#infernal-general

The café was alive with the quiet hum of conversation, the soft clink of glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter from its more spirited patrons. Warm light spilled from oil lamps onto the polished wood floors and velvet-upholstered chairs, casting flickering shadows across the room. The air smelled of sweet pastries, strong coffee, and the faint, heady tang of wine.

James Norrington stood just outside, his sharp eyes scanning the bustling interior. The night had been restless, a whisper of danger threading through the city, but he had come here for another reason—one that pulled at him like a tide.

Inside, seated at a corner table, Lestat de Lioncourt lounged with effortless elegance. His golden hair caught the lamplight, glinting like spun gold, and his smile was as wicked as ever. A half-empty glass of wine sat before him, untouched, as he surveyed the room with predatory amusement.

James stepped inside, his boots making barely a sound against the polished floor. Lestat’s gaze flicked to him immediately, a slow, knowing smile curling his lips. “Ah, James,” Lestat drawled, his voice rich and velvety. “You look like you’ve just walked out of a storm. Come, sit. The wine is dreadful, but the company… promising.”

James sighed, his expression stoic as ever, and slid into the chair across from Lestat. “I’ve heard rumors of hunters,” he said quietly, his gaze sharp. “Thought it prudent to find you.”

Lestat chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. “Hunters. Rumors. Let them come. I’ve grown rather bored of the usual distractions.” His gaze shifted past James, and a glimmer of interest sparked in his eyes. “Speaking of distractions…”

James turned, his gaze landing on the woman who had just stumbled into the café.

“No offense against your pussy or whatever, I’m more talking about the people that willingly put teeth down there....ouch.”

Alastor strode through the streets of Pentagram City, the confidence filled grin spread across his face as it always was, humming as he walked. Lesser demons scurrying from his sight as his feet clicked and clacked against the floor. His constant and threatening atmospheric buzzing at least warning others to get out of his way that particular day.

It was just a slip of a comment, a cocky little question meant to antagonise. Usually Alastor would not rise to the bait but that day was different, one too many challengers that afternoon. He recognised the orange glow of the offending fool. One of The Phoenix Legion. That complicated things but it was not something he could let pass by without making a show for those secretly watching.

A snap of his clawed fingers and a portal opened up just under ‘Ferenc’s feet and a black tentacle caught him by the ankle. Alastor was not foolish enough to hurt a member of the legion of course, but it would do him no harm to scare a little respect into one of them. The tentacle held him up and dangled him over the portal which opened up into a mind bending oblivion of a horror.

While the Radio Demon had proven himself one not to be trifled the moment he made himself known in Hell, few had actually seen him unleash the full force of his power. Even now, his voice full of a static, his eyes gleaming with malice, there were few people around to witness it. No; people didn’t see this often. But his blood sang as he walked steadily down the sidewalk, eyes glancing around slowly, seeking his target's form in the shadows. His antlers had grown, no longer the sort, pronged things but a full, branching rack of obsidian above his skull, the ears twitching as he followed the movement in the darkness. 

He could hear them, could smell them, too, but he was taking his time.

“Ḑ̶̂i̶̦̔d̶̲́ y̵o̵u r̴e̶a̷l̴l̵y t̸h̵i̵n̷k hid̸i̷n̸g h̷̼͗e̴̟͑r̷̖̎ḛ̵͑ w̸̽o̵̐u̴l̴͗d̵̎ b̷e ̴e̷n̵ough to g̴e̵t̵ a̶wa̶y f̶r̶om̴ ̶m̶e̸?̸” he called out to whoever he was hunting, the fidelity of his voice plummeting to something harsh and tinny, the static distorting at the edges of his words. It was less that he called out to them, and more that his voice boomed through the streets, carried as surely as if it were coming from a singular, large speaker.

Then it happened; Alastor caught a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision.

“H̴̹͋m̷͉̉,” as he spun and swept his staff, wielded in his left hand, in that direction, his other hand still behind his back, as a massive swathe of black, seething tentacles erupting from the space in front of him, green, eldritch energy crackling around him as they gathered in size and quantity and launching forward like a wave faster than the sorry soul he was hunting could respond to the action. It was not only the demon that these shadows had torn apart, but the buildings that stood in the trajectory, at least three city blocks deep. The smallest of these houses had crumbled entirely, but most still stood… they were simply no longer one unit.

flipping off everyone & anyone with his higher vantage point, hehe <3

@infernal-general

She better BELIEVE they'd be lighting the dancefloor ablaze at the next masquerade-- gotta up the ante, a pair of hot bitches could only get hotter--