I can feel the inner shrieking of this one - he sees himself as so very powerful. Trying to control me - the fool. But this is delectable - this one is devout, determined. I can see every murder committed. His own mother and father, throats slit - his first love, strangled mid-coitus - this one has known of me for a while. Corrupting himself to the point where I will accept him - to the point where he thinks he can command such forces like myself.
Does he know who I was?
Does he know what I am?
I have lived for centuries - the last one hanging on by the last vestiges of my old disciples, the altar on which they gave me that delightful friar - oh, how he has hated me.
But this is no hatred - this isn't even a desire for power. This is unabashed lust for the darkness - and if this fool wishes to hand himself over...
The man in grey opened his ice blue eyes and ran his tongue over his newly fanged teeth.
"...so be it." It was a sonorous, deep baritone, though the man had the lungs of a soprano - whatever stood in his body now, it was not the man who had entered the chapel. He walked forwards and thrust his hand into the flesh altar, revelling in the psychic scream let out as the remnants of the friar felt a last pang of agony, drawing a glistening obsidian key from the ichor and the offal.
"Gentlemen," he boomed, turning to the now traumatised men in black who were crouching in reverence and horror. "I am your new master. You will follow my orders, and you will do as I say." As he spoke, he gazed into their eyes, and the ice blue of his irises became a shimmering red for a split second. The two men in black instantaneously stood and bowed, before staring to attention.
The three departed in shadows, and a storm began to spiral above them.