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A little rough, no doubt, but I blame that on very little sleep.
"To Nyarlathotep, Mighty Messenger, must all things be told. And He shall put on the semblance of men, the waxen mask and the robe that hides, and come down from the world of Seven Suns to mock... (Nyarl)athotep, Great Messenger, bringer of strange joy to Yuggoth through the void, Father of the Million Favoured Ones, Stalker among... "
Extracts from a Mi-Go/Human ritual
From the frozen surface of Yuggoth to the Pyramids of Ancient Khem, from the financial heart of the United States of America to the Mountain of Kadath in the Cold Wastes, there is nowhere that Nyarlathotep has not walked. He is the Voice and Soul of Azathoth, the mindless Demon Sultan that bubbles and festers in nuclear ignorance. He is the only one of the Outer Gods who apparently takes a real interest in mankind, though it is not a benevolent one. Nyarlathotep finds great joy in toying with mankind, encouraging the degredation and decay of humanity and leading us in an endless and incomprehensible game.
Nyarlathotep has no one form, existing at any one time as any one of innumerable Masks. In China, an ancient cult follows the Bloated Woman, a horrendous mass of flesh disguised behind a fan. In Kenya, the Bloody Tongue, a titanic horror, rules over a group of outcast tribes and the Black Wind blows down yearly to devastate the landscape. In New York, an occult criminal syndicate is run by an apparently immortal sorceror working towards some unknown aim. In Sweden, at the heart of an international conspiracy, a book of terrible lore provides exactly what its readers need, at terrible cost. And from ancient Khem to modern day Egypt, the Black Pharoah looms like a shadow out of time.