People look, people always look, and he's vain, and he's grown used to the pampering stares and his reflection in glassy eyes, and he is content. Up above them all, curled in vermilion velvet, with heavy lids hiding dark sets of eyes, he feels them. He feeds off their
(more) reactions; he eats their fear, their devotion, their worship, their prayers, their murmurs. It sustains him. So long as he is relevant, he shall live and flourish in the dark. Like a luxurious weed sprawling over a flowerbed it's ruined, he reclines.
And then they show up.
Them, with their eyes of stormy skies and scalpel swords, unpoised and unpostured and so utterly rude in the presence of an Entity such as himself. So ignorant, so unaware. It makes him want to burn, and the ichor in his veins turns to the black magma of a melting asteroid falling through a mantle of air. And he is larger than them, and stronger than them, and far more powerful than this insignificant human. But they hardly pay attention to him, looking around the room as though he is the least interesting thing inside.
One of the devotees whispers and points, and they turn their attention to him. He breathes it, satisfied with the sweet taste of fear and awe and--
No. This is different.
This is bubbly and magnificent, almost spicy, almost sweet, almost sour, and it's bitter in its novelty. He can't place it but for them. They look at him, regard him, and they are almost equal to him though he's twice their size and millions of times their power.
He looks away first, and he isn't sure why.
The researcher eventually loses their focus on him, but he feels traces of their thoughts. He wants them to come back.(less)
