Today the smiths bought the last silver bolts. The preparations are almost complete. The time approaches. Soon my ancestors will shiver in their midnight crypts. The moon is bright tonight; like an eye opening in the dark, bones shining against the black soil, it waxes towards what is inevitable. Inexorable.
When its cold bright gaze is full and the year turns on the hinge of the solstice, then will I welcome Her into my heart. Our Hosts will sweep, roaring, across this land from coast to coast like wolves, an invulnerable tide. My endless work. I shall create such a monument to the power of human will that shall never be forgotten. She waits. O the glories that will be wrought in my name! In my name. Valraven.
And the spawn of the Old will cover the Earth, Their children endureth throughout the ages. Ye shantaks of Leng are the work of Their hands, the Ghasts who dwelleth in primordial vaults know Them as their Lords. They have fathered the the Gaunts that ride the Night. Beyond the Gate dwell now the Old; not in the spaces known unto men but in the angles betwixt them. Outside Earth's plane They linger and ever awaite the time of Their return; for the Earth has known Them and shall know Them in time yet to come.
And the Old Ones hold foul and formless Azathoth for Their Master abd Abide with Him in the black cavern at the centre of all infinity, where he gnaws ravenously in ultimate chaos amid the mad beating of hidden drums, the tuneless piping of hideous flutes and the ceaseless bellowing of blind idiot gods that shamble and gesture aimlessly for ever. After day cometh night; man's day shall pass, and They shall rule where Man once ruled. As foulness you shall know them and Their accursedness shall stain the Earth.