He summoned Pan until the darkness of chaos appeared, or a demonic counterfeit in vague and monstrous shapes. Crouching naked in a corner, stripped of magician's robes, he is haggard and wild-eyed, gibbering in tongues; chained to the spirit of fear, a mere reflection of his former commanding self.
He descends into the deeper emptiness of the abyss, appearing to look upon the sleeping ocean, waiting for it to awaken, hoping to hear the bell of the God's realm, yet knows the Old Ones are locked away, senile from neglect, dead or dying in a labyrinth of sewers rotting beneath the city.
Still in a trance, the mystic departs to the domain of the pagan dead, stars looking downwards with a holy glance.