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"Great Gods! I'd rather be A cultist suckled in a creed outworn Could I but see Cthulhu rising from the sea or hear old Dagon blow his wreathed horn." (With apologies to William Wordsworth) A desolate piece of grey coast on a very particular day in November. The hour is right. The signs are right. The stars are right. A pulse of sickly green light, far out to sea. An hour passes, then two. It takes even one of the High Priest's blood a while to ascend from the crushing black depths. Then, a boiling. A bubbling and a heaving of the waters. With a great splash, v