Tuesday, July 22, 2014

COLLECTION II


Hey folks! I just wanted to thank everyone that purchased a copy of Collection II. They'll be packed up tonight and domestic orders with ship tomorrow and international orders will ship the day after. I did want to let people know that there was a code problem, but it's fixed now and there are still a handful of copies remaining.

Also, I'm working on 2 weeks worth of monsters/gods that should start to post in the next month. So, don't worry, there will be more! In fact, most of them are drawn/inked and flat colored and just need to be rendered. Ok, well, that's all the news I have for now. Don't forget:

Illustro Obscurum Collection II (first edition)
A collection of Volumes V-VIII of Illustro Obscurum.
FEW COPIES REMAIN!!
AVAILABLE NOW








Shipping incl.




 

Friday, June 13, 2014

CIRCE

CIRCE
"He drew his sword and spake harsh word 
To Circe standing there 
"My men set free", in wrath quoth he 
"Thy damage quick repair"!!!"
H.P. Lovecraft, The Poem Of Ulysses

"Kirke, a goddess with braided hair, with human speech and with strange powers;"

"Having given them this and waited for them to have their fill, she struck them suddenly with her wand, then drove them into the sties where she kept her swine. And now the men had the form of swine--the snout and grunt and bristles; only their minds were left unchanged. They shed tears as they were shut in, while Kirke threw down in front of them some acorns and mast and cornel--daily fare for swine whose lodging is on the ground."
Homer, Odyssey

"She sprinkled round about her evil drugs and poisonous essences, and out of Erebos and Chaos called Nox and the Di Noties and poured a prayer with long-drawn wailing cries to Hecate. The woods  leapt away, a groan came from the ground, the bushes blanched, the spattered sward was soaked with gouts of blood, stones brayed and bellowed, dogs began to bark, black snakes swarmed on the soil and ghostly shapes of silent spirits floated through the air. Stunned by such magic sorcery, the group of courtiers stood aghast; and as they gazed, she touched their faces with her poisoned wand, and at its touch each took the magic form of some wild beast; none kept his proper shape."
Ovid, Metamorphoses

"She was skilled in the magic of metamorphosis, the power of illusion, and the dark art of necromancy."
Aaron J. Atsma, The Theoi Project: Greek Mythology


Thursday, June 12, 2014

LOBON

LOBON
"Lofty and amazing were the seventeen tower-like temples of Sarnath, fashioned of a bright multi-coloured stone not known elsewhere. A full thousand cubits high stood the greatest among them, wherein the high-priests dwelt with a magnificence scarce less than that of the kings. On the ground were halls as vast and splendid as those of the palaces; where gathered throngs in worship of Zo-Kalar and Tamash and Lobon, the chief gods of Sarnath, whose incense-enveloped shrines were as the thrones of monarchs."
H.P. Lovecraft, The Doom That Came To Sarnath

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

TAMASH

TAMASH
"Lofty and amazing were the seventeen tower-like temples of Sarnath, fashioned of a bright multi-coloured stone not known elsewhere. A full thousand cubits high stood the greatest among them, wherein the high-priests dwelt with a magnificence scarce less than that of the kings. On the ground were halls as vast and splendid as those of the palaces; where gathered throngs in worship of Zo-Kalar and Tamash and Lobon, the chief gods of Sarnath, whose incense-enveloped shrines were as the thrones of monarchs."
H.P. Lovecraft, The Doom That Came To Sarnath


Tuesday, June 10, 2014

ZO-KALAR

 ZO-KALAR
"On the ground were halls as vast and splendid as those of the palaces; where gathered throngs in worship of Zo-Kalar and Tamash and Lobon, the chief gods of Sarnath, whose incense-enveloped shrines were as the thrones of monarchs. Not like the eikons of other gods were those of Zo-Kalar and Tamash and Lobon, for so close to life were they that one might swear the graceful bearded gods themselves sate on the ivory thrones."
H.P. Lovecraft, The Doom That Came To Sarnath


Monday, June 9, 2014

BEELZEBUB

 BEELZEBUB
"It must be allow’d, that these Blasphemies of an infernall Train of Daemons are Matters of too common Knowledge to be deny’d; the cursed Voices of Azazel and Buzrael, of Beelzebub and Belial, being heard now from under Ground by above a Score of credible Witnesses now living."
H.P. Lovecraft, The Dunwich Horror

“I said to him, ‘What are your activities?’ He replied, ‘I bring destruction by means of tyrants; I cause the demons to be worshiped alongside men; and I arouse desire in holy men and select priests. I bring about jealousies and murders in a country, and I instigate wars."
Testament Of Solomon 

"Demonologists present him in different ways. Milton said he was imposing with a wise face. Some say he is as high as a tower or of similar size to us. Some say he has the figure of a snake with feminine traits."

"He also gives a menacing aura & sits on a throne surrounded by fire. He (had) large nostrils and 2 horns on his head. He has 2 bat-like wings attached to his shoulders, 2 duck feet, a lion’s tail, and is covered from head to foot in shaggy fur.

"Others claim he is associated with the Slavic god Belbog or Belbach (white god), because his images were always covered in flies, like Belzebuth among the Syrians."

"In Solomon’s Clavicules, Belzebuth appeared as an enormous calf or a goat with a long tail, but with the face of a fly. Belzebuth appeared to Faust ‘dressed like a bee and with two dreadful ears and his hair painted in all colors with a dragon’s tail."
Collin de Plancy, Dictionnaire Infernal

 
"O prince of perdition and chief of destruction, Beelzebub, the scorn of the angels and spitting of the righteous why wouldest thou do this? Thou wouldest crucify the King of glory and at his decease didst promise us great spoils of his death: like a fool thou knewest not what thou didst."
Gospel Of Nicodemus

Friday, May 16, 2014

SISTERS OF THE DARKSOME NIGHT (NYARLATHOTEP)

SISTERS OF THE DARKSOME NIGHT (NYARLATHOTEP)
"Manhattan is as far away from your God as you ever imagined you could be. It's why you moved three thousand miles from home."

"Your mother died before you were old enough to remember her, and your father was a stranger to you and your younger sister both--a stone-faced, religious figure who watched and controlled your every move. For love, you used to tell yourself. For love. You were baptized and raised in St. Mark's Lutheran Church, a three-storied, multi-basemented labyrinth of cement and stone overlooking a sliver of the San Juan Straits: it was a second home, but no different than the first. Prayers and scripture at meals and gatherings, evenings of moral lectures and study, lengthy church sermons in the candlelit nave as you squiggled against hard granite pews like a pinned worm. Escape took the form of public school classrooms and part-time jobs in musty fabric stores--but as you transformed over the years into a young woman, the leash grew as taut as your father's palpable, unspoken fear. For what, of what, you never asked and he never said."

"When it became clear that there would be no college in your future, no future in your future except church and church and church, you excused yourself from scripture study one lovely afternoon in your eighteenth year, taking a purse packed with a single maxi-pad and many small bills, leaving your coat behind. The hallways were bright with summer sun and chalkboard dust, and the overhead lights shook slightly from repair work in the basement--a sixty-year old foundation problem that had yet to be fixed. You walked down the stairs, past the restrooms and outside, through the gravel parking lot into the leafy suburbs of Tacoma. Shivering with ice-blooded fear, you walked swiftly without looking behind you, anticipating the squeal of tires, the blare of horns. No one came. Then again, why would they? Every year the church bled members faster than it sank into the damaged ground. You made it to the bus stop, then the train station, and then you were gone."

"Twenty-two years later, you twist into sleep every night with all the lamps switched on, and wake every morning in a room suspended by twenty-five stories of concrete and steel girders. As pale and colorless as your skin is, it is always with relief that you greet the cancer-bright sun pouring through curtainless windows. Surprise, as well: sleep reminds you of home, of church, of some subterranean chapel of your soul. Every night you fight against falling back down again. Every morning you arise, above ground and alive. Outside, a constant drone of machinery and metal surrounds Manhattan like an archangel's invincible shield: the night terrors of your childhood fade and you are safe for twelve hours more. Most of those hours, like today, are spent at the reception desk of the company you work for, encased in the comforting artificial hum of air conditioners, the electric clicks and purrs of the phone, the rip of the letter openers through tape and envelope flaps. You reach for a battered box with the word morgenstern scrawled in black marker on the side, and stab it open like an infected wound as you think about what you'll have for lunch."

"Bits of moldering paper spill onto your neat desk, flecked with stony grey grit that catches in your lashes and bites your eyes. Old photographs, memorandums, bulletin drafts and personal notes--six decades of the history of St. Mark's, a secret saga that no one driving past the pretty building and clipped lawns could ever have imagined or known. A faded Polaroid flips out onto your palm. Two ancient women in the sunlight church basement, naked, hairless, blind. The teeth of their lipless mouths have fused into monstrous smiles, the ribbed walls of calcium growing over their chins and down, joining their exposed ribs. The lower halves of their bodies have grown together, legs and hips joined in an Escher configuration of impossible curves doubling back into themselves, as if the women are birthing a colossal vertebra, barely contained beneath the radiant translucence of their porcelain skin. You turn the photo over. Two names, written in your dead mother's spindly cursive, ten years before you were born: Margo and Ruthie Johansson, church potluck, 1964. The first!"

"Some sticky birth plug of memory squeezes and pops out of your soul: all you've done to create this clean adult life bleeds away, leaving behind the young woman you used to be, more naked and alone than when you were first born. You push back from your desk, and the papers slither over the edge and down, whispering a language you never thought you'd hear again. Liese: say nothing about what's in this box to anyone, an unsigned note by your foot reads in neat print. Erika, your older sister, is the only one who knows where you are. Father passed last week. I need you. Come home."

"Ten hours later, engines rush you across a country gripped in autumn gold and brown. America undulates below, shimmying in the long shadows of mountains and clouds, as if the manmade layers of city and suburb are recoiling from the touch of the feral lands upon which they rest. You watch ice cubes rings melt in the plastic cup, and slip them one by one onto the tip of your tongue, sucking away every last drop of cheap white wine. Boozy, irrational daydreams set your heart galloping--visions of linoleum-lined underground classrooms crumbling inward, sucking you into the sunless grottos of the earth. As the plane crosses the ridge of the High Cascades, you see how the land has ossified under the thin skin of forest and soil. Mount Rainier is a clavicle crowned in frost and snow; all the bones tumble together as they descend in jagged foothills to the pelvic shores of the Puget Sound; and then they sink into the Pacific."

"Words bubble out of you like magma, tuneless snippets of a long-forgotten hymn. "Morningstar in darksome night, who the sad earth makest bright--" You whisper the phrase in an endless loop, staring out the window, watching the world rush by."

"Where the skeleton ends, you cannot see. But you know where it began. You know when."
Livia Llewellyn, Excerpt from Morgenstern der finstern Nacht
Written Exclusively For an Illustro Obscurum Collaboration