Engraved on a silver plate on a dark wood door where the door number was usually placed: 𝔐𝔬𝔯𝔟𝔦𝔡 𝔚𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔄𝔰𝔰𝔬𝔠𝔦𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫

Even after the devastation of the war, the many people of countries plentiful suffered the lasting effects of gruesome scars etched into their souls. Politicians and governments worked to rebuild economies. As for the artists of society, translating those grievances through the stroke of a brush, or pen, was the best way to digest.

The association was founded on the basis of assisting authors in writing their more... morbid stories, hence the name. Yet of all the consultants and experts brought in, many of whom were survivors of war, there was one man deemed the greatest descriptor of disfiguration: Howard Phillips Lovecraft.

A gaunt man standing just beneath the wooden frames of the offices' doors. Unkempt waves of black hair cascaded down his figure like the inky deep itself devoured his body and mind. Mere moments spent with the consultant were enough to disturb the common people, as well as many amateur writers. Perfect for your latest piece.

"Repeat your question," The man sighed, dragging his head off his desk as if it held the weight of the world. "I'm not sure I heard you correctly," He tilted his head and smacked the opposing side. A long string of water streamed out, darkening the carpet beneath with its moisture. An oddity indeed.