“We were received by that great merchant and studmaster Cuno in his Villa at Mar, which is only one of his estates but perhaps the grandest. Like other great men of our modern age he did not inherit his power, but instead elected to seize it himself through perseverance and great force of body and mind.”
The King’s mounted dragonslayer proxy did tower over the drones there, abandoned and incapacitated so very long ago by water and mud.
Asshole nuns sold dud beads. No honor among simonists.
I found these pictures in an slim folder labeled “They Will Come 2008”. Nick took them in July 2008, in and around the small community of Darkford in northern England. The images are some kind of documentation of a music festival and a break-in at a derelict mine. Aside from the pictures, there are also eight microcassettes from Nick’s dictation machine full of interview fragments. There is also the “Red Record”, which appears to be an early seventies bootleg compiled from various open air concerts.
"The Popov Brothers and the song “Hey My Friend (What’s Going On)” was one of the records in Nick’s black crate that started this series. There are other unusual things still further back in that crate, but there is a certain matter of scale that makes “Hey My Friend” interesting. It’s not just one forgotten song (and it is sort of forgettable). It’s two forgotten brothers, three forgotten minutes and an entire forgotten country."
Go further with the Vril!
"Their leader had served as a guard in the city of Mendel, my translator told me, but had been discharged after mauling a rioter during the long eclipse. His fur was less thick than that of the other Molossi in the band - the loud Free Jaw mercenaries and the quiet tribal trackers. It seemed to me that he had something of the street thug about him, the smooth calm of the gutter Hound."
"So it was that Dor Moshash the geometer king came before the she-worm Brigadora of Garm: for she had taken the city and ruled it wisely as queen."
At Christmas we got a Dog her name is Molly. She is a Dog baby thats called a puppy.
The barks of the Molossi and the shouts of the crowd bring you to the balcony. The object has appeared in the center of the great square, crushing the fountain and its statue of Fate and her Hounds. The air is filled with steam and marble dust.
Got the bike today. ‘42 Monsun. Old piece-of-shit Reich bike. Magic powered, got some rosary beads from the convent down on Reagan that should get me as far as Tucson, maybe. The bastard broke down a couple of miles down the I-10. Pulled over and opened it up and spent two hours in the sun scraping forty years of caked resin from the altar chamber. Having fun.
“It is my belief that the blood of a beast is something like a rememory engine of old, storing every cruelty committed against the animal’s ancestors and reminding it to run from men. I admit to feeling strangely guilty when the schildbok bounded so desperately away from me. To the antelope I was, apparently, surrounded by the ghosts of long-dead hunters.”
"As we forded the Black river, the Tomb City of Nyxa did rise in the distance, carved from the rock of the mountain called Night. It gleamed in the sun to greet us, the fabled Bronze Gate through which the conqueror Tomas Radax could not ride without weeping for all the beauty that would be lost to war. But the gate still stands and is beautiful still. Banners flutter from the old watchtower, melted like a candle by some calamity of a long-forgotten age."
"Glowing and silent it approached me, and I stood trembling as the horrible truthdawned on me. This was not the work of God, but of Man."
"Clean motorbrain hit, 250 kilojoules delivered by magnetically accelerated pure iron slug at 3500 meters.
"Take nothing but an oaken cane, hardened by fire. Walk from the mouth of the River into the Swamp, without talking or singing."
"The 2013 Swedenborg Prize in Numerology is awarded to Antoine Pirouet, for his statistical investigation of which numbers are everywhere, everywhere I tell you."