Before the coronation, even, there is the invitation.

The spirits of the Aurbis have many faces, each of them ascribed to them by the peoples who know them as one thing or another.

So when the Madgod decides to show up to the smell of great godly grilling, it’s in a form of incoherent glory- a stooped treant-like figure, draped in a mantle of fungus and lichen, topped with a stone head of three faces from which hangs a beard of moss.

The voice it speaks with is not so incoherent as the Worm, but it’s still an inhuman sound- like rapid staccato notes played on the cello, occasionally getting excited enough to take on a viola’s tendencies instead.

“I think you may be exactly what the people need.”