Seir Prison POV

Seir was... Hungry. There was a feast up top, not that they could stay long to properly enjoy it. No, without a contract, they could never stay long enough to enjoy the dawn and take in the mortal plane. They drifted, feeding off the despair of the prisoners, not finding much interest in anything so many of them have been here long enough already to not be frightened with the same tinge of raw terror that they have when they're first committed. Other scents drew Seir across the land, calling from churches, universities, deep within the city, but it felt like something was expanding here.

If they were the first one here, then maybe they could get a contract. Or holy water splashed over them.

They never got one before. They never experienced what it was like up there. And they were so so hungry for it. Saleos, of course, got plenty of contracts. Paimon, of course, had the most. But Seir? Seir was down there with Malthus. Andras, fucking Aamon. They wanted it.

They followed along the hallways, their presence making each sleeping inmate shiver in their cot, one even getting down on their knees to pray, which began to prickle at Seir's insides. Better move along quick.

Where was it?

When at home, everyone can feel it so clearly. They could pin point the location of their next meal, their next master. Sometimes it gets mixed up with the despair rising from deep below, of the ones that are lost in the seas and magma and ash. So when they decide to chase their hunger, come up above, they have to sniff them out. They could appear miles away from a succulent scent and spend the night hunting it only for someone else to find-... To find...

Oh.

They shivered. What... A delectable scent. Such fear. Such trepidation. So much... Hurt.

Seir felt their tongue water, lolling from their mouth and began to climb. Up, up, up, up. Moving quick, sleeping inmates waking up as from a large crash, calling out in fear. A guard in front of their cell, smirking and whispering through the bars, lust and greed rolling off of him in waves. Seir watched, refraining from batting the guard away to get a good look at the quivering prisoner in their cell.

Once he finally did, Seir breathed in, filling their stomach with the scent. God. Terror. On the cusp.... On the cusp.

Yes. Yes.

Seir leered at your sleeping form, drifting over the rails and slowly solidifying their form, into the shape of the guard. Yes. They must move quickly, lest some other hungry spirit comes to talk you into signing in blood.

God. They were finally going to get what they always wanted.