The Velvet Invasion.

Character choice play through: The Demonic Horde

You came from the hellish plain before it had collapsed into nothing. You seek to repopulate your kind by feeding on human souls. With a human’s soul gone You can feed them any of your bodily fluids to slowly convert them into demons. You have a weakness to Religious symbols, holy sights, and can not enter a home without there being an open door or an invitation to enter. You have eyes that can induce lust into a human, along with pheromones that do the same.

Background:

You are a single sample of your kind. The last of your Kind. Should you fail, what you are, where your kind came from will be lost to all time. To be just a mere curiosity, a foot note to the record of existence. You begin your invasion in a small town no larger then 1,100 people. From humble beginnings may your species thrive.

Turn 1

The back door had been left ajar—a careless oversight, a gap in the family's evening routine. You slip through it like smoke given form, your glamour settled over your true nature like a second skin. The house smells of dish soap and lingering dinner—something with garlic and tomatoes. Ordinary. Human. ****.

The hallway is narrow, decorated with framed photographs of smiling faces at various ages. You can hear voices from deeper in the house—the drone of a television, someone laughing. Your demonic senses map the space: four heartbeats, four souls pulsing with that particular warmth you've learned to hunger for.

Through the archway to your right, you glimpse the living room. Howard Patterson sits in a worn recliner, his attention fixed on some cable news program. He's in his late forties, his body gone soft around the middle, thinning brown hair combed carefully over a spreading bald spot. His wife Linda sits on the couch beside him, scrolling through her phone, occasionally making small comments about what she's seeing. She's the same age, with shoulder-length blonde hair showing gray at the roots, her body fuller than it was in the wedding photo on the wall.

But it's the daughter who catches your attention first. Rachel Patterson, eighteen years old, sits cross-legged on the floor near the television, a textbook open in her lap. She's petite, barely five-foot-three, with long dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She wears yoga pants and an oversized university sweatshirt—clearly a hand-me-down from someone else. Her face has that quality of someone still half-formed, caught between adolescence and adulthood. She chews the end of her pen absently as she reads, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Footsteps on the stairs behind you. You press yourself against the wall, glamour holding firm. Kyle Patterson descends, eighteen years old and clearly Rachel's twin—the same dark hair, the same delicate features, though his frame is lankier, all angles and long limbs. He's shirtless, wearing only flannel pajama pants, his chest smooth and unmarked. "Mom, have you seen my charger?" he calls out, not noticing you in the shadows.

"Check the kitchen counter," Linda responds without looking up from her phone.

Kyle heads toward the kitchen, which means he'll pass within inches of where you stand. The hallway is too narrow. He'll see you unless you move now—into the living room with the family, back out the door, or perhaps up the stairs behind you.