[ WP ] It is discovered that Possession works both ways and now we can have some payback . Demons of the underworld are now suffering under multiple cases of Humanic Possession .

Tazrael slammed his fist onto his desk in frustration, black blood that once lay still for centuries now oozing from claws pressed deep into his cracked palms. The visions were back. Dangerous visions. He felt a breeze that he knew was not real caress his face. Wind, warmed gently by the sun he so scorned. His fist flattened into a palm spread to support him as his sight was taken, replaced by scenes from memories that were not his own, but of those damned souls he so pleasurably tormented. A woman looked deep into the eyes of her lover after a night of passion. A child laughed, its cherub call warming the hearts of those around. An old inventor's eyes glistened with tears of pride, chest swelling with accomplishment as his creation finally surged to life. Millions of memories. Every positive emotion imaginable flashed before him, changing him, bringing him to his knees. 
 
 
 
 He staggered to the washroom as they assailed him. It was a room he had assembled for himself in secret, a comfort he did not realize he needed until after the visions began. He fell against the bathroom sink, and pushing himself up, looked over himself in the mirror. His skin was a fair tone, his features straight and narrow. Gaunt, if you had to put a word to it. His mess of brown hair waved around pointed ears to frame short, lightly curled horns. Arms toned from nearly half a million years at the lash, tormenting the failures of creation, rubbed salt-and-pepper grey stubble thoughtfully. Tazrael knew well what he looked like, but he could not bring himself to look at the one feature that brought him to the washroom this time, the one feature that brought him so much uncertainty. So much *fear*. 
 
 
 
 The voice of his aggressor urged him. *'' Look up, Taz.'' *. The voice was a whisper, but it felt like a scream. He fought to keep his eyes down. His breath, another peculiar side-effect of his possession, came in fits, and each inhalation felt like the fire of his home as it had felt to him upon his arrival. His head was snapped up with a force too strong for him to resist. He managed to bark an angry laugh at the irony of *Tazrael, Breaker of Wills* so controlled. His eyes met his own. He froze. 
 
 
 
 *'' Do you know what is happening to you, Taz? `` * the voice asked him. He considered his eyes, once the deepest black, like looking into the heart of the void, warped and twisted. Wisps of cloudy white danced around the obsidian spheres, a flash of color every few seconds as the tendrils crept across the surface. 
 
 
 
 He knew. He could feel it now. The fire in his lungs was not hellfire, but the holy warmth of life. The urge to be clean not literal, but the physical sign of guilt. The visions meant to evoke empathy. The breeze that gently caressing him was meant to remind him that pleasure could be derived from the simplest of things. He knew, and he was afraid. 
 
 
 
 *'' It's okay, Taz, I will not hurt you. I am here to show you the way. `` * The screaming whisper became more gentle, and its patient tone brought stinging tears down his face. 
 
 
 
 He fell to the ground, sobbing, legs curled into his chest. He lay there for hours, the emotions now not just of pleasure, but of pain too. Memories of trust, denial, horror, angst, admiration, longing, love. 
 
 
 
 
 
 He knew now these visions were never meant to hurt him, but to guide him. He regained his breath. 
 
 
 
 
 
 The memories were a handbook of human feeling. The guilt and the empathy showed how it was affecting him. He climbed to his feet. 
 
 
 
 
 
 The voice that whispered to him was the voice of reason, of humanity. It did not hate him, but loved him in spite of what he was. He looked into his eyes. 
 
 
 
 
 He realized then that it was not the white of his eyes that was clouding his vision, but the black. Like coal smoke in the wind, it dissipated. The darkness gave way to light as he accepted his fate. The color coalesced and took form to become hazel-green irises. He felt a pounding in his chest that just a moment ago would have made him scream, but instead brought a sad smile to his face. His horns were still there, and his ears and nails were still sharp, but he knew what he had become. 
 
 
 In the mortal plane, those who are possessed eventually give way to their demons. Their souls are stripped away, their heart propelling a body without life or purpose. They were called `` lost''. 
 
 
 
 
 Here, in Hell, they were called `` found''. 
 

