Djal's long game is paying off.

Taking deep breaths, you let the stench of dust, rust, and dried blood course through your body as well as the weak crackling of magic. The same magic that brought you here. Tracing your finger across the cold metal table that your pawn had been strapped onto, you furrow your brow, but smirk.

Closing your eyes, you wince and grimace at the irritating scratching at your back, as well as burning at the top of your skull. Letting out a growl, you shrug off your jacket and shirt, place your hands on the table, and endure.

By now, your pawn would have fallen to the next stage of corruption, and from that, grown your strength.

You'll need it.

The scratching and burning grow to near unbearable, but you welcome the pain. A small price for the power as it gives you from him expanding his influence.

Muscles tear and keratin snaps. Letting out an aggravated howl, you slam your fist down, destroying the table in one strike, before standing up straight and growling. The one tear of flame you allow yourself sizzles along your cheek, but your huge wings, that you've missed for the last 10,000 years quickly wipe it away and use it to light your hair on fire once more.

Letting out a mouthful of steam, you reach your finger out and draw your symbol in front of you, murmuring under your breath. A portal opens, and out steps a few of your 'associates', as well as a dozen more of their minions. Hideous towering abominations, to ambitious and deceitful cretins. Murderers and schemers, to the last.

How odd that you can always trust them to stab each other in the back. Especially when you need them to.

Smiling, you greet them with a sarcastic bow. "My dear friends. Welcome back to the mortal world." The walls of the warehouse tear away, showering every-being in dust, before revealing to them the place your pawn calls home on one side, and the rest of the world on the other. "Leave that place alone. I have plans. The rest, is yours."

Bloodthirsty and amused laughter echoes from the assembled masses, before devolving into charging feet, and the whooping cheers and brays of impending violence. But as your 'associates' leave to stake their claim and establish their own bases, you raise yourself up high into the sky and project to them.

"You owe me."