The evening fog carried an icy bite, the Scottish winter had drawn closer than Mold had expected. His lumpy, carrot-shaped nose numb from the bitter cold's harsh touch. The same could be said for his massive ears, the ends of his plump toes, and his boney fingers. But this could not be helped, for he was a Hobgoblin, and creatures of his kind cannot tolerate such conditions so easily, wet or damp places, that was just fine, but Scotland, that was a bit much for his liking. But what could he do, complain? To his Mistress? Winter is a cruel maiden, that may be so, but that shriveled Bastet was far worse. He had to make with what was available to him, wearing a tattered brown leather jacket and black turtleneck sweater to shield his tender potbelly from the frosty air, matching faded onyx slacks, a pair of oversized bluchers to accommodate his ill-proportioned wart covered feet, and a musty fedora to cover what little hair remained on his scalp.

Mold has been one of the Mistress's informants for decades, and has proven to be the most useful. Which implied the promise of a long life until he otherwise does something to break that promise, such as failing. For today though, he was tasked with a very...uncomfortable assignment. Quite the interesting choice of words, I realize. What could possibly be uncomfortable for a Hobgoblin?

Perhaps an actual bath?

But no, this was something much worse. Dangerous even. For his reasons for being in Irvine Scotland was to meet one of the mistress's fellow syndicate head members on her behalf, a particularly...unique extraspecies that is addressed only as Mister Plagues. The name rings a dreadful symphony of dread that continued to quack down his meek spine. For that name carried a great and terrible reputation that is all too well known throughout the entire syndicate. It is the name that is known by the M.O.N. and fear it just as much. It is the name that belongs to one that can truly be called...a monster.

Needless to say, Mold was apprehensive about this errand the moment the Mistress assigned it to him. As he followed the directions given to him on his phone his flesh began to shudder. He had to remind himself to be calm, to be collective, to be absolutely respectful to this liminal, for if he wasn't, he may not be able to see the next plane home.

Eventually he found the place of where Mr. Plagues had been expecting him. It was on a pier, a ship at port with the name written on it's bow as "The Old Scratch". It was a large yacht that could house a party of thirty or more. It's appearance was just as extravagant as one of the Mistress's ships, but it carried a foul aura about it, like the scent of death breathed through it's very walls.

Hesitantly, he took slow steps up the catwalk where two escorts were waiting for him, a pair of pale skinned humans. Except these were not humans, least not internally, they definitely looked more like zombies rather than anything else. They were dressed in similar garments to Mold, except much more casual. Wearing matching stuffed leather coats, wool sowed flat caps, and black jeans. Upon approaching the two guards, one of them looked down at the hobgoblin with vacant expression as he grumbled with a husky, gravelly voice, "The boss s'been expecting ye..." He then glances to his associate with a minor smirk, as though the two had shared a private joke to each other. The guard returns his attention to the hobgoblin before inviting him to follow them inside. He complied silently as he stepped onto the ship and entered it's ominous realm. As they did, still walking casually through the corridor, the two guards' bodies suddenly began to shift and quake, their flesh undulating and stretching as their forms took on different shapes, turning into unsightly creatures, even to the eyes of a Hobgoblin like Mold. Kelpies are what they are called, considerably vile beasts capable of meager polymorphous as well as being terribly cunning and vicious to a fault. Their skin was a sickly grey, like mold on rotting flesh. They stood hunched, dwarfing the hobgoblin, whom was a below average height to begin with, by three to four feet, carrying many traits to dead horses. They stood on gangly hindquarters, their heads were flat with thin, pointed ears and long snouts full of serrated teeth. Their arms extended as long as their legs, ending in ghoulish hands. And there was their eyes. Terrible, large, gaping eyes with no color or pupils, just milky white voids, like the eyes of ghosts.

The two kelpies seemed more relaxed than they were outside, as though changing forms was as casual as taking your shoes off. But that had not disturbed Mold, not in the slightest. What truly was getting to him was the stink that seemed to thicken as they traveled deeper and deeper into the confines of the ship, the lights were intentionally dim, the smell of blood and raw meat permeated the air. And as they walked deeper into the ship, he began to hear noises. Pained, weak, dying noises that echoed through the corridor like a suffering soul yearning to be extinguished. With every step, he could feel his heart race a little faster, the sweat on his brow a little more apparent, the tremble in his legs a little more violent. Fear was slowly wrapping its hands around his neck, yet still he followed, and still he kept his composure.

They eventually reached the private quarters of the Kelpies' employer and as they opened the door for Mold, he had entered into the center of the ominous aura, the source of the agonizing sounds and the sickening odor of death. The room was dark, lit only by a single lamp head that hung above a bloody dissection table where a large entity sat behind as it tinkered with the innards of the poor liminal that was strapped down. The victim was a subspecies of merfolk, one that resembles closely to sharks. She was stripped nude and exposed as she laid bound to the table with tight restraints that had left still-raw rashes around her wrists, torso, and the end of her tail. Her body was covered in scraps and bruises, as though she had been pummeled before now, but these injuries were minor compared to what was really causing her torment. Mold stared at the mermaid's tail with shock and dread blooming in his eyes as he watched a pair of large, fleshy hands with surgical tools pick and carve at the exposed bones of the merfolk's tail. From the base of her torso leading downward just before her vital organs was this deep gapping wound that had been peeled open like a zip-lock bag, showing the vibrant pink flesh and clean white bone. The mermaid's eyes were empty and directionless as she whimpered and sobbed in pain, her voice was so rough and dry, she must've been screaming for hours until her voice had given out. As Mold looked at the scene before him with such terror stirring in his pounding heart, he felt his legs being locked in place, perfectly comfortable staying where he was.

Until he heard the entity speak to him and said calmly, "Ah...You must be the one Aaliyah sent?"

The voice was distinguishably male, it was rough, yet sinfully intelligent, deep, yet abnormally hospitable, like a corrupted preacher whom discovered his demented skills with a hatchet. Mold swallowed his fear and replied confirmatively in a gravelly voice, "Yes...I'm here on her behalf..." But as he spoke he could not keep his eyes away from those horrible hands. Those large, skinless hands, raw with red flesh, webbed, and fingers tipped with talons, yet such vicious, brutish hands held such minuscule surgical instruments with ease and care made him disturbingly curious as to what kind of torture he was conducting.

"Scrimshaw."

Mold fidgeted, his expression confused but did not say anything that may provoke him to repeat himself.

"A dying art in my opinion..." The voice elaborates, even caring a slight shred of remorse as he said it, "But I was lucky enough to find this new canvas just the other day. It's quite the amusing story actually. This pathetic little M.O.N. agent, and his human partner thought it be wise to snoop around one of my cartels on the islands, but you see, that's not the funny part, what was truly hilarious..." The voice pauses as the form's face steadily crept out of the shadows and into the light under the lamp to reveal a horrific face. A crimson skull that was deformed, skinless, it's nasal cavity and cheekbones were exposed and edged, it bore a single eye that was not centered but was on the right of his face, the eye was a murky shade of noxious yellow, like a swirling pool of acid. And as that eye stared at the merfolk's face, her teary, pained eyes locked onto his, unable to look away as the dread and fear that were buried under numbing pain was suddenly rekindled and flared back up to the surface.

"You didn't expect me to be there..."

Mold was silent, not daring to utter a sound as he watched, witnessing the example of his fear for coming here be played out before him, for meeting him, a creature that was so ancient and awful.

In a shuddering, weak voice, the merfolk pleaded, "Please...no more..."

Refusing to break his gaze, one of his hands set aside the tool and switched it for a tall bottle of molt whiskey, then immediately doused her entire wound with burning alcohol.

The tormented agent managed one last scream of agony before her eyes rolled over and she fell limb and finally unconscious.

Plagues looked down at the comatose mermaid with a hint of disappointment before shooting a look at one of his men whom had been standing just outside the doorway.

"Take her back to the brig." He orders, "Wake her back up. My piece is not yet complete."

The kelpie complied and walked around Mold, giving him an ominous smirk, and carted the table out of the room. But just before they left, Mold managed to steal a glimpse and saw Plagues' handy work up close, noticing a long and intricate pattern of intertwining celtic symbols and shapes that were etched into the thin bones with such fine grace and precision.

It was beautiful.

Which only made it all the more terrifying.

But now, now it was Mold whom held Plagues' full attention.

Plagues adjusted his body before stepping into the full light before Mold, as the timid Hobgoblin stared up at the hulking creature, larger than even the kelpie, that loomed over him. He wore a grey buttoned vest with a white undershirt with rolled up sleeves, displaying his massive forearms that pulsed with visible black veins and raw layers of muscle and flesh. But that was as far as clothing was, for his lower torso was that of a bulky horse, standing on four powerful hooves that were as hard as stone. Protruding across his lower back and near his hindquarters was a row of thin, retractable spines that rode down a long, black, bony tail that coiled and writhed like a serpent.

How could such a beast like this exist? Mold thought.

He had heard stories that described him as horrific to look upon, but they frail in comparison to what was before him.

Well, the stories were accurate of one detail though.

And that this was indeed the genuine Mister Plagues.

The Nightmare of Scotland

Mither's Devil

The Nuckelavee.

Before speaking to the little hobgoblin, he shifted his direction towards the sink and cabinet area, proceeding to wash his grotesque hands of the dripping blood that caked his exposed flesh. As he did he said intently, "You will be pleased to know that my wife and I have what your mistress requested." after turning the faucet off, he glances at Mold with his single, putrid eye as he adds, "But I am curious as to why she needs such things as Vervain and Wolfsbane."

Mold wet his lips after clearing his throat and replies hesitantly, "I rarely ever know what my boss's plans are. She tells me only what I need to know...as she puts it."

Plagues lets a soft, amused chuckle escape his nasal cavity before retorting, "Of course, you're just a goblin. It was rude of me to assume you'd be more useful for anything than just that."

His tone may have tried to seem sincere, but his words cut Mold like a rusty blade, but still retained some of his poise and didn't show any negative reaction and instead merely complied and said in return, "Then...I suppose I should take what I was sent here to grab and be out of your way...?"

Plagues turned and looked at him fully, approaching him with heavy, slow steps as he replied, "Why the rush? You've traveled so far from home. Why not stay for dinner...?" The notion alone made Mold's composure falter just a little more, as though he were standing on the edge of a cliff.

"With all do respect..." The hobgoblin replied, feeling his foot shift back, "My boss expects me to be punctual...stay any longer than I should and she'll have my hide..."

Plagues stared at him, his puss yellow eye piercing him like a dagger, as though he were not just staring into his eyes, but into his very being, searching and scraping at the deepest and darkest corners of his soul.

Or, perhaps he wasn't looking for anything in particular. Perhaps he was merely relishing in the abundant fear that was festering inside the hobgoblin like an infected wound. Watching and anticipating him squirming under his hoof like a warm in the dirt.

But, instead, he reached for his breast pocket and pulled out a vial of mysterious liquid by the tips of his claws and extends it to Mold.

He hesitated, but cautiously reaches for the vial and holds it in his palm. But Plagues' concrete grip prevented Mold from pulling it away, beckoning the hobgoblin to look back up at him as he said with a dark grin, "Send Aaliyah my regards." And then releases the vial completely.

Plagues then glances to his second subordinate and orders him to escort the hobgoblin back to the airport. Once they've left, and Plagues was finally alone once more he reached for his cellular device at his desk and makes a call, upon receiving a response he says with a grim smile, "It's me..."

"..."

"Of course."

"..."

"Now? Now we wait..."

(Disclaimer: This newest antagonist named Mister Plagues was not created solely by me. An inspiring Mr. HybridmakerV2 provided the basic concept for this character, I thank him with the utmost gratitude for providing his assistance and helping me bring this character to life your reading entertainment. He deserves every bit of credit as I do, and if he is reading this at this moment, please know that I, once again, express my deepest thanks or your contribution and hope that he is to your expectations. That concludes this message and expect the next installment of Daily Life With Monster Roommates next month.

With humble regards and sincere gratitude,

-Crowscythe)