Little Hastur

"What brings fine folks like you to a place like this?" The old man set his book down, his bright, beaming smile never faltering.

The creaking of his chair faded as he observed the two men before him with a serene, almost knowing expression. The golden fields behind him swayed gently, the wind carrying the scent of dry grass and sun-warmed wood.

Cypher stepped onto the porch, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight. "Perhaps we're just lost, Mister?"

"Ahhh..." The old man released a soft, wistful breath, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. "You can call me Vik, little one. And as for being lost… I promise you'll find your way soon enough."

Elie shot Cypher a look—'What's that supposed to mean?'—before stepping forward. "Well then, Vik, if you could just give us a map, I promise we'll leave without any trouble."

Vik let out a regretful sigh, his smile dimming only slightly. "Well, the map's inside." A gust of wind stirred the porch, making the dreamcatcher overhead rattle like dry bones. "I could fetch it for you while I pour some tea? An old man like me doesn't get much company these days."

Cypher studied him warily. Didn't he have grandkids playing in the field earlier? And if so, where were their parents? Surely, a man like this wasn't as alone as he claimed.

Vik, noticing his gaze, chuckled. "Oh, don't trouble yourself with me, little one." He patted the yellow book on the table beside him. "I have the gods on my side. May you come to know them in due time."

Laughter, light and mirthful, mingled with the chirping of birds as Vik pushed himself to his feet with a grunt.

Then—

Gasp.

Through the chorus of popping joints and cracking bones, Vik stretched his crooked back as straight as it would go. His frail frame expanded, limbs elongating unnaturally. His head, nearly brushing the porch ceiling, hung at an odd angle—tilted too far to one side, his neck bending as if barely holding its shape.

It was a wonder he could even walk. Not only was he lacking any muscle, but his disgustingly stretched bones barely held him up.

Even Elie, taller than most, suddenly felt small in the shadow of this frail, towering thing.

"I'll be just a moment, friends…" Vik's voice broke, distorting for a fraction of a second before snapping back to normal.

He fidgeted with a set of rusted keys and unlocked the front door. As it creaked open, Cypher caught a glimpse of the interior—nothing but black. A void, vast and lightless, stretched beyond the threshold, as if the very concept of space had been erased inside.

A chill ran down his spine.

Elie, however, seemed oblivious, watching Vik disappear into the house before turning his attention to the dreamcatcher. He studied the pattern intently—a crude eye crisscrossed with interwoven threads, a small glowing gem embedded at its center.

Cypher no longer had any reservations. They needed to leave.

And yet, he couldn't just abandon Elie. This place was unnatural, a foreign plane where danger lurked in every shadow. If something happened, Elie would be the perfect shield.

His gaze flicked to the table—more specifically, to the book Vik had been reading before they interrupted him. Its yellowed, dusty pages seemed to beckon with silent promises of knowledge and change.

The scent of untouched coffee lingered in the air as Cypher reached out, his fingers grazing the book's surface.

It was warm. Soft, almost pulsing beneath his fingertips.

The cover Cypher had previously seen, embossed in gold, read:

Hastur ∆mutabilis §caligo

The longer he stared, the harder it was to look away.

With slow, deliberate care, Cypher lifted the front cover. The first page, partially burned, revealed an image—a delta-shaped triangle, though its right side was oddly thicker than the others.

He knew this symbol. In his past life, he had studied societies that used it as a conceptual stand-in for "change."

The Greeks often used it as part of their alphabet, an interesting thing Cypher discovered on an ancient record he discovered on a trip to Italy.

Turning the next page, his eyes fell upon ancient letters, worn and weathered with time. Though the text remained readable to a Dreamweaver, an ordinary man might struggle to comprehend it.

With one final glance toward the door Vik had vanished through, Cypher dived into the book's contents.

---

Once upon a time…

In a grand, gleaming city of steam and metal, a very small boy was born.

His name was Little Hastur.

Little Hastur was sad. He was born behind bars of steel, wrapped in nothing but a warm yellow blanket to shield him from the cold.

But Little Hastur had a gift.

He could change. Just a little. Just enough.

When they struck him, he made his skin tough.

When they broke his bones, he made them bend.

When they told him to stay silent, he softened his voice.

And so, the lords and ladies of the wicked city adored him.

Draped in silks spun from stolen dreams, they dined on golden plates piled high with meat, red juices dripping onto marble floors.

They drank from glasses taller than a man, filled with wines aged in the bellies of the starving.

They held grand masquerades, donning masks of plastic and false faces, whispering secrets behind lips that were not their own.

And when they grew bored of their games, they turned to Little Hastur.

"Dance, Little Hastur! Sing, Little Hastur! Change, Little Hastur!"

So Little Hastur changed.

When they burned him, he cooled his skin.

When they drowned him, he breathed water.

When they carved his flesh, he stitched it back together.

And still, the wicked city laughed.

"More, Little Hastur! More!"

They pulled him apart, just to watch him mend himself whole.

They wrapped him in chains, just to hear his bones twist to fit the cuffs.

They locked him in boxes too small for a boy, just to see how small he could become.

And still, Little Hastur changed.

His arms stretched like shadows.

His legs grew taller than towers.

His voice rumbled like thunder in the deep.

Until one day, the lords and ladies looked up… and up… and up…

Little Hastur was not so little anymore.

With a great big sigh and a great big step, he stomped out the wicked city.

The golden plates cracked.

The silken gowns tore.

The stone and steel collapsed.

The souls of millions vanished under foot.

And then—

There were no more lords.

No more ladies.

No more poor folk.

No more songs, or laughter, or wicked games.

There was only the yellow sh∆pe.

Shifting. Stretching. Growing.

Forever.

And ever.

And ever.

Among the laughter of the mad jester, the second demon god was born.

But even as Hastur changed, twisted, and grew, there was one thing he could never adapt to.

The sadness in his heart.

---

Thud!

The book slammed shut, seemingly of its own accord.

A chill ran down Cypher's spine as he turned sharply toward Elie. "We have to go. Now."

Elie didn't respond. He just stared at the dreamcatcher with wide, unblinking eyes.

"Elie!"

The sharpness in Cypher's voice snapped him back to reality. Slowly, with a shaky breath, Elie whispered:

"This isn't a dreamcatcher… it's an alchemical device."

His voice trembled. "I think we're under an illusion."