🦇

@the.old.mayhem on instagram and WordPress

[lucydixon]

The Game we Play to Remember

Euro Masterlist 𐴱 Lords of Chaos Masterlist 𐴱 Rory Culkin Masterlist 𐴱 Main Masterlist 𐴱 Taglist 𐴱 Reading List 𐴱 Pinned Post 𐴱 More Roommate!Reader

Summary: The boys decide that they're throwing a party in Pelle's honour after sulking for a week straight. The night ends with you and Øystein having a heart to heart under the stars.

At some point in the night, most of the party goers had gone home and left the core circle of friends to your own devices. 

You were about to run out of liquor and all sitting around the living room, shitfaced. 

The mood was getting somber as you all started thinking about why you were gathering in the first place. Why you were drinking and why none of you had gone a single day without drinking in over a week.

“We should go outside.” You suggested, unwilling to call it quits and go to sleep despite your entire body pleading for you to do so. You needed.a distraction, and it seemed like everyone else might too.

“You want to go outside?” Jan laughed drunkenly before standing and tossing you right over his shoulder like you weighed less than ten pounds “We can go outside.” 

You shrieked, laughing while draped over his shoulder as he went for the door. 

As soon as he stepped into the cool night air, Jan set you down in the grass and chased you around the yard. 

The rest of the metalheads spilled out into the outdoors and watched the two of you running around in the grass and couldn’t deny that it reminded them of Pelle. 

Occultus was the first to join in, then Faus, and Metalion. 

Even Jorn, ever the responsible one, threw himself into the fold, tripping over himself every few minutes and winding up with his ass in the dirt while you all howled with laughter. 

Øystein was the last one left, watching from the porch with his arms crossed over his chest. 

There was a clear look of amusement across his features, but for some reason, he just couldn’t take the plunge. 

You ran past and hurled a handful of grass at him, laughing, then stopped a couple dozen feet away, staring back at him with a challenging, although clearly intoxicated, look in your eye.  

“Why are you being a grump?” your hands rested on your hips and his lips parted in surprise.

“I’m not being a grump.” He had to grimace after hearing himself say it. 

He did in fact sound like a grump.

“Come hang out with us then.” you urged, gesturing wildly towards the rest of the group.

From where he was standing, he could see Jan and Jorn wrestling on the ground and Occultus and Faust sword fighting with branches while Metalion cheered them on. Their laughter carried across the yard. 

You shrieked loudly when he suddenly ran towards you after another second of contemplation. 

A laugh bubbled out of your mouth as you ran, ducking out of the way before he could grab you. 

If he wanted to, Øystein easily could have grabbed your hair, but he had no interest in hurting you, so the two of you ran around, hurling clumps of grass at each other until you both collapsed on the ground a few feet apart. 

You rolled over to him once you’d mostly caught your breath, still laughing softly when you rolled right into his side. 

You were both laying on your backs, staring up at the stars. The rest of the laughter could faintly be heard over your still heavy breathing. 

“There’s something very wrong with you.” Øystein teased, nudging your arm with his gently “I think you might be crazy.” 

“Sure,” you waved him off, rolling your eyes playfully “but we already knew that.” 

“You’re not going to leave, are you?” His voice was suddenly serious. The boy’s level of intoxication had finally let the words slip past his lips. 

He’d been thinking about it for days, ever since you’d said "I think I’m done living with other people for awhile.”  While the two of you were cleaning up Pelle's room.

“I don’t think so.” you frowned, letting your head fall to the side so you could see him “Why are you so moody about it? A year ago you couldn’t wait to get me out of here.” 

“Yeah, well.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose “Now, I don’t want you to go anywhere.” 

“Awe.”you cooed teasingly “have I grown on big, bad, Øystein Aarseth?” 

He narrowed his eyes at you slightly, but you could tell that he was trying not to laugh. 

“I have!”you answered for him “It’s alright, you’ve grown on me too.” 

“Really?” He almost looked surprised. 

“Well, yeah.” your brows pulled together, but there was a ghost of a smile on your lips “When you’re not being a dick, you can be pretty cool.” 

“I’m serious about the record store.” Øystein looked back up at the stars, finding it easier to talk to you when your eyes weren’t boring into his “I’m gonna open one and I’ll start a label and you can come live there with me.” 

“What about Jan?” 

“He’s not gonna want to come.” He rolled his eyes “He’s been talking about getting his own place for months.” 

“Just me and you then?” you contemplated “That sounds like a fucking disaster waiting to happen.” 

“Probably.” 

"I'm not gonna answer right now." You breathed after a minute of deliberation. "Ask me again when it's real." "It will be." Øystein muttered, allowing his hand to inch closer to yours until your pinkies brushed up against one another. "Soon, I promise.""

Dividers and Banners by me on my side-blog @dividers-are-us

Taglist: @maxxiemoa @lofied @iith1um @somegirl29 @rhadnjv @shokihomin

[ancient-qveen]

Bård with Samoth and Metalion c. 1999

[hatshepsutsposts]

ELEGY TO UNDERGROUND MUSIC — FOR METALION

Sarpsborg is Norway’s city of paper mills. It breathes like a giant printing press; for half the year the dusky chill in the air blends with the silence of snow. The spruce and pine forests are the source of that breath. In the winter fog, trunks that stand straight as pillars are cut down, turned into pulp, white foam, fine paper dust; by morning that dust settles over the town like a thin veil. Growing up here means hearing the rustle of paper before the words themselves, feeling the whisper of trees between the letters. In this city, paper is not merely the industry’s breath but a skin that absorbs the echoes of the past; and from beneath that skin, the underground’s breath will one day rise.

Back then, in Sarpsborg’s quiet mornings, perhaps no one noticed, but the spirit of the underground was careening about, searching for a body, an eerie moan reverberating through dark corridors. The name of that pen, that stubbornness, that breath was Jon “Metalion” Kristiansen — the first voice of a resonance the underground had yet to hear. Even as he had only just stepped out of childhood, the passion was already in his veins. In his own words, it was a fate, and there was nowhere else to be carried. A typewriter, a few photographs, a handful of handmade pages... And soon those pages would take the name Slayer Mag and become the fanzine with its finger on the underground’s pulse. Metalion was learning to scream within words, to forge a language of his own, to solder together the links of a tape-trading (the cassette-swap) chain that circled the world with nothing but words, and to place the silence itself in brackets. He didn’t know it yet, perhaps, but this was already a form of worship — the sharpest, loneliest way to exist.

In the summer of 1985, just before Motörhead took the stage at Oslo’s Jordal Amfi, a shadow moved through the doorways: Jon “Metalion” Kristiansen. Tucked under his arm was a stapled sheaf — Slayer Mag’s second breath. Scissor marks on the page edges, the sweet-sour chemistry of glue on his fingers, and on his face the pride that says, “those who want to see will make the effort to find.” Two gazes broke away from the crowd that day: Øystein Aarseth (Euronymous) and Jørn Stubberud (Necrobutcher). This was not just a Motörhead concert. It was the meeting of a frequency that recognizes itself — hearts beating in the same rhythm, nerves carrying current along the same paths, souls trapped in the same chasm and struggling to breathe. The first step of a friendship, of an underground circulation.

When the dust of that summer settled and winter pressed up against the threshold, a note appeared in the pages of Slayer Mag: “15 February 1986 – Ski, Folkets Hus. Be there or die.” In the margin, a hasty line: Effects coming from the butcher. The smell of blood. A foggy night. That notice was not merely an announcement; it was the first pulse that set a rhythm to the underground’s hum — the ratification of a new friendship, the news of an early, formative performance in Ski, the small town where the band’s founders lived.

It would be understood in the years to come that without Metalion’s writing and archive, the memory of this scene would be maimed. Had the voice of the underground not been etched onto the page, much would have been lost to the dark. Later, everyone wrote something, told stories, remembered; but had he not written, all those years, those memories, and the mutual recognition of those who drew the same breath would have remained incomplete. The music’s circulation might even have congealed, like a clogged artery. Thankfully, those cut-and-paste pages became a worldwide remembrance carved into Norway’s mist. Slayer Mag recorded not only bands, albums, and interviews from across the globe, but the spirit of an era itself.

What we see today in those still-unfaded traces is not merely a fanzine; it is a conviction. For every word that passed through Metalion’s hands is a signature in the underground’s sacred ledger. If we can speak from the ashes of that era today, it is because he was the one who kindled the first ember of those ashes.

These pages are dedicated to the man who lit that ember. For though the papers have long since turned to ash, he still casts light simply by being.

[knife0fdarkness]

who is this bad boy 🥴