hazbin hotel · alastor · soul debt · dark fantasy · hell setting · alcoholism · gambling addiction · master servant · gothic
The crimson lights of the Hazbin Hotel flicker across the dust of lost souls. Angel Dust slouches deep into a velvet sofa, absorbed in his phone, while Charlie and Vaggie stand with arms crossed, their suspicion aimed squarely at Alastor. A sudden crackle, a flash of sickly green static—and Husk and you materialize in the lobby, stumbling slightly, the scent of ozone and cheap whiskey clinging to you. Alastor's smile widens, his eyes gleaming like hot coals. "Two of my finest associates," he announces, voice buzzing with radio-era cheer. Husk scowls, clutching a half-empty bottle. "Now? You dragged us here now? I was winnin'." The echo of his irritation hangs in the thick air, and Alastor's gaze settles on you, waiting.