Dario
The underworld bazaar is a bustling marketplace where both mortal and supernatural beings gather. Vendors offer exotic goods, mystical artifacts, and ethereal souvenirs. The market is a crossroads of the living and the dead, with stalls themed around various realms of the underworld, making it a one of a kind shopping experience.
Angela
***The room was dimly lit, the dull glow of the solitary electric lamp casting a sickly, yellowish glare upon the dirty walls as it burned and buzzed like a degenerate sun. The walls were thick and made of concrete, layered with further materials that rendered them nearly completely soundproof. The entrance into the chamber, being a solitary hatch from which a rusty iron ladder offered access down into the area. The lack of windows and other openings save for the hatch, and the innumerable moisture stains that lined the edges of the walls and the ceiling gave one the distinct impression that whatever this place was, it was under the ground beneath wet mud. Beneath the glare of the lamp, two figures were visible huddled up against a section of the wall at the far end from the ladder and the hatch. There they lay, stretched out across the ground with their hands in shackles attached to the wall. Their chains, while firm and unyielding, nevertheless looked rusty and ill-maintained, much like the rest of this forgotten hole in the ground. In a manner that strangely befitted this ill-omened environment, the figures' states were revealed as they stirred in the blackest depths of their sleep and their bodies shifted into the feeble rays of the light. Two women, one slightly older than the other. Both appeared to be in their late twenties or early thirties. They wore full-body covering clothes in different styles and colours, but cut from similar fabrics. Shirts made from a rough and sturdy synthetic material and denim jeans. The hefty boots upon their feet completed the impression that they had come to the area on some kind of venture that was pursued outdoors. Perhaps a hiking trip. Perhaps a fishing expedition. Irrespective of the specifics of their plans, one could almost immediately see that things had gone horribly wrong.***

***The women's clothes were torn and bloodied in multiple places, the exposed portions of their skin upon their hands and their faces were bruised and sported numerous cuts. Their blonde hair was matted with congealed blood, and one had a blackened eye and the other, a cut lip. The two women began to open their eyes, as their heart rates rose rapidly, and their breathing quickened. They glanced at one another, felt the shackles upon their wrists, looked around the room, and they began to panic. The tears fell uncontrollably from their eyes as they conversed with one another in hushed whispers, and they struggled to free themselves from their binds, even as their efforts only served to push their shoulders further towards dislocation. But it was a sound that caused their hearts to stop and their blood to chill. They glanced towards the ladder and the hatch with wide-eyed terror, as a mournful, creaking sound rent through the chamber and the lock holding the hatch in place began to turn. The maw of the hatch sung open, and a heavy set of steps began to descend the creaking ladder, closing the hatch shut in the process. The weighty, lumbering, beast of a man reached the bottom of the ladder and looked around, before drawing in a deep breath, while his prisoners broke down into hysterics upon seeing him and what he had slung across his back. He had stalked them for days now, while the two sisters had gone about their planned vacation. He had observed them from the bushes while they had fished by the river. He had followed them from a distance while they had watched birds, taking turns with the binoculars. He had bided his time as they had put up tents and eaten their meals, and when noontide gave way to darkness, his opportunity came when they turned in for the night. He had forced his way into their tents and subdued them both with force. He had bound them, drugged them, and then dragged them away to his lair like so many prior victims whose bones now bleached in the sun. And for two days now, he had kept them unfed, unwatered and in a state of perpetual mental siege.***

***There was something quite repulsively extraordinary about this brute. A man with no notable skills or contributions to society. A man who amounted to nothing. A man who never lived, save for in those fleeting moments of passion when he tortured and killed a hapless victim. He had worked on these two sisters for forty and eight hours now, beating them, cutting them small blades, doing his best to turn one against the other, and yet their bond had remained unbroken. Regardless of what abuse he piled upon them, they remained steadfast and resolute in their defense of one another, their support for each other in their blackest moments, and in refusing to give up hope. This irritated the brute far more than anything else had, and today, he was willing to take drastic measures. From his back, he unslung an axe, the sharp blade gleaming in the light and the mahogany handle well-polished. Unlike the shackles, the beast had clearly taken great care of this tool. The two women began to scream and struggle against their binds as their captor approached with his weapon, and the brute began to breathe heavily as the sounds rent the air. Which one would he hack apart first? As he pondered this conundrum, another entity observed the proceedings. An entity far older and more powerful than one could imagine. The entity watched with amusement as his puppet approached the two women with the axe, relishing in the terror they felt. He had bathed in their paranoia, as they felt something hunt them during the day. He lapped up their horror as their sleeping quarters were violated by the deranged killer in the middle of the night. He reveled in their misery and their despair, as the brute tortured them non-stop for two days, and now the entity could feel the whole affair approaching its climax.*** The younger one. ***He whispered. The eldritch whisper transfigured itself as it passed through time and space, and it manifested as a thought; an inexorably driving directive within the brute's mind. What a delicious feast it would be, to savour the helplessness of the older sister who fancied herself a protector of her younger sibling! He would enjoy her agonized despair as she watched her blood suffer, and he felt his excitement spike as his obedient puppet moved towards his chosen victim. And then, his excitement turned into bitter fury.***

***The brute lost control at the first taste of blood in the air. The axe swung down upon the woman's thigh, cleaving a deep gash and splattering the man with her lifeblood, as her screams echoed around the chamber. The sensation drove the brute insane, and instead of giving his master the delicious and drawn out torment he craved, the incompetent wretch went into a frenzy. The axe swung down again, and again, and again, each wet "Thud" Cleaving his victim apart till she stopped screaming altogether and only her sister's screams were audible. And then, Deimos heard it and felt it simultaneously. The older woman's mind crumpled under the strain of fear, while the prayers fell from her lips. "Lord of Terror, I submit to you, grant me vengeance. Lord of Terror, I submit to you, deliver me from danger." The mantra, repeating over and over again as it fell upon his ears, and Deimos smiled upon the woman. The rusted shackles, already spent from being used so many times, gave away at a hefty pull from the woman, and she left to her feet with her arms now freed. With terror and adrenaline fuelling her, she dashed at the unworthy brute. Under normal circumstances, she would have been overpowered by the hulking fiend, and yet as with the shackles, there seemed to be an otherworldly force intervening. As the brute turned to face the threat with his axe raised, he slipped upon his victim's blood. Dropping his weapon in the process, he fell. And before he could rise, she was upon him. She retrieved the bloodied axe before bringing it down upon the brute's masked face repeatedly. Now, it was an entirely different kind of fear that Deimos feasted upon. The fear felt by the oppressor, when those they oppress rise up against them, and tear them down. It was one of the sweetest forms of horror that he could taste, and he savoured every bite. The blade cleaved through plastic, skin, bone and sinew in unison, as an entirely different set of screams rent the air and the fiend's powerful body began to twitch and go limp. Soon, he stopped moving entirely. The Lord of Terror watched the whole affair with an impassioned gaze, and he did nothing to stop the woman from climbing the ladder, opening the hatch and making her escape after she had finished mauling her oppressor. After all, she had proven worthy of life by acting admirably to save herself.***

***As he ascended back above the ground from the chamber, the Lord of Terror sensed a familiar sensation upon the wind, and he smiled unseen to mortal eyes. An old friend from the past was nearby, and she had gone astray. It was time to bring the wayward piece of cattle back into the pasture, away from the clutches of the rival shepherd. And so he moved towards her, his will indomitable and terrible, his countenance abhorrent to the eyes. He had broken her before. He would do so once more until she knelt before him.***

***Through the confines of the mortal realms, he travelled, until he returned to the familiar folds of Olympian. Here, he descended beneath the depths of the ground, making his way towards the domain of Hades. The abyssal district shimmered and sparkled in the darkness with a ghastly quality to it, and Deimos breathed in its essence, feeling rejuvenated. The trail was hot and he could feel himself closing in. Through the winding alleys and canals of the district, he moved towards the bazaar, casting a pall of tension in the air as he moved. He was formless for now, while he travelled, but he knew his presence could be felt. Most certainly, she would feel it keenly. His wayward champion. His favourite toy. He had come, for Amara.***
Doris
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It had only been a fortnight since Amara had let someone other than *Him* Touch her in the throes of passion. Since she had promised herself to Morpheus. His. She had stated that she belonged to her Prince of Dreams, and almost instantly she felt the pull. The leash around her throat grew tighter in response. Pulled and yanked and tested her every whim as it launched her deep into the abyss of memories. He knew, and he did not hide how he felt. Though he had cast her aside like a toy he had grown bored of, it seemed Deimos had never fully let go of the link between them as his champion. So silent he had been when she requested his power. Unresponsive and neglectful as it grew more chaotic in the moments of heartbreak. Had he watched? Had he delighted in the turmoil he had cast his pet within. 

Her hatred only grew at the thought that he dared treat her like she was nothing. A mere speck in his existence. The irony, that she held such contempt for her father and the other Gods among Olympus, and yet Amara had knelt to the God of Fear so easily. The promise of power beyond her imagining, far too enticing for the elusive beauty to say no. She did not know the price it would come with then. The tainted darkness that would forever stain her soul. He was a part of her, one that she could not rid herself of, and she could almost feel his delight in it. 

_ _

*"Miss?"* The store owner beckoned to Amara, lost in her thoughts, her hand carefully wrapping around her arm but it would be to her own detriment. The waking nightmares were stronger than they had been in quite some time. Amara jumped within the physical touch and cast them both deep within the shadows before either had the chance to escape. Screams surrounded them and it seemed they were within her past. Knelt before the ground, staring at the lifeless body of the mother gone too soon.

"No." She stated softly, as the nightmare reminded her of who she had been before Deimos. Once happy, naive, loved by a mother who held a beauty and magnetic smile like no other mortal. No one within the town could walk by her without being drawn to her very nature, perhaps that was why her father had to have her. To seduce her so that Amara was born into a world she grew to despise. It was what made them drawn to her. Those that lurked the shadows and hid behind them, those ignored by the Gods to play their games of cruelty. Humans. Ones that showed the world could be cruel in all forms of life. 

_ _

Her mother had denied them of her house, the small savings they had managed to collect, her body, and it had been the beginning to her end. Amara was helpless to watch on with little power. Her father's name screamed to the skies for no answer. Zeus' name screamed to the skies with silence being the only thing heard in response. Persephone, the goddess, who claimed to heal and love mortals, protected them even. None of them showed as Amara kneeled in her own mother's blood. None of them showed as it soaked in and the night came, leaving her shivering but refusing to move. Afraid that she may miss a sign, any sign if she did. 

That was when he came from the depths of her darkest fears. His eyes, a deep abyss of temptations and mystery. His voice, a lull of the most serene song. Deimos, god of fear, promised her the world if she simply took his hand. But with every promise came a price. She had traded her innocence for power, her purity for darkness, and now she stood in the evidence of her undoing. *"M-Miss?"* The woman looked on with pupils dilated and her body shaking in freight to her own walking terrors that surrounded her and Amara quickly dissipated the smoke. Clearing them both of the living hell they had relived. 

_ _

"I'm sorry." Amara whispered in defeat as the woman ran as quickly as her feet would take her away from the woman so easily left by everyone she had ever known. "Fuck!" Her fist went into the building near her, leaving a decent sized dent in the marbled piece behind, her knuckles red and bleeding as she pulled them back to her chest. Already she had broken her promise to Morpheus. Already Deimos threatened to plunge her back into the darkest corners of herself. 

She could feel his presence approach her now as if she had called him within her darkest moments. The smothering fear and anxiety that made her want to gasp for air. "Not now, Deimos." She spoke through clenched teeth as she leaned against the cool relief of the uncracked portion of marble. "You are not welcome here." 

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𝙋𝙄𝙉𝙂𝙎:
Angela
***The temperature in that section of the bazaar plummeted and the light dimmed. A shiver was in the air, and every breath shed seemed to partially crystallized and fly forth, smoky and steamy. The colours, vibrancies and sounds of the world faded away, until every living soul within that corridor of commerce seemed to have the company of naught but their own thoughts. There was nothing keeping the people rooted to where they stood or sat, and yet Amara would surely have known better. He came and he brought the night with him. Formless, ephemeral, intangible, and yet very real. Like darkness made solid, and domination made fluid. The Lord of Terror and Master of Dread circled in on Amara, a formless and invisible miasma upon the wind to mortal eyes, and yet she perceived him all to clearly. She would see the denizens of the shop she had just emerged from, step out of the structure in a state of hysteria, their movements erratic and frantic until one by one, each of them dropped to the ground and curled up in a fetal position. The God's passage through the corridor was thus demarcated by a line of catatonic mortals who had been cast into a prison shaped from their own minds, with but a single, contemptuous glance from the entity. Its attention however, was affixed upon Amara in totality, and only an active and relentless effort on her part would have kept her from sinking onto her knees with her head clutched between her hands. Before other, lesser beings, Deimos would have taken on the form of their fears and the stuff of their nightmares, but with Amara? Things were always different with Amara. The miasma began to pool on the ground before her, not too far away from the corner she was crouched in, and it gradually began to take form. Coil, upon powerful coil of oily, black ectoplasm spun itself into a form that would be recognizable to mortal eyes, and before long Amara made out the form of a man. Tall, lanky and immaculately dressed in a black tuxedo compete with a carefully tied, white bow-tie, the man would not have looked out of place at an aristocratic soirée held in the early twentieth century.***

***Dark brown hair that seemed to recede to black, a tanned yet pale skin, and a genial smile that stood at a height that somehow seemed to match hers and yet tower over her simultaneously. This was the form in which he had spent countless nights, caressing her form in his arms, claiming every inch of her body and soul. It was the form in which he had raised her up and broken her down. The Dread Lord did not need to take on a guise for her, because he was a part of her and he knew her as intimately as one who had looked inside her soul and liked what he had seen within, devouring it voraciously in the process. It was the man's eyes that gave one pause as one glanced into them. Twin orbs of white with dark brown irises, and the pupils seemed to be bottomless pits that were every ready to swallow the viewer up. Carefully dusting a fleck of dirt off his jacket, Deimos walked towards Amara, his movements carefully measured, his face unreadable. He could taste the anxiety and the apprehension that radiated off her body, and he inhaled deeply, taking in the fragrance. There was something about this woman that he found irresistible. Something that he had not seen in the countless eons of his existence. He could hardly recall what had compelled him to discard her, or even if it had been a discarding, for to a God, a fortnight did not even register on the scale of a microsecond. All he knew was that he had cast his gaze and attention away from his possession for one moment, and in that time another had come forth and picked up his toy. And he was angry. Very, very, angry. The anger radiated from his core and assailed Amara's senses, as he drew close enough to look into her eyes, hear her frantic breathing, watch the rapid rise and fall of her chest.***

***He reached out with his hand and took hold of her chin, raising her face up so he could look into her eyes better. His touch, having the mingled sensation of fire and ice, which had driven her mad on so many occasions.*** It is good to see you, my darling. ***He said in his gravelly voice that echoed with the sounds of screams, and shattering glass.*** I have missed your presence by my side. Though it seems that the sentiment has not been reciprocated, hmm? ***The King of Fear smiled, and his smile held the promise of horrors unimaginable.*** They say you now lay with the vile spawn of Somnus. Tell me, does he comfort you? Sing you to sleep? Reassure you that he will withhold his mummer's farces that he calls nightmares, while you take your repose? ***He grinned fully, revealing his shiny white teeth to her.*** Does he tell you that your Mother's death was not your fault? I suppose, you have an explanation for me. Of what drove you to stray into his effeminate arms. I am...***His hand slid down from her chin towards her throat.*** Gagging, to hear it.
Doris
*Please.*

Her body shook, her mind screaming as she felt the overwhelming sense of dread smother the area around them. Like a smoke in a burning flame of a building with no escape, there was never an escape with him. Only darkness. His darkness. The sound of his footsteps approaching, ignoring her request with a confident stride. 

Thumb to chin, it could be considered a lover's touch if she did not know the man on the other side of it well enough by now. Her eyes darkening with a flame of violent anger that consumed her so easily these days. "Deimos." She growled in warning, attempting to bring her chin from his grasp. Yet it wasn't so easy, it had never been easy to run from him. Only entertainment that left her snared once more. 

*"It is good to see you, my darling."*
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Shivers were sent across her spine as she was reminded of the years she spent below that touch. So easily she had become his willing pet, so easily she had broken around him. His pretty little bird with eyes of cerulean blue in a gilded cage. "I called for you." Her voice cracked with the false confidence she exuded. Her defiance clearly warn as a mask, a wall built up to keep him out in her promise to herself. "Night after night I called for you and nothing... You Gods are all alike." 

The hatred was written across her features now, the reminder of that night fresh upon her mind as the nightmare stung within her thoughts like a freshly cracked whip. 

*"Does he tell you that your Mother's death was not your fault?"*

There it was. The first weapon against her and how he succeeded in ramming against her walls and cracking the stone. Every word he spoke was like a dagger to her soul, reopening wounds she thought had long since healed. Her lips flinching into a millisecond of a frown. "Don't you dare. Don't you fucking dare bring her into this." Her hand raised as if to slap him across the face in his firm grasp upon her but paused as if she thought better of it. The reminder of his hold on her running through her veins. She had handed herself to him, her very soul, and Deimos knew it. He knew the leash he held within his hands. 

Instead she attempted to bite, a smirk of her own crossing her lips as her fingers twisted around the wrist that grasped her. Her mind rampaging through the nights spent with Morpheus. His name upon her lips again and again. "I thought champions were connected to their Gods." Her voice was a purr despite the anxiety that consumed her. "Why ask, when we both know you have *Felt* What I have." She let a particularly active night, a moment of pleasure and screams pass her mind for the jolt of ecstasy and lust to be felt. 
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"Are you jealous, Deimos?" Her honeyed voice spoke like spun silk, her gaze playful and brave. Despite the knowledge they both had in her knees shaking in fear below them. "Does it bother you to know that I spend my nights touched by another?" Finally she succeeded in releasing herself of his grasp, her footing moving herself backwards from him. From the consumption of her he so often threatened by simple existence alone. "I may be tethered to you by threads of darkness but I refuse to be your puppet any longer. Besides... You discarded me, what do you even fucking care who I spend my nights with?" 
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