Chapter 43: The Second Conversation with the Doll

"Another night, another dream, and I've yet to complete reading Mysteries of the Worm," Sarsel grunted as he struggled to sit up. "Hey, Jeanne—" he mumbled sleepily, instinctively reaching out towards the crackling, seemingly eternal fireplace. It resembled the place where he imprisoned the witch's soul, yet it was also different. Perhaps it was a flame ignited by the Outer Gods, a peculiar gift under their incomprehensible minds, devoid of significant meaning. "Where is everyone?" 

Sarsel slapped his forehead and looked around.

The room was bizarre in style—if anything, it resembled the place where Prinn lived. Two wooden doors were wide open, it was night, and the branches of the white acacia, surrounded by vines, hung outside, with petals occasionally falling onto the ancient wooden floor as the wind blew. The moon was obscured by a veil of pale clouds, yet the light was softer, blending with the rows of candlelight on the cabinets.

The room was rectangular, with white walls covered in carved wooden panels depicting abstract crucifixes—but with strange contours, entirely different from the style of the Holy Cross Church. The carpet had light green plush patterns, and many wooden tables and cabinets lined the walls, filled with various books and unknown machinery. There were tubes and bottles of blood, instruments for polishing jewels, crude metal molds, and strange weapons hanging on the walls—sawtooth sabers, multi-sectioned canes, scythes, and meat cleavers that seemed to be made of many teeth—like art crafts or limbs of monsters, all illuminated by moonlight, candlelight, and the flame from the fireplace. 

The room was unremarkable; his past laboratory was far more terrifying. Yet, Sarsel felt a sense of incongruity, "Something seems off here."

He gripped the handles on either side of the wheelchair—wait, a wheelchair? What is this?

He looked at his hands, frowning at the wrinkled hands of an old man. His clothes were the kind a hunter from the Lether continent might wear—deep brown, shiny and oily, and quite neat.

"I find myself intrigued—is this a facet of this world, or are these memories you brought here with those Outer Gods?"

"That's where I was born," the voice of the doll.

Sarsel stood up expressionlessly: "I harbor no objection to your summoning me into this realm, Ms. Doll, but might you refrain from encasing me in this decrepit flesh?" With a deep inhalation, the air coalesced and compressed within his chest as he bridged the Warren of Vorvadoss to his  his soul—the pulsating flames coursed through his being. He murmured a series of short spells, barely discernible.

White flames erupted from his skin, akin to innumerable blades, rending the hunter's attire and the old man's wrinkled skin asunder. These encumbrances around his soul initially radiated a fiery red, then fragmented like tattered snake skins, ultimately disintegrating into fine black ash and dust, akin to two ignited sacks.

A dark red demon unfurled its massive bat wings in the room, then retracted with the flames.

"Ah... you, too, have escaped the confines of this realm, Mr. Hunter. This dreamscape has embraced others before you, souls akin to yours."

It was the Doll again, staring at him with her amber-like eyes. She stood tall, half a head above Sarsel, and her skin bore no difference to that of a living person. Her fingers, with their discernible joints, moved gracefully as she spoke, her mouth opening and closing with the delicate precision of a noble lady.

"I must inquire, do you bestow the nickname 'hunter' upon all you encounter?" Sarsel advanced a step, drawing nearer to her, scrutinizing the entity. "Moreover, you've delved into my memories—I am a dark wizard, formerly in the service of the Senate, not a mere commoner who passes his days in the woods, hunting with bows and snares."

"Perhaps it's a yearning for the past," she said, her tone always flat—as if describing someone unrelated to her, "The purpose for my creation was to endow blessings to hunters. Though I've been absent from that dream for a long time, certain imprints remain indelible."

"Are we referring to the same kind of hunter?" He raised an eyebrow.

"I think, it's probably not the same."

"So you're a servant of the Outer Gods?" Sarsel didn't pursue the question further; he wasn't interested in meaningless things.

"Indeed, God inquired about my wishes before its departure. In times past, hunters shared with me tales of the church, love, and the divine. This sparked a curiosity within me regarding human love. It was due to this yearning that God fulfilled my curiosity, and thus, I accepted its gift."

"Driven by your curiosity, you've ensnared a multitude of memory-less wanderers into loving you... Are all Outer Gods insane? Ah, that's a rhetorical question; no one can fathom their thoughts."

Sarsel stared at the doll, half a head taller than himself, lost in thought.

"I am a doll who loves all," she stated calmly, showing no emotion, “Perhaps that is the purpose for which I was created. I may not harbor desires of my own, yet I find myself pondering—do those whom I cherish hold affection for me in return?”

"I hold little regard for such unfathomable notions; it seems our lines of thought are unlikely to converge,” Sarsel, once a military mage, shook his head—those who had served in the imperial mage corps shared this trait, being highly pragmatic, only succumbing to impulsivity in exceptional circumstances, losing reason, yet predominantly indifferent, striving to exercise restraint. He stepped forward, "So you love me as well? No matter, that's a rhetorical question; I ought to apologize to my logic teacher."

"If you want to ask, I do love you."

"Thank you for loving me, I am greatly honored," Sarsel said politely, showing no particular reaction, "Might I also inquire—which priests of the gods have you recently received?"

"The agreement with the Gods prevents me from revealing their names, Mr. Dark Wizard."

"Has a priest of Hood been here?"

“Please forgive me, for though the newly birthed gods wield no sway over the dream world, numerous ancient deities have tread upon this realm, and thus, I must remain discreet."

This doll is more difficult to deal with than the Inquisitor, both in different ways.

His goal of extracting information from her might be challenging to achieve.

However, from her previous remarks, it seemed that more gods had contact with the Outer Gods than imagined. As he had complained before, the gods of this world always liked to meddle in human affairs.

Sarsel pondered silently under the doll's gaze. Many names flashed through his mind—the Five-Tusked Boar, the Worm of Autumn, the Wolves of Winter, even the followers of the legendary Jaghut Tyrant Raest, who was said to be sleeping in Darujhistan... but it seemed meaningless. Even if he knew they had been here, how could he possibly guess what these Ascendants were plotting?

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