Zogrusz wandered his cavern in a daze while Rhas remained on the little bench lost in whatever passed for conversation between world-minds. He lingered in front of the first carvings he had made on the walls, those abstract depictions of the Great Old Ones he had pulled from the dimmest recesses of his memory. Mad profusions of eyes nestled among writhing tentacles, fanged mouths endlessly gnawing at the darkness. Did they dream of the worlds they had Sown and Reaped? In some dark crevice of their beings did they feel guilt for the minds they had consumed on their journey to becoming . . . whatever they had become? Were they gods now? Demons? What had Rhas said, before quickly correcting himself? That he, Zogrusz, was a parasite, feeding off this world? Were the Great Old Ones nothing more than vast parasites burrowed into the skin of the universe, like some kind of invasive pest?

When he finally turned away from the carvings, his thoughts still troubled, Zogrusz found that Rhas had vanished without saying farewell. That annoyed him slightly, but he supposed the cat or world-mind or whatever he was must be very distracted by the apocalypse that Zogrusz had just revealed to be looming.

After making sure the various tantrums that had shaken his home had not broken anything, he made his way outside and surveyed the ruin of the temple entrance. There was perhaps slightly more that could be salvaged than he had feared, but it would still be many months of hard work to repair the damage Anecoya had caused. And spending what might be the last short while before Ycthitlig arrived doing that seemed rather pointless.

What would be a better use of the time? Perhaps understanding what new power had manifested while he slept. Not that he harbored any delusion that he could defeat or drive away the Reaper . . . but if Anecoya and Rhas were going to stand against the Eldritch Horror, then he would also be beside them, and any small advantage would be welcome. So taking a deep breath, Zogrusz reached down inside himself and tried to explore his new ability. It felt different than his shape-changing or shadow-weaving, like it was something that could be pushed outwards or expelled from within, rather than a power molded into existence. He gazed out from where he stood on the mountain slope, concentrating on a curving line of birds etched against the brilliant blue of the sky. Well, let’s see what happened. With a flicker of will, he summoned the new ability and let it slip its leash, trying to direct it towards that distant flock.

The air in front of him rippled as an invisible wave rushed forth, seemingly emanating from his skull. He lost sight of it quickly, and for a moment Zogrusz thought it had simply dissipated – which would have been rather disappointing – but then in the far distance it must have reached the birds because they instantly dropped like stones from the sky.

Huh. Interesting. The sensation of sending out this attack had been somewhat similar to when he’d delved into the minds of nearby sentient beings, but this was far more concentrated and violent. Some sort of telepathic attack – a psionic blast, he supposed he could call it. Whether it would work against another Eldritch Horror he had no idea – he suspected it would not – but it was at least another weapon in his arsenal. Now he wished he’d unleashed it on Anecoya when she’d first assaulted him – the expression on the arrogant goddess’s face if he’d pummeled her with psychic energy would have been quite satisfying to see.

Or maybe it would have slid away like water from a duck’s back. He had no way to know if this power would faze other cosmic beings in the slightest. Perhaps he could test it on her later when next they met – he owed her at least one good sucker punch.

Zogrusz sighed deeply, suddenly realizing he had forgotten to put on his man-disguise before he'd left the cave. He peered down the mountain at the pilgrim encampment, expecting to see it in panicked turmoil, but the ramshackle collection of tents and huts looked to have been abandoned, and he couldn’t feel any fear flowing up from below. Perhaps his followers had fled when the temple façade had collapsed, or someone had seen Anecoya tossing him around and decided wisely that they should all be somewhere else at that moment. And truly, what did it matter if a few of the pilgrims were hunkered somewhere and could see him right now in his true form? They knew he dwelled in the mountain, after all. There really was no point in remaining hidden, he supposed, not with the end of the world rushing towards them all.

That thought was accompanied by a pang of sadness. If these were in truth the waning moments of human civilization, he wanted to experience its glory one last time. Zogrusz realized he yearned to feel the bustle around him again, hear their babbling conversations and smell the food they fried on the streets. Witness once more the colorful churn of countless humans in their dyed clothes, metals flashing at their wrists and neck, iridescent feathers woven into their hair. For a moment he stared at the far horizon, where he knew somewhere by the sea the white-stone domes and minarets of Amotla blazed in the bright sun, and then with a final glance back at the ruined entrance, he began to pick his way down the mountainside.

***

Zogrusz traveled most of the way at night wrapped in his cloak of shadows, devouring the distance with his true-form’s massive strides. He saw little benefit to sowing panic in his wake, and he didn’t want to cause a riot in the city when he eventually arrived, so when he glimpsed the towers of Amotla shining in the moonlight like white spears piercing the night he donned his man-cloak – as he had those many years ago when he had first come to the city – and made the final approach on foot. This time no kind old man offered the back of his wagon to Zogrusz, and by the time he reached the mosaic-adorned walls dawn had broken, its rosy blush staining the minarets.

He joined a procession of farmers bringing carts laden with vegetables into the city. The market square just beyond the gate was far livelier this morning, as it seemed most of Amotla’s households were in competition at that moment to buy the freshest produce and meat. Zogrusz strolled through the clamor, drinking deep of the sights and sounds and smells, sincerely hoping that this was not the last time he would enjoy the delightful chaos of a human city.

He spent the day exploring the winding streets and any buildings that he found architecturally compelling. A foray down a random alleyway deposited him at a familiar archway, but the passage that had once led to the little chamber where the tattered remnants of the People had prayed to his idol and kept their faith in him alive – kept him alive, truth be told – had long ago been bricked up. The Church of Zog was very much alive in the city, though – he must have passed a dozen temples in his wanderings, all built from black stone with graven Eldritch Horrors guarding the entrances. His was not the only faith in Amotla, as there seemed to be just as many houses of worship devoted to a certain red-haired goddess, great wooden birds perched atop circular roofs with outspread wings, flames blazing in the braziers that filled the temple courtyards. For some reason, it pleased him that Cozotl had allowed the two faiths to co-exist peacefully, rather than driving out the followers of Anecoya. Clearly, there were plenty of humans to go around . . . so her ambush had been very much an overreaction.

As he turned away from the blocked-up passage, Zogrusz noticed something that gave him pause – overlaying the bricks was a web of truly epic proportions, with several large spiders in the process of adding to it with admirable industriousness. But this by itself was not what had drawn his attention. No, it was that his name was written in a curling, elegant script across the top of the web. He blinked, for a moment wondering if he was experiencing some sort of hallucination.

‘Zog,’ the glistening threads spelled out, ‘Tallest hill. Twilight.’

He briefly entertained the notion that this might be Ycthitlig, but quickly discarded the idea. For one, communicating through spiders seemed a bit understated for an Eldritch Horror. And second, there was only one being out there who commonly referred to him as Zog.

Zogrusz checked the sky and saw that it was already starting to purple. Well, if Rhas truly wanted him to be punctual, he wouldn’t have used arachnids to deliver this message. Shaking his head, Zogrusz began retracing his steps back to the city gates.