“And should you ever get squeamish thoughts, remember, nature is the best instructor in it’s ruthless ways. It teaches us that always and everywhere the inefficient is eaten away and reused towards the growth of another being more adapted to see the nutrient where others perceive just disgusting waste or do not use the striving essence to it’s fullest. Any niche that has an opportunity will always and everywhere be eventually filled by somebody… or someTHING better able to use those resources.”
Excerpt from the instructional books written by the frightful plantmaster Jooirkhi’ih the IIIrd
Was it something real that she was seeing, or just a pattern constructed or re/de-constructed in her imagination in the mind’s eternal loop of trying to make sense of the stimulus data of reality? She tried blinking, closing eyer eyes and vigorously rubbing them and even shaking her head in dazed disbelief while mumbling guttural sounds… it wasn’t working. It wasn’t going away, it was becoming stronger with every moment she was looking at it, gaining in depth, consistency… reality.
The legends say Narra-Ku’thm used to be the capital of an ancient forgotten empire, but then they became so decadent that the Gods of Light abandoned it, and the Shadow Deities took an interest. The inhabitants built a great temple to honor their great hunger for passion and life, which lead to a renewed bloom of their empire, until one frightful day the whole city was swallowed by the vengeful earth. This is where the legends end and well documented history steps in, because 3 centuries ago this ancient metropolis has risen again as a moving city, only partially devoid of life, carried by a frightening great tentacular mass from the depths, and in constant motion. Not fast motion, mind you, to a casual observer it looks just like an old ruin, for it moves just a few meters per year, not enough to notice with the naked eye, but enough to frighten all who ever visited it with the implications that this entails. A few end-of-days cults moved into it immediately, along with the adventurous and extravagant, and even the old temple started to see a resurgence of the old rituals. But nothing happened. In a few years caravans of goods and trade started to include it in their routes yet again. Who knows, maybe in a few more centuries of uneventful strangeness all will be forgotten, and in that behavior so typical of the short lived humans this city will pulse again with great crowds of people spreading out and conquering the world from their moving fortress.
Many of the paintings of Lucilian Bradley were controversial, some were even banned by the art community, but, in his morbid fascination with the unknown, he didn’t really care about that. However there was one in particular that he exposed that night at the new gallery that caused the outrage to explode into incendiary violence. In truth is, even having barely escaped the burning building and the furious mob, he was secretly happy IT was swallowed by the flames. The fact that his paintings were inspired not by imagination but by the demonic trance visions was his dark secret, one that he could live with, but what he saw when he painted that particular one traumatically opened his mind to the horror that some abominations can occasionally fuse, creating fresh new horrors.
However, a few weeks later, his secret relief shattered on the cliffs of reality as he received a large check with the post. Normally he would’ve celebrated the huge sum of money, fueling his expensive decadent lifestyle, but, to his unease, the check revealed that the secret collector who had been generously bidding at the exhibition auction somehow managed to save that painting and wanted to thank him. Lucilian wished at least he hadn’t known! From that day on he started praying for engulfing fires, seeing them as paths to salvation.
The frightful God protector had been helping their tribe for many generations now, and would for millennia to come, from jungle to plains, to castles and one day forts. But he was not to be named! That rule they learned the hard way. But even that cruel experience served the Galdinica-nyii well: in the paradox of not forgetting that which must not be spoken saved them always: once a year, when nature died, one of the most loyal believers would take it upon himself and utter the unspeakable name. All the believers then gathered to worship this majestic fool of faith, the men brought all they could offer in riches and honours, the most beautiful women gave themselves to him, and so for 7 days they worshiped the man become God, after which he would die a most horrible death. Then they all gathered and in reverence ate his earthly remains, burying the divine excrements, that his spirit may descend into the dark grounds bellow to seed the earth with a new rebirth for the next year of fruitful sweet trees and plentifully fat hunt.
Xanadians perceive the world not through color wavelengths but as a form of bounce-back melody of the universe, a living song that’s ever-changing with their motion. Woe unto the man that becomes part of this song. He might hear beautiful rhythmical bony clicking that delight his ears, and a deep low vibration wonderfully going through his body… but not for too long. Few are knowledgeable enough of the secret world around us to run with all their strength at the first sounds of this amazing melody.
When the Rogganite first arrived, they thought it to be reason for great celebration. The Pharaoh instructed the priests to make a great feast in it’s honor, hoping to thus secure his lineage’s rule. He was struck with fear as the priests told him the Rogganite had come not to help, but to rule as God among men.
As the small group of survivors climbed the stairs towards the gruesome sacrificial altar something even stranger happened. Instead of looking at the poor victims as you’d expect, they all independently started looking respectively at the two frozen statues framing it, with a kind of morbid fascination. Cold vapours emanated from them forming a kind of mist which was slowly drifting downwards from the eternal ice, freezing anything they touched.
In many cultures across the wide green earth storks are associated with the bringing of babies. Of course that is primitive nonsense, weather through natural science or common knowledge we all know of how babies are really made. There is however a bit of truth behind this myth, the truth of the Swhuushirimi Predatorius that might have inspired the legend. Though a being of the spiritual plane and thus invisible to most observers, every one in about ten thousand men are born with the aberration of glimpses into the spiritual world, and such men sometimes see a flicker of a Swhuushirimi as it brings the free choice chaotic spirit of the child (though often only years after the lump of clay enters the world).
edge of page scribbled annotation on the apocryphal writings of the heretic Narimian Opteul.
The imperial jester then proceeded to advise the ruler (something the foreign ambassadors found eminently strange) that he put down the blade of blood and instead accept and pay tribute to both overlords, thus feigning respect and submission until the time shall come that their lands were strong enough and the religious fervor of the peoples was intense enough that they will be able to overturn the occupiers and take what was rightfully theirs by the right of strength and determination.
The young lord was a great disappointment not just to his parents, but in fact to the whole county which had payed a high price in taxes over the years for his high education in foreign lands that he may come back and rule them all with benevolence and the wisdom that would bring them the great prosperity of the trading knowledge of the distant orient. Instead he returned obsessed with ancient cryptic books from the deep desert and tormented by visions and fantasies, which he insisted were not dreams but contacts with beings from other dimensions. They locked him up for his own good, despite his half-hearted protestations. He seemed to pay little interest to it all, conversing further with his imaginary friend from beyond “in order to acquire more knowledge”. The matter would have long been put to rest were it not for the recently released memoirs of his old doctor, Hanupembert, which insisted he would sometimes say things which made great sense and started a great number of incredibly profitable business ventures based on the rantings of the useless madman.
“I was prepared for the next time. It wasn’t cheap, had to sell one of the smaller family mansions, but I was prepared. So, 3 seasons later, when the caravan came through town again, I went straight to the old gypsy lady. Upon giving her the gold and diamonds (the only currency she would accept) she sold me her small bottle. There were just a few drops inside, but I knew it was worth it. As instructed, I went home and lied down on the big bed, after of course having arranged for 2 servants to stand by should there be emergency need for help or to run for a doctor. I put a droplet into my left eye and two into my right eye, just as she told me… but nothing happened. Where was the Deptais!?! I waited a few minutes feeling ashamed like a little kid who still believes in dragons, and I was just about to stand up and do something I would regret when it hit in: I suddenly found myself floating in a sea of colors, the room faded into a blur of violent spectacle of vibrancy, and true to the promise, I saw a couple of Deptais come attracted by the smell of the drops. They were excited, talking constantly in a language I so wished I could understand… and one, one was in particularly animated… and even as I watched him (and it knew!), to my amazement it split into two similar and yet different parts, which then proceeded to complete themselves. It was all worth it, just for that moment!”
Excerpt from the dying journal of trans-substance addict
In my dream the strangely (?) colorful (?) being was explaining to me a kind of mathematics of waves and concentric circles, a looping and returning, arrangements and combinations that harmonized ethereally. I could feel deeply that what it was telling me was important, and that should I understand it it would change everything, not just for me, but the universe, but I could feel it losing my grasp with every outreach. I woke up at that point, as somebody ran by on the street close to where I had been sleeping and splashed unto me water even colder than the murky rain of the evening, which had apparently not woken me up. I tried hard to remember something of what it said, but all that remained in my mind was a kind of ringing of my ears in ways of alien harmonics.
Death in nature is a state of harmony and assimilation, it has it’s keepers and it’s makers, but it’s evil is in the eyes of the mortals only. The sheep must be herded to it’s embrace as the transformation cycle is the perpetuum of the universe.
Weak powers shout and scream, and are quick to show bloody fangs and broken bones, while the truly powerful need only stand there benevolently to invoke the petrifying fear of their subjects. Such is the power of The Queen of Rerrn-kha that even just a figurine representation placed by the emissary on the grand room table was enough to fill the hearts of the imperial council with fear and make all the shouting stop into a deadly silence.
The Shellwalker had had many names among the human tribes across the millennia, not in his true form, but in the form of the humanoid skin-body it was by now accustomed to wearing among them. Only once in a century or two did a situation call for his celestial form to be revealed or it’s powers to be needed, so he had just gotten used to living as a human… as many humans. A boring yet, to his surprise, a very satisfying life. He hoped the cataclysmic mission he was sent on would never be activated, and that the great powers across the galactic dimensions would never trigger him for the purpose he was actually sent here so, so, soo long ago.
The whole family had come to the secluded beach this weekend. It was a wonderful sunny day and the ocean was shining in bright blue-green tones. They hadn’t read the local papers about the disturbances with the native populations in the islands on the horizon, nor did they care for that TODAY. Eamon was the first to notice the distant growing drums. The waves were somehow resonating with their beat, and soon so did the sky, which got an ominous feel. Not long after they started to notice shapes under the waters coming towards the shore. They materialized into strange aquatic beings, hundreds of them, climbing out of the oceans they had evolved in. They were covered in algae and other plants of the deep waters, some even seemed to be decorated with them.
And after that I heard the two black figures make a strange shrilling whistle-like noise, which brought forth from the foggy night two frightening cries of reluctant obedience. With the sound of fluttering hurricanes, two shapes formed in the darkness before them, shapes that I could only describe as reminding me of strange morbid twists of what children’s fairy tales would call dragons… if they were built out of ripped fragments of nightmares. And the figures climbed onto their backs and flew off into the night to hunt for fresh human blood.
Fragment from the now banned “Memoires of the years of my captivity in the Dark Lord’s dimension” by the occultist Rudolph Malegro
The island of Zolglos was truly beautiful to behold. The trouble was convincing any of the superstitious natives on the surrounding islands to actually take him there. They were all afraid of some wax-stone great statue in a cave or something stupid like that. Ignorant primitives! They were clearly inferior intellects, for why else would hundreds of people crowd in the scarce tiny landmasses of the archipelago when there, in the center of them all, was a huge island within viewing distance, that looked to be teaming with life and vegetation, and, if the stories were true, had been once the host of huge cities of many thousands, but now lay there abandoned, ripe for the picking, full of ancient treasures!?! In the end he decided to buy one of their canoes and go there alone if need be.
I followed the being breathlessly into the swampy forest, deeper and deeper, until, knee deep in mud and dizzy from the strange yellow vapors, I lost my breath. For hours I kept searching, but everything by now looked to me like one of these old sunken knotty trees. Exhausted I stopped to lean on one but upon touching it i had an overwhelming vision: I found myself in a wholly different place. Through IT’s feelings I was tempted to call it “home”, yet my spirit told me I was galaxies away from my home lands. Hot furious sandstorm winds hit me with a barrage of pebbles in the sunset of the twin suns. And then the stone sands beneath me started to tremble, as if something humongous was moving underneath. I could feel my heart singing joyously: “father, father!”
For generations all the inhabitants of the small isolated mountain village of Nigaggua had known to avoid the great cavern upriver from them. Maybe it was common sense. Maybe it was tragic experiences long forgotten even by collective memory. Either way, they knew enough not to try to explore it, and to ignore the occasional otherworldly screams that occasionally came from there. Not so the group of 10 tourists that came that weekend. They were never heard of them again…
There were many wondrous things hidden in her father’s secret chamber. She had suspected it must exist ever since she was but a young girl. This must be where he would sometimes disappear to for days, without any of the servants having had seen him leave. But of all those things she discovered after he died, the most fascinating was a crystalline figurine. Every couple of hours it seemed to vibrate in high frequencies… and she swore she could hear voices in it. Voices with strong opinions, world views much stronger than her own. Voices telling her what to do, guiding her, for good or for evil, that she couldn’t tell anymore.
The demonoid had been ordering humans around for millennia, so when it realized this stupid man was actually seriously trying to actually order him to do something, the expression forming on it’s face was a mixture of disgust, surprise, disdain and infernal anger.
In the frightening depths of oceans, where no human has ever been except in nightmarish dark visions, there where horrible ancient creatures still swim undisturbed as they have for millions of years, the Aqueroyel is king among the underwater demons through a mixture of savage violence and unfading old magic from beyond. Only a true madman, consumed by all absorbing power hunger, could ever even conceive challenging him in his domain.
The “Bones of Saraoth” ritual seemed to Jarredth to be a smart way to work his way up to communicating with the high Lord of the Abyss himself. But, even as he tried that, the apparition that started to gently materialize in the mist clouds now gathering around him made his heart stand still forever.
The Bnii Fyid skull had been passed on from great ruler to great ruler for millennia now, ever since ancient times since when it is rumored to have fallen burning out of the skies and the someone discovered it’s amazing one-to-many subconscious communication abilities. Many great wars of empires had, in fact, been fought solely for this ancient artifact, as regardless weather they were called cesars, pharaohs, sultans, kaisers, kings or presidents they all realized the great usefulness of playing with the fears of the masses, the value of instilling popular fears of other people/cultures/languages/civilizations, and how this allowed their own power to be increased on waves of fear. It is not a precise tool, it is is rather speculated it functions for the emotions of the masses like a prism for light: it breaks balanced ones into spectrums of intense separate sentiments which once separated can be distinctly channeled like rivers.
This ancient political knowledge that the fear of an (even imaginary) common enemy is possibly the greatest way to unite a people under a “great leader” may be commonly known, but the great use and even existence of the Bnii Fyid for this purpose is a secret sealed with ocean scale pools of blood, and not just that spilled by the many spies of different nations trying to find it again, and then their own as soon as they do. Those who know it, know why.
Frimuntz Kulbert was born and raised in the big city and was just starting to make a name for himself in the still emerging field of portrait photography when the great war broke out. It was said to be the war to end all wars, that it would be quick and decisive, and other such stupidity. Patriotic cries were everywhere, in newspapers, on the streets and especially on the radio, no other opinions were tolerated by the thought police. As he feared he was called into the army. Kulbert was under no self deceiving illusions of what that meant, he wasn’t like that fools that spoke enthusiastically of “dying for one’s country”. Dead was dead… and as evil as the propaganda portrayed the other side to be, he knew he was more in danger of being shot “as a coward” by his own side than by those “evil foreigners”.
< So he ran away. Who cares if they'd call him a deserter? There's no pride in death. If he was going to die anyway, he'd rather do so running eastwards through forests. Who knows, maybe the other side wouldn't shoot him. They might imprison him, but at least they wouldn't trust him enough to make him a "honorable" suicidal soldier, like his "loving"compatriots would. His best hope was to run into one of those peasants he'd heard of, secluded and isolated. After 3 days he thought he saw one in the deep woods. As he realized he was looking at something else he instinctively reached for the only thing from his old life he'd brought with him, his camera.
And then in the twirls of thickening darkness I started seeing a shape, no more of them, feeding upon the soul-remains of the depths. I remembered then of my master’s teachings and realized I was seeing the bottom feeder beings known as Deepscourers. Remembering that was fortunate, as otherwise I might’ve let myself be deceived by it’s benign looking, almost peaceful outlook and gotten closer, risking being mistaken for a damned soul and being mercilessly fed upon.
“The nightmare traveler journals” by Ruberti Markun
As I opened the giant sarcophagus, he, or rather “it” (for it looked like it was long no longer a person for a long time) just lay there in the dark, in the grotesque bed of fused bones and flesh, cackling occasionally a demonic laughter. After a few minutes of frozen horror I was able to move again and pushed the stone back shut, gasping, but all I could think of was what divine providence that it had failed (or was unable?) to notice me, for if it had turned those strange eyes in my direction, even for just a moment, I fear I would’ve never regained my sanity, frail as it already was. It seemed the Pharaoh’s high mage(ister) had indeed managed to obtain immortality… but at what price?! What dimensions had it been traveling all these millennia?
Among the forbidden works of the insane painter Lucilian Bradley was found this strange painting of the Lord of the Abyss, Saraoth. His friends and family speculate this might be one of the reasons why he went mad and burned the house as this one was found in the only a decade later in the reconstruction discovered secret laboratory where he apparently also practiced occult rituals, a subject and passion he’d been fascinated with ever since he read that dreaded book that his wife still curses long after his death. Was this the demon that eventually got him for playing with his minions way more than a mortal should ever even dream?
The few ever seen by mortals, were described like a mass of bones fused as if in great heat and polished eternally by wriggling black threads that lurk under the skin. It is speculated that they improbably rise in the rare event that an asteroid from the heavens hits a mass/pile of bone (or creates one?), and are somehow the result of an alien consciousness either taking possession of them or bringing them to life with a fused will.
The long dark night of the freezing season had ruled these lands for 6 fatal months, but now the first blessed rays were starting to push it back. Most creatures of the long night were quickly burrowing under the ice and into chilling caverns with their victims, but not so the Carnispecter. It remains active through the weak light times, still preferring the long shadows, but scouting and coordinating the movements of the others deep beneath from wherever is was needed, as it has for hundreds of cycles and as it will for many more.
At times through their history humans have wondered if the gods play dice with the universe, which is of course not true. Chess is more like the game they play, with some chaos thrown in for most delightful outcomes to surprise even the ether-beings. Powerful demons have at one time or another been just pieces moved around by hands of more powerful shadow forces.
A creature of deep space, home on baren planets devoid of life and feeling, they are cosmic scavengers. How would such a creature end up on earth?
The small mystical team had been trying to Shift for days. A few had quit in exhausted frustration, but others remained at the suspiciously secluded mountain cabin. Eventually they succeeded, and shifted to the Chromatic Dimension. At first they had great trouble even discerning their surroundings, but as they slowly got accustomed they realized that they were surrounded by a pack of hound-like beings, which seemed to be lead by something like a pack leader. Had they inadvertently and against all odds aroused the interest of the dreaded Modulacror?!
As the two grey haired men with incredibly expensive suits sat in the antechamber awaiting to see The Great Politician, they were getting more and more nervous. The older one was periodically wiping his sweat filled forehead with a golden embroidered handkerchief. They were THE two leaders of business and banking in their country, yet they both knew that the real power belonged to this diminutive man, the man who controlled men with guns who could destroy their empires in gunfire, and controlled the press in to every whim under state imperative. In a mixture of fear and boredom they would both repeatedly be looking at the big portrait painting that was dominating the great room. And as they did so, and as the minutes of waiting turned into hours, they started to get the feeling that the setting sun moving across it was revealing an underpainting, something much older and more frightening. Or maybe they were just going crazy.
The Forgotten Catacombs had been built in the early years of the roman empire, then, as now, serving as a prison and experimentation facility for the handful of shadow beings from Beyond that were captured by mankind. The roman emperors who experienced the great millennial planetary alignment and the resultant horrors that seeped into our dimension were painfully a serious threat to their rule. That’s when the unholy alliance with the Anatherit warriors was done. It wasn’t an easy decision as these creatures where despicable abominations that put fear into the hearts of even the most veteran soldiers, but what won’t a ruler do to maintain his power? In fact this alliance worked surprisingly well for many many centuries. Indeed it worked so well that in just a few decades most of the mortals came to never have to encounter beyonders themselves, and over the centuries popular culture forgot of their existence. However, as humanity grew and prospered forgetting this ancient pact, the Anatherit became discontent and began to neglect their ancient horrible duties, leaving more and more inhumans to roam the mortal realms.
AnNichi Rebamael – Historian of the Forgotten