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Domain > necrominster.com
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More information on this domain is in
AlienVault OTX
Is this malicious?
Yes
No
DNS Resolutions
Date
IP Address
2013-09-23
64.37.52.32
(
ClassC
)
2025-01-08
67.23.226.129
(
ClassC
)
Port 80
HTTP/1.1 200 OKDate: Wed, 08 Jan 2025 10:26:31 GMTServer: ApacheLast-Modified: Thu, 14 Jul 2022 18:19:28 GMTAccept-Ranges: bytesContent-Length: 4018Content-Type: text/html !DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC -//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN>HTML langen>HEAD>TITLE>Art Tales/TITLE>META HTTP-EQUIVContent-Type CONTENTtext/html; charsetiso-8859-1>META NAMEVIEWPORT contentwidthdevice-width, initial-scale1.0>META http-equivPage-Enter contentblendTrans(Duration4.0)>/HEAD>BODY BGCOLOR#FFFFFF text#000000 link#3300FF vlinkpurple alinkblue>FONT FACEarial COLOR#000000 SIZE4>center>img src./images/WLL-Scottish Landscape-B&W.png>/center>center>b>Mirus Modicus/b>/center>br>br>br>p alignjustify>From a forgotten age in a forgotten land, in a dark corner, murky and cobwebbed, sat the Mirus Modicus, that extraordinary ordinary thing. It was ugly, aging, far from light, no longer remembered. It was a water colour in an age when black and white photographs were all the rage, when pastels were just an indulgence by aristocracy, the idle rich. It was likely part of a lesson, to instruct a regal student, not meant for a patron. There were no castles, windmills, cottages, no man-built structures; no travelways to be found; no bridges, waterways, transportation carriages, boats, nor any horses; no gentlemen or ladies, no children playing, no creatures of the earth, no imprints of humanity or fauna. The sole living things were a few spare trees, downhill, obscure, faraway, exaggerating a lofty vantage. The skies bore a few indistinct Vs, avians of unknown species and irrelevant concerns. They did not hunt or betray secret intentions, but idled on air currents, gliding aimlessly, as insignificant as dust sent aloft by a breeze.br>br>The only hint of human history was a seeming trail that ran beside the rocky outcrops. It could just as easily have been a gap in the geology of the land. The skies betrayed no turbulence, no imminent storm, nor measure of distance. The clouds were neither dark nor sparkling nor fluffy nor optimistic. They held no charm or delight, nor promise of better things to come. They did not care for brooding thoughts or tell of any future. Someone who had raised an eager hand at the auction block, had been sufficiently charitable to dress the new adoptee in a modest golden frame, edged by gilt scrollwork.br>br>Perhaps it had once tutored that royal lady who had engaged the artist for two decades to be her household master water colourist. His name was William Leighton Leach. He had been introduced to the Queen before the loss of her precious consort. While the monarch had still bloomed, Mr.Leitch had given his royal student the first of many lessons. Some time later, after the loss of the Prince, as the great lady mourned, she became enfolded in a brooding sadness. It was William Leighton Leitch who had encouraged her to come back to the outdoors and experience Natures elegance. It had brought Victoria such comfort that she had rewarded dear old Mr. Leitch, her kind old drawing master, as she had called him, with a pension and an honoured position. He stayed on to teach her children and the Princess of Wales, who would eventually become a queen herself, the wife of Edward VII. William continued his occasional visits to Balmoral to conduct his lessons, to teach composition, the choice of pastels, and bring a much needed relief from the responsibilities of governing an empire. All too soon, the gentle painting tutor, passed away, leaving hundreds of unclaimed works, many of them choice treasures that demanded enthusiastic bids. Among them, undistinguished, was the Mirus Modicus, that ugly forgotten thing. It eventually found a charitable owner, but soon after disappeared to some unknown destination. Its tutelage of that great Queen of the Empire and her myriad offspring had long since been forgotten.br>br>/p>/body>/html>
Port 443
HTTP/1.1 200 OKDate: Wed, 08 Jan 2025 10:26:32 GMTServer: ApacheLast-Modified: Thu, 14 Jul 2022 18:19:28 GMTAccept-Ranges: bytesContent-Length: 4018Content-Type: text/html !DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC -//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN>HTML langen>HEAD>TITLE>Art Tales/TITLE>META HTTP-EQUIVContent-Type CONTENTtext/html; charsetiso-8859-1>META NAMEVIEWPORT contentwidthdevice-width, initial-scale1.0>META http-equivPage-Enter contentblendTrans(Duration4.0)>/HEAD>BODY BGCOLOR#FFFFFF text#000000 link#3300FF vlinkpurple alinkblue>FONT FACEarial COLOR#000000 SIZE4>center>img src./images/WLL-Scottish Landscape-B&W.png>/center>center>b>Mirus Modicus/b>/center>br>br>br>p alignjustify>From a forgotten age in a forgotten land, in a dark corner, murky and cobwebbed, sat the Mirus Modicus, that extraordinary ordinary thing. It was ugly, aging, far from light, no longer remembered. It was a water colour in an age when black and white photographs were all the rage, when pastels were just an indulgence by aristocracy, the idle rich. It was likely part of a lesson, to instruct a regal student, not meant for a patron. There were no castles, windmills, cottages, no man-built structures; no travelways to be found; no bridges, waterways, transportation carriages, boats, nor any horses; no gentlemen or ladies, no children playing, no creatures of the earth, no imprints of humanity or fauna. The sole living things were a few spare trees, downhill, obscure, faraway, exaggerating a lofty vantage. The skies bore a few indistinct Vs, avians of unknown species and irrelevant concerns. They did not hunt or betray secret intentions, but idled on air currents, gliding aimlessly, as insignificant as dust sent aloft by a breeze.br>br>The only hint of human history was a seeming trail that ran beside the rocky outcrops. It could just as easily have been a gap in the geology of the land. The skies betrayed no turbulence, no imminent storm, nor measure of distance. The clouds were neither dark nor sparkling nor fluffy nor optimistic. They held no charm or delight, nor promise of better things to come. They did not care for brooding thoughts or tell of any future. Someone who had raised an eager hand at the auction block, had been sufficiently charitable to dress the new adoptee in a modest golden frame, edged by gilt scrollwork.br>br>Perhaps it had once tutored that royal lady who had engaged the artist for two decades to be her household master water colourist. His name was William Leighton Leach. He had been introduced to the Queen before the loss of her precious consort. While the monarch had still bloomed, Mr.Leitch had given his royal student the first of many lessons. Some time later, after the loss of the Prince, as the great lady mourned, she became enfolded in a brooding sadness. It was William Leighton Leitch who had encouraged her to come back to the outdoors and experience Natures elegance. It had brought Victoria such comfort that she had rewarded dear old Mr. Leitch, her kind old drawing master, as she had called him, with a pension and an honoured position. He stayed on to teach her children and the Princess of Wales, who would eventually become a queen herself, the wife of Edward VII. William continued his occasional visits to Balmoral to conduct his lessons, to teach composition, the choice of pastels, and bring a much needed relief from the responsibilities of governing an empire. All too soon, the gentle painting tutor, passed away, leaving hundreds of unclaimed works, many of them choice treasures that demanded enthusiastic bids. Among them, undistinguished, was the Mirus Modicus, that ugly forgotten thing. It eventually found a charitable owner, but soon after disappeared to some unknown destination. Its tutelage of that great Queen of the Empire and her myriad offspring had long since been forgotten.br>br>/p>/body>/html>
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