#creator.oc

Imagine Baz, early on with The Creator and still unfortunately learning how sadistic and unsafe he is, thinking it's safe to share a small moment of joy. After all, maybe The Creator has been in a good mood and exceptionally gentle with him lately, maybe even joking around and singing music and being sweet with Baz.

Baz sees a pill bug on the ground. He's mesmerized, smiling and gently prodding at it. The Creator asks what's so interesting.

"It's called a pill bug," Baz says with humor. "'cause it kinda looks like a little pill."

The Creator hums, crouching down with his hands on his knees to see. "It does." He looks to Baz with a smile, warm with joy in his eyes. "Swallow it."

Baz laughs. "What?"

The Creator's demeanor changes. His smile is gone. He stands up, looming over Baz, voice darker. "Pick it up and swallow it."

Baz goes pale. He shakes his head. He knows he should comply, he knows where this is going, but he can't do it. He won't humiliate himself, and he won't kill the bug.

The Creator scoffs, almost a chuckle. "Do you need help?"

Baz holds back a shudder. He steels himself, his voice firmer, defiant. "No."

The Creator pauses. He laughs, almost in disbelief. In a flash he's on top of Baz, wrestling him, pinning him, yanking his head back by the hair. He shoves his fingers into his mouth. Baz bites but it doesn't matter, it does nothing, The Creator's gloved hand shoves and chokes as his fingers go so deep he can scarcely breathe. He drops the bug down his throat.

Life had become boring again. Or, perhaps, just depressing - some days it was difficult to tell which, but either way, Howland often found himself feeling a bit like a captive zoo animal without proper enrichment.

Like a captive animal, Howland had his enclosure. The lab, hidden underground away from the rest of the world, cut off by miles of dirt and stone walls stained with blood from years gone by. Technically, he could leave - he often did, running errands as told, sometimes making simple trips to the market, sometimes acting as his god's liason to deliver blessings, curses and death. But like a bird with clipped wings, he never went far, and never without his god's approval.

He had his own room in the sprawling facility. It was small, much too small, but Howland never complained - the small space felt safe, it felt like his own, it was the one place that felt hidden from the prying, all-knowing eyes of his master, even if deep down Howland knew it was none of those things. Inside the room he had belongings of his own - books, a music player, puzzles, plants, all manner of knicknacks, anything he was allowed to have in order to stifle the boredom of hundreds of years of isolation underground. But rarely was Howland ever in his room, except to occasionally sleep. His god, The Creator, liked having him around and available almost constantly.

"Why are you always in your room? Don't you love me? Spend time with me," The Creator would coo, a million violent threats hidden under his sweet words and sharp smile.

And so Howland sat where he usually did when he had not been given a task to complete yet was obligated to be around. On a once-luxurious lounge sofa, velvety red fabric faded with age, stained with mysterious splatters that no amount of scrubbing from Howland's hands could ever remove. The back of the sofa was leather, true leather, made from a stiffened, long-dead taxidermy fox bat subjected to some strange enlargement experiment specifically for the making of the sofa. Its wings spread out wide, bright and nearly translucent in the artificial sunlight beaming from a fake window across the room, supporting Howland's back as he sprawled across the velvet cushions.

Howland had been trying to read all morning. Gently, he held in his hands an old water-damaged copy of some young-adult adventure novel, taken from a public library last month during his last excursion outside. He had no intention of ever returning it; It was his now, something new to hold and to own in the cold and the dark, despite not really liking it much at all. In fact, he hated it.

It was a book for perhaps a wildly different target audience, and did little to captivate or astound Howland in its story-telling. The story had too many plot holes to count, whiny teenagers with zero respect for authority, and an absurd amount of medical inaccuracies, but most annoying was the fact a romance had been unnecessarily shoehorned in. The reader, Howland, had been practically beat over the head with the information that the female protagonist apparently was fiercely independent with no time for boys, something Howland had not minded in the story - but then, the protagonist had gone and fallen head-over-heels for the first boy who had looked her way. It was as infuriating as it was stupid. It began taking up an unnecessary amount of the story's plot, despite adding nothing of value to it, and then the writer had thrown in a love triangle on top of it. It made the book almost unreadable, as Howland skipped every page he could that included the romance.

Still, he had little to do in his free time but read, and so he tried, almost desperately tried. But nothing made reading quite as difficult as all the noise and chaos around him.

Wistful, melancholic music of the 1950s played loudly from a tableside gramophone beside the sofa, crackling and crooning in a haunting melody as the same love song played over and over and over with only a short pause in-between as the record reset itself.

"Til the end of the world, I will love you, darling," the musician sang. "Til the end of time, whatever may unfurl, you'll always be mine."

The Creator added his own voice to the melody, carrying perfect tune and vibrato as he spun and danced around the room, long lab coat swaying and blood flinging from the scalpel in his hand.

Some of the blood flung onto Howland's face. He flinched, holding back an exasperated sigh. He rolled his shoulders and readjusted, then went back to his book. He would shower it off later, as he always did, spending hours in the cold water until everything numbed and his mind reset itself like the record player.

"Always, always mine," The Creator crooned. He lifted the scalpel up to his face, his tongue taking one long, passionate lick of the bloody scalpel as the song ended in static. He exhaled dreamily.

The song began again.

The Creator chuckled, licking his red lips, running a gloved hand through his messy, dark curls. He danced his way back over to the end of the room near the false-window, where sunlight beamed down on a rusty metal gurney surrounded by IV stands and cracked monitor screens not in use.

On the gurney, a nude figure laid dead, features nearly unidentifiable with all the blood, swelling, and general disfigurement the person's face and body had endured. They had been gagged to near suffocation, yet still, the screaming had gone on and on in muffled bursts for quite some hours before they finally died.

It had been, by all accounts, a difficult morning to try reading a book.

But The Creator had not wanted to be disturbed. He never did, not with those types of victims: the blonde ones, the pale ones, all looking far too similar, all gagged and beaten until no feature remained except full heads of thick, fluffy, platinum-blonde hair, washed and cut exactly the same by The Creator so that it draped softly around their necks and over their once-pretty faces.

Howland used to wonder about The Creator's obsession. He had thought, at first, it was some sort of elaborate kink - a preference, something drawing him in and enticing him, like a favorite food one just couldn't resist. Over the course of several hundreds of years living under The Creator's shadow, it became obvious that the obsession was something more. Someone more.

Sometimes it wasn't a corpse. Sometimes, his god took up art - paintings, sculptures, all elaborate in design and detail. All of the same face - soft features, shaggy blonde hair, horns like a ram that twisted and curved atop the subjects head in shining glory. But each artwork had something slightly different in its features, something slightly out of place, something off. Whatever he was trying to replicate, he could never get it right.

It often drove The Creator into a violent rage.

He would work for days, weeks, sometimes months on his art, obsessing over that one face, only to never truly be happy with it in the end.

Once, The Creator had grown a set of crystals in the lab, scrutinizing them until he was certain only the most precious jewels were in his possession. Then, he layered them over a pristine human skull, crafting intricate horns out of the very jewels that trailed the skull like an exquisite, shining geode. He had enjoyed it for 26 hours before, abruptly, smashing the entire creation into the floor and stomping on its remains.

Another occasion, The Creator had made a canvas portrait out of human blood. Howland had been younger then, still getting his bearings in understanding how to please his new god, and naively he had tried to placate him during a fit of rage.

"It isn't good enough," The Creator had been screaming, lighting the painting and its surroundings on fire. Howland had told him that of course it was, it was "the most beautiful painting I've ever laid eyes on."

The Creator had responded by casting a paralysis spell on Howland, throwing him into the flames directly, and fully intending to burn him alive. It was, allegedly, Howland's agonized screaming that had calmed The Creator enough to decide the whole thing was "silly" and that he should try something other than painting. He had healed Howland's wounds himself and laughed about the whole thing after.

No, The Creator did not want to be disturbed. And Howland did not want to disturb him. Howland was to sit still and sit quietly, to stand by in case needed, to watch and listen and obey and shut up while he did it. And so he read his book of little interest, peering over the edges of each page, stopping every few sentences to listen to his surroundings and stay focused, stay ready.

The Creator laid his scalpel down gently on a tray beside the gurney. He peeled off his gloves, slowly but surely, tossing them onto the floor with a wet slap. With his bare hands, he dug into the victim's open abdomen, an audible squelching and popping echoing throughout the room as he did. He went deeper and deeper, sighing in pleasure, clawing and pulling out anything in the way until his elbows were almost completely inside his victim. He let out a low rumble, inhuman, a twisted purring and clicking that made Howland shudder from across the room. The Creator breathed in his victim like oxygen, nose trailing up from the open cavity to the brutalized face, inhaling and purring as he did. Then he stopped, abruptly, completely rigid and silent.

The gramophone's melody ended in a screeching halt, the love song's lyrics cutting off midway through.

"No," The Creator murmured.

Howland snapped to attention, lowering his book. A chill overtook his body, snaking down his spine and shaking him to his core. He froze.

"No, no, no, NO!"

The corpse ruptured in half as The Creator ripped himself out of it in one swift, angry motion, knocking the remains to the floor and kicking the gurney into the wall so hard its rusted form crumpled like tissue.

"It's not the same! It's NEVER the same!"

Howland wasn't sure if he should stand. His instincts said to stay frozen, stay small, that maybe if he just didn't make noise - didn't even breathe - the monster wouldn't know he was there. His instincts were always wrong, he knew this. He breathed, deeply, forcing air down like a poison, and willed himself to stand. Swiftly he moved to beside the sofa, standing at full attention, clenching his jaw as tightly as he clenched the clasped hands behind his back - if he was rigid enough, holding himself tightly enough, he could will his knees to not buckle and his body to not shake. Breathe, he reminded himself. It was a skill that had taken centuries to learn, and one he still practiced on the daily - the skill to remain outwardly calm in the face of an angry, unpredictable, all-powerful, eldritch god.

"It isn't FAIR!"

The Creator was hyperventilating now, pacing back and forth, whimpering, losing control. The human-looking man in the lab coat was shifting, phasing in and out of Howland's vision like a blurry dream, nightmarish as an inky-black shadow began to overtake his entire form and stretch it taller, longer, disproportionately monstrous. He looked towards Howland and paused, tilting his head. The shifting stopped, the man in the lab coat back in front of him, his panicked hyperventilating turning instead to a dark, seething chuckle.

"What am I doing?" The Creator shook his head lightly, the rest of him still rigid in posture. His monstrous shadow along the floor twitched, betraying the human-like man casting it, unseen tendrils folding and unfolding, a demons tail swaying like a cat about to kill. "You don't understand any of this, do you? How could you? You've never loved anyone."

He was on top of Howland in a blink, across the room one moment and knocking him to the floor the next. He wrapped a single hand around Howland's throat, pinning and squeezing, The Creator's face so close his wild eyes and bared teeth were only a blur.

"You couldn't experience love if you tried," The Creator told him. "You're broken. As capable of love as my bloody scalpel! What is it like? Huh? Tell me! How does it feel!? Do you feel free, or do you feel empty inside!? I want to know! I NEED to know!"

The Creator was shaking his throat harder now, squeezing so tightly Howland feared tracheal collapse - it wouldn't be the first time it had happened. He choked him, slammed his head into the floor, punched him, clawed and scratched him. Howland wanted to squirm, to fight, to breathe, but he couldn't. He knew he couldn't. Instead, he leaned into the feeling - he leaned into the pain, the fear, the vulnerability, focusing on nothing but the sensations and terror. It was the only way to shield his true thoughts from a monster that could, at any given moment, reach into his mind and read them.

He did experience love. Once. For many things. He used to love life - he loved walks in the woods, he loved the sun on his face, he loved his horse and his chickens and his livestock, he loved a good warm meal. And he realized, at the end of their lives, he loved his family - not in the way he had always been told to, but in another way he hadn't known possible. He had loved them enough, in the end, to burn the world and run right into The Creator's open arms. Surely that was something.

But no. He had not experienced whatever type of love The Creator was experiencing. He couldn't remember his family's faces, some days he couldn't even remember their names, and often he tried to let it all fade into nonexistence - there was no need to remember, he didn't want to remember, it had been so long ago and he wasn't that person anymore. He stopped being that person when he sold his soul. No, he wouldn't desecrate a corpse designed to look like his wife. He wouldn't burn a painting made in her image. He wouldn't beat, kick, and slice open anyone with the slightest resemblance to her. Whatever The Creator was experiencing, Howland didn't think that was love, either. He didn't know what it was. He didn't want to ever know what that was.

He leaned into the pain, pushing all his thoughts back into the crevices of his mind. It was easier. It was safer. He leaned into the fear, letting it swallow him whole, until he was squirming, he was fighting back, and it still did not matter in the slightest.

Choking Howland until his vision began to blacken seemed to calm the monster. He exhaled, breathing in and out slowly, like Howland were only a stress ball to be squeezed and maimed. Howland heard him laughing, distantly, his cackle fading along with his voice.

"You scare so easily..." he was saying.

Howland was blinking. Gasping, he realized, his body now on its side, the room spinning. The Creator was standing above him, arms crossed and brows furrowed, head tilting back and forth in an almost mocking way as Howland reoriented himself.

He had blacked out, surely.

But he was grateful to not be dead, yet.

"Perci?" The Creator's voice grated in his ears. He snapped his fingers promptly, over and over. "Perci. Get up. You have work to do."

Work?

Oh, shit. Work.

Howland opened his mouth to speak, but his throat only spasmed, a dry, burning pain shooting down to his lungs. With shaky hands he reached for his throat, flinching at even the gentle touch of his own fingers.

The Creator groaned. "Oh, take a cough drop! I barely touched you. Clean this mess up, I won't ask you again."

Howland braced himself to rise, carefully propping himself up on his elbows. He was pretty sure some ribs had been broken, but he was glad none had punctured any organs. It was just pain. Pain meant he was still alive.

The Creator kicked him in the side as he passed, laughing as he knocked him back down. "Don't lie there too long," he said, strolling out of the room and down the hall.

Howland was only relieved. He was gone now.

After a few moments, he hiked himself back up onto his elbows, forcing himself to his legs and a standing position. He couldn't stand fully upright, but he was up and moving, taking himself to the sofa where he assessed his own wounds.

Broken ribs, definitely. Too many gashes and bleeding scratches to count - he was going to need a new pair of clothes after this too, some that weren't bloodied and shredded. A bruised trachea, severely damaged but not life-threatening, and he had managed to avoid having the bones of his neck broken.

It could've been worse. Much worse.

Howland began healing himself, The Creator's magic within him burning in his veins. It rushed through him as he called upon his reservoir, pain hot and screeching, tingling in his hands that began to shake. It was more painful than any of the wounds he'd endured, yet he needed to heal them - there was no time to be wasted on recovery, he couldn't be limping around like this unless he wanted more damage to be done to his body. Slowly, surely, his hands hovered where they were needed, healing each wound until not even a scar was left behind. Thankfully, despite the burning magic, the healing process itself was numb - the bones recovered how they should, the bleeding stopped, the hot swelling of his face went down, nothing but a sense of numb relief left in their wake.

Howland let out a deep, weary sigh.

He allowed himself a short moment on the sofa, enjoying how easily he could breathe, letting his body take a moment to rest as sheer exhaustion began to overtake him. Then, he got back up - like he always did.

The first thing he cleaned was himself. Blood dripped from his nose, his eyes, his ears, a sure sign that he had used too much magic too fast. No matter - it was only blood, and he had long grown used to it by now.

He silently cursed at all the other blood around him, not his own, staining the walls and floors in a sticky mess of gore.

Clean it up, he'd been ordered.

He was a tool after all, The Creator had been right about that.

A tool. A weapon. A stress ball. A pin cushion, when magic was at play.

He looked to the body on the floor across from him, reduced to nothing but a pile to be mopped up and thrown away.

In the end, there were worse things to be than just a tool.

TAGLIST (please lmk if anyone wants added or removed!)

Nearly the whole village poked out of their homes to witness the spectacle. Howland, fiery with rage and grief, accosting the holy leader on the church's very steps.

"You said we needed only pray! You said it was a test!"

Never had he felt so much rage. Walter was dead. He had only been a child, an innocent, he had been his child. Howland had spent his life so subservient, so quiet, and he had felt so weak under the season's malnourishment and stress. Something inside him snapped. A darkness flowed through his veins, fueling him with more energy than he'd had in months. He charged at the man as soon as he saw him, lunging like an animal and wrapping his calloused hands around his neck.

"Where is God? Where is the healing for this parish!?"

He felt the mans bones cracking under his fists, barely aware that he had began beating him in the first place. It was as if he suddenly looked down, pain in his knuckles, blood pouring from the mans broken face and smearing onto his hands until they were raw and red with sin.

Several villagers grabbed at Howland, yanking his arms behind his back and hauling him down the steps. His feet dangled, kicking uselessly as his usual fatigue overshadowed the sudden flare of energy he'd felt minutes before.

Other villagers tended to their holy leader, lifting him with gentle hands. He glared daggers at Howland, cupping his bloody nose and shaking his head.

"Look at yourself, Percival," he shouted towards him, "You ask why this has befallen you: look at yourself! You've let the devil into your soul!"

The devil. Howland remembered the goat, his promises, the raw power emanating from him. What a fool he'd been to rebuke him.

Constance had been allowed to collect Howland and take him home. She had thrown herself to her knees, muddying her dress, apologizing for his behavior and promising it wouldn't happen again, all as if he were a bad dog and not a father in the throes of grief. Many in the village had called for punishment, for confinement, for humiliation, for a beating, but the holy leader had said but one thing: "No, let God sort him out."

At home, Howland sank into a silence. He didn't know if he felt shame, anger, grief, all of the above or nothing at all. A numbness blanketed him as he sat still at the dining table, Constance hovering at his side. Gently, she dabbed away at the blood on his skin, periodically dunking the rag she used into an old bucket of warm water. Howland focused on the water, slowly turning murky and red, his mouth dry and lips feeling almost glued shut.

After a long bout of silence, she said, "Children die, Percival. It is a tragedy, but true. The Smith's lost three of their own just last month. I'm unhappy as well, but..." She paused, a thickness rising in her voice. Howland did not look up; he knew she were crying, soft and quiet. With a deep breath, she busied herself cleaning him again. "We mustn't let it destroy us. It is tempting, but we mustn't. We must turn to God more fervently in these times. If we are good, we shall see our boy yet again."

Howland barely took in his wife's words. Once, he had valued the woman's virtues, he was even envious of them at times. Yet now, he had little patience for her nonsense. He felt himself growing angry with her words.

She paused her scrubbing.

After a moment, Howland hesitantly looked up. She stood, slightly hunched, holding a hand to her middle.

"Are you--"

"Fine," she said. She seemed out of breath.

Howland stared, his anger with her dissipating as quickly as it had arose. He stiffened with concern.

Constance cleared her throat, busying back to her task, her face tight and pale.

She coughed. Once, small and weak, a cough she tried to hold back. Twice, thrice, then she took the rag in her hands and held it to her face, hunching forward as her body wracked with coughing and she gasped for breath in-between.

Howland had sprung from his chair, hurrying to hold her from behind and steadying her with his arms. He felt his own hands begin to shake with worry.

Across the room near the warm hearth, Anne's swaddled form began to wail relentlessly.

Constance struggled to regain her breath. When she lowered her cloth, both she and Howland froze: blood, in splatters of fresh scarlet and deepest red-black.

"Perhaps you should lie down," Howland suggested, his voice shaky and near robotic.

"But-- the babe--"

"I'll tend to her."

Howland held his wife closely, carefully as he ushered her to their small cot on the ground. She protested weakly for mere moments before falling into a deep sleep.

Howland tended to the babe as promised. He could find no reason for her crying, but in his heart he knew: she was sick, just as her mother, just as her brother before.

He was no good at comforting children. He was no good at comforting anyone. But he tried, all through the day, hoping his presence and gentle caretaking was enough for his wife and babe.

When night fell over the village and all became silent, Howland lit the flames of his lantern and slipped out the door. The devil had not dwelled in Howland's soul, as their holy leader had accused. But perhaps, if the devil felt generous, he would make a home of him by morning.

The town square was empty, silent all but for the soft falling of snow. Howland stood, lantern in hand, dagger on his belt, as still as his surroundings. He couldn't fathom how, but he knew the devil was near.

Behind him, as he was the first time.

A large raven, sleek and spotless black, ruffled its feathers in greeting. It turned its head slightly, staring at Howland with what could only be described as the pupil-less white eyes of a man.

Howland wanted to speak, but his jaw only trembled.

The raven turned to the black winter skies and Howland followed.

He was led this time to the outskirts of the village, trudging and stumbling through the thick snow into a far-off field. He had lost the raven in his weak treading, following the best he could yet failing, unsure if he was even going in the right direction. Just as he felt compelled to stop, to catch his ragged breath and doubt himself, he saw it: the goat from before, alone in the center of the field, its dark body a stark contrast to the miles of untouched snow.

Howland dropped to his knees. In weakness, in fear, in awe.

"Come closer," the devil said, voice echoing in Howland's skull.

Howland could not stand. His whole body trembled violently, the hairs on his neck buzzing in an unnatural, icy fear.

"Come along, now," the devil insisted. "Crawl."

And so he did. Howland set his lantern aside, the moonlight illuminating his path in the bright snow. He crawled to the devil, elbows dragging the rest of him, desperate enough to care nothing of the humiliation. When he reached the devils pristine black hooves, he dared not look up to face him.

For a moment, Howland heard only his own breathing. Uneven, shaking in fear, struggling in the frigid air.

"Have you any questions?"

Howland's words came slowly, hesitantly. "W-What can a man like me offer you in return? What... what do you want of me?"

The devil hummed, thoughtfully.

"Whatever I desire."

Howland's body wracked in a violent chill.

"None will harm you," the devil said gently. "You will be mine, under my protection forever. Your family's health will prosper. I promise you this. Give only yourself to me. It is a small price to pay, is it not?"

Thoughts of his family flooded Howland's mind. Of Walter, his little body so full of life now turned to an empty shell. Of Constance, tending to him even in her own sickness, and little Anne too young to even understand the world she was born into. His throat grew thick, choking back a sob. He couldn't speak. Barely a nod escaped his head when he felt everything shift.

A wave of energy struck him like a fierce wind, knocking him flat onto his back. It blew through his skin, his very bones, burning everything inside him as it flowed in every inch of his veins like blood. He writhed on the ground, helplessly pinned by the force, his strangled screams erupting into the winter night.

The devil laughed.

"Feels good, doesn't it?"

The wave released him as swiftly as he'd been grabbed. And then it did - it did feel good.

He hadn't known how weak he'd been until the weakness left him. He was no longer hungry, no longer fatigued, no longer sore and weary. A raw energy rushed through him, tingling like static, buzzing through his mind like a euphoria.

Shakily, readily, he asked the devil, "What shall I do?"

*Percival Alexander Howland is an aro/ace leaning man living in a small, rural, religious parish in 16th century England

*He does not fit into the society around him. He does not enjoy the expectations and strict gender roles placed upon him. Still, he marries, has children, and plays the part he's told

*A strange plague hits the village, localized only there. No one has seen or recorded anything like it. Some say there is a curse, but their religious leader says it is only a test

*Howland loses a family member

*A strange goat appears to Howland in the night. He rebukes it as the devil, but the creature says he is not. He offers Howland prosperity and health for his family. Howland refuses, still thinking the creature is the devil

*In grief, Howland attacks the local religious leader and demands answers. He is rebuked, insulted and sent home

*His only remaining family falls ill

*Howland goes looking for the goat he had seen before. He finds it and begs, submitting himself to the creature's will. A strange power surges through him. The goat tells him to go home: when his end of the bargain is needed, he will know

*At home, his family has recovered at an alarmingly fast rate. His wife acts strangely and cannot remember the fallen member of their family. She shows Howland their crops, in the dead of winter, flourishing with new food; Their harvest had been small, but now a "miracle" gave them a second chance

*Howland feels strange. He can sense auras and emotions, but his own feel unusual. He cannot stop the urge to scrawl strange symbols as they flash through his mind. He notices if he stares a certain way, with the right intent, he has the power to bring deadly calamity on those around him

*Howland wakes one night, confused. He is holding a weapon he does not remember grabbing, standing over his wife. This frightens him. He begins arguing out loud as the goats voice echoes in his head, telling him to free himself of this way of life and kill his family. Howland refuses. A weakness overtakes him, his power gone

*Howland destroys the "miracle" crops. As he's doing so early that morning, a group of villagers led by their religious leader arrests Howland - and his innocent wife - on charges of witchcraft

*Howland confesses. But the blame is placed on his wife, despite her not being involved. The villagers believe Howland to have been influenced and bewitched by his wife, who they believe to be in league with the devil. Howland's confession only hurts him and his wife

*Howland's wife is put to deadly trial in public. Howland is made to watch as she's tortured, the religious leader saying if she is a witch she will save herself and if she is innocent she will go to heaven in death. She dies. The blame shifts to Howland, accused of being the true witch, and he is blamed for his wife's death

*Howland is put to death in the public square. Before he dies, he sees the goat - now an eldritch shadow of a man, ungodly in appearance. He offers Howland a final chance to be saved. He accepts, believing the creature to have been right all along: he was not made for this life, he was made for more

*Howland terrifies the crowd by escaping his sentence and killing his executioner. They try to stop him, to kill him again, but Howland uses both his own rage-fueled brutality and newfound powers to destroy his enemies effortlessly. He razes the entire village, sparing no living creature and burning it all to ash

*At the end of it all, soaked in blood and ash, Howland looks to his new master. For once in his life, a face looks back at him proud. The creature extends its hand, and Howland takes it, pulled into the dark embrace