I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)

He has no loyalty to this land—no ties.

There is no reason for him to be here except a deep, perverse boredom that has begun to tattoo itself onto his bones, pressing into him with little regard for his sanity. It has left him irritable, hunting down whatever fanciful thing could pass the time. For a while, he toyed with those who passed by in the forest, feeling the tendrils of Fear in their wake and tugging on it haphazardly. Some had resisted the lackluster efforts, frowning and perhaps moving faster, but nothing else. But, others, oh—they were delightful in their weakness. They had bent without further pressure, breaking into a sweat, tears and spit falling.

He hadn’t needed to do anything further; he simply lounged in the shadows, his dark eyes glittering with pleasure as he watched them undo themselves, taking their minds apart stitch by stitch.

But such pleasures were shallow and not nearly satiating enough for his voracious appetites, so they had not kept him for long. Eventually, such prey became nothing more than a distraction, and he eventually peeled himself from his spot amongst the shadows, his cloven hooves finding the trails through the brush and the rabble until it had spilled out onto this land. Once occupied and now quite dead—the bones of it still echoing with a history too fresh to be called legend. It was still nothing but a bruise on the land.

This, too, would have been a waste of time had he not felt her, the pressure of her rising in the back of his mind. Interested, he follows her, not bothering to hide himself or cover his tracks. Instead, he lets his own hooves beat steadily, his heavy-horned head swinging from side to side as he watches her move throughout the land, her motions too smooth, too quick to be natural. When he has had enough from the sidelines, he moves into her field of vision, handsome face smooth and blank.

“Hello, love,” one corner of his sooty mouth rises. “Why all alone?”

I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)

He laughs at her response, but the sound is dry and without humor.

There is not much in this world that truly amuses him.

She is a firecracker, perhaps, and although there may be others out there who are intrigued by the fire that simmers in her veins—he is not one of them. He is not intrigued by such normal things. His pulse does not race at the thought of love or lust; his pulse does not spike from the attention of a pretty girl. No, instead, it is the Fear that causes such visceral reactions in him. It is the Fear that toys with him, that teases out the joy. It is a dark love, a fatal dance, but it is perhaps the one thing in this world he loves.

So his face remains carefully blank at her reaction, shrugging an elegant shoulder in reaction. “I do not care that you do not care,” a spark in his eye, only vaguely amused at the contest of who can care less. It quickly drains from him at her next question, an annoyance rising in him at the urge to tell the truth in response. It was an emotion that had no roots in him, a desire that was not born of his own making.

He had enough experience manipulating false emotions to know the difference.

Still, he reveals nothing, tucking away the displeasure behind a wide, empty smile. “I want a great many things,” he answers, truthful and yet vague. He takes a step forward, cloven hooves sure-footed against the ground, reaching for the Fear that is never far from his grasp. “I would start by saying that I want to hear you scream,” a quirk of his lip, the truthful reply falling without resistance into the air between them.

Slowly but steadily, he begins to play along the threads of Fear that rise above, masterfully beginning to weave a tapestry—slow, subtle, but rising. Perhaps it simply drags terror from her bones. Perhaps it warps her own vision of the world around them. Perhaps it even wraps her perception of him.

It was different every time—and if it was truth she wanted, he would gladly supply his own version of it.