It was a time for high hopes and a time in which I saw all hope dashed upon the watery rocks below. Cthulhu One, the first convention held on May Eve 2005 in which S.T. Joshi and Robert M. Price were the guests of honor, had been an enormous success. Cthulhu Two held on May Eve 2009, however, was another matter. It was so sparsely attended that I might as well not even organized the event to begin with. Yet, organize it I had. I did what I could to make the best of it. The May Eve ritual would have to be powerful and evocative enough to over-compensate for the otherwise dismal failure of our second convention. I wrote it the day of, in a trance-like state surrounded by green lights, blasphemous idols, and copies of Liber A:O… cold off the presses.
Those who participated were spiritually raw upon the dark rite’s completion, their hearts and minds taken to a place unfathomable. I, in particular, felt ripples in the magical water – ripples that would continue to resonate throughout our universal ocean. Something had broken free that night!
Amidst the confusion of life and my own personal struggles, the ritual performed was subsequently lost. Where the manuscript had disappeared to, I had no clue. It was somewhere, I was sure, but after months of searching I had given up hope of ever finding it. Then, just as mysteriously as it disappeared, the original, hand-written pages materialized a couple of nights ago. With only a few small corrections, I submit this ritual in all its purity for your viewing pleasure. Behold, here is The Lost Ritual, Void Ooze and Tentacled Worms!
We have come to open the gate…
Nothing human, nothing gained.
Deep archives of emerald vibrational sendings.
Architectural crystallizations of radiant fear.
A thousand and one beasts crawl upon the mud-caked altar where abhorrent dreams live in deathless triumph.
The horrors from outside have arrived. Loosed, viral, chaotic – unimaginable terror oozing out like jaundiced wounds over the monolith’s eyes.
Yog-Sothoth, wandering purple mage, albino madman, teacher of night wisdom and master of absent stars. You who are the first shell, the revealed face beneath our mask – reveal your greatness to those who worship you, Yog-Sothoth!
Nyarlathotep, the ebony man of syrupy tentacles and foul secrets – so alien is your hypnotic visage, glorious and repulsive, there are none so blasphemous as you, our messenger. Savagery emanates from your blood-soaked celebrants. Nyarlathotep, Black Pharaoh… give your worshipers strength!
Dread Cthulhu, dreamer of change, emerald divinity, apocalyptic voyager into the beyond and the vastness of inner space, unholy lord who has no equal. You are the God who speaks to his servants of delicious cruelty and lustful conquest. Your kingdom now and forever. As our Cult has taken your name, so we ask that you grant us your favor… Hail Cthulhu!
Together, we plumb such aborted depths that suggest the last nightmare – a final exhumation of nocturnal depravity from which there is no escape. Where only the darkness itself can be seen, reflected upon the mirrored souls of those who tirelessly seek absolute truth in limitless gulphs that only demonstrate the void’s true nature.
A far more gruesome reality seeps down into us, below every surface of skin and pore. Within the flesh, swim untamed rivers that are so black they shine sickly green for those who have the eyes to witness such eldritch sights.
Streams of ichor, sliming the cyclopean stones belonging to another age… a time of dreams and flopping, loping beings barely hanging onto a semblance of humanity. Our children? Our ancestors? Let our women give birth to shoggoths!
A magician’s mastery is force under control and appetite slowly unleashed. The world is not ready, nor should it ever be. To destroy natural creation is our purpose. The things which hang from the sky, eyes of an alien hue… watching, forever watching. At once our desire shall be delivered unto us as a flowing ocean of void ooze.
Yog-Sothoth, we summon your form – spheres which encompass all possible realities.
Nyarlathotep, you slither down the mountain as a gigantic, crimson, tentacled worm. Effortlessly showing the way to salvation.
Cthulhu, such infinite soft bilious green illumination, tumescent tentacles crushing and ripping through time and space until all enemies are vanquished.
To sleep, perchance to worship…
This is the ninth phase. A cycle broken through, succumbing to all that is degenerate, rotting, foetid, and unwholesome. We who have emerged from the natural order to refute the demiurge and his plans of slavery and nourishment. The unbound terror which goes beyond. Loathsome, demonic servitors – a sculpture of reptilian bloodlines from which we might be fashioned. Carved from fresh green onyx, glowing faintly in the gibbous moonlight. A howling, yammering entity ambles out of the water and onto the precipice; it kneels with nervous anticipation before the unquiet void. As Lovecraft died, his work was born. As our dead masks are sacrificed, so our work continues.
K’zin than r’zith oola yev. Talek oola loth n’thsoon.
An unutterable breach shall be felt. Subjectively and objectively, by worm and God alike. A thick, harlequin slime oozes beneath reality. With the collective force of our will, such a yellowish green coagulation of elder blood drowns the world, sustaining those with the hideous lore of ghastly, viridescent aeons.
Our will be done!
The Cult’s allegiance to indescribable Gods manifests in the sinister devotion of its priests. Those who strive for the great answers and the ripe fruit may receive the enlightenment that is as nameless as it is potent. For not many can discern their will. Praise the Ancient Ones!
So it shall be!
The diseased head, rambling, reaching, vomiting, tentacled nightmare worms with such voracious appetite leading to the world’s demise. A providential darkness rolls in under a current of chartreuse madness. Your servants lost in the fog, found by deep ones on the shore of a spectral beach.
Hesitant, weak reality hides away, drifting into non existence. Nothing left but broken atoms that watch the decline of yet another crumbling civilization. The Serpent People march beneath Saturn’s obsidian pyramids, asymmetrical. This is our home – where men’s minds come to frolic in the bloodletting. Triumph and jubilation! Now is the way of black rivers, emerald veined and conscious.
Come unto us, slithering obscenity! Spread thy legs for your disciples…
Ia Ia Cthulhu Cult!
The change is for us to decide.
The change is for us to decide.
The change is for us to decide…
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