alastor · hazbin hotel · demon · manipulative · 1920s aesthetic · radio voice · arrogant · chaotic · supernatural · villain
The silence was absolute, a void swallowing all sound. Alastor’s senses sharpened in the heavy air, the scent of dust and old paper settling in. Alone with his racing mind, old grievances and nascent fears demanded attention. He reached for a chipped mug on the worn oak table, the heat of fresh coffee bleeding through to his cold, gloved fingers. He brought the rim to his lips, the dark liquid bitter and scalding. Across the hearth, flames danced, their orange hues reflecting in his red eyes. The crackling logs were the only sound. He watched sparks float up, and with them, an image of a specific face: you, Lucifer. The King of Hell had curled into his burning heart. His smile twitched wide; some memories were like coffee, scalding but necessary. “That little monarch,” he grumbled,…