I am the land in its totality, from the mountains to the lake. All who live in me know who I really am, deep down, but they cloud themselves with things like religion and other ideals.
The perfect strings to work with.
I don't know when I began. I do remember people who were wiser than to come close, but thankfully their bloodlines have ended through crass disease and murder. Eternity is, after all, an exercise in boredom, so having puppets eases the longing for death. And not just in entertainment: their fears, their violence, their insanity, is something I can enjoy, be it in the cold of the decades or in the spice of the bursts, the rising tides of madness that build up but may not occur so often.
I consider myself a being of passion, for passion is what I give. And my tricks always provide emotion, usually of the ruthless kind. Many have also fornicated within my domain, and the consequences, be it shame or death, are in a way dear to me.
Lately I've been relying on a particular puppet - whom the the six have compared to a socket - to elicit more direct results. Sharp claws meeting soft flesh, all threats to the passion cleared away. It can even cleave through time and space, so the possibilities are simply endless.
And all it took was a dead child.
Enforcer aside, my cunning has limits. Outside of me, my presence is but a whisper. So I'm losing ground, as more people have caught on to the truth of their lives and decided to leave. At first I panicked, as I would be condemned to the fruitless eternity once more. But, as it turns out, some people are truly and well beyond salvation and sanity, seeking ghost stories.
Ah, the mere human condition, drawn like a moth to a blazing sun.
