Ficly

Ten

Laugh as the world burns, the Lord of Mind who lurks in the outside, clear eyes looking in.

Smile constantly as the world starts to crack around the edges, the illusions that people build upon their world try to reassert themselves without success. Their minds break and send them into a whirlpool of lost hopes and fractured dreams.

Such is the nature of my work.

My form beats and writhes with the flutterings of my twisted thoughts, a thousand beasts that move beneath my skin as I bear down upon my prey, prying at the edges of their sanity with tendrils of madness.

I am the interrogator that the Inheritors turn to when information or reprogramming is needed, planting ideas like seeds in malleable brains, watching people turn on their fellows as trigger words slip past my perpetual smile.

I speak in riddles and confusion, so that I can speak freely before those that might not need to hear what I have to say.

Minds are my playthings and the right words can turn a staunch loyalist into a perfect traitor.

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