Zogrusz returned to his mountain almost a year later.

The creation of the Book of Zog had only taken a few days, with Cozotl furiously transcribing his words as he dictated its contents. The bulk of the book he wove whole cloth from his imagination (and which he was quite proud of), but he did sprinkle the text with references to what he had actually experienced beyond this world, such as the unknowable horror of the Great Old Ones and the vast devouring darkness between the stars. Cozotl had seemed disturbed by the idea that existence was meaningless except to provide sustenance for eldritch cosmic beings, so Zogrusz had leavened these stark truths with some comforting pablum about redemption and an afterlife and karmic justice, most of which he had pulled directly from the king’s mind.

The rest of his year away had been spent in a small village outside Amotla, near where much of the stone used in the city was quarried. It was there amid the dust and the sound of tapping chisels that Zogrusz had watched sculptors summon forth all manner of wondrous things from within the formless rock. He’d kept himself invisible during the days, wrapped in his cloak of shadows, but at night he’d entered the workshops and attempted to recreate what he had witnessed. He learned of the tools used by these masters, the hammers and axes and picks, and when he finally departed this village he carried enough implements with him to reshape a mountain.

Which was what he planned to do.

If humans with their ephemeral, mayfly lives could manifest art that persisted down through the ages, what was an immortal like him capable of creating? A vast monument that would proclaim his existence for eternity.

Zogrusz couldn’t help but smile when he again stood at the threshold of his cavern and beheld his first crude fumblings. He decided to keep the thrones he had made and the carving that now looked so ridiculously childish to remind himself of how far he had come, and then he set to work realizing his vision. He painstakingly smoothed the walls, scooping away the curving rock to create sheer sides that soared up to the cavern’s roof. There he snapped away the dangling stalactites, chiseling the ceiling until he had created something similar to the great dome of Amotla. He searched the deeper tunnels and caves of the mountain, amassing a hoard of different colored stones that he then broke into smaller chunks, and after mixing a cement like he had witnessed the stonemasons making – ash, lime, water and volcanic rock – he began to affix these stones to the ceiling. He had thought long and hard about what the overarching mosaic should depict, and had finally settled on the image of him soon after first arriving on this world, standing among the trees and animals in the jungle with his true form's head limned by the setting sun.

The walls were next, and using the tools he had appropriated from the stoneworkers he began to memorialize the record of his long journey. He carved the Great Old Ones – or what he could remember of them – those confusing tangles of tentacles and many-jointed limbs and the vast profusions of eyes staring blindly out into the void. Then he etched the other wonders he had seen – the all-devouring maws of black holes, the moons ringed by glittering clouds of ice, the vast nebulas billowing across space like ink spilled in water, even the stark beauty of the dead worlds. He carved the shard-studded ice worm that had been the only conscious being he’d encountered until arriving here, and also his view of this planet when he’d first approached, starving and exhausted.

Zogrusz passed into an almost dream-like state as he worked, and when he finally stepped back to admire what he had wrought he sensed a long time had passed, though such a thing was difficult to measure under the mountain. Something had certainly changed in the world outside. That thin, life-giving trickle of worshipful dread that had sustained him was gone, replaced by a steadily-strengthening stream. Cozotl must have made good on his promise and helped his faith spread among the people of Amotla. And perhaps even farther afield, for to Zogrusz it seemed like it was not only swelling but also drawing closer. Was it possible that the People had returned to Xochintl? The thought warmed his heart. If he stepped outside, would he again see ribbons of smoke curling up from the rebuilt town?

Curious, Zogrusz set down the worn nubs of his tools (he would have to procure fresh hammers and chisels soon somehow) and made his way through the winding tunnels until he stood once more on the mountain’s stony flank.

And to his great surprise, he found he was not alone.

A collection of tents and what looked to be other ramshackle structures had been erected farther down the slope, and from this makeshift little village delicious pulses of fearful prayer were flowing up to him. Zogrusz squinted into the distance, but saw no sign that Xochintl has been resurrected – no, his nearby worshippers were most definitely these pilgrims. For a moment he was confused about what they were doing here, but then he remembered that in his ramblings to Cozotl he had mentioned that he dwelled under a mountain near a town called Xochintl. Apparently, someone had delved into the histories and found where it had once been located.

He supposed it was lucky that none of them had dared venture into the cave that led to his lair. How surprising would that have been if he had set down his stone pick and turned to find a few of these humans standing slack-jawed at the entrance to his cavern! He’d probably have had to shift into his true form and stomp about to dissuade them from ever bothering him again. And watching the pilgrims milling down below, Zogrusz knew that eventually they would risk his wrath by entering the mountain – it was in the nature of humans to be curious. If they were not, they never would have left the primordial jungle and advanced so far as a species.

But perhaps there was some benefit to having this tasty morsel right on his doorstep. Could he encourage these pilgrims to come to his mountain . . . while also keeping them outside? Zogrusz pulled on the dark curls of his man-form as he considered what he should do. Maybe he could turn the cave behind him into an imposing entrance, so all would know he did indeed dwell within. He imagined huge cyclopean pillars and statues of Eldritch Horrors, a temple façade worthy of his new faith. And he could use his newfound powers over the shadows to make the darkness within impenetrable to all but himself. He would have to do the bulk of the work in his man-form so as not to send the pilgrims fleeing in terror, but he had found that the small, dexterous fingers of humans were perfect for manipulating stone.

Excited to begin, Zogrusz reentered the cave to fetch his tools with a bounce in his step.