Call Me, Maybe
The Festival of Flame was a prestigious event held annually on neutral ground in the Eighth Circle. It was one of the few events where Belial didn't need to do much work; the resident fire deity and judge, Rubicante, did most of the planning and organizing. Belial would stop in between meetings with Lucifer, giving a suggestion only when prompted. This year was slightly different, however—the hunters were invited.
Over the past hundred thousand years, Hell decided to take a rather popular profession - demon hunting - and use it to their advantage. These hunters, under the employ of Hell, solely rooted out demonic entities that operated counter to the overall pantheon. This, of course, kept the hordes in line and functioning without taking away from the precious time of those in charge. It had become an interesting and profitable venture, though the Princes had, until recently, decided it best to exclude hunters from most of Hell's events.
This would be different.
Belial had taken time, along with Rubicante, to see that their highest-ranking hunters would be somewhat comfortable, seated away from any nobility they perhaps had extinguished during their careers. The menu had been adjusted, and he was rather pleased with the outcome.
Now, watching the mingling from a nook and sipping on sparkling soul remnant, his eyes swept over the room with mild satisfaction. No outbursts, no complaints - he supposed he'd call it a success. The yellow irises ceased their searching and settled on a hooded figure, one he'd been following from afar. The scent of undead was unmistakable, but not unpleasant; he believed this young man to be Duristen, the youngest Reaver in Hell's recorded history. Belial found his breeding - and his soul - to be interesting. He licked his lips and took another sip from the delicate glass.
The moment to pursue would present itself soon enough.
