#alastor.

The name of the establishment was amusing to her, especially given the fact that it was owned by a vampire. How those creatures were ever associated with demons was a mystery, most of them wouldn’t last a day in the depths of Hell. As it were, she found herself seated upon one of the plush cushions, manicured fingers tapping gently against the glass of her drink. “Tell me the latest of this quaint city,” she posed to the familiar, for while she had heard stories, she also wanted the truth of it.

NAME:                 Alastor / Arlo S. W. DEATH:               1933 / born 1900  CAUSE:               The humiliation still stings, though humor can be derived from it nowadays.  Hunted down and mistaken for an animal never ceases to be ironic.  Lucky victim that day, at least ! PERSONALITY:  Charm and delight !  No genre would be without some easy-going gusto, especially the tragic and macabre.  Entertainment is key in this ethically derailed world-- however, that is not to say morals are not absent in this ghoulish entity, though it’s safe to say they’re rather askew !  There’s no shame in being picky about your murderous meanings.

At least some thought was being put into them, no ?  Better a meaningful death than one without purpose.

SPECIES:            Elk / Ghoul / Sinner Demon SEXUALITY:       Grey-romantic / Asexual BIOGRAPHY:     Family matters are not to be thought of, although there’s still fondness for the maternal side of his childhood.  Post-mortem, his arrival in the Hellish gallows was a statement all on its own.  The thrill, hunt, and drinking fear were the culmination of years of humanly secrecy, and a well deserved release of an afflicted soul ( in hungry eyes ).  There is freedom where there never was before, and there is no want or need to redeem these ugly bones.

The world has slowed down, most unfortunately, and the propagation of loud gaudiness is certainly not his cup of tea.

The haze of emotions seemed to cloud any judgement that Ángel may have, or should have had. But the loss waged itself against the anger that nestled deep within the hollow cavity of his chest, where perhaps a heart should have been. Surely it no longer existed, for it had been promptly ripped from his chest the moment that Dorian had taken his last breath. And instead of being the good progeny, instead of seeking out Gabriel or taking Dorian’s body back to Crete, Ángel had found his way to Just A Bite. Where he’d already ripped into the throat of some simple human, and though he had healed him, the vampire craved more. Something that was beyond the humans that flocked to the establishment, that threw themselves at whichever vampire seemed to look their way. And just as he considered popping into one of the witch’s homes, or perhaps even that new halfblooded palace, a new scent hit his nostrils. Now, this one was intriguing. “Well, well, well,” he mused as he approached the demon. “You are something new,” and though he knew the consequences of feeding from a demon, it almost worked to draw him in further, to test the bounds of what may happen should he take a bite.