The thing that moves is quiet, tall and thin. It looks like a young man on the surface, with its tangle of dark curls and wide stare. A sleepwalker, maybe, in nighttime clothing: flannel pyjama bottoms and a simple white teeshirt. Feet bare. Perhaps he just slipped out of bed, stole away in the night.
But this is no sleepwalker, and something that only wears the visage of a young man.
The demon king Paimon is often drawn out in the night, when things are quiet. He moves through the city, out towards the dark wood. Sometimes he collects things: shiny items, stones, things that fall from trees. Sometimes he finds places to sit and watch the stillness of the night, dark eyes unblinking. Sometimes he just wanders, tipping into a strange lost place, like a child unsure where it is.
Tonight, he sees something up ahead and it calls to him. There's a soft glow through small windows, high up and tucked amongst the darkness around it. Something within the demon exhales softly, eyes widening further, and he moves closer with a strange obedience. There was a place once, a place that he (or maybe a past life) loved. Safe and secure and his alone. His treehouse.
It's here, he thinks, it's appeared here too, and he finds his way to it, up and in with an inhuman capability. He crawls, long-limbed and too agile, and he's slipping through an opening, he's silently uncurling himself to stand. For a moment, but then.... there's some strange awareness that comes seeping in. Something is off, wrong. The inside looks different, feels and smells different. It isn't his, but it should be his. He doesn't understand.
He's afraid in his confusion, and then he's upset by it. The demon's eyes flash and up he goes, silently crawling against a wall, up to the ceiling where he tucks himself into a corner and stares down, elbows and knees bent like a spider's as he attaches himself there. He doesn't breathe, just stares down with eyes swollen black and wide, pupils practically bursting. Is someone here already? Or will they return? He waits — tense. )
(cw: demonic possession)
The thing that moves is quiet, tall and thin. It looks like a young man on the surface, with its tangle of dark curls and wide stare. A sleepwalker, maybe, in nighttime clothing: flannel pyjama bottoms and a simple white teeshirt. Feet bare. Perhaps he just slipped out of bed, stole away in the night.
But this is no sleepwalker, and something that only wears the visage of a young man.
The demon king Paimon is often drawn out in the night, when things are quiet. He moves through the city, out towards the dark wood. Sometimes he collects things: shiny items, stones, things that fall from trees. Sometimes he finds places to sit and watch the stillness of the night, dark eyes unblinking. Sometimes he just wanders, tipping into a strange lost place, like a child unsure where it is.
Tonight, he sees something up ahead and it calls to him. There's a soft glow through small windows, high up and tucked amongst the darkness around it. Something within the demon exhales softly, eyes widening further, and he moves closer with a strange obedience. There was a place once, a place that he (or maybe a past life) loved. Safe and secure and his alone. His treehouse.
It's here, he thinks, it's appeared here too, and he finds his way to it, up and in with an inhuman capability. He crawls, long-limbed and too agile, and he's slipping through an opening, he's silently uncurling himself to stand. For a moment, but then.... there's some strange awareness that comes seeping in. Something is off, wrong. The inside looks different, feels and smells different. It isn't his, but it should be his. He doesn't understand.
He's afraid in his confusion, and then he's upset by it. The demon's eyes flash and up he goes, silently crawling against a wall, up to the ceiling where he tucks himself into a corner and stares down, elbows and knees bent like a spider's as he attaches himself there. He doesn't breathe, just stares down with eyes swollen black and wide, pupils practically bursting. Is someone here already? Or will they return? He waits — tense. )