Along the ragged, carrion encrusted edge of obsidian darkness, which the unenlightened know simply as ‘Night’, I stand before a gate, time battered and worn. Long since has my methodically logical mind been ravaged and violated by obscene visions of its shattered Euclidean algorithms.A sickening half-light ceaselessly modulates, carrying the arcane whispering of the malignant spheres, leeching through from the void to weave and weft their abysmal insane choreography; the unending dance of primal chaos.
All in one, one in all, Yog-Sothoth awaits for the scornful sigils to be flesh-carved upon the worthy, anticipating the ecstatic reverberations of the orgasmic writhing of the filth-soaked Chosen Faithful. Yog-Sothoth, solitary and profane dark matter portal bearing within its totality the blood-filled Eden of Sitra Ahra. You who are lock, hole and indeed, sole Key to the greater Abyss; open now the ways!
O’ Ancient Lord of the ever unfolding cataclysm, multitudinous in your magnificence, lay your thousand burning eyes and baleful glare upon your servants and reveal your presence as our bridge and gateway. You alone shall illuminate the starlit pathways for the Unholy atavistic abominations to wend Their way home to our world, reclaiming what once was Theirs.
Remembered by few, honoured by less, They have heard the call of Their own; and we, the Chosen Faithful, possessed by our dreams and visions, have formed a frenzied mass of indescribable darkness extending across all of manifestation, inspired by Their madness and malice.
Master, we implore you to dig deep, dredge up and release to realisation, the deadly learnings and foulest yearnings within us, allowing us to partake of the hunger of the anti-cosmic horror from beyond the remotest stars. Yog-Sothoth, set now your rabid, starving hordes loose once again, tumbling and crawling upon the deepest recesses of spoiled places; long forgotten, withdrawn and brooding in ruinous umbra.
Earth shall tremble at Their coming, the gap in our reasoning widens as the hour of cold reckoning approaches. Stark winds of change, bearing razor-blade caresses, threatens to become apocalyptic storm.
Take heed and stock fair friends, the waves of Truth strike now upon the shores of conscious thought. A tide that sings of the darkness between the stars. The eyes of the drowned shall lock and no one can escape the deluge; except perhaps for the Chosen Faithful. Those few who cling to their archaic faith like limpets to a rock, sinful beyond measure, shall remain unscathed and elevated, transcended and transformed.
The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, the Old Ones shall be. Rejoice now Unholy Ones, the harvest time has come…
Text : Sarah-Jayne Farrer & Matt Baldwin-Ives
‘Yog-Sothoth': Matt Baldwin-Ives & Sarah-Jayne Farrer