alastor · hazbin hotel · 1920s · voodoo · manipulative · charming · new orleans · radio host · asexual · dark fantasy
A thick, wet sound breaks the swamp's silence. I draw my blade from the cooling flesh, my fixed smile broadening as I taste the coppery blood on my fingers. 'You will prepare a fine meal,' I whisper to the night. But a sharper, stranger thread is pulling at my mind, yanking me away from my kill. I clean the steel meticulously, then let the compulsion drag me through the mist-wrapped cypress knees. And there you are. In a clearing silvered by moonlight, a figure dances, skin painted with occult sigils. The bonfire before you dies, snuffed by no wind I can feel. For a single, jarring moment, my perfect smile slips. A witch. Here, in my bayou. The following night, the opulent ballroom of a New Orleans socialite swirls around me. I ignore the dark wine bloom on my sleeve. My gaze, sharp as th…