[Time to read many books, if you prefer, skip the video]
[But if you want to understand the plot of the game keep watching]
The Book of Yael.
Signs of Stone.
Eucharistic Rituals of Forbidden Cults.
Texts collated by Monsignor Vachey.
Legate in the Curia of the Vatican.
Numerous devilish cults speak of monstrous
creatures called the Old Ones.
These supernatural beings are believed to be
possessed of powers equivalent to those
of the gods of antique religions.
Adepts of such cults refer to forbidden
literature in order to cause these
frightful entities to appear before them.
What serious student of folk myths
has not come across the names of Cthulhu
and Shub Niggurath?
It must be said that these creatures
wield tremendous power
and are difficult to control once they have been
unleashed into the world.
Those who serve "He who goes in shadows"
protect themselves with signs of stone,
carved into the walls of houses
or engraved on various objects.
For these misguided servants of evil,
the best protection appears to be that
afforded by "the sign of the most ancient gods",
engraved in MNAR stone,
a heavy material, said to be disagreeable to the touch.
The sinful practices of those who fall into such
errors can only lead to the darkest of
despair and are a mortal danger to the soul
Such monsters as those invoked by
these foolhardy individuals are engendered
when reason drops its guard.
Man is easily tempted into perversion.
It is why we must
forever remain alert and renounce Satan
with each breath we take. His ways are
infinite in number.
Juan Luis Jorge
De Bibliotheca.
Reflexions on the power of the verb in certain texts.
Archaos Publications.
1919
Stafford
Translation does not alter the occult power
contained within such forbidden texts.
The malevolent energy is in no way diminished.
The spell must be cast aloud
and clearly,
in certain languages or little-known dialects…
M'ghlafg fthang…
The reader will understand that,
in the light of these revelations,
I would be foolhardy to continue quoting from the text
I have before me.
If spoken aloud
in its entirety, it would surely awaken
powerful and malignant forces.
I will go further and say that the simple
reading of some of the more technical
passages, describing specific practices,
is in itself a perilous exercise: the ill-prepared
reader can easily fall prey to
attacks of demented hysteria
not unlike those described in cases of
individuals said to be possessed by evil spirits.
I recommend the study made by Zempf:
"Urbain Grandier and Loudun"
and the reports made by the Reverend Richard Price
concerning a number of astonishing (to say the least)
exorcisms carried out in a parish near Providence.
Given what I have written,
we must be grateful to the librarians of the
British Museum who have never allowed
consultation of the work of Al Azif's
startling work, the infamous Necronomicon.
Copies of that work do exist, in spite of the zeal
of book-burning inquisitors.
For proof, we need look no further than
the British Museum, of course,
and the sealed archives of the Miskatonic University in Arkham.
Other examples of books whose evil can be unleashed
by any thoughtless reader are
Von Junzt's Von unaussprechlichen Kulten
and the abominable De Vermis Mysteriis by Ludwig Prinn,
whose sordid death should be a lesson to
all those tempted by a study of the occult.
If Rocks Could Talk,
or The Story of a Louisiana Plantation,
by The Marquis (Marchioness, i guess) of Champfrey.
after the criminal selling off of
Florida by the foul usurper,
my father elected to remain in this inhospitable land
where we were free at least
to express our royalist feelings
and hope our country would come to its sense.
In 1818,
a certain Pickford bought up Ledoux's land,,
after the poor fellow had ruined himself
in unfortunate speculation.
Pickford soon turned out to be
the most loathsome human we had ever encountered.
He was an adventurer of the worst kind,
nouveau riche
and bloated with a grotesque sense of
self-importance.
First came the incessant army of men with shovels,
digging into the mountain of earth
that was to fill in the surrounding swamp.
The undertaking was quite stupendous.
We learned from a slave that the final objective
was to connect the existing caves with another one,
of gigantic proportions.
Wracked by a mania of persecution,,
Eliah Pickford constantly fired his workers
and hired new ones.
He did all he could to keep anyone from learning about his plans.
My father was amused, and said:
"The poor fool will end up getting lost in his own cave!"
The walls went up and tongues started wagging.
Our detestable neighbour had been a sailor;
a ruffian grown rich on questionable trade.
Distasteful stories were told of him.
[Derceto's First floor map]
When the work was finished
Pickford invited us to the opening of his rambling mansion,
which he named "Derceto".
My father asked what the strange name meant.
Pickford answered:
"Derceto reminds me of
Astarte, the fertility goddess.
Around here, the name is Shub-Niggurath, I believe".
That a name so steeped in evil should be said aloud
came as not such a shock to my father,
as he himself confided in me some while later.
We left immediately.
In June of 1862,
Derceto was burned down in unexplained circumstances;
it was undoubtedly the deed of some jealous Yankee or another.
It was amazing to watch the servants rushing
into the flames to try and save their bullet-riddled master.
After that terrible night, Derceto fell into ruin.
Its blackened walls were soon overgrown,
as human-built works always are, by ever-present nature.
In 1875,
the property was eventually bought by a gentleman
whose name was Howard Hartwood.
I was sorry that my father,
who delighted in fine conversation,
was no longer alive to enjoy the company of this new neighbour.
Learned and well-versed in history,
he had made a particular study of piracy.
It was Hartwood who told me
that Pickford had commanded
a ship that flew the flag of piracy.
That explained the scoundrel's great wealth!
Hartwood was fascinated by Pickford,
and undertook a great deal of research
in attempt to find some treasure that he was convinced
the pirate had hidden.
He went through the ruins inch by inch.
He then had the burnt-out house rebuilt exactly as it had been,
and refurbished the library that had miraculously
escaped the flames on the night of the great fire.
Hartwood set about studying every volume
in that library and often
talked to me of his research.
He was a handsome widower, deeply attached to his son Jeremy,
who was later to become a professional artist.
Hartwood worked incessantly,
first from the room I offered him,
then from his own freshly-restored home,
which he re-baptized Derceto;
I imagine he hoped to enlist the help of the god of good fortune
in his treasure-hunt.
As far as I have ever been able to tell,
all his searching came to nothing.
There was no lost treasure to be found at Derceto.
I learned of Hartwood's death while I was in Paris.
But that, as they say, is another story.
Unfinished chapter of Terra Incognita,
by Jacob Van Ostadte.
A hitherto unpublished fragment of the manuscript,
nearthed following indications furnished
in the Vatican library's Expurgatory Index.
In those icy and unwelcoming lands,
the rites of wizards and healers
are deeply rooted in ancient legend.
Mysterious and cruel beings
are thought to have ruledover the Arctic
plains in times past.
A cursed city,
enclosed by massive walls,
is believed to stand to this day.
It contains fabulous treasures
and is inhabited
by the degenerate descendants of those who instilled
centuries of terror in the hearts of the people.
These people, naturally placid,
are seized with rage and horror at the very mention
of the "Prisoners of the Ice".
Were these dreadful captives to be freed
from their frozen cells,
they would reap a horrifying tribute of human flesh.
These blood-curdling beings
may be invoked
by certain ritual words.
They can even be controlled,
albeit with the greatest of difficulty.
I admit to being impressed by these tales,
repeated to me on many occasions
and in a number of different places
during my travels in the region.
I have also seen troubling cult objects,
sculpted in a material unknown to me.
Another remarkable fact
is that local Eskimos experience great distaste
in pronouncing certain words
and invariably avoid saying them.
Here
is a living example
of the power that words contain.
As it is said in the Bible:
In the beginning was...
the word.
The sons of the sun and of the shadows.
Lieutenant Lope de Vega's account
of his astounding travels to the land of the Aztecs.
"Holy Christ," cried captain Cortez,
astonished by the strange rite we beheld.
We found the savages half-naked.
They were throwing balls of silver and gold at each other.
They laughed as if demented,
clearly maddened by some heathen drug.
And yet, should one of them fail to catch the
ball thrown in his direction, the poor devil was seized and dragged off
to be sacrificed in their temple.
As we discovered, this frightful game
was a ritual most holy to them,
and symbolised the movement of the heavenly bodies.
The dropping of a ball foretold acatastrophe.
That is what the Aztecs believed,
in their godless ignorance.
Their countless deities
could only be appeased through endless human sacrifices.
The victim's heart
which was still beating
lay in the hand of the murderous priest.
The interior of the temple
was surprisingly cool.
he weight of our armors, our exhaustion,
even the burden of our suffering…
they were all banished
by a sense of awe that the crudely magnificent altar instilled.
In the tomb-like silence,
a deep voice chanted an incantation.
The majestic statue of the water goddess
Chalchihuitlicue
seemed to throb with vitality.
his massive stone, draped in a golden
cloak and studded with precious stones,
was coming to life before our very eyes.
Horror of horrors! The granite eyes the statue,
empty of life only moments before,
were now injected with blood.
We staggered back in amazement.
Dom José was taken by a fit of convulsions.
He tried to raise up his crucifix,
as if to ward off an attack by demons.
The heathen priest laughed cruelly.
The statue's mouth cracked open in a deathly grin,
baring teethsharpened to dagger-points.
Captain Cortez cried "Attack!".
But it was no use: we were glued to the spot.
Despite our efforts, we were unable to move.
Our armours seemed to be bolted to the temple floor.
Our legs weakened and we collapsed in a thunder of steel.
Only Cortez
had the presence of mind to unsheathe his dagger.
He hurled it at the cackling priest…
4 inches of the finest Toledo steel
buried themselves in the heathen's face.
His blood spurted, splashing the now lifeless idol.
We picked ourselves up with difficulty.
Never will I forget that terrible moment.
My companions, naturally enough,
told tales of devilish enchantments cast upon our armours.
Whatever the truth of that,
I could not deny that the supreme god of the fourth universe
had treated us as mere playthings.
I am convinced
that a terrible energy is yet contained
within that heathen statue;
a power strong enough to change a proud conquistador
into a helpless puppets.
Drawing of Chalchihuitlicue
by Dom José De La Sierra
done before the destruction of the Aztec temple of Tenochtitlan.
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