Headcanon: the Child
I stumbled over a thing on creepypasta that read “ My daughter won’t stop crying and screaming in the middle of the night .I visit her grave and ask her to stop, but it doesn’t help.” and the muse spoke up. So, here, have a very crude headcanon about Nevan and one of her many offspring.
In the age before the gates between Hell and Earth were sealed Nevan often visited Earth. She took a particular liking to the Mesopotamian culture, in some parts worshipped as a dark deity. That she fed on her worshippers went without saying, devouring their energy and leaving them as empty husks piling in the pits to be burned at later points. As this was at the height of her powers the mere touch of skin against hers could cause widespread orgies, and she’d observe as humans writhed together in carnal activities, bound by her powers until death would claim them. The sheer energy of sexual lust humming through the air her ambrosia; and she’d sip it like the finest of wines.
As time passed she came across a young but surprisingly powerful necromancer, and intrigued by his powers she took him as her lover, keeping him alive as he kept her fed and sated with power. The amount of times he’d reanimate those that had been claimed by death were numerous and were for weeks at the time bound in a constant loop of mindless passion and death far beyond the point of that it had been pleasurable.
Despite the irony in his gift over death Nevan bore him a child, however the devil had little maternal instincts and let the girl be raised among the humans in the society. What she had not expected was that on one of her trips back to Hell the society had revolted against her dark cult, killing all of those who had worshipped her including her offspring and lover. Returning to Earth she had dispassionately gazed at the smouldering pile of remains, in a sense mourning the loss of power but other than that not truly caring about what had occurred. Such was the way of the world. The weak died and the strong lived on.
Her back turned to that part of the world she set to move onwards and explore more of what the world had to offer. However she had not counted on that her daughter’s peculiar heritage would come to affect her because to her what was dead was dead. It started off as murmurings in the background, things she easily could ignore, but as time progressed the voices became more prominent, eventually a pitiful wailing continuing to plague her in the nights. Frustrated by this she began to seek the source for it, but all her searching was fruitless.
Then came the rumours from where she had dwelled, of the one who kept screaming despite the many times it was killed, like a dark siren calling people close before destroying them or dying in the process. Intrigued by the information Nevan returned, curious to find that while her offspring had perished the body reanimated itself each day, though the mind was lost, instead leaving a mindless husk just blindly calling out. A number of times Nevan tried to end the pitiful excuse that was her child, since it clearly would be of no use and would serve no purpose, however her tries were useless. No amounts of decapitations, incinerations, drownings or maulings could keep her truly dead. In a last attempt Nevan filled her mouth with stone and sand, tore her windpipe out and buried her with rocks and soil in a coffin which she sank into the bottom of a lake. This at last quieted her troublesome child, but every now and then she hears the faint cries of her infant child, forever trapped in a spiral of dying and being reborn. Such is the curse of one born from a devil and necromancer.
