#muse-andre

Andrealphus did not visit Lucifer’s mansion so much as he endured the road to it.

The gates loomed like a sneer, wrought in gilded filigree that mocked wealth while promising judgment. Hell’s sky above the estate burned a theatrical crimson, clouds curling as if the air itself wished to watch what followed. Andrealphus straightened his perfectly tailored robe and lifted his chin.

Composure, he reminded himself. He was a Marquis of the Ars Goetia. Prince! He corrected himself mentally. Even if only temporary, unless he could convince Lucifer to take his side. He had commanded legions and survived scandals that would have reduced lesser demons to ash. And yet, asking for an audience with the King of Hell made something cold and irritable coil in his chest.

The doors opened without a touch.

He took that as a sign that Lucifer knew he was there and expecting him as he stepped inside and looked around at the gallery of excess. “Your Majesty?” The Goetia called out as he looked around, trying to decide which hallway to explore.

Andrealphus adjusts his new crown with an air of smug superiority, his icy gaze flickering with amusement as he speaks. "Ah, Citizen Stolas. For all his public missteps and sordid escapades, I must commend him on one thing. He's at least proven himself anatomically aware. A rather niche area of understanding, mind you, but one can hardly fault him for recognizing that he, myself, my dear sister Stella, his daughter, and a certain squawking feather-duster share the, shall we say, universal simplicity of a cloaca." He chuckles, the sound sharp and condescending, as he swirls a glass of wine in his hand.

"At the very least, it shows he’s capable of grasping some common ground. Pity he couldn’t extend that competence to maintaining a modicum of dignity in his station. But alas, I suppose even shared biology has its limits in fostering decorum."

@icecoldglaze

The underworld salon, Infernal Elegance, thrummed with demonic energy. The air was heavy with the acrid scent of brimstone mixed with lavender oils, the kind of paradox only Hell could make work. Demon Marquis Andras lounged on a plush, obsidian chair, his talons splayed out as a nail technician—a particularly skilled succubus with golden horns—carefully painted his claws a striking, blood-red hue.

"Ahh, Halloween — the one night mortals almost manage to capture Hell’s natural charm. The masks, the decadence, the delicious sense of mischief in the air… it’s positively adorable.

Do try to make the most of it, won’t you? Indulge in the sweets, the sins, and the style. After all, what’s the point of pretending to be a monster when you can be magnificent instead?

Andrealphus gasps dramatically, placing a hand over his heart.

“Oh, darling sister, what a cataclysmic betrayal! An Imp?! An Imp, Stella?! The humiliation must be unbearable. You—you, of all demons—cast aside for someone who smells like gunpowder and minimum wage!? Ugh!” Andrealphus paces theatrically, his tail swishing, feathers ruffled.

“But do not fret, my precious jewel of scandal and fury. You do not need a lover. No, no. What you need is a grand revenge arc—a public spectacle so dazzling it makes Stolas wish he’d been banished to the mortal realm instead!” He leans in, grinning slyly.

“Shall we ruin him, dear sister? Elegantly, of course.”

Andrealphus rolled his eyes with an elegant flick of his wrist and a faintly amused smile. "Darling, no, they won’t burn—not unless you say it with excessive cheer and glitter. Then they might spontaneously combust from the sheer emotional offense.

But truly, most demons have long since learned to roll their eyes and move on. If anything, they'll just groan dramatically and mutter something about "egg propaganda."

So go ahead—say Happy Easter. Worst case? You get a sarcastic “hallelujah” in return."