"The Breath of Hod... Naskar, too, sleeps in nightmare," a low, hoarse voice said. "Hound of Claudius, I will confirm with you one last time: how much longer until the controller of this dream labyrinth appears?"
The terrifying man floated high in the hall, surrounded by tens of thousands of swarming flies that formed a nauseating, thick black fog. They took the place of the man's skin, making contact with the air, crawling all over his body like maggots on a rotting corpse. They repeated their mindless, back-and-forth writhing, an endless, boiling churn like a vat of oil. At times, the swarm would bulge out into violently pulsing tumors; at others, it would cave in to form a malformed crater. Sometimes, a shocking clump of flies would suddenly drop off, hitting the floor with a splat and bursting apart, only to fly back into the man's body a moment later and merge back into the mass.
A Priest of Hod.
Only they, in this age long after the fall of their Death God, still used this prayer that was slowly fading from mortal memory.
How long has it been since the last Season of Decay? And on the collapsed temples of Hod, how many new mansions of greedy nobles now stand? The blood they used to nourish the god's sprites—blood from the Roman Colosseum—is it all wasted now in the thirsty sewers?
No one cared about these things, except for them.
"I have a name, Priest of Hod. Repeat after me: Ol-ga," the woman leaning against the wall said. "In exchange, I can also use your name, Mister Gaskarov."
She looked young, around twenty, and was very beautiful; her facial features were as delicate and soft as a noble's, truly a woman of ice and jade. She was tall and lithe, with pale blue eyes and lustrous black hair as smooth as water, yet it was cut short, just enough to cover her ears, which was a shame. The woman spoke a very clear Latin, with a slightly rolled accent. As she spoke, a faint smile played on her lips, giving her a somewhat mocking air.
But her attire was truly beyond comment—a grimy, blackened pullover, with a slightly scorched overcoat on top. The cuffs of her pale gray trousers were torn, revealing half of one calf. Her feet were bare, carelessly planted in a pile of swollen, festering corpses on the floor.
Looking around, the dark hall was covered in the remains of monsters: a black horse with a pale human face embedded where its neck should have been, a diminutive old woman carrying a basket of human hands, a pale woman with knee-length black hair but no facial features—all were monsters from folklore that should only appear in nightmares, defying the evolutionary history of the ancient races. And, without exception, they had all died horribly: gnawed by insects down to skin and bone, sliced in two at the waist, their entire heads exploded, or twisted into a rag by some bizarre spell. The variety and number could almost rival the Colosseum just after closing time.
"We do not usually address each other by name... Hound of Claudius," the Priest of Hod replied, his tone devoid of emotion. The thousands of compound eyes circling in the air all focused on Olga at once, buzzing loudly. "You need only tell me how much longer until the master of this dream appears."
"You're so boring. Most Hounds are boring, and most Priests of Hod are boring, but you're the most boring person I've ever met," Olga shrugged. "I actually think the name Gaskarov is quite nice. But... fine, let's talk business."
Gaskarov didn't reply, but the buzzing of the flies seemed to change its tune.
A half-dead, faceless spirit howled like a beast from within the wall. Its upper body was dragged into the hall; one could vaguely make out that it had been a woman in life. At the same time, hundreds of shiny black beetles gnawed at its skin and soul from all directions. The death god's sprites chewed on its once-formless body as if it were bread, crawling over it with a rustling sound, like a shimmering black shroud.
Olga watched the dissipating怨灵 with the eyes of someone watching a farce.
"According to the records of the faithful, when the Blood Moon comes, the master of the dream labyrinth—the Moon God—will appear in the City of the Tormented," she said in a tone like she was reciting an opera. "And after it briefly descends and departs, the gate connecting directly to the real world will also briefly open to receive the new residents invested into the city by those believers."
"How much longer?"
"Hmm—about half a month? There might be some deviation, but not by much," Olga switched back to her normal tone. "But I'm already getting a bit sick of this. I can't help but want to find some fun, but this city is only full of addle-brained lunatics, and the things that run out of their dreams..."
"Then I will see you in half a month."
"Hey—"
Olga was about to say something, but the Priest of Hod simply left. The swarm of flies dispersed with a bang, like a bottle of ink poured into a rushing river. They flew out through the cracks in the doors and windows until none were left. And the figure at the center... there was no figure.
"Hod's goddamned foot-soles! These fucking priests are so boring..."
"It seems your wish to chat up a Priest of Hod has not been fulfilled, Olga. Should I feel sorry for you?"
It was a man's voice, thin as a stalk of wheat and laced with a faint mockery.
"Hey, I'm immune to your mockery, Tusca. Think about it—getting to know a work contact, how normal is that? Especially a mysterious Priest of Hod," she shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "The Year of the Purge is almost over, and I still don't know how the Empress got in league with the Shadow Temple, let alone Hod."
"The fate of the Empire is beyond our power, Olga. I don't concern myself with matters outside my duties," the man said. "What's important is that followers of the Cross Church have followed us in from the direction of the dungeon. I suspect they have already taken up residence in another House of the Tormented."
"Meaning I'm on reconnaissance?" she blinked.
"You're a smart one, Olga."
"Will you give me a raise when we get back, chief?"
"I don't like to joke."
"I'm filing a complaint about you with the higher-ups, Tusca."
After her complaint was finished, she began to tremble all over. Her waist and abdomen arched toward her back, her body twisting like a wave, her bones bending and coiling as if they'd turned into softened rubber bands. Her skin and clothes began to melt, her muscles deforming into concave and convex shapes. In a few moments, she had compressed into a ball about the height of a calf. And then, this sphere continued to contract, becoming like an inverted triangle... until it was covered in a layer of soft, white feathers.
A snowy owl.
The owl let out a half-human, half-avian cry and launched itself at the man's face.
He was completely wrapped in a black robe, his face also hidden in shadow. He simply extended a long, pale hand and slapped the owl's talons away. "Olga, if you dare scratch my face with your claws again, I will make you drink swill for three months after we get out."
"Just kidding."
The owl hooted a few times, flapped its wings, circled above Tusca's head a few times, then flew out through the main door and was gone.