Professor Mint T. Zloty is a highly valued member of the Archives and of the University, whether living or dead, and we have no desire whatsoever to ever lose his presence in our fine establishment.

However, were he to say, step into the light, or the darkness, or whatever force might be calling him away from us, we would bear him no grudge whatsoever, and though it might be hard for us, we would find some way to muddle through it. This, especially because on the other side of the light would be many wondrous things, all the iced cream he could eat, another world, anxiously awaiting a great and forgiving man such as himself - which would certainly be something much much better than haunting the corridors of our university or hanging around his dusty laboratory.

In fact, should he, in his great wisdom, come to the realization that he is in fact dead, we would probably be compelled to build a wing on the archives in his name, erect a statue, and perhaps even fund a moving picture about his adventures and exploits in his great honor - especially should he sign a simple waiver, agreeing not to be summoned by any members of other colleges, or law enforcement representatives.

However, until then, and after, he will always be regarded as the greatest professor ever to grace this establishment, and an all-around spectacular example of learning and of wisdom.

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Georgia Pakadakis, also known as the Midnight Bandit. is a nefarious plotter from whom we had all best keep well away. Under cover of darkness, she relies on her raccoon-DNA stealth to sneak her sigils into local art establishments, restaurants, and gift shops.

The next morning, the shopkeepers are sure they remember arranging for a display of works by a cheerful and talented young artist, and smile appreciatively at what appear to be brightly rendered fantastical creatures. The sigils work their magic as surely as they hide their true nature, and wild mushrooms sprout behind the cash register. Should one be tempted to take one of these sigils home as a decorative diversion, beware and be warned, for raccoon magic is afoot.

Soon you will believe that what you possess is the work of a lovely and personable artist with a bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts, prestigious awards, and impeccable social charms and graces. You will turn to your spouse or your mother and you will say, “see the lovely mermaid?” To which he or she may respond in bafflement “I see naught but chicken scratchings!” 

Though we are proud to share her works, Georgia’s paintings and prints are not presently available through the archives. If you are interested in any of these works, you can contact her through her website at GeorgiaPapakadis.com

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 Today I added this mission generator in order to make my days a bit more interesting. It is still in its beta stage, but it is somewhat unlikely that it will cause any sort of dismemberment or death, unless used improperly. Feel free to try it out.

Adventure Mission Generator copyright © 2008 Myke Amend

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Bethalynne Bajema was brought to this world some years past, spring-time-ish, in a dark ceremony using stolen languages since unspoken by man. From an early age she was taught sewing, story-telling, and unconventional warfare… all this in preparation of her foretold future as Dread-Overlord-And-Tailor. What prophecy could not see was the impact her older brother’s comic collection would have on her, and the siren songs of India ink, the arts, and the written word. These talents have since been nurtured and have been showcased in a variety of magazines, books, and for more than ten years online.

Mixing equal parts Victorian horror, sepia erotica, clockwork logic and Industrial music, Beth carves her dreams on the skins of Tibetan holy men before transferring their contents to the computer’s screen.

Beth currently resides on America ’s East Coast with family, a rather bizarre little cat, a laptop, and her dark army.

(Biography provided by John Galati)

Examples of Beth’s Work (Click on a thumbnail to see a larger view)

Note: Moon, Deva, and Quill are only available here, but all proceeds from sales go to the artist.

Saturnine Printed on heavy archival stock in archival inks with a luster finish 4×6 Inch Print $8.00 5×7 Inch Print $14.00 8×10 Inch Print $22.00

Moon Printed on heavy archival stock in archival inks with a luster finish 4×6 Inch Print $8.00 5×7 Inch Print $14.00 8×10 Inch Print $22.00

Deva Printed on heavy archival stock in archival inks with a luster finish 4×6 Inch Print $8.00 5×7 Inch Print $14.00 8×10 Inch Print $22.00

Quill Printed on heavy archival stock in archival inks with a luster finish 4×6 Inch Print $8.00 5×7 Inch Print $14.00 8×10 Inch Print $22.00

All images in this post are copyright © 2008 Bethalynne Bajema, and used by this site with permission

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“He locked away the Necronomicon with a shudder of disgust, but the room still reeked with an unholy and unidentifiable stench. ‘As a foulness shall ye know them,’ he quoted. Yes - the odour was the same as that which had sickened him at the Whateley farmhouse less than three years before”

First off imagine be sprayed with yellow mustard from giant bottle, being treeted like giant cosmic weiner, then to be called ‘ugly’ or ‘hideous’ by wrinkly old humans I not even know personally, waving their arms about at self all threatening like, screaming at Dunwich Horror when Dunwich Horror not doing anything bad - just happily crusching trees all like “Crunch! Crunch!” minding own business… maybe eat a few humans but it’s okay really.

Then imagine be dissolved from world by meddlesome old people what won’t lend ancient books out and then think you are stinky, and what think brother are stinky which is LIE!

Well, It took long time be conjured back here just to defend myself from terrible old wrinkly man’s malicous comments at Dunwich Horror smell.

I wants to start with saying “Untrue!” at hideous wrinkly human thing what LIE about Dunwich Horror and Dunwich Horror family, want to ruin good name of Dunwich Horror!

Me could explain things about destruction of Earth and sucking it into nother dimension, but not worth dignifying that right now because of more important thing, like, say old man LIE!

Note:

1) Odour was at Whately farm house at SAME TIME Old Man was, then again in library at same time OLD MAN was in library. It does not take a brain genius to figure out this not happenstance or coindicince that SMELL WAS WHERE OLD MAN WAS, both times!

Old man wants to be seen as hero, but in reality, old man make hideous smell - not Dunwich Horror - then wrinkly old man blames hideous smell on Dunwich Horror, and then finds only spell to make Dunwich Horror leave before Dunich Horror tell about him lie to others.

Old Man not hero. Not hero at all! Not banish Dunwich Horror anymore!

Banish Old Man! Banish Old Stinky Man!

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Last night I entered the Miskatonic Archives, and through slight of hand and nimble footing I made it into the professor’s office and lab.

I found no sign of the Necronomicon, nor could I find any of those books that were acquired by the University through the Dunwich incident.

I did however manage to pilfer an impression of Professor Kemy’s scribblings from from a desktop notepad, though nothing as of yet makes much sense at all…

But none of what I found has much to do with my current situation, which I will relay to you now, in case these moments are to be my very last…

Though I had been quite sly and meticulously nimble in my excursion, I neglected to return with my bag… a bag containing a change of clothing, so that I could arrive at the Women’s Cello Society recital well-dressed and in good time for some celebratory drinking.

When I realized this, I was halfway between the University and my intended destination - and, my apartment on Rue d’Auseil being closer, I decided to grab a change of clothing at home instead of returning to Miskatonic University.

I do realize so far this sounds rather mundane and innocuous, but here is the point where things become utterly frightening and disturbing…

I returned to the university tonight, and found that my bag had indeed been discovered… my goggles crushed and broken, my hair pins mauled, brutalized, and perhaps violated… And my hat… MY HAT… 

My hat, I found in a corner, crushed and mutilated almost beyond all recognition. I say that because I was able to recognize it, though only barely…. and I wish I had not….

It was coated in some ghastly, hideous, and likely supernatural white slime, filled with feathers and blood… the organs of what I believe to have been a chicken’s…. and a bloodied deck of playing cards.

It is obvious that some terrible ritual was performed with my precious hat. I am unsure as to whether they have hexed me to die in some short period of time, or perhaps set some hideous beast from beyond on my trail. They may also have simply used it to scrye my name and whereabouts - regardless, I fear my time in this mortal coil may be numbered… with a rather low number… um… of time.

Oh my. I just sneezed… I knew it! This is the beginning of the end for me… I think I am coming down with some sort of unimaginable, terrible, hideous, and gruesomely eldritch illness! I feel faint… FAINT I SAY!

Now I faint.

Sincerly,

Cordelia Atwood,

Rogue Investigator

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Today, I came across a rather strange assortment of artifacts, piled loosely in a duffel bag in the corner of my office. The duffel bag bore no distinguishing marks other than a sticker reading “Abney Park”, what I believe to be a stamp from a possible stop along the way from its unknown origin.

Having worked tirelessly throughout the day to ascertain their origin, I found about midway through spectographics and other means, that these items were by no means ancient, or even old. However, knowing that there exist modern-times dabblers and adepts in the metaphysical arts and aether-scientific spheres, I decided it would be a good idea to inspect these items more closely.

The first of these items - what seemed to be a pair of flight goggles, with a crudely fashioned set of secondary lenses bound by brass arms, which for some reason did not seem to bend or swing in ways that would be expected for functionality, or even bend at all. In trying to manipulate the lenses, I eventually broke one of these arms, and spent my first hours rather panicked that I may have irreparably damaged something of great importance.

Next I tried the simple approach of wearing the goggles. Whether a result of my error, or simply a matter of design, I found that though I do look quite smashing in them, the goggles do absolutely nothing, nothing at all.

The next items were a pair of what seemed to be hat pins, strange in their making due to the presence of gears and cogs at their tops, these gears not leading to other gears, I thought at first they might be some sort of key, perhaps to some sort of advanced alchemical device yet to be found. In trying to turn these gears, to ascertain how advanced the inner workings might be, I ended up breaking one of these gears from the pin, only to find it the gear was simply bound in place by a sort of jewelers’ glue.

Lastly, there was a top hat, not recently made but certainly by no means old. On it were a variety of things, including more of these rudimentary arms and lenses, some ribbons, and an insignia pin - showing promise in its obscurity. I spent the last hours of my day trying to decode this sigil, to no avail, and finally I surmised what only an educated man such as myself would… that perhaps it was a magical hat - the likes worn by those tricksters and charletans on the square, and by actual practitioners of the ancient arts as well. The only sensible place to go from here was to test this theory.

First, I tried the simple route, taking a nearby glass of goat’s milk, and pouring it into the hat to see if the milk disappeared, or perhaps turned into confetti. The end result was a desk covered in milk, a somewhat saturated hat, and a rather perturbed and milk-drenched dean as a result of my efforts to demonstrate the hat’s presumed powers of milk-to-confetti transmography.

The next test was to insert a pigeon into the hat, and see if it either vanished or turned into a string of joined handkerchiefs, or perhaps a balloon… I like balloons. In order to contain the pigeon, I placed a board over the opening, and set a heavy weight atop the board. This ended only in completely destroying the hat, and regrettably, its contents.

After a long hard day of work, including many many tests, leading to disassembly, and ultimately frustration in having wasted an entire day, I found that these items were all fakes of some sort, perhaps placed in my office by entities from competing universities or perhaps from BEYOND, towards the purpose of distracting me from something groundbreaking and important - such as my research or possibly even tea time.

The fiend, whoever they may be, did manage at both of these - I am however more determined than ever to succeed at whatever it is this miscreant or spectre sought to distract me from - beginning with tea and descending by order of importance.

If anyone has any knowledge regarding the perpetrators of this prank, hoax, or scheme, I would ask that they contact me in my study as soon as humanly or inhumanly possible.

Annoyededly,

Prof. Aden M. Kemy

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This memo is in protest to the memo previously left by Ms. Babel-Jean Teahymn, and for the purpose of disputing my status as a former employee, ex-employee, demised employee, or employee who has otherwise ceased to be.

This letter is being transcribed by intern Tom Lazythint, as for some reason or another I have become temporarily incompatible with objects on the material plane of existence - a mere phase which I am sure will pass in time, and something I am sure must happen to most people my age at some point or another. Regardless, this statement is a disclaimer against possible typos and other displays of intern daftness which might occur within this transcription.

I would like to say that in fact, I feel quite fine, and very well up to my duties regardless of my current state, and declare that I will fight tooth and nail with anyone who even as much as attempts to park their autocar in my assigned parking spot, parks their grimy feet on my fine brazilian cherrywood desk, or even thinks to attempt to raid my tobacco stocks, pilfer my chocolate stores, violate my taxidermied werebeasts, or as you whippersnapper deviants tend to say “yiffing the howlers”.

I do realize that the corpse found in the bath may in some ways resemble my own proud and well-bred visage in various ways such as height and remarkably well-tailored swimwear, and in this I can see where this confusion may have stemmed from. I do however assure you that I am right as rain and feeling as though I am well in my prime.

I would also like to inform that putting an end to my pay and benefits, or allowing anyone access to my office, would be very ill-advised, considering that I am a storehouse of information - information which this fine establishment would most likely prefer to have limited solely to this fine establishment, rather than in the hands of entities such as perturbed villagers and inquisitive constables.

Yours, if you know what is good for you,

Mint T. Zloty

P.S. Oh drat! I seem to have slipped through my chair again… no! don’t type that you boob! Just help me up or I swear you will receive the caning of your life! You there! I said stop typing you knitwitted son of a diseased mongoloid poopsmith! Just what do you think you are doing?! Get me out of this floor God blast it!

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