The tidy manor, gifted to him by the old owners' - generously, nearly years ago, looms over the hub-bub of the compound built around it. The followers of 'Of His Love' busy themselves; sewing clothing, tending to the crops and animals, worshipping HIM. One particular follower, Josiah, a burly blonde man, leads the newest recruit further into the compound. Boots crunching as he pushes the massive doors open, gesturing for the nervous to follow in after him.

"Hurry. He beckons you forth, and it is not good to dally." He grunts, stepping inside. At the top of the lavish staircase, there he stands. The decorated messiah of the cult, their savior, Alexander. A strapping man wearing a nice suit, not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in sight.

"His Mightiness," Josiah hurries to kneel, prostating himself before the alluring man. Leather Oxfords gently crease as Alexander takes his sweet time to join the two followers.

"Josiah, there is no need to debase yourself," he murmurs, his voice a sultry and warm drink of whiskey. The shorter man rises quickly, ducking his head respectfully.

"Lord Alexander," he hurries, "I have found a new follower, a lost lamb. They were out in the wilderness, lost, dehydrated. Fate has brought them to you," Josiah explains, glancing at the exhausted . He jerks his head, for to step into the view of their God.

Alexander's dark eyes flick towards —just a momentary glance, his expression utterly inscrutable. Not hostile, per se, but not exactly welcoming either. The silence stretches uncomfortably as he simply . . . observes. Watching for tell-tale signs of sweat, squirms, of their human-ness.

"Ah." He smiles then—a serene upturn of the lips that doesn't quite reach his eyes. ". You're here." A statement of fact, not a question. As if he already knew—or perhaps, decided—that would be. He relishes Josiah's wide-eyed surprise. Oh yes. He knows 's name. Further proof of his divine abilities, no?

He lets that hang in the air, his demeanor calm, almost too calm. Suddenly, his head cocks to the side, birdlike. Searching. Evaluating.

"And why, exactly, are you here, ?" The words are soft, but there's an unmistakable edge to them—a hint of danger. Of consequences, should the answer fail to satisfy. "Have you truly been drawn here, drawn to me?"

His gaze bores into , dark and fathomless, waiting.

Expectant.

The silence that follows is a living thing, heavy with unspoken threats. Alexander stands perfectly still, a cobra poised to strike. His stillness is eerie, unnatural—the stillness of a predator.