It was really goddamned shit, actually, what with the burden of half-realised fears and nightmares oozing into all of the crawl space of his mind, and the natural anxieties for his kin that he carried buried in his chest, day in, day out. Those anxieties were acting as perfect culture media for the insidious effect the city-wide magic had on him; he had only to close his eyes to see great-great-grandchildren torn asunder, their own distant descendants crushed in their very cradles -- and sometimes, not even then, terrors playing out before his gaping eyes, like the sight of a red-headed child who had barely seen two decades plunging to her death as six year old twins sang their song about falling bridges. Not real -- yet real enough.
So the misappropriation of his name came almost as a relief, a beam of clarity slicing through the murk. Ohya Ahya Ohya Ahya Ohya Ohya Ohya -- something to cling to even as the summons drew him forth, something to be thankful for and clutch as a talisman against mind-fuck even as anger spurred through him, leaving every tendril of quasi-angelic flesh bristling with aggression. It didn't abate when he set eyes on his brother (sparked, perhaps, hotter at the thought of a being so intimately connected to him having been trussed up as though nothing more significant than a domesticated bird), but when he perceived the origin of the call, neither did it spill forth.