Kult Cenotaphium Issue 3 - Synesiorum(2).PDF

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T he
A byss
Issue 4 ~ liber os abysmi vel daath
The Abyss presents its fifth journal, Cenotaphium — Liber os Abysmi vel Daath, a monthly release from The
Abyss. This electronic version of Cenotaphium may be used provided you charge no fee and do not alter its contents
or layout. If you wish to distribute this or copies in any other format please contact Jason Just for written
The following material developed for the contemporary horror roleplaying game, Kult (Paradox Press), is made
available in this format by The Abyss, and are not authorized or endorsed in any way by Paradox press or any
other publisher of Kult. Neither Paradox press or any other publisher of Kult is in any way responsible for the
content of this book. Cenotaphium: Liber os Abysmi vel Daath © The Abyss, All Rights Reserved.
All images and design © Jason Just & Peter Amthor & Joel Sammallahti where stated. Images may be used
provided no fee is charged and or modified.
Contact just.faction@clear.net.nz
Reccommended for Mature audiences.
Issue 3 : Synesiorum
All future issues of Cenotaphium are on submission basis through The Abyss site in e-mail to the co-ordinators.
Art, poetry, and literature will be featured in coming issues. The Abyss welcomes all submissions.
Author: Divers Hands
Design/Layout/Cover: Jason Just
Graphics: Jason Just & Peter Amthor where noted
A Publication from The Abyss
Made for the Kult Roleplaying Game
For Mature Readers
"The Abyss is a not-for-profit worldwide corporation whose aim is to
encourage a new publishing company to buy the rights to the Kult role-playing
game and bring it back into print. We run an extensive outreach campaign to
attract new gamers, and we produce high-quality new material and distribute
it for free on the Internet in order to keep gamers interested."
~ www.kult-rpg.org ~
Copyright 2000
NOTE: The Abyss stands by artists who contribute to The Abyss and will aid them and provide legal defense
should a breach of copyright be made. The Abyss claims no copyright of author/artist material. Any parties
interested in reprinting the content contained within Cenotaphium or any other Abyss release should contact the
author/artist for agreement. In these cases The Abyss can act as liason for said parties.
Issue 3 : Synesiorum
Joel Sammallahti © 2000
Gym Bag
A man walks into a bar. It's a dark, gray place, sort of big with a lot of tables. Some mirrors and old photographs are
hanging lazily on the walls. Cigarette smoke swims through the air like shining oil in some unlucky sea.
The man is tall and of strong build. He wears a dirty black overcoat on his body and a frozen expression on his ruggedly
handsome but disturbing face. He has a large gym bag hanging from his left shoulder and the fingers of his left hand are
slowly rapping on its surface. He looks at the people in the bar. There is a tired-looking woman in her thirties behind the
counter, and several men of all ages sitting at tables, talking in a low voice and drinking. He walks to the counter and
orders a bottle of some stingy-tasting hard spirit. His left hand is still resting on the gym bag. Taking a few sips and finally
a gulp, he looks around at the other customers. Then he puts down the bottle and slips his right hand into one of the
many Pockets of his coat, to pull out an old deck of playing cards. He holds the deck up and speaks.
"In this bag," he says, "I have half a million German marks in used cash. I will play a game of poker with any one of you.
If you win, you will get this bag and everything in it. If I win, I will go to another bar and make my offer to the people
there." His baritone voice is devoid of emotion, dry and harsh, not unlike a loud whisper.
Silence follows.
"Is there someone who will play with me?" He looks around, still wearing the same expression. Some turn back to the
conversations they were having before this strange offer was announced. There is some murmur in the background, and it
sounds like some do not believe there to be money in the gym bag. But just as the last people are about to turn their eyes
from the man with the bag and the deck, one speaks up.
"I'll play with you." The speaker is a short man, perhaps in his
50's. He is completely bald, but has a large moustache and a
goatee, both pitch black. He is wearing a black suit and has a tall
wooden cane. He holds out his hand and introduces himself as
the Devil.
"Charmed, I'm certain," says the man with the bag and shakes
the Devil's hand, putting the deck back in his pocket for a
moment. "Where shall our game take place?"
The Devil smiles a glad, honest smile, very unlike the grin one
might usually picture the Devil with. His movements are
graceful and elegant as he leads the man to an adjacent room. It
is small and black, housing a fine red carpet upon which stand
two large armchairs and a table, all grotesquely carved of what
would appear to be the finest ebony. The Devil closes
the door and they sit down. The man shuffles, and the Devil
cuts and deals. Normal 5-card poker, deuces wild.
~::Edge of Passion by Peter Amthor::~
10790169.006.png 10790169.001.png
Issue 3 : Synesiorum
Not surprisingly, the Devil wins the game. He and the man stand up.
"My... Prizzzzze?" The Devil eagerly hisses, his forked tongue momentarily writhing its way out between his pursed lips.
"Here you go," the man says, handing over the bag. "It's all there."
"No doubt."
The Devil takes the bag and places it on the table. He first observes its shape and size. Both seem to please him. Then he
opens the zipper. Looking inside, he smiles a smile that almost reaches from one ear to another. Slowly, he peels the gym
bag off what is held inside, uncovering a pale, stiff object half-covered in crumpled german notes. On the table is the
corpse of a beautiful little girl. Her face is white and calm, and she
is dressed in a light blue gown, the sort princesses in fairy tales invariably wear.
"You naughty, naughty boy," The Devil says to the man, finally grinning as the devil should.
Briefly, the man's stringy expression is broken to show a smile, and then to consume his face again. He turns around,
opens the door, and walks through the bar to the door he came in from. There he turns to look back at all the people for a
moment; and leaves.
Little Nudges 1
The funeral was held in spite of obvious defects, for the sake of common decency. Afterwards Gregorias Torello had an
abundant meal. The wind was wailing in a monotonous manner as it hastily traveled through the house, but mister
Torello paid it no mind. The gastronomical delights slammed onto his silver plate: steaks, aspics, chops, fillets, collars,
black puddings et cetera were disappearing each faster than the last into his maw. One should not suppose that mister
Torello did not love his wife. Heloved her fiercely, each day and every night, but her lack of skill in the kitchen was simply
too much to bear. "Irony?" mister Torello pondered.
Greasy fingers grabbed a bone with great fury and slipped it into his already gaping mouth, stretched by gluttony. Making
disturbing sounds, he sucked the last bits of meat and sinew from the bone, not forgetting the delicious marrow. Plump
hands were already fingering the next bit, as he prepared to spit the white refuse into the pile waiting at his side. It wasn't
a big pile yet, but then again, mister Torello wasn't even halfway through.
"Jasper!" he hollered and burped in a waggish manner.
Jasper arrived without delay, the good servant he was. With dexterity he snatched the silver plate and rushed to the
kitchen. His master had barely readjusted the position of the serviette on his lap, when the plate returned on the table
before him. Waiting no longer, mister Torello resumed his supping.
Little Nudges 2
A crucifix hangs from my neck at the level of my genitals. I wear nothing more; I am dressed in the mercy of the Lord.
Each morning I rise from my bed and go to the alley. There I wave the crucifix, a beautiful bronze image of Christ,
begging for my daily bread. I say:
"Help ye, give ye and be blessed."
"These days there is not enough for ourselves," they answer.
"He will return," I call at their backs, while they huddle away from me.
Often the phalanxmen come and kick me. They beat me with their sticks and call me debased. I then recite His sacred
word to them. They beat me more. Sometimes the Holy Spirit enters me and I fight back. Most times I merely turn the
other cheek.
Once a small boy came to me, when I was lying in the gutter, bleeding. He asked, if I needed help. I told him the Father
would help me.
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