Facade has a minion!

Watchsoul the Acerbus

A dead canine sprawls here, face entirely missing and one skeletal arm outflung. It is a pathetic sight, the foxy creature so small and unmoving.

The only thing in view that moves is a large moth, which quickly flits here and there. You lose sight of it as it moves behind you, presumably leaving. It's only a moth, however large. Then you feel a feathery-prickly sensation and glance down to see the moth walking on you. Hurriedly you start to brush it off when the warning markings on its wings blink, and you hear a faint whisper: "Flee!"

The moth flutters away of its own accord and lands on a large pile of yarn nearby.

And the dead creature has sat up.

It stares at you with no eyes for a moment, then with no difficulty at all, stands--all four limbs bearing equal weight somehow--and paces toward you. He noses at your hand like every cheerful dog you've ever met wanting pets, but is he cheerful or...? It's hard to gauge expressions on a face with no face.

He is cold to the touch. You feel a chill as he brushes against you; his fur feels like it is wet, heavy like rich velvet but wrong, unclean. When you draw your hand back, it looks normal and dry, but the sensation clings to you and makes you want to wipe your hand on your clothes, or better yet, wash with very hot water. Like pain is the only thing that will push this feeling away.

Jaw dropping slightly, he goes back to where he was sitting before and noses at the yarn and other pieces of string neatly arranged to the side. He pulls out a black metal object, something long and pointed, and with a deft motion of his skeletal arm, he sets it moving--spinning almost like a top. A bit of string appears from nowhere and starts to coil around the black thing. The string is frizzy and irregular, even blacker than the object it curls around, dark and seeming almost to crawl like an insect even though it lies still. An eerie feeling settles in the pit of your stomach.

"Do you like my spindle?" he says, his tone flat and emotionless. He looks at you, and he has no lips to move, but even so, he manages to speak. "I use it to draw what I want out of thin air. It's a gift, but there is a trick to it. The feeling has to be strong."

He stops what he was doing, the spindle falling to the ground, untended. The gritty string makes up a small skein. "You see this one here," and he gestures to a thread so fine you can barely make out anything on the spool. "This was hope. And this one," his furred paw resting on a ball of gnarled grey yarn that sheds dirt under his touch, "this was desperation. And this, pride. Greed. Jealousy. Love." He points to a different yarn with every word.

Then he looks at what he's just pulled out of nowhere and wrapped around his spindle. "Horror." He points at you.

"Don't worry. What I've taken is only a drop. It'll grow back. Maybe you'll be horrified by this tomorrow--but not yet. You have no need to fear I'll leave you a soulless facade, even if you could. I have all I want. Now go." With that, he settles himself down around his spindle and licks it with his dead tongue.