Four...
Now he had a name.
It had taken time, and frequent yanking of thoughts out of their heads, for him to understand names. Sounds that belonged only to one being. Each of them had a name, and when he understood that, it became vital for him to have one, too.
He was more powerful, more important that any of them. It was not right for them to have names and him not to.
So they called him Nyax. Lord Nyax. Nyax was his name, and no other might have it. Lord was a thing that made his name bigger, better. Lord meant that he was more important than anything.
Satisfied with that recognition of his status, he smiled up at the workers crawling over the surface of the tall, tall machine.
They repaired it. They cleared rubble from around it. Soon it would go. Soon it would knock down the black wall he hated.
Soon he, Lord Nyax, would have everything he wanted--which was everything. All beings would do his bidding. Except perhaps, those whom his senses could not detect; they were surprisingly resistant to pain. Them he would kill, every one...