Masterminds

The dance of the tyrant

"So persistent... "

"A general dispatches their scouts to survey the target. Therefore, it is axiomatic we broaden our connections."

"*sore sigh* Hold on. We are the generals. And you already know how problematic it is for me to be surrounded by so many delectable... dainties."

"*scoffs* And I also know how easily you can bring the urges under your grasp. That is a measly excuse, even for you."

He is not wrong, though. You are the master of your urges and effortlessly have deceived all citizens.

With a petty pout, you agree to attend the damn reunion.

"Fine, fine. I swear I'll show up in my best attire, so you do not have to worry."

Gortash's eyes shine bright like two obsidians, full of energy. His demeanour softens, leading to a light-hearted chitchat as you head to his residence. The path, though solitary, lightens with his features. He is excited about the plan, about sharing his kingdom with you.

Upon arriving, that unquenchable craving strikes without mercy: the urges. A surge of desire, but not desire for gnawing sinews. It craves compliance.

The instant you two step inside, your magic begins to resonate. The impulse. The leash. While Gortash keeps on and on with his idyllic reign, you fix your eyes on him.

'Strangle, dislocate, punish.' the contemptible pervert within you screams.

Gortash goes to change his clothes while you roam around, trying to silence those intrusive thoughts. With each soft step, a fresh longing floods your swelling mind - various exotic ways of devouring, of submission.

*creak*

You turn your head to the sound looming from one of the rooms. Gortash emerges, switched back into his homely clothes. That slender silhouette walks towards you with confidence.

Walking on the edge of sanity you are... No, you must resist. For now.

"Sweet dreams, Enver. I am heading back home. It is of utmost necessity to reorganize the initiates. Orin has been very naughty these past few days." you bid farewell, prepared to travel back to your den. Gortash's face frowns, grabbing your arm.

"As you say. Know that you owe me." your wicked lips draw a smile at Enver's threat.

"You are becoming greedier. We will talk about it another day. See you tomorrow."

His silhouette melts into the shadows as you make haste.
Back to the nest.

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Inside the temple, bloodied and murky with pungent corpses, a wail demands your presence. Cautiously you approach the origin: a pale woman, curled up in the corner of your room.

Orin. Her fragile figure, as if pierced by thorns, burns with resentment. She darts her pale eyes towards you, dipped in hate. You try to reach for her, placing your hand on her cold shoulder as you crouch.

*slap*

"You think you can come here, tainted with that heretic's foul whiff?" she yells uncontrollably. Her screeching claws your ears. "I am going to pluck your eyeballs out, your heart shall be a warm gift to your beloved banite."

You can not deprive her from venting out, but you can halt her incessant attacks. Even Father is somewhat disappointed. What else can you do but become more absorbed in him? What else can you do when you finally meet such a specimen? After all that shit you have been through... there is no greater pleasure than to be with an individual capable of not falling into a spiral of genocide.