He thinks he's leaving soon, the guard says. But he ain't. There's some pagan god, a powerful, golden figure, with the body of a man and the head of a bull. Watches us pass by. Gives forth a small lowing sound.
Tentacles reach eagerly through the bars for our throats, clutching, grasping.
Whispered threats reach my ears, barely audible, vaguely discernible, somehow enticing. Keep your distance, the guard grunts. Here's an empty chamber. Dust balls blowing about on a bare wooden floor. This is what the non-believers believe in, the guard says.