The tarnished Key waits for one who will take it and feel its heavy silver, cool in their hand. The forest starves with ruby eyes and chattering calls waiting for a traveler to drink its moon-tree's brew. Pickman, the artist, has forgotten the look of a human face as he gibbers to the ghouls in the tunnels. The circling night-gaunts have long gone to roost in some unknown mountain eyrie. Leng is desolate, its houses are ruins, all the people gone as if Sarnath's fate had visited the remote plateau. From Kadath's peak, there is no sound, no dreamer has dared to return.