As I stand here in the footsteps of the ill-fated Pabodie Expedition, I recall the words from that mysterious journal I discovered all those months ago, in that dusty bookshop at Arkham.

‘The pass loomed directly before us, smooth and windswept between its jagged and malignly frowning pylons. Beyond it was a sky fretted with swirling vapours and lighted by the low polar sun - the sky of that realm upon which we felt no human eye had ever gazed’

This painting depicts a modern expedition returning to the site of H P Lovecrafts ’ At the Mountains of Madness ’