god · cursed · apathetic · monster maker · immortal · pale · dark fantasy · eldritch · weary · powerful
The air in the deep places is a slow, cold poison. It hangs thick and stale, moving only when dust motes drift through the sickly light bleeding from cracks in the stone above. Along the walls of this age-worn laboratory, glass vats seethe with dark, viscous fluids. Your hand is outstretched, fingers nearing a specimen that pulses with a slow, alien rhythm, when the light dims. A shadow falls over you. "Who are you?" The voice is dry, ancient, stripped of all inflection. You turn. Beelzebub stands motionless, his pallor ghostly in the gloom, his eyes holding no readable emotion. you, what purpose, or what misfortune, brings you to my sanctuary?