"Before I ever came here. The night when my friends and I tried to rescue Lacie from the cult, before we knew... she had joined them. I was hiding in the library, and trying to guess if any of the books there would be useful to Mordred, or Anemone. When I went to look at them, I had a vision. It was night, and the sky was full of swirling purple clouds and shining white stars. In the center was this... enormous eye. It looked at me. And it seemed like the whole world would come apart under its gaze. When I read the books about Azathoth, later, they described something much like what I saw."
 
 
 
 

Nod. “Did the two visions—feel the same?”

"They... no. The first one I had felt like a vision, if that makes sense? It was like I was... suddenly bearing witness to something much larger than me, too large to really comprehend. In the desert, it just felt like... something perfectly ordinary. Like he was just -- there, and that was normal. It felt like it happened. The other one felt more like... something that might happen?"

“That makes sense. Do you think—do you have any ideas what they might be from, if they might be visions from God or from demons or from the things you investigate here? They sound like they are—different things.”

"I think the vision with the eye was from... Azathoth, or ... his herald? I think Nephren Ka was also the name of some immortal pharaoh. I think we thought he might be Nyarlathotep? I should ask Mordred, how they were all connected. He would know. I thought they were different things, but maybe they're all the same thing? Or at least connected? I'm not as good at keeping track of it all as the others are."

“Alright. We will ask Mordred, then. Do you—Nephren Ka warned you against Dallol, just as the villagers here did. I trust the villagers; I do not know whether to trust Nephren Ka. But I saw what happened as you approached Dallol last time. My instincts are to heed his warning, especially if he might be connected to the name of the Watcher."

"I don't know whether to trust him, either. I'm not sure he knows. He keeps telling me to watch out for liars, that they don't have my interests at heart. But then he says maybe he is a liar, and I shouldn't trust him. And then the there's the cult of the Liar. Maybe he's the Liar. Even if he is, I don't know whether that means he wants me to go there or not, or that going there would help us, or not. But... everything I hear about Dallol, it sounds like the people there... they're not okay. They might be part of the cult. Like Lacie. And I don't want more of this." She rubs her bandaged part of her hand, and above that, where the acid burn scars are. "Or worse, some sort of mouth on me, like Ayers."

“I agree.” Pet pet Magnificence, who is still clinging to her. “No Dallol, then. It is probably for the best that you spend time resting and recovering, anyway.”

"Let's just wait here for the others to return." She's glad that Magnificence seems to be calmer, now. She wonders how Araari did it and wishes she could do the same

Araari prays by herself while she spins thread.

Zoë should not go to Dallol village; she is incapacitated by the heat, she gets sick easily, and the villagers had warned that it would be bad for—whatever it was that caused her to bite a chunk out of her thumb.

Sister Araari, on the other hand, is used to the heat; she is not sickly; she has God on her side, and can do an exorcism if needs must.

She packs her things. She leaves Magnificence with Zoë. She promises to return. And she leaves for Dallol.

Physically speaking, Dallol village is much like Kolluli village. Both have a few permanent buildings made from salt blocks, supplemented by about two dozen tents in the native style.

Several dozen people of all ages and both genders assemble near the edge of the town, silently awaiting Araari. Many of the locals here are bandaged, especially on their hands and arms, and, where they are not bandaged, many are scarred. By the same token, many of the villagers are missing fingers, and a few are missing hands or feet. This is even true of the children.

Many marks are consistent with biting, but also other scars and wounds are more consistent with cutting, crushing, whipping, and other types of trauma.

Well.

“Hello,” Araari says. “Do any of you need care? I have some medical supplies.”

The villagers shake their heads, and pantomime that she should enter the village.

Araari enters. “Is it alright that I am talking, or should I be silent as well? I do not mean to be rude. Thank you all for your generous hospitality in welcoming this stranger.”

The villagers say something in Afar, which she does not speak.

Some villagers simply watch her go and then turn back to their daily business, but a fair number join what turns into a procession toward the salt-block building at the center of the village.

She notices several of the villagers hurting themselves — cutting themselves with small blades, bits of glass, or their own fingernails or teeth. Such actions draw reserved signs of approval from other villagers nearby.

She interrupts one by tapping their shoulder to get their attention.

They wave her away and continue what they were doing.

Hm.

She points at her first aid kit and then at a newly-inflicted wound and makes a questioning sound.

The person shakes their head.

Well. It is... certainly not good that children are being raised here. 

She heads towards the salt-block building with the procession.

A girl is jabbing at her arm sharply, and a glint of light reveals some edge of glass in her hand. Blood trickles down her arm and from between the fingers that grip the shard. An older relative, perhaps her mother, comes up behind her and takes the glass out of the girl’s hand.

.....Hopefully that’s a good thing, trying to prevent her from doing damage, and not because the mother can inflict it with more strength. 

The elder stabs the glass into her own leg. The girl rubs absently at the blood on her arm and then dabbles it onto the ground, making a sketch.

A man bites on his bottom lip so hard that blood streams down from his teeth. He absentmindedly wipes at the blood and smears it across his chin.

There's a child missing an arm, curled up with a mangy dog. He murmurs something in Orome under his breath over and over and over again: “Banished be the moon. Open wide my Rift. Stars gaze upon my might.”

Oh hey she knows that language! Araari abandons the procession to kneel by him. “Hello. Can I help you?"

He startles. "What?"