For a brief moment, he heard a hissing sound, the fluttering of birds' wings—and then came the soft, cooing calls of an owl. The sound was impossibly clear and melodious, carrying an entrancing, almost hypnotic magic, like the call of some ancient horn or a summoning ritual.
Naskar's gaze turned blank—although it had been vacant to begin with. He rose to his feet, dazed, and stepped forward, his foot sinking into the damp pile of mud meant for construction, moving toward the source of the sound.
His mud-smeared foot splashed into a puddle with a crisp splash, sending filthy water spraying up with the mud.
Rain trickled down his face, soaking the beard on his jaw. His arms hung limp at his sides, but his gaze remained fixed straight ahead. It was as if a beam of light had fallen through the heavy rain, illuminating the path before him—guiding his steps, stirring his mind and soul.
Move forward, a woman's whisper echoed in his mind. Move forward.
No thoughts of fear or hesitation surfaced in his mind.
It was as if something had completely blocked his consciousness.
He twisted through winding corridors, descended narrow or wide staircases, and passed through shadowy, oppressive archways, as if navigating a three-dimensional labyrinth of crisscrossing passages.
Closer—the sound of flapping wings, and the voice guiding him! That soft, enchanting female voice!
Is it you? Miss Maria? Is it truly you?
No.
He always doubted—why must he always doubt!
Naskar clumsily stumbled over uneven roads, past flickering streetlights that sputtered and sparked, like a moth hurtling toward a flame. He remembered this feeling—this chase within the dream, this first meeting, and the insurmountable, untouchable distance in that dream!
Uncertainty—he was always uncertain, even now, though the feeling was so strong.
No, it must be you!
Following the voice in his mind, he ran faster and faster, his head buzzing with frantic joy. In front of him loomed a leaning bell tower—he threw open the door without hesitation. Light from chandeliers spilled through the doorframe as he barged in, tracking mud and water across the floor, not caring—after such a long, yearning wait—at last, the doll from his dreams was not merely singing from some unreachable distance, but was singing to him, right here in the city of Zobeid.
It felt as though his very organs were trembling with anticipation.
Bang—the door shut behind him.
The dazzling glare of incandescent lights made him dizzy. His vision was overwhelmed by brightness, and he covered his eyes, wincing for a long moment before slowly opening them again to look at what had drawn him here.
"Where are you?" he called out through tears and excitement. "I've been searching for you for so long! Ma—"
Then he saw something completely unexpected—something that stunned him—and filled him with rage.
It was a snow-white owl, its feathers smooth and soft, staring at him with gleaming blue eyes. It spread its wings and clumsily shuffled forward on its fluffy feet. Half-squinting, it let out a mocking coo.
"Who are you? Why did you deceive me?" Naskar roared, his voice wild with fury.
The owl blinked lazily, unmoving, like some stuffed specimen. "Poor fool," it said in a voice that sounded like suppressed laughter, "you've even forgotten who we are."
I don't know you—don't try to fool me—you stupid owl!
"He's been completely assimilated by the city and the dream," another voice answered. The speaker was like a writhing shadow, cloaked entirely in black. In fact, Naskar hadn't even noticed his presence until he spoke.
"And now, he's just another fallen soul paving roads in this dream," the figure said.
Who are you? I don't know you either!
"Are you foreign bastards trying to invade Zobeid?!" Naskar shouted, accusing them angrily.
The owl's brilliant blue eyes showed no emotion, but its repressed laughter grew louder.
"Yes, yes, we are here to invade you, hmm... Zobeid—the foreign bastards," it said, sounding far more lively now, its tone animated. "Hey, Tusca," it said, its two sky-blue glassy eyes turning toward the black-robed figure, "do you think there's any saving this slave? He doesn't even recognize you. If he had a shred of memory left, he wouldn't fail to recognize you—how could a slave who once served the priests of the gods not recognize an emissary of the Throne of Shadows?"
Throne of Shadows—Hood—what are they talking about? It's nonsense!
A surge of impossible terror seized Naskar's heart—even though he remembered nothing, the mere sound of those distant, ethereal words instinctively filled him with fear and confusion.
"What do you want?" Naskar demanded, trying to steady himself. "What are you foreign bastards planning?"
No—I must destroy them—I must protect this place!
They will ruin my dream! They will ruin my reunion with her!
"Doing what must be done—tending to my affairs," the black-robed man said coldly, stepping closer. "One of my duties is this: if a pitiful soul falls into enemy hands, and cannot be rescued, then it must be disposed of immediately."
Yes—yes—that's right—I must kill them! I must eliminate these intruders and show them what I once witnessed!
What am I saying? What does that even mean?—Forget it. Don't think.
"Ah, this guy's about to lose it. How unpleasant," the owl flapped its wings, lifting lightly into the air before settling on the black-robed man's shoulder. Its fluffy feet gripped his robe as it declared, "I want a brandy."
It added, "Tusca, have you ever tried inviting a lady for coffee with brandy?"
"Oryga, I don't want to joke with you right now."
Yes—kill them! Kill them! Kill them!
In that instant, Naskar felt an enormous shadow flood into his body, like some filthy yet sweet liquid forcing its way into his soul through a strange, irresistible path. A grotesque sensation split open his face, clutching at his skin, surging from his body.
His face split open at the mouth—his scalp and neck contorting and slackening all at once, unfolding like malformed infant limbs, as if intestines were spilling from a cut-open belly. Pale, writhing, soft tentacles unfurled, their tips stained with a filthy, blasphemous pink. They shuddered and writhed, swallowing his eyes, nostrils, and hair into his pallid, corpse-like skin, revealing a maw devoid of tongue or teeth.
Ah—such comfort, such sweetness—
I feel liberated—my soul and life shivering with joy!
He felt his limbs swelling grotesquely, his blackened skin whitening to a nauseating pink sheen. His bulging muscles shredded his clothing to tatters, which floated down and melted away. His fingers bloated, twisted, fused together; his swollen belly sagged and drooped like an overfilled waterskin.
"Ah!?" the owl's voice exclaimed, "Damn it, it's a Moon Beast—Tusca, you bastard! Why is he becoming a servant of Nyarlathotep?! Were you hiding something from me?!"