Le Collectionneur chuckled, a cold, mirthless sound. "You see, Émile, the masks of Nyarlathotep are not to be trifled with. They are but a taste of the horrors that lurk beyond the veil of reality. And once you wear one, you can never be free."
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Marcus, now a figure of hollow eyes and a serpent’s grin, is consumed into a shifting form that dissolves into the veil of stars. Eleanor, armed with a knife inscribed with a 13th-century ward, attempts to shatter the masks, but they dissolve into a swarm of locusts, each bearing tiny, glowing eyes. Le Collectionneur chuckled, a cold, mirthless sound