Adolescent mortals scurried to and fro like frenzied rodents in a grain silo, as oblivious to the eyes watching from the clinging shadows and crystal accents as the aforementioned rodents were to the farm cat lurking nearby. The comparison was apt, He sneered—they were little more than annoying vermin or cattle, only tolerable as long as they served His purpose. Once He no longer needed them, He would be as happy to crush them under His hooves as any other annoying insect.

For now though, they were a necessary irritant.

Ignorant of how close they were to their own demise, the humans were entirely caught up in the drama of their own little lives and the incessant theatrics that seemed to choke them in the halls of the so-called school. They bit and snapped at each other, laughed at the misfortune of others amidst their small divided social groups, and jockeyed for better positions in the social hierarchy through any means they had to. A lesser being would have been disgusted at how they turned on each other so easily, but He merely felt contempt. It was an illusion, the power they believed they had or could attain when compared to True Power…to the fae that manipulated them with centuries of skill and inherent magic…or to Him, an imprisoned God who would soon be free once more.

As He slipped His sight from one flickering shadow to the next, He spied the telltale glamour of one of Itheadair’s underlings, clad in the guise of one of the very adolescents they tormented. This one was mid-torture, trailing after one of the female humans like a hound after a rabbit.

“Where ya’ going, Pacific?” the changeling called mockingly, prompting the prey’s distress to ratchet up enough to start crying. It was a weakness that was leapt upon eagerly. “Aww…gonna go cry in the bathroom again?” The loud vocalization drew attention from the unruly crowd of onlookers, and cruel laughter rippled through the masses adding to the fleeing female’s suffering.

It was not hard to see why she was a target, even for Him. While she wore the same uniform as her peers, her satchel was a lurid mix of hues that were eye-catchingly painful to look at for long, and adorned with a plethora of decorative patches and hanging trinkets. This was paired with a shock of red-pink hair worn in twin tails and held up with equally brightly colored ties. Topped off with still more color in the form of bangles around her wrists and neck—pushing the limits of the strict dress-code He knew that Itheadair enjoyed enforcing—the loud visual look made her a target for predators, human, fae, or otherwise.

She fled to a bathroom, still pursued by her tormentor, and He chose to follow, wanting to savor the misery and fear. It was all too easy to take up a new vantage point in a darkened corner, spotting the victim huddled in one of the stalls like a trapped animal while the changeling kicked at the door.

“What’s wrong? Why’re you hiding? I just wanted to help you out, give you a little haircut!” They laughed nastily at their own twisted joke and struck the door again with a carefully measured amount of strength. After all, it was not about breaching the small space, but rather about causing more suffering to their young victim. “You know what the boys all call you, right?”

Silence but for the sobbing, and the fae’s guise sneered. “Handlebars. They call you handlebars, because that's what your hair is good for! Sounds like those pigtails of yours are reeeeal popular with them!”

The petty spite and childish antics exemplified the very problem that had become something He could no longer ignore. Itheadair had outlived their usefulness to Him. Too many decades of playing petty games with children and vermin had dulled the fae’s edge and turned the remnants of the once proud and powerful race into little more than the very immature vermin they watched over. Now, the mistakes were mounting, and had crossed the line into unforgivable—their failure could have cost Him His sacrifice and the powerful magic it held.

A replacement needed to be found, and the sooner the better.

For a moment, He considered promoting one of the other fae to their leader’s position, but as He watched the tableau before His gaze, He discarded that idea. The underlings were no better than their leader—many of them were far worse.

The crying continued, overlaid by the regular banging, and the harsh voice digging into the mortal’s insecurities.

He drew back into Himself for a time, mulling over his options. A decision made in haste would be a mistake, and lead to greater problems He could ill afford. The fae could no longer be relied upon for anything, that much was abundantly clear…He needed someone new, but the mortals were no more useful to his ends than the fae. They were too young, too fragile, and most importantly, lacked the magic to accomplish critical tasks…

And they were the only other option available at present.

The watching shadow hissed a curse in a long forgotten tongue. It was suboptimal, but He might have to make do until He had a body again, and could range further afield than this small square of territory awash with His power. Still…He was confident He would determine a solution, given time. He just needed to find it.

His eyes were drawn back to the events in the material, as the banging stopped and the glamoured fae spoke again. “What’s wrong, Handlebars? Don't you think you’d look better with short hair? I’m sure my friends and I could give you one that suits you so much better!” The fake adolescent cackled viciously. “Or maybe you like when the boys use them as handlebars? Is that it? Because I’m sure that some of them would be happy to take you off for a ride!”

There was a calculated escalation of the verbal abuses going on, and while it was effective for what it was, He curled His lip in distaste. Where was the manipulative finesse? The clever and cunning wordplay? The backhanded compliments and subtlety that were meant to be hallmarks of the fae, especially from those who had once been the upper echelons of their people? This was base, like watching filthy peasant children jabbing a pathetic wounded animal with a stick until it cried out in pain, or gutter whores completing over a laborer’s meager coins.

As He grew sour and contemplated finding another place to brood and watch over His domain, the door opened and in wandered an answer to His previous dilemma, in the form of the female made of shades of green wearing the uniform in such a way that the clothing appeared dull and shapeless, uninteresting to such a severity that most eyes slid right over her. He could sense it as she gauged the situation she had walked in on, and moved to clean her hands rather than draw attention by immediately fleeing; there was a faint magic clinging to her, similar in kind but different to His chosen sacrifice.

He could use this, and when she made as if to leave a sharp pulse of His power instead directed her to the stall closest to the door and farthest from the abuse going on on the other side of the room. The green child muttered something under her breath as she huddled in the toilet, confusion rolling off her at the change in plans that had little to do with her need to empty her bladder, that kept her there well after that animal need had been satisfied. Confusion turned to frustration as she fidgeted in place, wanting to leave but unwilling to do so.

Now that there was a potential witness, the changeling gave up their game, stomping out on costly footwear with one final jibe at their victim. “We’ll be waiting, Handlebars! See you after class!” The door slammed on the end of that painful promise.

Quiet after the obnoxious braying of the moor-born waste of good magic was almost a relief, and He took several minutes to organize His thoughts for His next action, leaving His current target to squirm as the sobbing faded into sniffling. She dared not go—a touch of terror against her primal hindbrain kept her in hiding, left wondering if the victim in the far stall was even aware of her presence…and if she muttered under her breath? It was still less grating to His senses than the chittering of a Nightmare gone beyond seed into dead chaff to be tilled under.

If memory served—and these days it certainly served better than Itheadair—the plain and ghostlike waif was His sacrifice’s sycophant, riding her coattails to higher status and selfish gain. It put her in a position perfect for His use, though he despised having to lower Himself to such lowly, unrefined, and pugnacious tactics as forcible possession. A body gained in such a way deteriorated quickly, lasting only a few moons as a soulless puppet husk before it expired completely and began to rot.

Beneficial then, that He only needed it for a single moon, until the day of His release from the foul prison that fought to contain Him and strip Him of His essence like it had so many others. Then the puppet would be easily disposed of. It would give Him several weeks to search out a true replacement for Itheadair.

With that decided, He focused His essence through shadow and crystal, seeping unseen into the green female, beginning to invade her thoughts and tear at the edges of her soul…

Her thoughts were open to Him as she fell into a coughing fit, unable to catch her breath as her soul fought back against the intrusion and her body manifested the assault in a very physical way. Her fear and pain as she couldn't breathe, couldn't stop coughing and gagging, to the point that she pivoted and retched into the toilet, vomit and mucus streaming from mouth and nose yet doing nothing to clear her airways. Tears streamed down her face as she struggled for control of her body, adrenaline surging and a forceful push from her soul granting her a reprieve enough to draw a breath and growl out, “Dammit, Handlebars! Help me!” towards the fellow occupant of the washroom.

It was futile, of course, He noted with dark humor. The bullied female no one had helped was too busy fiddling with devices in her ears and one in her hand to pay attention to the coughing or the raspy cry for aid. He pressed harder, feeling the edges of the soul begin to stretch and tear from their flesh housing—

“Where do we go? Every day’s the same…”

His senses caught the flicker of new magic in the room, but it took some moments to catch up to His awareness. He was too busy fighting His quarry on the battleground of the soul, and feeling the satisfaction of finding a solution to His problem. He would soon no longer have to rely on Itheadair or their ilk to maneuver His sacrifice and He could use it to locate replacements.

“Did we lose the magic…magic…magic…”

He snapped away from the attempt at possession as foreign magic filled the room, new and yet kin to His chosen sacrifice and to the power that had been released in the last half a year…and to that damnable succubus. The green child was dropped, unceremoniously as He searched for the source of the magic—she had mostly given up struggling by now, and He could conclude His efforts at any point. This new magic was more important.

His search turned up nothing but the colorful victim turning the audio up on her device, the echo of a recorded performance vibrating the air with the ghost of magic.

Within His prison His eyes widened and then He began to smile. This was true magic, weak though it was in the recorded song. What must it be like at the source? And the longing for magic, for power, in the music was tangible, a hunger He could exploit. He just needed to know the source.

A quick scan of the victim’s thoughts gave the answer. Good. Now He could finish possessing the other female and search down this group of musicians and their magic.

Fury tickled faintly when He returned to the first stall and found it empty, the door still swinging. Somehow, the mortal had managed to flee without Him realizing it! Growling, He chased, leaping from shadow to crystal and back again, trying to locate His quarry! He refused to be thwarted so close to His goals.

He caught up just as she entered a pristine room, the very vault of machinery that she often met His sacrifice in to work, and He felt a hint of gleeful anticipation at being able to get right to work with His new puppet once He could finish the possession. With the revelation that there was more magic than the sidhe has sensed…magic that tickled a memory blasted indistinct by centuries of fighting His prison’s attempts to scour His essence to shreds…

Still, things were progressing apace, and now evolving in a fortuitous way that would allow Him to shed the dead weight of the corporeal Nightmares who had persisted long beyond their time and outlived their usefulness to Him.

Possibilities lay before His mind’s eye, many and varied, dozens of paths He could choose to get to His true end goal. When He possessed the human who reeked of dirt and leaves, not only could He ensure the sacrifice’s readiness for the ritual, but He could use the body to seek out the other sources of magic…perhaps more exposure would knock the memories loose. There was also the chance that He could entice the source to His side…with a little observation, it shouldn't be hard to discern what they would sell themselves for. Mortal beings were predictable like that.

He grinned. Patience was already paying dividends.

Shadowy tendrils were just starting to dig into flesh gone ashen and pale when the door opened and His sacrifice stepped in, His possession attempt interrupted for a second time. Snarling unseen, He whipped his attention around to stare through the darkness under a countertop at what had intervened to grant the green human more life.

He smelled it first, a wave of stench that rolled off the mortal girl in waves, a disgusting reek of pheromones and magic that no amount of water could hope to wash off, the strongest clue to any other demon that a concubus of some description had used their foul, stinking, infuriatingly potent yet conceptually limited powers to claim a soul as their own. Resisting the urge to lash out violently, His focus narrowed in on the source: His sacrifice, entering the room with a carefree, lighthearted bounce to her step, swirls of magic and power painted on her skin like glowing red flames to His sight, visible even through the starchy stiffness of layers of clothing. It was mocking, a challenge, and a complete dismissal of His authority and sovereignty, from the same arrogant succubus who had strutted into His domain like she owned the place.

And now she had dared to go so far as to claim a soul He had marked, that had signed itself over to Him? That was beyond brazen—it was an insult of the highest order, and a declaration of war…

No lesser demon had dared, not in a thousand years or more, to challenge Him for His crown…and certainly none of His prior challengers had been concubi. They lacked the stomach for such a confrontation, and the power to do much more than make mortals dance to their tune.

Yet this one had…which suggested she honestly thought she had a chance to win. Which in turn suggested that she had a plan or some way that she believed would outwit Him and overcome His power…like a weakness she could exploit, or allies against Him.

Or a traitor who had betrayed Him.

White hot fury coalesced into a single name, and he roared into the aether of His prison so savagely that the walls trembled. He lost connection briefly in His tirade, as He vented His spleen to the rocks, crystals, and shivering shadows that lurked in the prison with Him.

“ITHEADAAAAAAAAAAIR!!!”

Drawing in as much of his magic and power as He could, He dove back into the connection to the material realm, ripping through the halls and from focus to focus, birthing hissing shadows in His wake that immediately sunk into the ones attached to mortal bodies. The building around Him shuddered, and every denizen of His domain, mortal, fae, and shadow alike was filled with an inescapable sense of creeping dread.

There was no subtlety, no finesse, no sadistic calculation as he filled the office claimed by the Lord of the sidhe. Only raw fury, black hatred, and darkness so total that the void between stars was a brilliant and dazzling dawn by comparison. His essence coated every available inch, choking and all consuming as he bellowed a Command with the traitor’s Name, one that could not be ignored.

“ITHEADAIR-ANAM, PRESENT YOURSELF BEFORE ME!!! NOW!”

The sidhe arrived quickly—they could do little else when He invoked the full breadth of their Name. He could see, in eyes and manner, that the being who had been His majordomo for over a thousand years was rattled and on edge, clinging desperately to some measure of their normal dignity and regal hauteur in order to conceal their deeper emotions.

Like fear.

For the moment, He allowed them the delusion and savored the fear…and the shame that accompanied it. It left Itheadair’s normally organized essence open to Him, and He rifled through its contents in search of overt proof…yet He did not find it. Fear aplenty, and ripples of unease that echoed up through the rest of the dirty island spawned moor-trash, and a twinge of something that had no name to Him…but no overt evidence as He had sought.

As soon as the door clicked shut, He made His move, bringing as much of His power as He could to bear. The shadows deepened, intensified until the room itself was a true void, darkness swallowing every last speck of light and closing in on Itheadair like a devouring wave. “For your loyalty and sssservice,” He hissed in fury, “power was granted. I lifted you above the rabble, Itheadair-Anam…and now I take back what is rightfully Mine. Return it.” His voice echoed from the darkness, issuing from a million places and more until He was a legion, the earlier fury cooled to a frigid iciness, one that cut as sure as any knife.

That was when the shadows fell upon the fae, withered arms and grasping talons tearing away magic housed inside like a skilled butcher carving away pounds of flesh. Itheadair collapsed in a heap under the assault, unable to even manage the pretense of kneeling. They resembled a puppet whose strings had been cut, glamour of the haughty Abacus Cinch dispelled as they withered, clutching at the carpet with gnarled, claw like fingers, sucking in air as a wheezing rattle that was laden with sounds of agony as centuries of dark magic returned to its true Master.

When the harvest ended, Itheadair was a trembling mess, unable to stand and clinging to existence with what vestiges of their own magic remained. He drew closer, until the impression of teeth and glittering eyes was in their personal space and too close to their face for comfort. “For centuriessss, I have allowed you and your misssssbegotten brood to run rampant, granting the lot of you leave to drink of My majessssty to ssssussssstain yourselvessss…” The shadows around echoed and hissed their displeasure, and He paused for a few seconds before continuing. “But no longer, ssssidhe. That endssss now….becausssse you have turned againsssst Me. You have broken Our deal and forssssaken your oathssss to Me. There can be only one punisssshment for Oathbreakerssss, and once I have taken back what issss Mine, I will do thissss without you.”

Terrible confusion broke through the haze of pain and fear that choked the weakening fae-creature, and Itheadair struggled to answer. The sounds were barely more than pitiful, animal whimpers, struggling to refute the condemnation of the words. It was enough that He stayed the executioner’s proverbial blade. Instead, the impression of heavy hooves clopped close to them, and then their whole upper body was hauled backwards and upwards, the same way an animal would be hauled up by the scruff. “Sssspeak!!” He commanded, power threaded through tenebrous form so deeply that hellish heat leaked through from His prison.

“Ma…ster…” Itheadair protested feebly. “…I…swear…I am no…O…Oath…breaker…” Agonized indignation that could not be feigned leaked into the desperate words at the gravest of sins for the creature’s kind. “…how…have…I…be…tray…ed?”

It was almost laughable, the degree of deluded ignorance. “You allowed a ssssuccubus to run unchecked through My domain, ssssnatch My prize, and free a ssssoul that belonged to Me!” He snarled, the bass rumble reverberating through the void. “And now, you have allowed a glorified prostitute to put on airssss and Mark My ssssacrifice with itssss dissssgusting taint!”

Sunken eyes widened. “My liege…I never…before this…past week…the…concubus…was unknown…to me…” Each word was wrung painfully from the sidhe’s skeletally thin and twisted frame, as if they had been bound to one of the laughable human attempts at a torture device inventions that were but a pale mimicry of demonic artistry.

He released His hold contemptuously, letting Itheadair crumple to the floor once more, and then pressed the suggestion of His hoof in shadow to its brittle chest, threatening to stave it in. He spoke over the pained gasp. “Are you telling me that thissss creature hassss not only been wandering thissss city for who knowssss how long, but it breached the wardssss under your very nosssse and dissssassssembled the defenssssessss like a child destroyssss pottery, and yet you were completely ignorant and helplesssss, too incompetent to even protect your own interesssstssss, let alone Mine? And now…you have allowed that ssssame filth to not only touch the girl, but to imprint itssss foul Mark on her after it rutted her like a common animal?”

“Master, I—”

Looming over Itheadair, He thundered, “Do you mean to claim that you are sssso incompetent that you didn't even think to have the thrice-damned ssssuccubussss followed and watched, to prevent thissss very outcome and gain information on the foul, loathssssome little cockroach that daressss to Challenge My sovereignty?! Because it is one or the other, you crussssty relic of a dried out moor! Either you have betrayed your oathssss to Me, or you have become worsssse than usssselessss in your ssssheer incompetence!”

Another rattling wheeze, and the fae struggled around the crushing pressure against their body. “…I…tried…Master…but…the shadows were…destroyed…and…following undetected…only…Can…anach…could…”

Disappointing. Even in the face of annihilation, the sidhe made excuses, thought Him a fool. His power flexed again, and the nothingness exerted itself on reality in the small space, until that reality creaked warningly from the strain. “Your sssswiftnessss to blame otherssss for your failuressss isssss tiresssssome, Itheadair…” He remarked flatly.

Then there was silence, as the room fell still, as the true Master of the domain decided His vassal’s fate. At long last, He receded from the fae, bringing that terrifying void back into the confines of His self. “You ssssold yoursssself and your people to Me, Itheadair-Anam, bound yoursssselves to My Will.” A thread of power—not all of what he had snatched away, but enough to prevent the creature beneath him from gasping its last—passed back into Itheadair. “I grant you one lasssst chance to honor that…” The shadow of His hoof ground down just a fraction. “Take care to remember that My patience and mercy are…a finite ressssource.”

Still helpless and trapped like the insect they were, Itheadair abased themself before Him, fully aware of how close they were to being snuffed out. “…I swear…my liege…I have done nothing that would dishonor my oaths…I swear it…Master…on my magic and my life! I am…no Oathbreaker!”

“Your life issss Mine, Child-Sssstealer!” He roared. “And it wassss already forfeit—I have sssstayed My hand to grant you one final chance to enssssure My Will issss done!” Shadows lashed, catching the sidhe in the torso and flinging them hard enough into the nearby furniture that the heavy oaken desk slid several inches back. “The ssssacrifice is inchessss from ssssslipping from Me forever, and you have allowed a rival to Me to grow unchecked in my Exile. You are a failure…and you are not indisssspenssssable, Itheadair! I do not care by what meanssss you bring the girl back under our control, but you will do it and do it immediately, or it shall be YOU who layssss upon the altar assss the ssssacrifice!”

Pride stripped away by suffering, poise ground down to nothing in the face of the same damnation they had believed was a fate meant for lesser creatures, the ancient fae cowered. “It shall…be as you decree…Master…” They spoke with the bleakness of a man facing execution.

“Enssssure that it issss.”

With that, He retreated to His prison to recover the energy expended, leaving the room as it had been before. Only the slow, slight turning of the desk chair belied the fact that another presence had been in the room…and it was a very long time before the sidhe even attempted to drag itself into that seat, inhuman features twisted up further by emotions that had never been meant for their kind to experience.

...Looks to me like someone is pissed.

I will freely admit, the last threat from the Master was 100% inspired by Cruella De Vil, and that scene in 101 Dalmations where she yells at her thugs. "Poison them, drown them, bash them on the head! I dont care how you kill the little beasts, but do it, and DO IT NOW!"

There's just something visceral about that scene, and how she looks and speaks that just scares the hell out of you.

*straps in*

Time to get this party started.