Archive for Creatures

Illuminated

A man wearing loose, shimmering robes. Only his head and hands are exposed. He has aquiline features, pale eyes, and long white hair. Over his shoulder floats a metallic orb, about the size of a baseball.

Master Rirhi first appeared to bear witness and give testimony to the initiates in 1893. When he next imparted his wisdom to the initiates, this time in 1921, he appeared as he had decades before. No new line or spot marred his face. His alabaster hair had lost none of its lusters. Same for his eyes, brilliant azure, reflecting the infinite depths of his wisdom. The intervening years had not conspired to stoop him, no arthritis had entered his bones. His bearing was as regal and imperious as ever. The older initiates declared this was indeed a sign that his wisdom had lifted him up into divinity. From The All-Pervasive Teachings of Master Rirhi Unveiled, by Col. Raymond R. Cook (published 1930)

Alternative names: Ascended Masters, Chrononauts, Exalted Patrons, Secret Chiefs

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Hidebehind

A thin insect-like appendage, multi-segmented and terminating in claws, reaching out from behind a tree in the forest

We felt eyes on us for miles. We’d turn only to catch a glimpse of something slinking behind a tree. Later, I felt a tug on my collar. My shirt ripped as I spun. The leg or arm of a giant insect was curled around the tree, torn fabric held in its claws. Then it slithered back behind the tree. We ran. 

Alternative names: Grabbers

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Vestals of Ii-Ha

A tall female humanoid figure, wearing a long tunic. The tunic is decorated in arcane symbols in rows running up and down the length of the garment. She has four arms, two on each side. Each arm has multiple joints, segmented like an insect. From under the bottom of the tunic peek the ends of multiple insect-like legs. On their head they wear a veil that terminates just below the eyes, obscuring them. Under the veil, the face is dried and withered, the nose and lips missing, teeth exposed and gritted in a sinister grin.

It was something of a female figure, taller than any human, moving among the seeming infinite shelves of books. A finger traced the spines of the collected volumes, at the end of a misformed arm, segmented like that of an insect. A priest’s vestments hung from the being’s body. Across the gown were sigils I could not comprehend. Yet something inside of me roiled when I saw them. The creature floated as it moved. Sharp, thin feet, dozens of them, kicked from under the hem of the gown. I must have made some sort of noise. It turned toward me, a hiss coming from its skeletal face. It lifted a veil covering its eyes. The empty sockets began to glow. 

Alternative names: Canonesses of the True Face, Sisters of the Throne. 

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A Picture of a Rose

a plain black box

Alternative names: Langford’s Rose, Xithxrar’s Face

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Xaazenak

An immense, thin humanoid being slightly bent at the waist. It is nude and sexless. Its flesh appears to be made of bone. Two arms hang by its sides; there are no elbows on the arms, nothing connecting the wrist to the rest of the arm or the hands to the wrists. Palms face the viewer. From its back spread eight other arms, four on each side, extending like wings, each disjointed like the arms at its side. Its face is featureless save six narrow eyes, arraigned in two even, verticle rows. Atop its head is a crown-like flame.

It hurt the eyes just to look at the being. The air around it shimmered, like pavement on a hot summer day. There was no radiation, the scientists in charge assured us. The effect was due to thex being’s strange composition, they said. It was just a guess, though. They’d never been able to get a tissue sample. The colossal creature seemed to be made entirely of bone or something like it. Whatever it was, it’d proved too hard for the government’s tools to even chip. Immense chains binding it gave the illusion of security. No doubt if it awoke it would easily shrug them away. Even as it slept, it felt as though the being was reaching inside of our minds, weighing our sins, judging our worthiness. 

Alternative names: Angels, Cleansers of the Earth, Fires of the Elder Gods. 

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Phantoms of No Man’s Land

The Phantoms look like gasmask clad German infantry, soaked with mud, blood, and human waste through their uniforms, sometimes carrying the detritus of the battlefield tangled in their gear and flesh. They are peppered with bullet and shrapnel wounds, sometimes tangled in sections of barbed wire. Beneath their heavy uniforms and helmets, their corpse-white skin shows the damage of war and possibly their reassembly from unmatched corpses. Their gas masks adhere to their skulls like skin and removing them leaves a wet, grinning skull and staring eyes.

The play The King in Yellow has been introduced to the oddest and most inaccessible of places. One of those was the blood and fecal churned mud in the trenches of the Western Front. As soldiers reached out for any talisman, mascot, or gris-gris that might protect them from the random, impersonal death that haunted the mazes of entrenchments that stretched from Switzerland to the sea, more than one man on leave stumbled upon the Yellow Sign. Some thought them to be a variation of the popular Buddhist swastika that was found in great numbers on either side of No Man’s Land. Others believe them to be a good luck charm of Arabic origin. Whether found in a shop or sent in the mail by worried and superstitious family or friends, the Yellow Sign was not unknown in the trenches. And where the Yellow Sign Goes, the play The King in Yellow is sure to follow. Perhaps the manuscript arrives at the battalion HQ via the post from an anonymous sender. A play that might be performed in order to alleviate the boredom that settles in between the gargantuan efforts to shift the front a mile or two east? Maybe the pages arrive as nothing more than wadded packing around a shipment of preserved food sent from the hole? In any event, the play is here now and Carcosa will soon follow.

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Nahab, the Undying, the Unending

An old woman, naked from the waist up. She clutches a giant rat to her breast, nursing it. From under her long, ragged skirt peek the feet of a rat. Her face is sunken, eyes staring but lifeless. Her mouth hangs in a scowl. Long white hair falls about her shoulder. Around her are faint, shadowy images of herself, surrounding her.

“For almost one hundred years, the residents of the French Hill Neighborhood have seen a terrifying figure wandering through the streets and sometimes even their homes. An evil, ancient hag nursing a giant rat. Even as French Hill becomes a trendy, gentrified, upscaled neighborhood, the old superstitions remain. Everyone knows the name Keziah Mason. And everyone knows not to anger her. …– Marion Elwood, The Ghosts of Old Arkham.

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Monstrous Deep One Hybrids, Eel Hybrid

A deep one (fish man upper body) with a very large mouth, long pointy teeth, large black eyes, and an angler fish’s glowing lantern. Below the waist is a long serpentine body ending in a wide paddle fin. May carry a massive trident.

Although it is rare Deep Ones can, and do, mate with a variety of sea creatures. While dolphins and sharks are the most common partners, a number of other examples exist. One such variety is the Deep One / Eel Hybrid. These are most commonly found in the darkest depths of the ocean, lurking on the outskirts of a Deep One colony, or near a shore side community of Deep One hybrids. While there is a great deal of variation between individuals, depending on the species of eel they are born from or sired by, a few common traits exist. Deep One / Eel Hybrids have a humanoid the upper body similar to common Deep Ones but with much larger and wider mouths and the lower serpentine bodies eels. While they can breathe air they are seldom found on land, as they move slow and clumsily when out of the water.

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Bonescraw

Bonescraw can come in many forms, depending on which creature has been digested. Typically a human skeleton will look similar to how it normally appears, but will look odd with some bones being reassembled out of their usual place, meaning the creature will have be top heavy, or have a strange lilt to one side. The overall form is a strange, shambling thing. Some bones in the arms and chest may have been repurposed into spines used for stabbing attacks. The skeleton is filled with mud, moss and lichen, the tendrils of which cover the outer bones and hold the form in place.

Moss Skeletons

I want your skull, I need your skull

— The Misfits

Typically native to marshlands and lowland wooded areas the Bonescraw are in fact a single, semi-sentient bryophyte which fell to Earth on an ancient meteorite. Once it has contaminated an area it will spread as a deep, dense network of carnivorous, acidic moss and lichen that blights the land. Any creature unfortunate enough to enter the moss falls prey to the sedative pollen that it releases and is slowly dissolved and digested, leaving only their bones behind.

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The Real imaginary friend 

From a distance, the “RIF” appears as a small football-sized globe of light that changes colours calmly and gives an almost soothing aura. When approached the orb becomes a whirlwind of differently coloured shards of light that clash, merge and reform in an almost hypnotic and feverish dance.

Imagination can be a funny thing, taken down one road it can be a limitless resource to draw upon when one feels the need for entertainment, support, and even salvation. On the other hand, it can destroy trust, relationships, and even the very fabric of what we believe to be real when we investigate the dark corners of the world. The odd thing is that given its name, imagination, we all agree on what exactly an imagination is when it is working and when it is a fault, how very unimaginative. Imagination is nothing more than rational thought stretched to its very limit, that the things we imagine as just the shadows at the edge of our vision we dare not stare at. We imagine the things that we could never see or comprehend, we imagine that everyone can make believe or invent whatever they wish but then why do we find… 

Professor Desmond Fairbroke on the imagination of the collective, at a café in Amsterdam.
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