YOU STRUCK FIRST, BUT NOT LAST

yeah

Libel climbs a tree and makes a jump to the roof--a dull thud audible from inside the house as they land. They slip and scrape themselves on the shingles, but eventually get their footing. They'll clean themselves up whenever they make it in... and maybe ransack Mal's fridge, too. - @physigils

Mal's home is... nothing short of stunning. It's all cosy vibes mixed with that roaring 20's -- 80's theatre vibe, all tied together with green and gold. The windows of what is frankly an adorable cottage in the woods are all fogged up, a fire roaring in the hearth. The entire home is warm, and smells vaguely of woodsmoke and new books. It's a carefully curated environment that Mal has put a lot of time and effort into maintaining.

Mal herself was currently in the living room, sitting on her bay window like she was the main character of some love story where her third husband had “mysteriously” disappeared. Someone call Mal's actual husband. A robe falls from her shoulders, paired with velvet pajamas that also fall down her shoulders, but not as much as the robe does. This pairing shows the scars that spread down from her face, down her neck and across the left side of her body like wildfire. An insensitive comparison. She doesn't currently have her prosthetic on, so the robe favours falling toward there her arm should be, but it just adds to the vibe Mal is clearly going for.

She has a glass of what seems to be wine in one hand, her other preoccupied by holding her fringe back as she sips. The moonlight filtering in through the canopy of trees outside her home glints on her oddly sharp canines when she smiles, and adds a sparkle to her green eyes. It's all very peaceful. Very serene.

Though... Watching Mal take a sip, pause to check his hair, and then resuming the action is... oddly rehearsed? It's not unusual for someone as performative as Mal to be theatrical in the comfort of his own home. However, this gesture... It's repetitive, like a broken record skipping back and forth in a rather mundane part of the soundtrack. Something isn't right here, though it doesn't seem like Mal has noticed.

In fact, Mal hasn't noticed so much that she barely reacts to the noise on her roof. There's a brief flash of alarm as she initially hears the thud, but her expression soon returns to one of mild calm.

Their movements are suddenly hesitant. They retrieve a twig from their waist and pick at the window lock. It rattles the window pane and the metal of the frame. They’re being awfully loud, it’s a wonder how they haven’t been spotted. Something in the back of their mind screams that this isn't right, and they know that it isn't. Yet, Libel has a job to do--one that will give them a place to sleep again.

Libel freezes when the lock comes undone, not believing it themselves. They slide the window open, and then slink inside the house. They're uneasy on their feet as the land, their ankle and sore legs begging for rest. They examine their surroundings--this looks like some kind of front room. They make a mental remark on how fancy and warm it all feels--'someone's gonna miss Mal when she's vanished.'

The corridor is quiet, the dark green wallpaper almost shifting under the dim light. The fireplace in the living room spills beams of flickering light into the hall, but the rest remains dark. The hallway seems to be the main part of the floor downstairs, leading from the front door to the staircase to the dining room at the end. Almost immediately to the left of the front door is the living room, the doorway—sans a door—carved with ivy patterns intricately.

To the right of the front door sits Mal’s coats and shoes. He tends to wear most of the same thing when it comes to winter coats, however, there are some rather intricate designs and details that suggest he really likes fashion. Unsurprising.

The upstairs level of the house is mainly dedicated to the bedrooms of the house. The master bedroom is cosy and soft, home to a four-poster, a cute desk engraved with flowers, and a cat bed. It also contains Mal's wardrobe, and two of Mal's cats.

(If you were to ask their names, Mal would happily reply with, "Oh, that little black and white fluffier one is Gucci, and the grey one is Biscuits. Don't pet Gucci, she will scratch.")

The rest of upstairs is a guest room, which... seems occupied? And Mal's workshop, full of paperwork, fabric, wool and various other crafts. It's strange, she doesn't seem the type...

But other than that, her choice of wallpaper and carpet tends to stay the same, green, gold, and floral. Potted plants cover the windowsills and decorate shelves, of course, along with lamps and paintings, and some posters of what seem to be Mal herself…

They slink around on the floor, almost soundless. Clearly, Libel is no stranger to break-ins. From their low vantage point, they study Malachite's expression--they grimace when they notice she's tense. Libel's been noticed. They can only hope to be forgiven. They swallow their pride--for their master. For their master.

Libel stands abruptly behind Malachite's chair, and slings their arm around her neck. They pull back, forcing her into a headlock between the chair back and Libel's bicep. Their strength is crushing, Malachite's body lighting up in pain as her windpipe contorts at unnatural angles. Blood bulges in her head. Her sweat runs cold.

Libel grits their teeth and mutters through thick breaths;

Libel chuckles at the thought. They're sure it sounded sadistic.

When they're satisfied Mal is unconscious, regardless if she is or not, they step back and then around her chair. She's slumped against the backrest, blankly staring at the ceiling. Something twists in Libel's gut uncomfortably at the sight, but they swallow their pride. They step out of her view for minutes, clanging and shattering sounds coming from her kitchen, before the thief returns with a length of rope.

Libel wastes no time manhandling Mal, pushing her around her chair and shoving her face flat against the backrest. Their touch and recklessness leaves the professor bruised. Libel ties her up effortlessly, craning her arms uncomfortably behind her back and binding them above the elbow. They use the tail of the rope to tie down her ankles. By the end of the ordeal, Libel's hands are raw.

...

When Mal awakes, the first thing she's made aware of is the cold floor beneath her. Then she feels and hears Libel breathing heavily as they lean over her. Their cheeks are flushed as if they found the alcohol.

Spittle and crumbs fly as they speak. They seem to be absolutely devouring a stale baguette.

The sound of fabric rustling precedes the sound of a body hitting the floor. It seems Mal tried to go on the offense, and didn't take into account the rope around his ankles. Granted, he can't feel his ankles, due to his prosthetics, but the rope tying his arm to his chest should've been an indication. A muttered curse word is what follows, along with the deepening of a frown across his sharp features. When he's done situating himself, so his fringe isn't in the way any more, Mal speaks up.

"Libel Foghunter," they announce, leaning back. They size Mal up as they stand straight, cracking a smug grin. The professor looks small from his vantage point on the floor. "Lamplight menace. Ringing a bell?" They step back, giving Mal some room to breathe. They take another bite out of their baguette, shaking the bitten chunk off the loaf like an animal with prey. They talk as they chew. "Pleasure to re-meet you."

"Ohh, yes, I recall you. In all your mediocrity." Mal sneered, though her malice was dampened by being on the floor, "The pleasure is mine."

Her formality oozed sarcasm, her eyes narrowed to slits as she tried to regain a sitting position. With her hand and ankles tied, it was quite a challenge.

Their tone snaps to something gravely serious, their Adam’s apple bobbing in their throat as they swallow their pride. “I don’t want you to hate me. We’re both in for a world of pain.” They retrieve some kind of weapon from their waist. They click it open to reveal some kind of hunting knife, which they wave in lazy threat in front of Mal’s face.

“But if you want to hate me, then this is be so much worse for both of us. I’m not your enemy. Not right now, anyway.” They put the blade away, adjusting their posture. They gesture to the door out the house.

Libel climbs a tree and makes a jump to the roof--a dull thud audible from inside the house as they land. They slip and scrape themselves on the shingles, but eventually get their footing. They'll clean themselves up whenever they make it in... and maybe ransack Mal's fridge, too. - @physigils

Mal's home is... nothing short of stunning. It's all cosy vibes mixed with that roaring 20's -- 80's theatre vibe, all tied together with green and gold. The windows of what is frankly an adorable cottage in the woods are all fogged up, a fire roaring in the hearth. The entire home is warm, and smells vaguely of woodsmoke and new books. It's a carefully curated environment that Mal has put a lot of time and effort into maintaining.

Mal herself was currently in the living room, sitting on her bay window like she was the main character of some love story where her third husband had “mysteriously” disappeared. Someone call Mal's actual husband. A robe falls from her shoulders, paired with velvet pajamas that also fall down her shoulders, but not as much as the robe does. This pairing shows the scars that spread down from her face, down her neck and across the left side of her body like wildfire. An insensitive comparison. She doesn't currently have her prosthetic on, so the robe favours falling toward there her arm should be, but it just adds to the vibe Mal is clearly going for.

She has a glass of what seems to be wine in one hand, her other preoccupied by holding her fringe back as she sips. The moonlight filtering in through the canopy of trees outside her home glints on her oddly sharp canines when she smiles, and adds a sparkle to her green eyes. It's all very peaceful. Very serene.

Though... Watching Mal take a sip, pause to check his hair, and then resuming the action is... oddly rehearsed? It's not unusual for someone as performative as Mal to be theatrical in the comfort of his own home. However, this gesture... It's repetitive, like a broken record skipping back and forth in a rather mundane part of the soundtrack. Something isn't right here, though it doesn't seem like Mal has noticed.

In fact, Mal hasn't noticed so much that she barely reacts to the noise on her roof. There's a brief flash of alarm as she initially hears the thud, but her expression soon returns to one of mild calm.

Their movements are suddenly hesitant. They retrieve a twig from their waist and pick at the window lock. It rattles the window pane and the metal of the frame. They’re being awfully loud, it’s a wonder how they haven’t been spotted. Something in the back of their mind screams that this isn't right, and they know that it isn't. Yet, Libel has a job to do--one that will give them a place to sleep again.

Libel freezes when the lock comes undone, not believing it themselves. They slide the window open, and then slink inside the house. They're uneasy on their feet as the land, their ankle and sore legs begging for rest. They examine their surroundings--this looks like some kind of front room. They make a mental remark on how fancy and warm it all feels--'someone's gonna miss Mal when she's vanished.'

The corridor is quiet, the dark green wallpaper almost shifting under the dim light. The fireplace in the living room spills beams of flickering light into the hall, but the rest remains dark. The hallway seems to be the main part of the floor downstairs, leading from the front door to the staircase to the dining room at the end. Almost immediately to the left of the front door is the living room, the doorway—sans a door—carved with ivy patterns intricately.

To the right of the front door sits Mal’s coats and shoes. He tends to wear most of the same thing when it comes to winter coats, however, there are some rather intricate designs and details that suggest he really likes fashion. Unsurprising.

The upstairs level of the house is mainly dedicated to the bedrooms of the house. The master bedroom is cosy and soft, home to a four-poster, a cute desk engraved with flowers, and a cat bed. It also contains Mal's wardrobe, and two of Mal's cats.

(If you were to ask their names, Mal would happily reply with, "Oh, that little black and white fluffier one is Gucci, and the grey one is Biscuits. Don't pet Gucci, she will scratch.")

The rest of upstairs is a guest room, which... seems occupied? And Mal's workshop, full of paperwork, fabric, wool and various other crafts. It's strange, she doesn't seem the type...

But other than that, her choice of wallpaper and carpet tends to stay the same, green, gold, and floral. Potted plants cover the windowsills and decorate shelves, of course, along with lamps and paintings, and some posters of what seem to be Mal herself…

They slink around on the floor, almost soundless. Clearly, Libel is no stranger to break-ins. From their low vantage point, they study Malachite's expression--they grimace when they notice she's tense. Libel's been noticed. They can only hope to be forgiven. They swallow their pride--for their master. For their master.

Libel stands abruptly behind Malachite's chair, and slings their arm around her neck. They pull back, forcing her into a headlock between the chair back and Libel's bicep. Their strength is crushing, Malachite's body lighting up in pain as her windpipe contorts at unnatural angles. Blood bulges in her head. Her sweat runs cold.

Libel grits their teeth and mutters through thick breaths;

Libel chuckles at the thought. They're sure it sounded sadistic.

When they're satisfied Mal is unconscious, regardless if she is or not, they step back and then around her chair. She's slumped against the backrest, blankly staring at the ceiling. Something twists in Libel's gut uncomfortably at the sight, but they swallow their pride. They step out of her view for minutes, clanging and shattering sounds coming from her kitchen, before the thief returns with a length of rope.

Libel wastes no time manhandling Mal, pushing her around her chair and shoving her face flat against the backrest. Their touch and recklessness leaves the professor bruised. Libel ties her up effortlessly, craning her arms uncomfortably behind her back and binding them above the elbow. They use the tail of the rope to tie down her ankles. By the end of the ordeal, Libel's hands are raw.

...

When Mal awakes, the first thing she's made aware of is the cold floor beneath her. Then she feels and hears Libel breathing heavily as they lean over her. Their cheeks are flushed as if they found the alcohol.

Spittle and crumbs fly as they speak. They seem to be absolutely devouring a stale baguette.

The sound of fabric rustling precedes the sound of a body hitting the floor. It seems Mal tried to go on the offense, and didn't take into account the rope around his ankles. Granted, he can't feel his ankles, due to his prosthetics, but the rope tying his arm to his chest should've been an indication. A muttered curse word is what follows, along with the deepening of a frown across his sharp features. When he's done situating himself, so his fringe isn't in the way any more, Mal speaks up.

"Libel Foghunter," they announce, leaning back. They size Mal up as they stand straight, cracking a smug grin. The professor looks small from his vantage point on the floor. "Lamplight menace. Ringing a bell?" They step back, giving Mal some room to breathe. They take another bite out of their baguette, shaking the bitten chunk off the loaf like an animal with prey. They talk as they chew. "Pleasure to re-meet you."

Libel climbs a tree and makes a jump to the roof--a dull thud audible from inside the house as they land. They slip and scrape themselves on the shingles, but eventually get their footing. They'll clean themselves up whenever they make it in... and maybe ransack Mal's fridge, too. - @physigils

Mal's home is... nothing short of stunning. It's all cosy vibes mixed with that roaring 20's -- 80's theatre vibe, all tied together with green and gold. The windows of what is frankly an adorable cottage in the woods are all fogged up, a fire roaring in the hearth. The entire home is warm, and smells vaguely of woodsmoke and new books. It's a carefully curated environment that Mal has put a lot of time and effort into maintaining.

Mal herself was currently in the living room, sitting on her bay window like she was the main character of some love story where her third husband had “mysteriously” disappeared. Someone call Mal's actual husband. A robe falls from her shoulders, paired with velvet pajamas that also fall down her shoulders, but not as much as the robe does. This pairing shows the scars that spread down from her face, down her neck and across the left side of her body like wildfire. An insensitive comparison. She doesn't currently have her prosthetic on, so the robe favours falling toward there her arm should be, but it just adds to the vibe Mal is clearly going for.

She has a glass of what seems to be wine in one hand, her other preoccupied by holding her fringe back as she sips. The moonlight filtering in through the canopy of trees outside her home glints on her oddly sharp canines when she smiles, and adds a sparkle to her green eyes. It's all very peaceful. Very serene.

Though... Watching Mal take a sip, pause to check his hair, and then resuming the action is... oddly rehearsed? It's not unusual for someone as performative as Mal to be theatrical in the comfort of his own home. However, this gesture... It's repetitive, like a broken record skipping back and forth in a rather mundane part of the soundtrack. Something isn't right here, though it doesn't seem like Mal has noticed.

In fact, Mal hasn't noticed so much that she barely reacts to the noise on her roof. There's a brief flash of alarm as she initially hears the thud, but her expression soon returns to one of mild calm.

Their movements are suddenly hesitant. They retrieve a twig from their waist and pick at the window lock. It rattles the window pane and the metal of the frame. They’re being awfully loud, it’s a wonder how they haven’t been spotted. Something in the back of their mind screams that this isn't right, and they know that it isn't. Yet, Libel has a job to do--one that will give them a place to sleep again.

Libel freezes when the lock comes undone, not believing it themselves. They slide the window open, and then slink inside the house. They're uneasy on their feet as the land, their ankle and sore legs begging for rest. They examine their surroundings--this looks like some kind of front room. They make a mental remark on how fancy and warm it all feels--'someone's gonna miss Mal when she's vanished.'

The corridor is quiet, the dark green wallpaper almost shifting under the dim light. The fireplace in the living room spills beams of flickering light into the hall, but the rest remains dark. The hallway seems to be the main part of the floor downstairs, leading from the front door to the staircase to the dining room at the end. Almost immediately to the left of the front door is the living room, the doorway—sans a door—carved with ivy patterns intricately.

To the right of the front door sits Mal’s coats and shoes. He tends to wear most of the same thing when it comes to winter coats, however, there are some rather intricate designs and details that suggest he really likes fashion. Unsurprising.

The upstairs level of the house is mainly dedicated to the bedrooms of the house. The master bedroom is cosy and soft, home to a four-poster, a cute desk engraved with flowers, and a cat bed. It also contains Mal's wardrobe, and two of Mal's cats.

(If you were to ask their names, Mal would happily reply with, "Oh, that little black and white fluffier one is Gucci, and the grey one is Biscuits. Don't pet Gucci, she will scratch.")

The rest of upstairs is a guest room, which... seems occupied? And Mal's workshop, full of paperwork, fabric, wool and various other crafts. It's strange, she doesn't seem the type...

But other than that, her choice of wallpaper and carpet tends to stay the same, green, gold, and floral. Potted plants cover the windowsills and decorate shelves, of course, along with lamps and paintings, and some posters of what seem to be Mal herself…

They slink around on the floor, almost soundless. Clearly, Libel is no stranger to break-ins. From their low vantage point, they study Malachite's expression--they grimace when they notice she's tense. Libel's been noticed. They can only hope to be forgiven. They swallow their pride--for their master. For their master.

Libel stands abruptly behind Malachite's chair, and slings their arm around her neck. They pull back, forcing her into a headlock between the chair back and Libel's bicep. Their strength is crushing, Malachite's body lighting up in pain as her windpipe contorts at unnatural angles. Blood bulges in her head. Her sweat runs cold.

Libel grits their teeth and mutters through thick breaths;

Libel chuckles at the thought. They're sure it sounded sadistic.

When they're satisfied Mal is unconscious, regardless if she is or not, they step back and then around her chair. She's slumped against the backrest, blankly staring at the ceiling. Something twists in Libel's gut uncomfortably at the sight, but they swallow their pride. They step out of her view for minutes, clanging and shattering sounds coming from her kitchen, before the thief returns with a length of rope.

Libel wastes no time manhandling Mal, pushing her around her chair and shoving her face flat against the backrest. Their touch and recklessness leaves the professor bruised. Libel ties her up effortlessly, craning her arms uncomfortably behind her back and binding them above the elbow. They use the tail of the rope to tie down her ankles. By the end of the ordeal, Libel's hands are raw.

...

When Mal awakes, the first thing she's made aware of is the cold floor beneath her. Then she feels and hears Libel breathing heavily as they lean over her. Their cheeks are flushed as if they found the alcohol.

Spittle and crumbs fly as they speak. They seem to be absolutely devouring a stale baguette.

Libel climbs a tree and makes a jump to the roof--a dull thud audible from inside the house as they land. They slip and scrape themselves on the shingles, but eventually get their footing. They'll clean themselves up whenever they make it in... and maybe ransack Mal's fridge, too. - @physigils

Mal's home is... nothing short of stunning. It's all cosy vibes mixed with that roaring 20's -- 80's theatre vibe, all tied together with green and gold. The windows of what is frankly an adorable cottage in the woods are all fogged up, a fire roaring in the hearth. The entire home is warm, and smells vaguely of woodsmoke and new books. It's a carefully curated environment that Mal has put a lot of time and effort into maintaining.

Mal herself was currently in the living room, sitting on her bay window like she was the main character of some love story where her third husband had “mysteriously” disappeared. Someone call Mal's actual husband. A robe falls from her shoulders, paired with velvet pajamas that also fall down her shoulders, but not as much as the robe does. This pairing shows the scars that spread down from her face, down her neck and across the left side of her body like wildfire. An insensitive comparison. She doesn't currently have her prosthetic on, so the robe favours falling toward there her arm should be, but it just adds to the vibe Mal is clearly going for.

She has a glass of what seems to be wine in one hand, her other preoccupied by holding her fringe back as she sips. The moonlight filtering in through the canopy of trees outside her home glints on her oddly sharp canines when she smiles, and adds a sparkle to her green eyes. It's all very peaceful. Very serene.

Though... Watching Mal take a sip, pause to check his hair, and then resuming the action is... oddly rehearsed? It's not unusual for someone as performative as Mal to be theatrical in the comfort of his own home. However, this gesture... It's repetitive, like a broken record skipping back and forth in a rather mundane part of the soundtrack. Something isn't right here, though it doesn't seem like Mal has noticed.

In fact, Mal hasn't noticed so much that she barely reacts to the noise on her roof. There's a brief flash of alarm as she initially hears the thud, but her expression soon returns to one of mild calm.

Their movements are suddenly hesitant. They retrieve a twig from their waist and pick at the window lock. It rattles the window pane and the metal of the frame. They’re being awfully loud, it’s a wonder how they haven’t been spotted. Something in the back of their mind screams that this isn't right, and they know that it isn't. Yet, Libel has a job to do--one that will give them a place to sleep again.

Libel freezes when the lock comes undone, not believing it themselves. They slide the window open, and then slink inside the house. They're uneasy on their feet as the land, their ankle and sore legs begging for rest. They examine their surroundings--this looks like some kind of front room. They make a mental remark on how fancy and warm it all feels--'someone's gonna miss Mal when she's vanished.'

The corridor is quiet, the dark green wallpaper almost shifting under the dim light. The fireplace in the living room spills beams of flickering light into the hall, but the rest remains dark. The hallway seems to be the main part of the floor downstairs, leading from the front door to the staircase to the dining room at the end. Almost immediately to the left of the front door is the living room, the doorway—sans a door—carved with ivy patterns intricately.

To the right of the front door sits Mal’s coats and shoes. He tends to wear most of the same thing when it comes to winter coats, however, there are some rather intricate designs and details that suggest he really likes fashion. Unsurprising.

The upstairs level of the house is mainly dedicated to the bedrooms of the house. The master bedroom is cosy and soft, home to a four-poster, a cute desk engraved with flowers, and a cat bed. It also contains Mal's wardrobe, and two of Mal's cats.

(If you were to ask their names, Mal would happily reply with, "Oh, that little black and white fluffier one is Gucci, and the grey one is Biscuits. Don't pet Gucci, she will scratch.")

The rest of upstairs is a guest room, which... seems occupied? And Mal's workshop, full of paperwork, fabric, wool and various other crafts. It's strange, she doesn't seem the type...

But other than that, her choice of wallpaper and carpet tends to stay the same, green, gold, and floral. Potted plants cover the windowsills and decorate shelves, of course, along with lamps and paintings, and some posters of what seem to be Mal herself…

They slink around on the floor, almost soundless. Clearly, Libel is no stranger to break-ins. From their low vantage point, they study Malachite's expression--they grimace when they notice she's tense. Libel's been noticed. They can only hope to be forgiven. They swallow their pride--for their master. For their master.

Libel stands abruptly behind Malachite's chair, and slings their arm around her neck. They pull back, forcing her into a headlock between the chair back and Libel's bicep. Their strength is crushing, Malachite's body lighting up in pain as her windpipe contorts at unnatural angles. Blood bulges in her head. Her sweat runs cold.

Libel grits their teeth and mutters through thick breaths;

eepy <333

Libel climbs a tree and makes a jump to the roof--a dull thud audible from inside the house as they land. They slip and scrape themselves on the shingles, but eventually get their footing. They'll clean themselves up whenever they make it in... and maybe ransack Mal's fridge, too. - @physigils

Mal's home is... nothing short of stunning. It's all cosy vibes mixed with that roaring 20's -- 80's theatre vibe, all tied together with green and gold. The windows of what is frankly an adorable cottage in the woods are all fogged up, a fire roaring in the hearth. The entire home is warm, and smells vaguely of woodsmoke and new books. It's a carefully curated environment that Mal has put a lot of time and effort into maintaining.

Mal herself was currently in the living room, sitting on her bay window like she was the main character of some love story where her third husband had “mysteriously” disappeared. Someone call Mal's actual husband. A robe falls from her shoulders, paired with velvet pajamas that also fall down her shoulders, but not as much as the robe does. This pairing shows the scars that spread down from her face, down her neck and across the left side of her body like wildfire. An insensitive comparison. She doesn't currently have her prosthetic on, so the robe favours falling toward there her arm should be, but it just adds to the vibe Mal is clearly going for.

She has a glass of what seems to be wine in one hand, her other preoccupied by holding her fringe back as she sips. The moonlight filtering in through the canopy of trees outside her home glints on her oddly sharp canines when she smiles, and adds a sparkle to her green eyes. It's all very peaceful. Very serene.

Though... Watching Mal take a sip, pause to check his hair, and then resuming the action is... oddly rehearsed? It's not unusual for someone as performative as Mal to be theatrical in the comfort of his own home. However, this gesture... It's repetitive, like a broken record skipping back and forth in a rather mundane part of the soundtrack. Something isn't right here, though it doesn't seem like Mal has noticed.

In fact, Mal hasn't noticed so much that she barely reacts to the noise on her roof. There's a brief flash of alarm as she initially hears the thud, but her expression soon returns to one of mild calm.

Their movements are suddenly hesitant. They retrieve a twig from their waist and pick at the window lock. It rattles the window pane and the metal of the frame. They’re being awfully loud, it’s a wonder how they haven’t been spotted. Something in the back of their mind screams that this isn't right, and they know that it isn't. Yet, Libel has a job to do--one that will give them a place to sleep again.

Libel freezes when the lock comes undone, not believing it themselves. They slide the window open, and then slink inside the house. They're uneasy on their feet as the land, their ankle and sore legs begging for rest. They examine their surroundings--this looks like some kind of front room. They make a mental remark on how fancy and warm it all feels--'someone's gonna miss Mal when she's vanished.'

Sorry for not updating about my walk last night.. I got home, finished decorating, and then passed out.

But!! I did see something kinda weird on my walk. I was in the woods for a bit and there was a thing in the bushes..? We locked eyes for a second and it kinda ran away.

Libel stands in the woods of the mountain, dry-heaving, soaked in their own blood. Their ankle throbs with a dull pain--nothing they haven't dealt with before, but it still leaves them off-balance and swaying. They hear a distant crunch of twigs and nettles, and their head snaps to the source of the sound on instinct.

...

Oh. It's some academy kid. Libel tries to remember where they've seen her before--maybe back in Skywatch? The kid almost certainly knows them though; infamous trigger-happy thief and all. They stare at the stranger for a moment, hoping their fear isn't plastered on their face.

“Illusion?” The Puppet Master queries, looking over at his muse as they leave, “Oh, this is more than just an illusion, musa mea. But I shall tell you more when you awake. Can’t have mea pupa exhausted. Or rather, more exhausted than you usually are.” 

The Puppet Master feels himself smile, or, rather, he feels what should be his face twist in a way that could be akin to smiling. It was pleasant. He vaguely considers what his face used to look like when he was human. When he was alive? Was he still alive? Was magic alive? 

Such deep questions for such a late hour. The Puppet Master shifted his attention to watching his pet walk away tiredly, observing the vulnerability shown in just this simple display. He thought back to the actions of Libel throughout the day. The vulnerabilities shown then. It was pathetic. It was weak. 

… 

It made the fireplace crackle warmly, and the snow outside to swirl and dance. It made the vines crawl up the edge of the fireplace, caressing stone edges as if they were meant to be. He felt the Astral magic around his core brighten, sharpening into something greater than just a chain. Erebus shut it down faster than it could grow. 

He did not care for the puppet. He did not care for this project. He only cared for success and power. 

Except, The Puppet Master found himself wanting to rest. He found himself willing to close his eyes and relax, allowing his form to dissipate enough for almost-slumber. He almost found himself willing to answer those prying questions, almost eager to do so. How strange… The Puppet Master has to do more research. For the solution might be an answer he’s not ready to admit. 

Libel, for the first time, gives their room a proper look as they shut the door behind them. It's cosy and more than they could ever ask for. It’s like if the Academy was kind. It smells like campfire smoke and comforting shadow magic in here, the scent filling their senses and nesting deep in their lungs. This place easily beats sleeping in a hayloft or on the street.

The practitioner sits down on the bed and takes off their boots, setting them down with a clop as they hit the floor in a messy pile. As the lights dim, Libel lays on the blankets and curls up to themselves, kneels to their chest like a dog at it's master's feet. They want to be overjoyed, and to fall asleep smiling, but... they can't.

A profound and deep sadness hits them all at once in a blitz, but they don't cry. They just sit in pitch dark and silence with themselves, letting the weight of what's happened in the past hours settle in like a crow taking roost in their chest. Somehow, they hadn't been upset before, but the moment they get too comfortable they get cold feet. The shapeless despair lulls them to sleep as Libel clutches the stitches on their throat.

The room itself was quiet, disturbed only by the gentle thrum of a very low flame. It flickered in time to the intake of breath, imitating what one could assume The Puppet Master’s breathing would look like if he were to have lungs. His actual robes lay mostly motionless, save for slight flickers and odd movements. His amulet’s eye was shut tight, though at the sound of movement, it flickers open blearily, though The Puppet Master still does not wake.

It’s almost… peaceful, to see such a terrifying force like this. He has a book in his lap—something on cooking meals from Lamplight. It looks old and handmade, likely an heirloom of sorts. The Puppet Master has a hand on its cover, presumably with a thumb between the pages, but considering his hand was merely a crossbar now, his haphazard bookmarking went in vain.

They sift through bookshelves, pulling out a journal or two. They sit by the campfire and flip through the books absentmindedly. They even properly read a few handwritten pages, swooning over the contents. They shouldn't be. Libel shuts the journals and sits them down.

They look wistfully out the windows. They feel so ashamed of themselves for not taking the opportunity to run. A walk would be nice, but...

Libel stands. They approach the entrance to the cave, and jam their hand into the barrier.

Shadow magic shoots through their nervous system, and they stagger back, swearing and clutching their arm. They have no visible wounds, but their arm suddenly throbs in time with their heartbeat and their veins are so dark they can be seen through the skin. They hold the sore injured limb in their other hand as they turn around to look at their master, praying he's still asleep.

The pain made them lucid. They see the world through a new pair of eyes as they get to systematically searching the hideout, trying to get a proper read on their surroundings without rose-tinted glasses.

“Storm magic has been shown as a way of possibly storing energy, harnessing it to the world’s advantage.” One quote highlights, wirh a note attached that reads “Oh, come on. This book is a JOKE!! Everyone and their mother knows storm doesn’t hold, it creates!! I wish [scribbled out name] was here…”

Another line reads, “Whilst shadow magic hasn’t been shown to react to storm like other elements, it seems to be drawn to the stored energy.” with the note “Wrong again. How did this guy publish a book??”

At the bottom of the page, a note reading, “*Author acknowledges inaccuracy regarding storm’s reaction to plant magic.” with an annotation from a student with different handwriting to the rest, reading, “E would LOVE this, too bad he’s off being mad about the rest of the book. - N”

The second book is a well-worn sketchbook filled with drawings done by a younger Erebus. The drawings werent half bad, mainly depicting the architecture of the academy. A few doodles scattered about seemed to be depicting a few pets. Even rarer were the drawings of characters, dated and named accordingly. It was becoming increasingly obvious how much time The Puppet Master had spent between being imprisoned and breaking free, just from the dates in this book. The characters were of a popular children’s book series. It seems Erebus likes his fantasy coming of age.

Just as Libel is about to close the book, a letter slipped out. It’s handwritten, shakily and messily as if it were tje author’s first time writing in a long time. The handwriting is unmistakably the first annotator from before, however, and quite plausibly the owner of the doodled-in sketchbook. The letter, written on beautiful parchment and written with rich ink, reads;

“Dear N,

I hope this letter finds you well. Or finds you at all. Somehow, I doubt it will.

I always joked that I’d see you behind bars one day. I never considered that it would be me in the cell. Though, I haven’t seen you yet. You haven’t visited. Please do visit when you can. It gets lonely down here, especially at night. And it hurts, N. It hurts. Did you know how much it hurts? Did you know about the agony? Did you know about what those crystals do to me? What they do now I’m this?

Hoping for a reply back, your dearest, E [smudged].”

…

Wow.

They flip through the notes on the magic types, something in them stirring uncomfortably but intrigued at the mention of Storm magic. Maybe they could've taken to Storm if someone was there to tell them all of this, when they were still a student. Now, these notes are too little, too late, and Libel could never see themselves doing anything but their misshapen form of Physical magic.

Libel freezes at this N benefactor, suddenly burning from within. They can't place why they feel uncomfortable, but it's something akin to jealousy, or maybe guilt? It hums just under their skin, but they would never forgive themselves if they were to lash out at their master at simple jealousy. This isn't quelled when they pry open the letter.

"I don't know why shadow magic is banned." A passage reads, "It's so versatile!! I wish I could show people what I've discovered here, even with just a simple shadow summoning spell!! I can amplify my already existing knowledge on storm magic so easily!! I wish I could show N... I think he would find this as fascinating as I do. I know he would tell the headteacher. And I'd get kicked out. We'd fight, probably. Not worth it over simple magic. Besides, my tests aren't done yet. I have plenty of experiments to run before my hypothesis is sound!!"

The next entry is ripped from the book, and so is the next. It seems like quite a few of these pages have been destroyed from either ripping them out intentionally, or via them being destroyed by spells. The next entry is from a few months in the future.

"I have discovered something extraordinary." It reads, accompanied by a sketch of what seems to be The Puppet Master's pendant, "I have found a shadow artifact. It calls to me--or rather, it calls to my magic... It makes me stronger. Tougher. It's boosting my other spells, not just shadow!! I will have to do further research. Note to self: Keep this a secret. Not even N can know. Shadow artefacts are not keen on just anyone being in their presence."

Something hums contentedly in the back of Libel's mind. It urges them onwards.

The next journal is new. The leather cover is barely worn, touched only by the surface it rests on and the string hands that The Puppet Master now possesses. The handwriting is neat and concise, cursive to the utmost perfection in long, curling amethyst ink that perfectly encapsulates The Puppet Master. But past the beauty and neatness of the writing itself, the words are much, much darker.

"Obedience Spell.

A spell to make any willing* participant a completely obedient puppet. This spell can take weeks to prepare, but if a participant is aware of the spell and/or is already obedient enough, the process can take mere days, or even hours.

The process begins with a simple deal ordinarily. Contact with the vict-- subject seems required. Further testing is necessary. The spell soon begins to twist the subject's thoughts and dreams into suggestions, and in some cases, nightmares. This does not harm the subject. Nightmares have not been seen in willing subjects. Subjects are largely unaware of the effects until they are at the stage of total control.

The next stage is commands. Any command given by the owner is forced to be completed by the subject and the spell. This is the stage in which the spell gains sentience. The spell may begin to feast on magic, unless the deal to cause the spell directly involves the subject's magic.

The penultimate stage of the spell is majority control, with patches of lucidity. The subject is mostly under the control of the caster, aside from brief periods of complete lucidity. The subject isn't yet fully aware of the spell, but the spell begins to physically manifest as a creature of any spell element.

The final stage is complete and total control. The subject is only ever lucid at the casters command. The subject is fully receptive to commands, and is made to do anything the caster commands.

*Note: Unwilling participants have been shown to work. More testing needed."

They can't help but blame themselves for this--some kind of sick guilt. Mal doesn't deserve this fate, but by god, Libel does. Not that they want it--freedom is all they've ever asked for--but days like these being mind controlled seems preferable to being a willing participant. Are they willing? Are the victims ever proud?

Libel doesn't fully feel it when the aimed word hits. Contact with the subject seems required. They gag as they recall yesterday's events, assaulting their senses in a myriad of blinding campfires and the smell of freshwater caves. Their stitches strain at their throat, so perfectly placed by their captor...

Libel claws at a suture, the thread woolly and warm in their hand. They yank, and the string gives, the rest of the string either falling out the stitches, ripping through the thin skin, or tightening in tandem. The puppet doesn't cry--they make an awful keeling sound like a whining dog, sputtering at the end like they can't breathe. Their sinuses well up. Fresh blood coats their fingertips.

Libel hunches over the blurry picture of Mal and the holy scripture beneath them. Between their fingers is a purple thread, stained with viscid, pink plasma. They drool and cough onto the pages and photograph, smearing blood over the violet ink. They shake as they force their weight into their hands, leaning over the journal.

“Libel?” He calls, blinking bleariness from his eyes, “Is that you? What are you doing over there? Are you hurt?”

Why does this creature sound gentle? Why does he sound caring and willing to listen? How can someone so willing to strip a man of his free will so kind to a puppet he adores? Should he not pick favourites? Should his troupe all be precious in equal measure? Why does Libel of all pitiful creatures get this treatment??

“Let me see your face.” The Puppet Master murmurs as he walks over, and almost reassuringly, the command is not a requirement. Libel is not under the spell.

Libel grasps at his sleeves, taking comfort in the heft and texture of the fabric, the violet veins in their arm bulging, before suddenly letting go like they have to remind themselves of manners. They get visibly more afraid when they realize this, their heartbeat quickening and their vision spotting.

This was a bad idea. They went stooping where they shouldn't have. Now they're at their--the Puppet Master's mercy.

"You tore the stitches." He states, "Why?"

Libel doesn’t know what to say. They want to be forgiven, but they don’t even know why they did this to themselves. They’re spurred on by instinct, thrumming at the bars of their cage, but just barely kept in check by self-preservation.

And then he sees the mess. He sees his journals and textbooks, scattered on the floor, read though and scoured like sacred texts. The Puppet Master considers that if he is Libel's subject of worship, then his writings are worshipped texts.

"You went through my writing." The Puppet Master states, his tone a hard growl, "You went. Through MY writing. My PERSONAL TEXTS. Libel, I trusted you. I trusted you with space whilst I rested. It has been years since I have felt comfortable enough to actually sleep. And this is how you repay me?"

The Puppet Master's tone is hurt, the ache manipulative and mean, and yet a pathetically sad sound. How had things changed so drastically?!

The Puppet Master's gentle claws turn sharp, yanking Libel's chin towards him so he can glare daggers. He revels in the fear, drinking it up like it was the only thing keeping him standing. But... This puppet is still useful. They are obedient ordinarily. They worship The Puppet Master, listen to his every word. They're afraid of him, yes, but not like a coward. Like a puppet.

Then, an idea. A way to keep that fear whilst keeping them useful.

Libel snaps back to reality when they're offered a bargain. They blink rapidly as if to recall all of the Puppet Master's demands, and then, finally, well up with tears. Their face goes red and their windpipe closes up like a collar tightening. Shame and guilt and blind fear crawls through their systems and comes out in a pathetic prayer:

"I'm sorry--I don't know why you should spare me, I don't know why I did that, I," they plead in pitchy sweet-talk, "I'm so, so sorry, sorry..."

Libel chokes on their own spit.

“Illusion?” The Puppet Master queries, looking over at his muse as they leave, “Oh, this is more than just an illusion, musa mea. But I shall tell you more when you awake. Can’t have mea pupa exhausted. Or rather, more exhausted than you usually are.” 

The Puppet Master feels himself smile, or, rather, he feels what should be his face twist in a way that could be akin to smiling. It was pleasant. He vaguely considers what his face used to look like when he was human. When he was alive? Was he still alive? Was magic alive? 

Such deep questions for such a late hour. The Puppet Master shifted his attention to watching his pet walk away tiredly, observing the vulnerability shown in just this simple display. He thought back to the actions of Libel throughout the day. The vulnerabilities shown then. It was pathetic. It was weak. 

… 

It made the fireplace crackle warmly, and the snow outside to swirl and dance. It made the vines crawl up the edge of the fireplace, caressing stone edges as if they were meant to be. He felt the Astral magic around his core brighten, sharpening into something greater than just a chain. Erebus shut it down faster than it could grow. 

He did not care for the puppet. He did not care for this project. He only cared for success and power. 

Except, The Puppet Master found himself wanting to rest. He found himself willing to close his eyes and relax, allowing his form to dissipate enough for almost-slumber. He almost found himself willing to answer those prying questions, almost eager to do so. How strange… The Puppet Master has to do more research. For the solution might be an answer he’s not ready to admit. 

Libel, for the first time, gives their room a proper look as they shut the door behind them. It's cosy and more than they could ever ask for. It’s like if the Academy was kind. It smells like campfire smoke and comforting shadow magic in here, the scent filling their senses and nesting deep in their lungs. This place easily beats sleeping in a hayloft or on the street.

The practitioner sits down on the bed and takes off their boots, setting them down with a clop as they hit the floor in a messy pile. As the lights dim, Libel lays on the blankets and curls up to themselves, kneels to their chest like a dog at it's master's feet. They want to be overjoyed, and to fall asleep smiling, but... they can't.

A profound and deep sadness hits them all at once in a blitz, but they don't cry. They just sit in pitch dark and silence with themselves, letting the weight of what's happened in the past hours settle in like a crow taking roost in their chest. Somehow, they hadn't been upset before, but the moment they get too comfortable they get cold feet. The shapeless despair lulls them to sleep as Libel clutches the stitches on their throat.

The room itself was quiet, disturbed only by the gentle thrum of a very low flame. It flickered in time to the intake of breath, imitating what one could assume The Puppet Master’s breathing would look like if he were to have lungs. His actual robes lay mostly motionless, save for slight flickers and odd movements. His amulet’s eye was shut tight, though at the sound of movement, it flickers open blearily, though The Puppet Master still does not wake.

It’s almost… peaceful, to see such a terrifying force like this. He has a book in his lap—something on cooking meals from Lamplight. It looks old and handmade, likely an heirloom of sorts. The Puppet Master has a hand on its cover, presumably with a thumb between the pages, but considering his hand was merely a crossbar now, his haphazard bookmarking went in vain.

They sift through bookshelves, pulling out a journal or two. They sit by the campfire and flip through the books absentmindedly. They even properly read a few handwritten pages, swooning over the contents. They shouldn't be. Libel shuts the journals and sits them down.

They look wistfully out the windows. They feel so ashamed of themselves for not taking the opportunity to run. A walk would be nice, but...

Libel stands. They approach the entrance to the cave, and jam their hand into the barrier.

Shadow magic shoots through their nervous system, and they stagger back, swearing and clutching their arm. They have no visible wounds, but their arm suddenly throbs in time with their heartbeat and their veins are so dark they can be seen through the skin. They hold the sore injured limb in their other hand as they turn around to look at their master, praying he's still asleep.

The pain made them lucid. They see the world through a new pair of eyes as they get to systematically searching the hideout, trying to get a proper read on their surroundings without rose-tinted glasses.

“Storm magic has been shown as a way of possibly storing energy, harnessing it to the world’s advantage.” One quote highlights, wirh a note attached that reads “Oh, come on. This book is a JOKE!! Everyone and their mother knows storm doesn’t hold, it creates!! I wish [scribbled out name] was here…”

Another line reads, “Whilst shadow magic hasn’t been shown to react to storm like other elements, it seems to be drawn to the stored energy.” with the note “Wrong again. How did this guy publish a book??”

At the bottom of the page, a note reading, “*Author acknowledges inaccuracy regarding storm’s reaction to plant magic.” with an annotation from a student with different handwriting to the rest, reading, “E would LOVE this, too bad he’s off being mad about the rest of the book. - N”

The second book is a well-worn sketchbook filled with drawings done by a younger Erebus. The drawings werent half bad, mainly depicting the architecture of the academy. A few doodles scattered about seemed to be depicting a few pets. Even rarer were the drawings of characters, dated and named accordingly. It was becoming increasingly obvious how much time The Puppet Master had spent between being imprisoned and breaking free, just from the dates in this book. The characters were of a popular children’s book series. It seems Erebus likes his fantasy coming of age.

Just as Libel is about to close the book, a letter slipped out. It’s handwritten, shakily and messily as if it were tje author’s first time writing in a long time. The handwriting is unmistakably the first annotator from before, however, and quite plausibly the owner of the doodled-in sketchbook. The letter, written on beautiful parchment and written with rich ink, reads;

“Dear N,

I hope this letter finds you well. Or finds you at all. Somehow, I doubt it will.

I always joked that I’d see you behind bars one day. I never considered that it would be me in the cell. Though, I haven’t seen you yet. You haven’t visited. Please do visit when you can. It gets lonely down here, especially at night. And it hurts, N. It hurts. Did you know how much it hurts? Did you know about the agony? Did you know about what those crystals do to me? What they do now I’m this?

Hoping for a reply back, your dearest, E [smudged].”

…

Wow.

They flip through the notes on the magic types, something in them stirring uncomfortably but intrigued at the mention of Storm magic. Maybe they could've taken to Storm if someone was there to tell them all of this, when they were still a student. Now, these notes are too little, too late, and Libel could never see themselves doing anything but their misshapen form of Physical magic.

Libel freezes at this N benefactor, suddenly burning from within. They can't place why they feel uncomfortable, but it's something akin to jealousy, or maybe guilt? It hums just under their skin, but they would never forgive themselves if they were to lash out at their master at simple jealousy. This isn't quelled when they pry open the letter.

"I don't know why shadow magic is banned." A passage reads, "It's so versatile!! I wish I could show people what I've discovered here, even with just a simple shadow summoning spell!! I can amplify my already existing knowledge on storm magic so easily!! I wish I could show N... I think he would find this as fascinating as I do. I know he would tell the headteacher. And I'd get kicked out. We'd fight, probably. Not worth it over simple magic. Besides, my tests aren't done yet. I have plenty of experiments to run before my hypothesis is sound!!"

The next entry is ripped from the book, and so is the next. It seems like quite a few of these pages have been destroyed from either ripping them out intentionally, or via them being destroyed by spells. The next entry is from a few months in the future.

"I have discovered something extraordinary." It reads, accompanied by a sketch of what seems to be The Puppet Master's pendant, "I have found a shadow artifact. It calls to me--or rather, it calls to my magic... It makes me stronger. Tougher. It's boosting my other spells, not just shadow!! I will have to do further research. Note to self: Keep this a secret. Not even N can know. Shadow artefacts are not keen on just anyone being in their presence."

Something hums contentedly in the back of Libel's mind. It urges them onwards.

The next journal is new. The leather cover is barely worn, touched only by the surface it rests on and the string hands that The Puppet Master now possesses. The handwriting is neat and concise, cursive to the utmost perfection in long, curling amethyst ink that perfectly encapsulates The Puppet Master. But past the beauty and neatness of the writing itself, the words are much, much darker.

"Obedience Spell.

A spell to make any willing* participant a completely obedient puppet. This spell can take weeks to prepare, but if a participant is aware of the spell and/or is already obedient enough, the process can take mere days, or even hours.

The process begins with a simple deal ordinarily. Contact with the vict-- subject seems required. Further testing is necessary. The spell soon begins to twist the subject's thoughts and dreams into suggestions, and in some cases, nightmares. This does not harm the subject. Nightmares have not been seen in willing subjects. Subjects are largely unaware of the effects until they are at the stage of total control.

The next stage is commands. Any command given by the owner is forced to be completed by the subject and the spell. This is the stage in which the spell gains sentience. The spell may begin to feast on magic, unless the deal to cause the spell directly involves the subject's magic.

The penultimate stage of the spell is majority control, with patches of lucidity. The subject is mostly under the control of the caster, aside from brief periods of complete lucidity. The subject isn't yet fully aware of the spell, but the spell begins to physically manifest as a creature of any spell element.

The final stage is complete and total control. The subject is only ever lucid at the casters command. The subject is fully receptive to commands, and is made to do anything the caster commands.

*Note: Unwilling participants have been shown to work. More testing needed."

They can't help but blame themselves for this--some kind of sick guilt. Mal doesn't deserve this fate, but by god, Libel does. Not that they want it--freedom is all they've ever asked for--but days like these being mind controlled seems preferable to being a willing participant. Are they willing? Are the victims ever proud?

Libel doesn't fully feel it when the aimed word hits. Contact with the subject seems required. They gag as they recall yesterday's events, assaulting their senses in a myriad of blinding campfires and the smell of freshwater caves. Their stitches strain at their throat, so perfectly placed by their captor...

Libel claws at a suture, the thread woolly and warm in their hand. They yank, and the string gives, the rest of the string either falling out the stitches, ripping through the thin skin, or tightening in tandem. The puppet doesn't cry--they make an awful keeling sound like a whining dog, sputtering at the end like they can't breathe. Their sinuses well up. Fresh blood coats their fingertips.

Libel hunches over the blurry picture of Mal and the holy scripture beneath them. Between their fingers is a purple thread, stained with viscid, pink plasma. They drool and cough onto the pages and photograph, smearing blood over the violet ink. They shake as they force their weight into their hands, leaning over the journal.

“Libel?” He calls, blinking bleariness from his eyes, “Is that you? What are you doing over there? Are you hurt?”

Why does this creature sound gentle? Why does he sound caring and willing to listen? How can someone so willing to strip a man of his free will so kind to a puppet he adores? Should he not pick favourites? Should his troupe all be precious in equal measure? Why does Libel of all pitiful creatures get this treatment??

“Let me see your face.” The Puppet Master murmurs as he walks over, and almost reassuringly, the command is not a requirement. Libel is not under the spell.

Libel grasps at his sleeves, taking comfort in the heft and texture of the fabric, the violet veins in their arm bulging, before suddenly letting go like they have to remind themselves of manners. They get visibly more afraid when they realize this, their heartbeat quickening and their vision spotting.

This was a bad idea. They went stooping where they shouldn't have. Now they're at their--the Puppet Master's mercy.

"You tore the stitches." He states, "Why?"

Libel doesn’t know what to say. They want to be forgiven, but they don’t even know why they did this to themselves. They’re spurred on by instinct, thrumming at the bars of their cage, but just barely kept in check by self-preservation.

'goon' -linguistic drift gave her a new meaning. i hope her new life is good for her. i miss her.

'henchman' -too gendered. can be shortened to 'hench' in a pinch, but lacks punch.

'servant' -too domestic to apply to all those who serve evil.

'underling, subordinate' -this one only works if they get off on being beneath you and/or you don't properly pay your workers.

'associate' -this one's good for grizzled mercenaries or lone agents but doesn't work good for broad swathes of an organization.

'slave' -same as underling but more intense. really fun for some of the group. unsavory for others in a way that limits the scope of the thing.

'thrall' -only really applies if you're brainwashing them and that's not something i've learned how to do en masse yet

'flunky, toady, stooge, lackey' -these are just insulting, and that isn't conducive to a healthy work environment. imagine going to work and your job title is 'stooge'.

'acolyte' -works for those that worship you, but again. lacks the scope.

'supporter, follower' -unspecific and vague

'assistant, helper, aide' -not sinister at all. just means you're doing things for me. swagless in this manner. could be good if used to describe someone who's so clearly more that as a way to emphasize their obedience via understatement, but that's only useful for a few members of the organization. and even then, 'associate' works better.