The light is reborn and returns, the end of the darkness of days is approaching. With the sowing and the field work completed, it is time to celebrate the coming of light. Let's light candles, decorate our homes with plants, get together with family and friends, exchange gifts, drink and eat, these are days of fun.

Rome dresses up with sacrifices in honor of Saturn and agrarian cults, there are no slaves or masters, no wars or executions, no sickles or hoes, just public banquets, joy, laughter, happiness, country delight and carnival, let's rejoice for a year more of this ancient pagan celebration !! The winter solstice is soon over, our undefeated Sun is returning soon. Happy Saturnalia!!

The last Iberian was a human comet that crossed this world until it was lost in the Iditarot, that distant place of which the natives of Alaska spoke. Its splendor left us with a blast of light that, like the ancient shamans of the tribe, deeply connected us with the forgotten memory of the true meaning of life and its mystery, its cosmic meaning. An invitation to reconnect with that ancestral past in which we beat in harmony with Mother Earth, which desperately urged us to strengthen ties with nature as keys to living in the future, to embrace and save Gaia - who reacts when we mistreat her. , and not be carried away by the drift of modernity that tries to dominate it to maximize material growth.

He wanted to be a wolf to live in unpolluted lands. It was that lupus that was part of mythology - where Palaeolithic man, fully integrated into nature, merged with the wolf in a rite of passage - turned into a warrior to face aggression ... Our archetype was a A rebellious, indomitable, visionary, free and wild hero who did not allow himself to be tamed and who fought tirelessly for life, forests and threatened fauna. The spell of his word, his energy, his enthusiasm, his vitality, his strength, his message and his codes captivated and transformed with his light a lineage, that of the line of the free, that like cranes stretched by the lash of the winter know, if not to return, at least feel, perceive and look out to that lost paradise that you dreamed of, so that in the Iberian nights the beautiful howls of the wolf will not stop being heard.

[Text and Design inspired by Felix Rodríguez de la Fuente and the masterful Cuarto Milenio program: “Felix, the last hero” by Iker Jiménez]

"He was not the most honest or the most pious man, but he was a brave man" P. Reverte.

If you lived dangerously and your life was hanging by a thread, if you defied authority, defending your reason and rights with the proud point of your sword, if you sacrificed yourself and were generous and human, if you were fearless, reckless, arrogant, brave, adventurous, seductive, rogue, loyal, if you were capable of the most heroic but also the meanest actions, if you were guided by your code of honour, if you sought glory on the margins of society and the law, if you lost your innocence in the face of the harsh reality of mud and blood, and if, disenchanted, everyone abandoned you. .. then you were probably an Old Thirdsman, a tired hero in rusty armour, a forgotten anti-hero like a cursed Alatriste.

You can't breathe
You can't run
You can't get away
The bell will not save you... 

A custom-made pine suit
Grand Duke without pulse asleep,
The box and the crypt are closed
You can't escape with your keys
And with fogged glass
Who will see you? 

Gelineau Syndrome
Excess Narcolepsy
In a deep sleep you will fall
Flowers on your grave
No spider nails, you scream and bang
To a coffin they won't listen to

Pests, epidemics and cholera
taphephobia does not help you
Two metres below ground
Tight burial
Sealed stone slab
In a matter of hours your choking

Premature funeral
Fear of the dark
Sepulchral silence...
Buried alive you are

A door opens, it is time to communicate with the world of the dead. Everything is prepared for the magic rite, the bonfires are lit, the skulls are decorated, the spirits are rolled, together with the druid we prepare for the ritual night of Halloween, the Celtic Samhain awaits us. Worship of fallen ancestors and protection against the evil dead. The common and varied pagan belief in the whole world, fallen darkness, ancient traditions, Holy Companies, lemurs and manes, Jack o'lantern, pumpkins and masquerades ... it is All Hallows' Eve , Halloween has begun, waiting to be guided in this life towards the immortal...

You can't breathe
You can't run
You can't get away
The bell will not save you... 

A custom-made pine suit
Grand Duke without pulse asleep,
The box and the crypt are closed
You can't escape with your keys
And with fogged glass
Who will see you? 

Gelineau Syndrome
Excess Narcolepsy
In a deep sleep you will fall
Flowers on your grave
No spider nails, you scream and bang
To a coffin they won't listen to

Pests, epidemics and cholera
taphephobia does not help you
Two metres below ground
Tight burial
Sealed stone slab
In a matter of hours your choking

Premature funeral
Fear of the dark
Sepulchral silence...
Buried alive you are

The irreverent and revolutionary Old skull, the spirit of fun. Skulls were used in the old traditions of satirical and ridiculous poems making social criticism and protest, dates 500 years ago. Also had been used in different plays like the ”Dance of Death” in the 14th century. People needed satire to help deal with the grim world (plagues and diseases) around them. But the symbol emerged in Mexico as a means of expression especially used with roguish and ironic tones against the nobles and powerful of the viceroy times. It is also used during the celebration of the day of the death.

They were sorcerers and magicians who practiced sacrifices and rituals, philosophers and theologians who studied and taught the arts of the natural sciences. Their innumerable knowledge and valued advice made them essential in any society, town or kingdom, those wise men were the elite of the Celts and the link between deities and man. The sacred forest was his temple, the cosmos and the spirit his school, the plants and animals his inspiration to understand the relationship between the divine, humans and nature.

"Only dead fish follow the stream of the river".

Swimming against the current is an odyssey in an open world where paradoxically there is more access to information but at the same time we are more controlled. Reflections of those dystopian universes — riddled with environmental disasters and cataclysms — from science fiction novels have come true. But there is still hope. There are spaces of freedom to ambush, where dissidents and freethinkers can react and rebel against the flashes of tyranny, censorship and dehumanization present in society. In some remote and lost place the Lineage of the free will always resist.

Breath Souls. Breath of life. Last Breath... The old skulls, bones, stones and the earth whisper to us ancient amazing stories, but also too many forged with iron, blood and death....

130 years ago, on August 20, 1890, a genius named Howard Phillips Lovecraft was born. Together with Edgar Alan Poe, he is considered one of the pioneers and great authors of the 20th century horror novel. He created an extremely detailed and lurid cosmic horror mythology called by his adherents as a Lovecraftian novel or short story. Many are the artists, authors, filmmakers and illustrators who have been inspired by his works (The Call of Cthulhu, In the mountains of madness, Ulthar's cats, The shadow over Innsmouth, The Dunwich horror ...) turning it into a whole cult. Misunderstood, eccentric, full of prejudices, undervalued in life, he is a genius who He has left us an incredible legacy that we are still playing with 130 years later. Lovecraft Country lives.

There is a legend that says that in a place in the Pacific called Teaoturoa, lived a handsome warrior named Mataora who was captivated by the exotic and irresistible beauty of a woman from the underworld, daughter of Uetonga, descendant of the goddess of the night and the god of earthquakes and named Niwareka. He was so captivated that he asked her to marry him and she agreed to stay in his world. Things worked until one unfortunate day the brave Mataora went into a rage and violently mistreated the princess. Drowning in her sadness, she left her husband, returning to Rarohenga, to her old underground life. The clouds wept, the trees screamed, the rivers bled ... the warrior's supplications echoed in the depths of the earth. Sorry for his actions, he descended in search of his beloved to implore her forgiveness. Uetonga, who recognized him when he arrived, gave a great laugh because the hero's body paint had been erased along the way. Naked with shame, he exposed his pain in tears of regret, to which the merciful King forgave him by permanently tattooing him and showing him the art of Ta Moko. Reconciled, they returned from the afterlife, where they taught generation after generation this traditional Maori tattoo technique from New Zealand.

There is a legend that says that in a place in the Pacific called Teaoturoa, lived a handsome warrior named Mataora who was captivated by the exotic and irresistible beauty of a woman from the underworld, daughter of Uetonga, descendant of the goddess of the night and the god of earthquakes and named Niwareka. He was so captivated that he asked her to marry him and she agreed to stay in his world. Things worked until one unfortunate day the brave Mataora went into a rage and violently mistreated the princess. Drowning in her sadness, she left her husband, returning to Rarohenga, to her old underground life. The clouds wept, the trees screamed, the rivers bled ... the warrior's supplications echoed in the depths of the earth. Sorry for his actions, he descended in search of his beloved to implore her forgiveness. Uetonga, who recognized him when he arrived, gave a great laugh because the hero's body paint had been erased along the way. Naked with shame, he exposed his pain in tears of regret, to which the merciful King forgave him by permanently tattooing him and showing him the art of Ta Moko. Reconciled, they returned from the afterlife, where they taught generation after generation this traditional Maori tattoo technique from New Zealand.

There is a legend that says that in a place in the Pacific called Teaoturoa, lived a handsome warrior named Mataora who was captivated by the exotic and irresistible beauty of a woman from the underworld, daughter of Uetonga, descendant of the goddess of the night and the god of earthquakes and named Niwareka. He was so captivated that he asked her to marry him and she agreed to stay in his world. Things worked until one unfortunate day the brave Mataora went into a rage and violently mistreated the princess. Drowning in her sadness, she left her husband, returning to Rarohenga, to her old underground life. The clouds wept, the trees screamed, the rivers bled ... the warrior's supplications echoed in the depths of the earth. Sorry for his actions, he descended in search of his beloved to implore her forgiveness. Uetonga, who recognized him when he arrived, gave a great laugh because the hero's body paint had been erased along the way. Naked with shame, he exposed his pain in tears of regret, to which the merciful King forgave him by permanently tattooing him and showing him the art of Ta Moko. Reconciled, they returned from the afterlife, where they taught generation after generation this traditional Maori tattoo technique from New Zealand.

They were sorcerers and magicians who practiced sacrifices and rituals, philosophers and theologians who studied and taught the arts of the natural sciences. Their innumerable knowledge and valued advice made them essential in any society, town or kingdom, those wise men were the elite of the Celts and the link between deities and man. The sacred forest was his temple, the cosmos and the spirit his school, the plants and animals his inspiration to understand the relationship between the divine, humans and nature.

130 years ago, on August 20, 1890, a genius named Howard Phillips Lovecraft was born. Together with Edgar Alan Poe, he is considered one of the pioneers and great authors of the 20th century horror novel. He created an extremely detailed and lurid cosmic horror mythology called by his adherents as a Lovecraftian novel or short story. Many are the artists, authors, filmmakers and illustrators who have been inspired by his works (The Call of Cthulhu, In the mountains of madness, Ulthar's cats, The shadow over Innsmouth, The Dunwich horror ...) turning it into a whole cult. Misunderstood, eccentric, full of prejudices, undervalued in life, he is a genius who He has left us an incredible legacy that we are still playing with 130 years later. Lovecraft Country lives.

H. P. Lovecraft's work reaches its climax with his stories about the primeval gods and their arrival on earth from space, where they are confronted by the Ancients for the domination of the world. After bloody battles they manage to establish themselves and spread their cult. Until the Archetypal Gods of humans through their magic and the power of the Arcane Symbol banished them to remote places. They are still waiting for a sect or a sorcerer to free them in order to subjugate the human race and destroy the earth... the literary cycle "The Myths of Cthulhu" show us a terrifying reality that lurks hidden from the depths over who dares to peer into the abysses of that dimension. Gods and creatures like Yog-Sothoth, Azathoth, Shub-Niggurath, Nyartlathotep or Dagon plague his stories...

"He was not the most honest or the most pious man, but he was a brave man" P. Reverte.

If you lived dangerously and your life was hanging by a thread, if you defied authority, defending your reason and rights with the proud point of your sword, if you sacrificed yourself and were generous and human, if you were fearless, reckless, arrogant, brave, adventurous, seductive, rogue, loyal, if you were capable of the most heroic but also the meanest actions, if you were guided by your code of honour, if you sought glory on the margins of society and the law, if you lost your innocence in the face of the harsh reality of mud and blood, and if, disenchanted, everyone abandoned you. .. then you were probably an Old Thirdsman, a tired hero in rusty armour, a forgotten anti-hero like a cursed Alatriste.