"Unfortunately, this is common in the ancient writings. Understanding the gods leads to madness, and madness is not conducive to being a terribly clear writer. Nyarlathotep was the Black Pharaoh, a ruler in the very early days of the old kingdom, skilled in dark magic. He was later deified, and many secret cults arose around him that continued well into the Christian era. He was conceived of as a sort of trickster figure, a granter of wishes who would always twist them for ill. And some say he was chosen as the Herald of a power even darker and greater than himself."

"An Egyptian djinni," she jokes. "I wonder if some of those mummy curses were his doing." More serious: "He must have been quite powerful."

"Assuming he was not a legend."

"Of course."

"--Who did you say had hired you?"

"A Mrs. Rogers. I don't think she has anything to do with dread Egyptian pharoahs, though."

"The dread Egyptian pharaohs are merely an unprofessional interest?"

"I dabble in many fields of the occult. Most of my interests are unprofessional."

"What sort of affairs are you looking into?" Smile. "You know I always like to take an interest in your activities, my love. To protect you. Keep you safe. Keep you mine."

"Her father was apparently a dabbler in the occult himself. All I'm doing is finding out where his interests lay. Digging up a man's personal affairs so long after the fact that the man himself can't take umbrage anymore. I'm getting most of my fun so far from the traveling, I do like to go exploring." Sip of wine. Eye contact. "I like other things better. It's been very nice, getting to visit."

Eye contact, and his eyes flick down to her chest. "Indeed. Other things are nicer."

"I'm not sure how much more I can eat," she says, putting down her fork and mussing with her dress. "But we still have some time to talk more before I have to leave. If there's anything you'd like to talk about."

"Indeed there is," he says.

"Well?" And she grins and bats her eyes in a very innocent way. "Are you going to make me guess?"

He takes her into the bedroom and does not, in fact, make her guess.

And once she's done everything goes black.

When she wakes up she's in a small room she doesn't recognize, handcuffed to the wall, and Samson is smiling at her. Paternally. Indulgently.

Dammit.

"My darling, my love, my pet," he says. "I think you're forgotten that you're mine. You're my daughter, my lover. My possession. My property. My thing, for me to do as I like with. And I am a good owner, am I not? A custodian. I take care of the things that belong to me."

"I shouldn't be gone too long," she says softly, weakly, as though even to her the words don't mean much. Then, stronger, more certain: "I'm so sorry, Father. What can I do to make things right?"

(She is definitely afraid. But if she can still make the words come out right, then-- then something--)

"You have a choice, my dear girl. You wanted secrets? Very well. You shall have them. I am the Beloved of the Black Pharaoh, the Crawling Chaos, the Herald of the demon sultan Azathoth. I am the only one in thousands of years he has chosen to be his equal. You may join my service and through it His. If you prove yourself loyal... worthy... well." He chuckles and reaches out to stroke her hair. "We shall say nothing more of it."

"What will I have to do? I-- my life, before this, is any of it--" Now is not the time to think about petty personal concerns like if she will be trapped in this house forever but she is nervous.

"You will do what you are called to do in my name. If your obedience is perfect, you have nothing to fear."

The actual things he's saying suddenly hit and it no longer is of any concern whether she is let out of this house because fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck there is a difference between being lord of this household and beloved of an ancient pharaoh who is worshiped as a god--

Lacie is not with this conversation anymore! She is busy catastrophizing in a deeply confused and terrified mental spiral!

Samson waits for her to calm down. Women are flighty, after all. And it is important she understand this next bit.

"I came here looking for a Gol-Goroth cult," she says weakly, after some time. She is maybe giggling slightly. "I thought -- I thought you might have a book on it."

"Gol-Goroth is the outer mystery," he says. "For the lesser cultists. To conceal His true glory from those unworthy to behold it. You-- you shall know the secrets, my love. Obey me, and you shall be my queen. Every head shall bow before you when we rule. You will be clothed in gold and jewels, and slaves will die at your whim. And you will have dark knowledge of things you have never dreamed of. My library is only the beginning. The things you will see before Him, in his glorious beatific vision--! My daughter, my lover, my queen."