Friends of Cumbrian Cthulhu: Eolith Designs


 Eolith Designs' sculptures take their inspiration from the dawn and dusk of civilisations; from real and imagined histories, and the world of myth and legend. Bringing together things that were, things that could have been, and things that may be.

 Each Sculpture is a unique work of art created by the artist.  The processes involved in casting and finishing ensure that no two will ever be identical. Each design is also strictly limited and each sculpture comes with it's own certificate of authenticity, signed and numbered by the artist. The collection will change and grow as new designs emerge and others are lost to history.

Check out the descriptions and links below to see the fantastic images on the Eolith Designs website!

“If I say that my somewhat extravagant imagination yielded simultaneous pictures of an octopus, a dragon, and a human caricature, I shall not be unfaithful to the spirit of the thing.”
H.P. Lovecraft – The Call of Cthulhu

Egyptian Cthulhu is approximately 8½ inches (21cm) tall and weighs approximately 600g.

 Egyptian Cthulhu

Following the collapse of the Hittite Empire around 1180 BC strange new religions emerged amongst The People of a Thousand Gods. 
Kutullu appears to have been worshipped as an aspect of Illuyankas the great sea dragon. Few inscriptions remain and little is known of his cult. This statue hastily buried by priests before his temple fell to invaders is the only known image of the deity.

Hittite Cthulhu is approximately 9 inches (22.5cm) tall, including his base, and weighs approximately 330g.

Syro-Hittite Cthulhu 


Langdale and Pike Investigate, Part one

Langdale and Pike Investigate

Written by Richard W. Straw

 Illustrated by Andy Paciorek

They found the body a little after nine o’clock on the evening of November 17th, in the year of our Lord 1904. A young couple, walking home from an evening out, hurrying to escape the cold, took the short cut along the back of Lowther Street. And so they came across the body, lying in a puddle of gradually freezing water and blood.

They had to call in the big boys for this one. Murder was unheard of in Penrith. Violence was rare, save the occasional bruise-up outside the Druids’ Arms when spirits were both flowing and high. The local police station was not equipped for such things. Constable Whitehead, junior at the office by virtue of being the most recent recruit, had been sent careering off on the road to Kendal on the station bicycle, and from there, a telephone call had gone to Carlisle.

By the time the message got to Detective Inspector Langdale, via a healthy knock on the door from Sergeant Pike, it was well past midnight. Langdale was trying against all the odds to get a decent night’s sleep, his first for a long time. Cursing the world and all its iniquities, he stumbled to the front door, swaddled in blankets and sheets. The sight of Pike, big, bluff, enthusiastic, was almost enough to make him slam it shut without a word, but duty overrode annoyance just enough to restrain him. He stared at the sergeant questioningly.

Bad one, sir,” Pike said. That was enough for Langdale. “Body, very messed up, Penrith.”

Langdale suppressed a groan of despair. Thirty-one years in the force, and still these cases seemed to find him. Another long, cold journey to look at a corpse. Wonderful fun for a November weekend. He ushered Pike into the sitting room. The fire had long since died, and the room was morgue-like in its frigidity, but this didn’t seem to bother the sergeant, who perched himself on the chaise-longue, bowler on knee, smiling stupidly, whilst Langdale swore his way back to the bedroom, and attempted, with only moderate success, to get dressed in the dark and without unwinding himself too much from his sheltering cocoon of warm bedclothes. Ten minutes later, they were in a police trap, heading for Penrith. It was about then that Langdale noticed that his boots were on the wrong feet.

They drew up to the police station at Penrith at about half past three. Langdale had attempted to sleep on the journey, but the bumps and bangs of the roads had made it impossible, so he had been reduced to huddling down into his overcoat and glaring jealously at Pike as he gently snored in the seat opposite, head buried beneath scarf and hat. There was no morgue, so a makeshift facility had been put together in one of the larger cells beneath the station. It was freezing down there, somehow even colder than in the open air. They were awaiting the county pathologist, but the messenger who had been despatched to Hamilton Gould’s house in Keswick had been told in no uncertain terms that he would not be rising before eight o’clock, and the dead could certainly be left in these temperatures. So for the moment, there seemed little to do. Langdale had sent Pike to the George Hotel to try to rustle up a couple of rooms, but the landlord was clearly more obstinate than the inspector, and no amount of banging on the door would rouse him at this time in the morning. An offer from Knowles, the local Sergeant in charge, to go and see the site where the body was found was met simply with an Anglo Saxon epithet. Langdale was sure Doctor Gould was correct. The body and the murder site could wait. He just wanted to sleep. Was that too much to ask?

A Mist Friend

A Mist Friend

 Written by Paul Musgrave
Illustrated by Andy Paciorek

Nothing is black or white. Even night and day are entwined. There is an indistinguishable line between; discovery and theft, preservation and cowardice, innocence and guilt. 

Sometimes things are grey; a bit misty.

I am waiting for an old friend which I have not seen for some time. Well at least I cannot recall when I last properly seen him. I have not slept for a while you see. Here I sit in the town square, my hometown of Keswick. I gaze up anxiously at the Old Moot Hall Clock Tower, checking to see if it was closer to the rendezvous time. I drink deeply and ask the waitress for a refill. All around the Northern Fell Mountains sit in attendance; as if awaiting a court in session. 
He was never late since the day when we were kids. Only for school, but not for adventure. We were best friends and every weekend we had expeditions to the surrounding massifs. With backpacks filled with none essentials apart from our compasses. The moral ones we would loose in the passage of time. 
I can no longer make a distinction between awake and daydreaming. Although maybe a greater distinction can be made in the terminology; replacing day with night and dream with mare.
My eyes were open, but before they were shut. The tourists and people were no more than gliding apparitions. The tangible world around me was merging into a more spectral one. Even the recognition of time as I fixed my gaze at the clock face was seamless with the precognitions. He would be here soon.
Although oblivious to most around me, my eyes descended upon two boys balancing on the steps below. As boys, we would precariously balance on the old dry stone walls which one day would be adventures along the Great Wall of China. I believed our friendship would always be as long lasting and as strong as those walls. It was in Asia where I last saw him.

We had both decided to take an expedition after we both graduated from our respective universities. Although we never excelled at school, we both passed with flying honours in our respective fields. I specialized in Crypto zoology as part of my Zoology course. He took Archeology, and it was definitely the physical excavation he desired, and not the boring pre planning and ploughed fields he was interested in. We were ready for a real adventure.