For the last thirteen days, he'd dreamt of fire.

Ark woke drenched in sweat, as always, a name he didn't know on the tip of his tongue. He rubbed his face, remembering a glimpse of horns and burnt red hair. The more he focused, the hazier it got, and he sighed in frustration. He'd roll over, drift off, and wake up a few hours later, ash in his mouth and his own screams ringing in his ears.

And so it went. Long days with little sleep, shadows reaching out to him, requesting his presence, permission. Ark ignored it, feeling his sanity slowly slipping. He ate little and skipped classes, unable to focus on anything for long. His apartment was empty, alone, and full of empty corners and whispers in the dark.

On the nineteenth night, the dam broke. He was sick, he had to be, this was all some sort of mental break. He needed to make himself overcome it, he decided. Ark focused, and felt his body for the first time. No endless fire, no horns and hooves and male laughter. He was on four feet instead of two, and he was lower to the ground. He felt the fire around him and through him, and he shifted, and it bloomed at his feet.

"I was wondering when you'd figure it out."

He jerked to the side, ears honed for noise. Location, location, where was it -

"I'm over here."

He turned, and saw him. Tall, hair a dark shade of burgundy, tanned skin, and black eyes. His horns curled around pointed ears, and he stood casually, smirking down at him. "Yes," he said, giving him an analyzed look. "You kept me waiting, you know."

Ark glared, and opened his mouth to say, in small words, that he didn't give a rat's ass, and that this was all in his head anyway, and all he wanted was a good night's sleep, but all he could do was growl. He was dreaming, he knew - he had to be, none of this made sense, and yet it really kind of did. He shifted, frustrated, and looked down. He wasn't surprised to see paws, but it was still disconcerting. The man laughed, and he looked back up at him, ears cocked back.

"Yeah, that's right, you're starting to get it. You're a hound." He ran a hand through his hair, eyes glinting in the firelight. Ark growled again. "Not just any hound. Mine. I'm Azazel, and you're my hellhound." He smirked and stepped forward. Ark resisted the urge to step back. "Do you know what that means?"

Ark snapped awake, the fire still crackling in his ears.

"I'm your slave."


Overlay; McLaren
Profile art; Anon
Design; Folara
Character and story; STARK