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"They were the cold, pale things of native myths."


"Out of the unimaginable blackness (...) there flopped rhythmically a horde of tame, trained, hybrid winged things that no sound eye could ever wholly grasp, or sound brain ever wholly remember. They were not altogether crows, nor moles, nor buzzards, nor ants, nor vampire bats, nor decomposed human beings, but something I cannot and must not recall." --H.P. Lovecraft

They came to this island from the mysterious south, from the nightmare countries, on ships bearing the mark of the hideous sun. Sorcerers and necromancers commanded them, sent them forth onto these shores with bloody intent. They were the cold, pale things of native myths, of scary bedtime stories for children, of gothic horror for a morbid audience: chittering creatures with torn wings and spiky legs and terrible jaws, mad things of exceptional malignancy from the abysses between stars, entombed in black vaults beneath the tainted soil of these accursed woods and desolate mountains. They have slept a thousand years, nestled amongst the roots of sinister monoliths, but now they stir, hungrily, awakened by whispers and by the insistent song they have craved for so long. Their black eyes turn to Kingsmouth, to the new arrivals on Solomon Island, and to the thing that sings, that once bound them and has now freed them again from their prison...[1]

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