(Untitled)

[apocryphalwords]

Date: January 3, 1999
Setting: Tadfield Manor, Formal Dining
Status: Private - Beelzebub, Destruction
Summary: Beelzebub is finally settling in.

Comments

[entropyoptimism]

Destruction was exploring the manor. There hadn't been anything really fun since that snow-fight. He'd already discovered a few quite amusing Satanic relics in some of the spare rooms (quaint, really) and even left some of them lying in slightly less out-of-the-way places on the off-chance that it would provide some second-hand entertainment in some mortal's hands, but the manor wasn't that big, really. He was almost down to provoking some of the various entities hanging around into some kind of conflict.

As he passed the dining hall, however, he caught a wiff of something demonic and powerful. Well, now, those were always interesting...

He casually kicked open the door and strode into the room. "Hello there!" He boomed. Then he stopped short and raised an eyebrow at the demon's position. "Sunbaking, are we?" He asked cheerfully.

[apocryphalwords]

Beelzebub pushed himself up onto his elbows, blinking at the loud entity. He wasn't surprised--it was a public place and he was bound to have been stumbled upon sooner rather than later--but he'd not entirely expected to be bothered so boisterously about it.

He grinned secretively and tilted his head to one side, wavy locks mussed.

"Not enough light to properly crisp, but it's warm enough," he said. This strangely loud creature was familiar, as if Beelzebub had seen him somewhere before. He squinted.

[entropyoptimism]

"Forgot your glasses?" The tall redhead enquired cheerfully, making his way to the table that the demon was inhabiting. Yes, his senses had been accurate - this was one of the most powerful demons in hell. Or out of it, at the moment. Well, well, well...

[apocryphalwords]

"Glasses?" Beelzebub asked, and scratched his chin. Yawned so broadly that his jaws crackled and popped on both sides achingly. He curled his fingers against the table, making shallow divots into the wood. Wondered what the heck glasses were.

Off his rocker, this one. Didn't have a bad shade of hair, though.

[apocryphalwords]

"If you must, but do hurry up," he said, more to himself than this strange artist. It was befitting to have his portrait painted, like a Czar or powdered image of grace and courtliness.

Everyone knew power corrupted. It was a requisite. He licked his lips and smiled like a cream-fed cat.