Fields of Brutality (Vlad/Lucifer)

The usually dark stadium was lit up as it would've been in the mortal realm. Well, in a way, one would suppose. The blinding stadium lights revealed the black rotted grass, which was marked to standards with blood. The sidelines were marked clearly: with rotted corpses. Several zombie-like creatures stalked around the field, mindlessly pacing the same area for the remainder of their lives. Shadows of winged humanoids often graced the horrid football field. They couldn't be seen in the dark sky, but the Daughters of Asmodeus circled the field like vultures, which they essentially became, tired of eating rotted flesh. They wanted something fresh. The usual traps and defensive systems of the fortress were powered down in certain areas, allowing easy access to the usual death trap.

The Viral Stadium was open, which usually meant the land's ruler was conducting some awful and vile game. One would be correct to think that, but today was different from the usual mindless slave being slaughtered by one of the archdemon's elite succubi. Today was special. Some of the most decorated and elite demons were invited to watch today's games. Some of the vilest, as well, opposed to the guests that prefer Belial's Colosseum. This stadium attracted the sickos, the violators, the murderers. For this was not a field of battle, this was a field of slaughter. Upon these high class demons was the infamous Dracula, who Asmodeus was simply dying to meet. The Impaler's endeavors in life served as a great evening program for the Lustful. He was also, quite devilishly handsome. The most anticipated guest, however, was the devil himself. Many demons gathered here just to try to have a chance to speak with him, which likely wouldn't happen.

The archdemon of lust sat upon her throne in the main press box of the stadium. The seat itself was made out of crudely put together skulls, showing obvious points of previous mishaps or breaks. One of the archdemon's daughters sat on each side of her chair, happily allowing themselves to be used as armrests. Surrounding them was planted a rose garden that grew through the cracks of the floor and on the decomposing corpses that littered the room. Due to the plagued nature of the Blightscape, these flowers were dead and black in color. Upon this grand seat sat Asmodeus herself, sipping on a glass of hard liquor as if it were wine. She was awaiting her two most anticipated guests, whom she had invited directly to her "throne room".

The demon's dainty fingers nonchalantly crushed up a roofie, before dropping it into her own drink. As she sensed the presence of her two guests, she would great them most politely in her native tongue. "Welcome, Vlad, I'm sure you would like a drink." With this sentence, one of the elite succubi would drink Lord Dracula an empty glass, before cutting her wrist and slowly filling the glass with her fresh blood, while making a few sexual noises during the process. "It's safe, love. In fact, everything else in this land will probably make you sick." The demon spoke in her enchanting voice that seemed to echo in one's ears.

After dealing with the Count, she would address her second guest as he entered. "Oh Lucifer. It's been quite a while, too long I may add." The seductress spoke in a different tone to her lord. It was obviously affectionate, in fact, it was almost comically overdone. A perfect smile fell upon her face as her elegant wings wrapped her body like a blanket.

It had taken some time longer than expected for the second guest to arrive.

Being the Devil himself held... perks. Amongst those was the spectacular fact that, unlike those pompous stick-up-their-ass tightwad angels in Heaven, you could turn up to any event at any time you wanted, and no-one seemed to question your punctuality. It was positively grand. There was no temporal obligation on Lucifer's part, and the fallen angel could more or less just stroll around doing whatever he liked.

And though his dearest Asmodeus, the Queen of Desire herself, had invited him to her stadium, her stronghold, her very home as a show of affection and undying loyalty, the Devil himself had actually been far too busy engrossed in watching this puzzling human moving-picture series they called Laurel and Hardy, and as such, took a while to arrive proper. Lucifer quite liked it, in all honesty. As fickle creatures as the humans were, they did sometimes come up with some good and entertaining programs. That Monty Python group especially. He'd considered recruiting some of the dead ones as personal entertainers.

Regardless, a few minutes after the opening events had begun, having landed on the roof of the stadium proper, the Devil dropped in from afar, and with a grandiose landing, thudded through a few sets of bleachers, splintering them on impact, before emerging from within, relatively unscathed, and beginning to ascend the stairs up to the press box. "Oh Lucifer. It's been quite a while, too long I may add." Before he even finished climbing the steps, he heard the voice of his shrill, lustful mistress greet his ears, and a playful smile slid onto the fallen angel's pallor.

"That it has, my dear Asmodeus." A broad grin stretched across Lucifer's face. "That it has." With that, he entered the press box proper, and looked down upon the stadium grounds for a moment, sighing gently as he looked upon the surprisingly well-tended pitch, nodding as if to concur that it wasn't a bad job. For all the Blightscape, the way that his lustful princess tended to her own stronghold was utterly surprising. The curling grass and ravaged landscapes outside told another story of the reason. Ironic, really, that the Demon of lust, the embodiment of all physical and sexual desire, had scarred the realm given to her in such a savage way. Delightfully ironic.

The games had not begun yet. That was... good. Of course, it was something to be expected. It was slightly irritating, the fact that he could never be late for something. Everyone was ready to delay the noted start just as a show of respect for when the Devil arrived. "I trust the two dozen Praetorians I sent over were all to the liking of your would-be team coaches?" With that, he begun to help himself, leaning down and taking a glass chalice from the grandiose sets, and wandering over to another of the succubi, grasping her forearm gently.

With that, his hand rose from the succubus' wrist up her arm and onto her neck, where he dallied for but a moment before cupping her cheek. The lesser creature of lust - whilst still certainly an incarnation of desire all the same - seemed to almost writhe orgasmically at his touch, the Devil himself choosing to brush her, not the others, but her with his fingers, as he curled up two of them and stroked his knuckles against her perfectly demonic skin. Her eyes rolled back into her head and she began to pant, tilting her head backwards and instinctively reaching down to grab for Lucifer's groin.

Moments before she made contact, Lucifer lightly slapped the succubus in the face, breaking the trance, and grinned at her, teasing non-verbally as he did. She was beautiful, fashioned in the image and desires of his princess herself, and whilst the Devil was not above that kind of debauchery, he derived so much more pleasure simply from teasing the succubus. Almost embarrassed, the creature withdrew its hand, and Lucifer's clasp lowered once more to its wrist, which he now took further liberty with, grabbing it tightly and raising it into Asmodeus' vision, indicating that he would wish to fill the chalice. "Do you mind if I help myself, my princess?" It seemed today was to be a good day indeed. To begin with the blood of a succubus, and perhaps to end with something more... carnal.

Though his travels here were limited, Lord Drăcula always enjoyed wandering the Blightscape.

The entire sphere festered with endless death and contagion, a hellish environment that looked as if it were ripped straight from The Divine Comedy and made real. The grass was permanently wilted and shriveled dry and colored in a sickly variety of browns and yellows, made even more repulsive to look at by the abundance of weeds. The air was even more foul, contaminated with diseases and plagues so far beyond human comprehension that it made the Book of Exodus look like Dr. Seuss. The sky was forever stained acid green, possibly a side effect of whatever malaise had corrupted the land so many ages ago.

In its own way, it was positively beautiful to look at. Drăcula had become accustomed to the stench of rotting flesh and the myriad pestilences that clung to it. Over time, he even grew to like it. Death was natural, and decay was simply the byproduct, a side effect of the fragility that all living things are cursed to share. But even his familiarity with these factors, death and disease, were unable to protect him from the consequences he would suffer from prolonged exposure to the Blightscape. Thus, he normally limited his stay to several hours at a time.

But this visit was different. More so than the few times he went out to feed; even a vampire, who was normally indiscriminate with who or what they drained blood from, could acquire a taste for certain victims. Instead, he was to be summoned by none other than Asmodeus, the Queen of Desire herself, in order to spectate for one of her so-called "games". To put it more accurately, Drăcula was given an invitation. And word through the grapevine suggested that Lucifer, the Devil himself, would be attending to partake in the barbarous display.

Even the Lord of the Nosferatu, in all of his astounding indifference toward anything and everything, had to jump at the chance to interact with not one, but two of the Archdemons. If anything, it would certainly bolster his reputation among the lesser demons, and perhaps draw attention from the greater ones as well.

Drăcula had arrived approximately three minutes into the opening ceremonies, and a great deal earlier than Lucifer had. At his side were two Nosferatu, slightly shorter than their lord and master by a couple of inches. Both of Drăcula's ugly-faced servants wore custom tailored justaucorps made of deep red fabrics and given black and gold trimmings, their necks protected by frilly French cravats that were kept fastened to their breasts by polished ruby studs. Many a demon considered the vampires' ventures to imitate the aristocrats they deeply admired as futile, seeing as they were immensely ugly compared to the Count. Drăcula honestly didn't care how they wanted to clothe themselves, as long as they were presentable.

The Count and his vampire slaves paced their way through the bleachers, dutifully ignoring the soft whispers of curiosity that circulated around them, as they ascended the stairs and inside the lavishly decorated press box where his host, the Archdemon of Lust, patiently awaited him. Upon taking the first few steps inside, his bodyguards assumed their positions at his side, bowing in the presence of Asmodeus before slinking back behind their master as if for protection. "Welcome, Vlad, I'm sure you would like a drink." The Count's nose shriveled into itself, white eyebrows furrowed as if he were discontented at the sound of his old name. By no means was she transgressing. It had simply become unusual for him to hear nowadays.

"It has been centuries since I last heard someone call me that name," Drăcula said as he paced himself over toward an empty throne beside Asmodeus, taking a seat as one of her Daughters, prized by their mother simply for being Lucifer's unholy children, offered an empty chalice to him, which he carefully accepted from the she-demon's hands with frigid apathy. "Many deign themselves to denominate me as 'Count Drăcula' these days." His cape swirled and flapped at the base of his feet as if it had a mind of its own, despite that there was virtually no wind to help it move like so.

The Count's nonchalance in their presence never seemed to deter the naturally flirtatious members of the First Legion from making suggestive passes at the Vampire King, looking over his extraordinarily handsome features with their lemon yellow eyes. His unapproachable disposition created a thick air of mystery around him, and it turned them on, made them want him even more. Drăcula sat there, never once paying attention to the enchanting demon women as one of them sliced open her wrist in order to squeeze out her precious blood into the goblet underneath, moaning uncontrollably as if the act of her self-mutilation had sent her into throes of ecstasy. "It's safe, love. In fact, everything else in this land will probably make you sick."

"A pointless and redundant observation," Drăcula accused the Queen of Desire impartially as he lifted the chalice to his nostrils, savoring the powerful iron aroma before pressing his thin lips to the glass, tilting it back to sip the liquid within. An ephemeral glint of crimson light flashed across the ruby gemstone mounted in his ring as soon as he lowered his glass, sighing through his nostrils. "I have hunted here before. The taste of my prey's flesh is unpalatable, but their blood serves a greater purpose." He tilted the goblet in her direction with a stone-faced, yet affirmative nod. "Regardless, I thank you for your hospitality."

It wasn't until the Count had finally acclimated himself to sitting beside Asmodeus that he heard a crunch from outside the press box, glancing to the left without turning to see who had arrived. To do so would have been unnecessary. He knew exactly who had arrived. It took little hesitation on Asmodeus' part to greet Lord Lucifer with such satisfaction that her personality seemed to border on obsessive. Unsurprising, considering that being graced with the Devil's presence was an opportunity few are ever given throughout their afterlives.

Honestly, Drăcula couldn't help but simply feel privileged. He would never admit it, but he felt privileged nevertheless. He withdrew into his own thoughts as he casually sipped away at his cup of blood, his dapper-looking associates idly standing by, as he looked down at the neatly tidied stadium in anticipation for whatever spectacle the Queen of Desire had prepared exclusively for Lord Lucifer and himself. In shocking contrast to the millions of other demons that would have jumped at the chance to talk to him, Drăcula never spoke a single word to the Devil, instead waiting for the Overlord to address him first.

After all, it was only appropriate etiquette to speak to one's superior when spoken to.

Lucifer had finally made his arrival, not that Asmodeus even noticed he was attempting to be late. Time is a concept not too familiar with the archdemon, who is constantly multiple forms of drugs, and has lived seven billion years. Time was irrelevant. Upon hearing the comment about the recently delivered Reaper Praetorians, the lustful demon jumped off of her throne in a dainty manner using her wings to flutter herself to the ground. The succubus didn't respond immediately, and walked over to the main window. The field was all set. Both teams of bloodthirsty guardsmen were in formation, ready to tear each other apart in the most nightmarish game of football one would ever see. The creator of lust let out a lighthearted chuckle before finishing her drink. "Excuse me, gentlemen." Asmodeus suddenly spoke in a playful manner before one of her archsuccubi brought her a microphone.

She tapped it a few times to make sure it was on before speaking. "Hello Blightscape!" With that simple greeting the crowds of disgusting demons were already cheering. Even the guests yelled out at the sound of the beautiful demon's voice. "Are you ready to rape, pillage, and kill?!" The crowd let out a relatively weak cheer, as if they had done this before. "I can't hear you!" In response to this, the crowd screamed her words much louder.

Rape! Pillage! Kill!

The tattooed seductress smiled during this chant. She knew, as did Lucifer, that half of these poor souls were mindless slaves to Asmodeus. Indoctrinated slowly by her lustful presence, and then reduced to nothing by plague and disease. It was the fate of anything that stayed in this sphere for too long, and the one sin the stadium were some of the younger, fresher victims. They were still capable of speech. Even the guests would have trouble resisting this. "As you will! Tonight, your mistress has something most delightful for you!" The crowd seemed to be confused at this statement, but cheered anyways. "As you can see, your lord and master Himself has brought some of his own minions. The game is simple; the team that gets the most heads in their respective goals wins!" The heads she was referring to, of course, were the Reaper's own. Hopefully Old Scratch wouldn't mind this. "Let the games begin!" Asmodeus finally cried out in a beautiful and mysterious language, directly mocking the angels and heavens above by using their language before such a horrid festivity.

Upon her announcement, the teams of lumbering demons charged at each other in a mix of strategy and brutal chaos. It wasn't long before the 'home team' kicked off one of the 'away team's' heads, which became the ball for both teams. The mangled body of the former Praetorian was dragged off to the sidelines, in which they would be shipped back to Lucifer's realm for 'recycling'. The hordes of demons drooled over this violence, and the crowd soon grew as chaotic as what was going on on the field itself.

Retaking her throne, the archdemon had noticed that the lord of impalement had made his seat right next to hers. Not forgetting his earlier comments, the lustful princess responded to him. "Well, Count[ Dracula, I was much a fan of you in life." She proceeded to pour herself another glass of the strange alcohol, which scent was even stronger than the rotting corpses in the room. "Most violent you were, creative, too." Asmodeus wasn't attempting to seduce the count, but her voice often did this naturally. "Do tell me how you came up with the whole 'impalement' idea, love. I do adore it."

The winged archdemon was soon interrupted by Lucifer, who wished to pour himself a glass of one of his own daughter's blood. "Oh, please." She said in a sarcastic manner, bending backwards over the arm of her chair to get a better view of the Devil. "Wouldn't you rather have some of my famous liquor?" She tempted the tempter himself, holding out a bottle of the stuff. The bottle was of elaborate design, and the liquid itself was the same color as the Blightscape's skies. It was perhaps at least twice or thrice as strong as Eath's most alcoholic moonshine, and would surely instantly kill any mortal from alcohol poisoning. This of course was nothing to the queen of desire, and probably nothing to the lord of sin. "Or perhaps you could have a taste of something better..." The archdemon said in an enticing manner, holding out her own tattooed arm. Her blood was like nothing that had ever been tasted before, it had the flavor of the finest wine, and the perfect texture. Asmodeus would only extend this exclusive offer to Lucifer from time to time, and it was a hard one to pass up.

The chantings grew and swelled behind them on the bleachers for common Demons as Lucifer grinned to himself and idly watched. Praetorians killing Praetorians never got old. The Devil watched intently and silently from afar as she made her calls to her quarry, her progeny, her people. Charisma came with being an avatar of desire; and she was the greatest so to ever brace these lands with her presence.

The enigma of a fallen angel mainly kept to himself, but his aura and presence carried enough weight, as did his image, thus that everyone from Familiars to his fellow Archdemons knew exactly who he was. It was only the more stupid, the aura-blinded Demon Hunters and Templars, the humans, who could not immediately so divine who he was from his simple existence and being in a radius close to them. That chilling feeling, that indescribable trigger for a shiver, that sensation of every hair standing on end on one's neck was a familiar one, but one most put down to their pitiful logic time and time again, not the proximity of the Devil himself. "Occam's razor is surely correct", even in instances of the supernatural, was the consistent theology of most of the common mortal rabble. How very wrong they were.

"Oh, please." Asmodeus snapped sarcastically in response. Silently the Devil arched an eyebrow. That would get her nowhere. Even if she did respect him in absolute loyalty, this Archdemon could get a tad... lippy, from time to time. "Wouldn't you rather have some of my famous liquor?" Grimacing, Lucifer shook his head almost vigorously, and came back with a poignant and sarcastic response of his own.

"If I wanted distilled Forktail piss, Asmodeus, I'd bring my own bottles of it." Perhaps Demons could withstand more alcoholically fervent beverages than the humans could, but that didn't mean that their senses were any less prohibited. That "famous liquor", though it was argued universally of its quality, almost scalded the skin straight from one's throat, though regeneration made that no problem, really. And the grim colour of it, even within the ornate and highly desirable bottle, was not making him want for it any more.

"Or perhaps you could have a taste of something better..." Now that was more his way inclined. Lucifer let the lesser succubus' arm fall and immediately turned away from her as his lieutenant of desire extended her arm. Consequently, Asmodeus' archsuccubus hissed in upset, wondering just why her lord and master, the Overlord of Inferis himself, had strayed so quickly, and teased him so; she had wished to feel his tapered nail upon her skin, gashing open the flesh, letting the blood spill and flow like a veritable waterfall from her wrist... but, alas, her mother's blood was so much sweeter. Though perturbed and somewhat distraught, the succubus managed to regain her composure. The Devil could be a real tease.

"My, my, dear Asmodeus, you do know all the right buttons to press, do you not..." And with that, he stepped closer to her on her throne of skulls, and outstretched a gloved hand to stroke her chin in a fond manner of adoration as something glistened in the Devil's pale blue eyes, something utterly intangible. "T'is the least I would expect from the one I created to show lust and wanton desire in such a form..." Lucifer murmured slowly, before nodding, indicating he'd take her up on this rare request, lowering his fine chalice to below her wrist. The fallen angel lowered his fingers to his Archdemon's wrist, and gently caressed the pale skin, carved upon with tendril upon tendril of ink of the deepest black, trying his best to, well, at the basest level, tease the angel he had created so long ago.

It was true irony that he had created her as an angel, a creature of purity, celibacy, chastity... and that this was what she had turned into. A carnal representation of the demonic sphere's greatest and basest desires. The desires of the body. The burning flame that showed in perfection the raging, undying spirit of demonkind's collective libido. She was the poster girl for sex plastered across the walls of his Hell, and the Devil would have it no other way.

Lucifer readied himself to slit a shallow furrow into her skin and bleed her waiting arm down into his cup, when one of the more mysterious visitors caught his eye in the very corner of his periphery. A quiet man, with a cold aura; not quite as apathetic and capable as one of his Archdemons, nor exuding such a presence of power or command, but the Demon was still a refined and arguably formidable resident of his little roasting evil commune. The vampire. Of course. He remembered when Mammon had started that whole thing with the blood symbolism. A messy affair, in the beginning.

"Vampire." The Devil murmured. "You must be the good Count." Lucifer asserted, outstretching a hand for a shake as he tarried by Asmodeus' throne, looking to the Nosferatu that flanked him mechanically and not so much as regarding them with a second glance. Ugly creatures. Wasn't sure why he'd let that Orlok create them, really. "Shame about the Ottomans, really. Was never too fond of them, myself." The fallen angel would have wished the comparative child of a Demon better luck next time, but, alas, the irony of that statement was perhaps too much for a first official encounter.

Count Drăcula firmly pressed his eyelids shut as the Lust Queen broke away from him and her Overlord, one of the Archsuccubi eagerly presenting her mother with a microphone that was lightly dusted with some kind of moldy film. Her voice, in all of its captivating beauty and allure, reverberated across the speakers distributed throughout the stadium grounds, sparking mixed reactions from the (quite literally) zombified denizens that were present. Through sheer force of charisma alone or some unseen power at her disposal, Asmodeus was quick to change their attitudes and rattle them into a violent frenzy, eager to see the players that Lucifer had so generously donated be crushed, battered, mangled, and eviscerated beyond all recognition.

Whatever she was doing to spark their desires for violence, Drăcula grew quite irritated with her overly chipper character. Asmodeus allegedly loved the sound of her own voice, else she would have been less inclined to ramble and more focused on getting the game itself started. The Vampire King clenched the armrest of his chosen seat, pointed nails scoring little grooves into the human femur that it was made of in his attempts to channel his ascending chagrin.

After what seemed like ages from an exaggerative standpoint, the Queen of the Blightscape had ended her preliminary speech. The kickoff had commenced, resulting in the death of one of the Devil's prized Reaper Praetorians via decapitation, followed by the sounds of the other Praetorians attempting to steal away the severed head through excessive violence. The Count opened his eyes to watch the ensuing madness in the hopes that one or two deaths could keep him entertained; it took less than a full minute for him to dismiss the entire spectacle, in all of its blood and gore, as a complete and utter waste of his precious time.

Asmodeus, however, was under the assumption that the Lord of the Nosferatu would get a kick out of senseless bloodshed. "Well, Count Drăcula, I was much a fan of you in life." A exhale of skepticism escaped through the Count's nostrils as he watched the Demon of Lust pour herself another glass of a foul-looking green liquid; incidentally, its putrid stench reminded him of one of his raids against the Ottomans back when he was alive. Good times. She continued her ceaseless prattling, her every word as sweet as Egyptian honey. "Most violent you were, creative, too." The Vampire King took another sip of the Archsuccubus' blood from his chalice. "Do tell me how you came up with the whole 'impalement' idea, love. I do adore it."

Upon closing his eyes to blink, his eyebrow produced a barely distinguishable twitch, almost as if the sheer stupidity of the Archdemon's comment had lowered his intelligence quotient by several points, if that sort of thing could be applied to a demon. He opened his eyes, turning his head to face the Lust Queen, having prepared an elaborate and illustriously educated response.

"Impalement has existed long before my time, Asmodeus, predating far back to ancient Babylonian society," Drăcula explained in a regal tone of voice. He carefully swung the chalice, which still held quite a copious amount of blood inside, over to his right so that it now hovered above the grimy floor. Behind him, the well-dressed Nosferatu that accompanied their master had made nervous glances toward the chalice; it had been days since they sated their unnatural thirst for the crimson liquid. In a startling display of composure, they maintained their positions, yet the occasional glances never ceased. A brief lapse in dialogue passed before the Count continued onward. "A vast number of cultures employed it as capital punishment. Specifically, it was used as a means of executing traitors and rebels."

In what appeared to be a callous act of disregard for his Archdemon hostess' benevolence, Drăcula tilted the rim of the goblet lower and lower until he released his grip from the dish entirely. The ear-splitting shatter of glass briefly echoed throughout the press box as the goblet exploded into a thousand little pieces, its contents now splotched into a crimson puddle. One of the Count's dapper servants could no longer maintain formation; the urge to lap up that blood over there was too powerful. Slowly, the Nosferatu creeped his way closer to the spill, hoping that his master wouldn't mind a little cleanup...

How wrong it was.

As if he had foreseen his associate's lapse of better judgement from the start, the Count had swooped to the right in one, fluid movement, and before the Nosferatu was given an opportunity to react, an overwhelming bolt of pain flared from deep within its chest, spreading throughout its body as if fire coursed through its veins. Blood rose up from the creature's throat, causing it to slowly drown in its own life force and destroying any chances it had of screaming for assistance from its partner, who had seen the entire ordeal take place from a distance. Lord Drăcula had completely run his hand through the insubordinate servant's chest until it popped through its back, soaked in blood and clutching the demon's still beating heart between his fingers.

The Count scoffed in disappointment. The least it could have done was ask to lick that spill up. "Here is a prime suspect of treasonous behavior," he announced before retracting his arm from the Nosferatu, who was now sure as dead with the removal of its heart, which had stopped beating seconds before the body it belonged to hit the floor. With a silent, menacing glare from the Count, the second Nosferatu frantically grabbed its deceased partner's corpse and dragged it away for disposal. With a sigh of relief, he swiveled on his heels to return back to his seat, still clutching the heart.

A few moments had passed since the earlier spectacle, and the Count had simply opted to toss aside the dead organ for whatever scavenger fancied heart tendons; they were far too chewy for his tastes. Asmodeus and Lucifer carried on about their Archdemon business before the Queen of Lust had tempted the Tempter himself with a sampling of her precious blood, an offering that had caught the Count's attentions, but only out of curiosity. How savory was an Archdemon's blood? Perhaps it was a question he'd have to look into at another point in time.

"Vampire." The single word caught his attentions immediately, as if they had struck a sour note with him. The tone in Lucifer's voice sounded partially derogatory in the way he muttered it, but it was nothing for the Count to get upset over; it was what it was. "You must be the good Count." And there it was. The Devil's very hand, offered to Drăcula for a cordial shake. It was an opportunity that many demons weren't, or still aren't, able to achieve in their afterlives. One would have to attract his attentions in such a way that his act of friendliness was deserved. "Shame about the Ottomans, really. Was never too fond of them myself."

Drăcula closed his eyes, lightly gripping his armrests as he processed Lucifer's statement. The Ottomans. Yes. Shame about them. It was perhaps the darkest moment in his life on Earth; knowing he had come so close to eradicating their wretched influence from Wallachia, only to have his own people turn against him and feed him to the stake of some, accursed Demon Hunter. The further his rage stewed within him, festered, the tighter he gripped at his chair until...

SNAP!

Another sigh escaped from the Vampire King's mouth as he reflected on what had transpired. Cupped within his hands were the ends of his armrests, or more specifically, the ball joints of the femurs they were made of. Drăcula took a calming breath. This is what Lucifer wants, he thought. A petty plaything, a toy to tease and make fun of in the presence of his chatty little princess. In retrospect, he was dealing with the ruler of all Inferis. It was well within his right and jurisdiction to treat his subjects as he saw fit.

And that fact angered Drăcula even further.

"Perhaps we can discuss that later," The Count dropped the ball joints to the ground, returning his gaze to Asmodeus' staged events. "As you've concluded, I'm still reflecting on those events." He never returned the Devil's handshake.

"A vast number of cultures employed it as capital punishment. Specifically, it was used as a means of executing traitors and rebels." Asmodeus listened on to Dracula's little history lesson, realizing by his minor disgust and tone that he was condescending her slightly. Some archdemons wouldn't of liked this, but the lustful one found it amusing. Such guts and indifference it must take to talk to someone in that manner. The count must be just like her: completely heartless.

It seemed that the Devil had accepted her gracious offer to drink from her own veins, as he approached her with a few words. Erecting her arm towards Lucifer, she softly laughed as if she were a giggling school girl. Her excitement was suddenly changed to disappointment, the Devil let go of her arm, which limply let gravity take it. She has been rejected. Emotions began to swim around in her head. Anger. She wanted nothing more than to destroy the thing that took the Devil's attention away from her. Dracula. Resentment. The archdemon wanted to turn his mind into a bloody pulp.

Asmodeus' pale eyes grew feral and angry. Her once limp arm steadily raised to her chin, revealing the sigil that was so elegantly crafted into her tattoo. The mark began to grow a soft red color, not being fully activated yet. Hate. At this point, the Devil was conversing with her target. Addressing him. Paying attention to him. Sorrow. The sigil seized to glow the reddish color. Pain. Instead, the marking suddenly shined a bright grey.

Just like that, the negative emotions were gone.

She quickly returned her attention to the Count when a sharp shattering sound was heard. Not very wise. If it was Mammon's precious glass he had broken, he probably wouldn't be alive at this point. However, such material possessions had little meaning to Asmodeus. She soon forgot about the broken chalice as one of the disgusting Nosferatu bent down like an animal to attempt to lick up it's master's droppings. How rude, thought the archdemon, and how revolting.

In an instant, Vlad performed a visual example of impalement, using his own hand. Good, that was well deserved. Blood splattered around the room as the vampire creature's pathetic life ended. "Here is a prime suspect of treasonous behavior,"" the Count spoke after removing his own servant's heart as if nothing even happened. The winged she-demon smiled in amusement at Dracula's little performance. "Bravo, bravo." The same demon who wished to end him soon gave him praise and applause.

"Leave it." The echoing voice of Asmodeus gave an order to the own of the Count's won minions, who planned on dragging the body out of the throne room. The extravagantly dressed demon seemed confused on which order to obey, but soon fell to the archdemon's will as two of her daughters blocked the exit. The body was dropped. Soon, a succubus ripped a hole in the corpse's stomach, following it up by planted a couple of vile looking seeds into the wound. "I was looking for some new grounds, anyways." The heartless archdemon spoke to Dracula's servant, ensuring him that he was making the right choice. The fate of the body was obvious by the others scattered around the room. It was to become nothing more than soil for Asmodeus' dead roses.

"A vast number of cultures employed it as capital punishment. Specifically, it was used as a means of executing traitors and rebels." The Devil shrugged unspectacularly, picking at his teeth and trying to get rid of an infernal tiny speck of some odd sort of meat he had stuck in there. You could have all the powers in the world at your disposal, true omnipotence, and control an entire plane of existence and dimension, but when you feast with Beelzebub and a tiny strand of Razorback steak gets stuck between two molars, it's still beyond that cosmic scale of irritating.

"I always preferred immolation myself." Lucifer murmured nonchalantly. "I started that whole trend off, but the humans really did take the cake when they started that whole burning-at-the-stake business." Maybe humanity had been crafted with an angelic image, but their improvisation skills were second only to demonkind. "But, hey, impalement does the trick and all. Murder's murder in the long run." Something of an oxymoronic statement to hear from the Genesis of Sin, but if anything, Samael was in his very existence an enigma.

"Here is a prime suspect of treasonous behavior," The Vampire King stated as his Nosferatu - without a request, it seemed - began to lap up some of the blood spilt from the chalice Dracula had dropped. Ceasing the picking of his teeth, Lucifer watched with a raised eyebrow as Vlad tore through the ribcage of his Nosferatu servant and yanked away its still-beating undead heart, throwing away the spent, clammy mangled organ as if it were child's play as his other servant took to dragging away the limp corpse of its slain brother.

And not a moment later after Lucifer's own statements, the grasp Dracula held on his chair seemed to somehow impossibly tighten, until-

SNAP.

The Devil made no attempt to hide his grin as the ball joint from the chair fell away. It seemed that the Lord of Impalement himself had something of a temper... of course, that was to be expected. Lucifer made no attempt to hide his amusement at Dracula's agitation in response - undoubtedly - to his original pseudo-insulting remarks. They had been intended nothing more than droll observations for his own humour, but good Vladdy had seemingly taken them the wrong way. With his primary experimentation over, Lucifer turned away and back to his Princess of Lust, who barked a command at some of her own more desirable servants to utilise the body of the fallen Nosferatu as grounds for those roses she so delectably adored.

"I was looking for some new grounds, anyways." Lucifer ever-so-gently shook his head with a wry smile, almost in disbelief at the corruption and the fact that such a perfectly grotesque sight endeared itself so very much to his own creation. His own kin, his own progeny, his own essence twisted by the Fall... it was... beautiful. Like a father watches his son grow from a boy to a man, here a creator had watched his project twist from an Angel to a Demon. And the depths of those twists and that corruption never failed to intrigue him and keep his interests poised on the next move of his lieutenants. He loved them like his own, sick, twisted children, kin, and lovers, all at once, such a horrible amalgamation of relationships that the disgustingly holier-than-thou Father above would condemn with his comparatively pitiful "absolute" divine might.

The game was unfurling below them but it seemed that in his greeting the good Count, Lucifer had left the matter of his beverage, the chalice still sat precariously on a pedestal beneath where he had held Asmodeus' arm. With one hand he held her limb once more, raising it and locking that cold azure gaze with her, letting her know that in truth he had not forsaken her to instead talk to Count Tepes; he simply had saved his matters with her til last, for even the Devil took upon himself the sentiment of saving the best til the very end.

Clasping in his left hand her wrist, gently he rotated it til it hung with her radius and ulna aligned vertically, so the blood would drain downwards, and with his right hand curled up every finger but his index, lowering it gently in a sweeping arc down to her skin, still gloved and still in his Mortal Form. But Lucifer, for the Devil he was, could disregard and bend some of the rules regarding his own world, and was allowed a minuscule extent of power even in this human-like shell. He stopped at the tip of her alabaster wrist, the flesh soft and gentle, before smiling at her. "I shall drink well, my Asmodeus." Mephistopheles muttered clearly, before lowering his finger in a decisive stroke against her skin, and opening a fresh wound.

From there the flesh split and a glorious trickling of deep, aromatic crimson blood began to drain, the stench of it filling the air and the nostrils of all Asmodeus' servants and delighted guests. And he yet was the only one present who would taste the rich tones and deeper intricacies of his own Archdemon's blood. Aligned perfectly, the trickling continued in a veritable stream til the chalice was full barely a half-inch below the glass' rim - Demons were creatures of excess and decadence, after all - before he rose his finger upwards once more, seemingly reversing the damage, and sealing the skin perfectly as if it had never been so much as marred.

A gentle buckle of his arm and the Devil picked up a chalice filled with the bosomy fresh scarlet tones of Asmodeus' blood, and gently sat himself down in a similar throne set aside for him. Perhaps not quite as decadent or extravagant as his usual one, and in this place second in apparent hierarchy to his lieutenant - for this sphere was his gift to her - but a grand seat all the same. Once he sipped at the liquor-like blood and chewed it, swirling it around his mouth with grunts of appreciation as if it were a truly excellent and strong wine, before swallowing the liquid and sighing in relief and appreciation. That very much was the stuff.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen," The Devil began slowly and quietly. The game was a world away from their box, and instead Lucifer decided of his own will to snap his fingers, and from nowhere seemed to swell the growing music, a sonic construct of his own omnicreation abilities. "I daresay the only thing this pleasant occasion is missing is a touch of music." From out of nowhere, seemingly a void in the fabric of Inferis, the waiting crackle of a spinning record player filled the room for a moment as the fallen Angel scrolled through all the fitting musics he could play in such a grandiose manner, before finally deciding on one. The British were truly the greatest for symphonic heavier tracks, after all, and this particular group seemed to have something of a connection to him.


Utterly splendid. Without so much as a crackle, clear as the studio where it had been recorded decades ago - which felt like minutes to a being of immortality like the Devil - the opening chimes of Iron Maiden's bells began and the chords rang out in power alongside frontman Bruce Dickinson's truly distinctive and recognisable voice. Lucifer hummed pleasantly along to it for the beginning. "I'm waiting in my cold ceeell, when the beeeells begin to chiiiime..." With that, he took another sip of his Archdemon's wine-like blood and looked to his peers with a spectacular grin. "I daresay once more, comrades and lovers, that this is an utterly golden occasion."

Lucifer grinned.

His little jokes, his lackadaisical mannerisms, his generalized aura of pure, unadulterated lack of concern with everything and everyone had finally come full circle with the Count, who was now stewing in a mixture of regret and frustration with himself. Deplorable. That was the only word that coursed through his thoughts as he ruminated on his little outburst, one the Deceiver displayed short-lived amusement before returning to his little princess, Asmodeus. Deplorable, deplorable, deplorable.

He made himself look like a complete fool before the Devil.

Still rattled from its master's earlier display of violence, the last remaining Nosferatu meekly returned to the Count's flank, slightly hesitant to uptake a dignified posture again but accomplishing the feat regardless of the overwhelming fear that ran through its animal-like mind. Lord Drăcula was in his right mind to punish the fallen one for such miscreant behavior, after all. Asmodeus would make fantastic use of the corpse now that she had some extra space to plant new flowers.

The Devil finished his little affair with the Queen of Lust, sampling her infernal blood for all its texture and flavor, before announcing that the bloody spectacle taking place on the fields below lacked music. Drăcula said nothing, still festering in mild self-loathing for his idiotic behavior, but neither did he hear anything spew out from Asmodeus' lips. Over the centuries he spent wandering Inferis, the concept of hope lost its meaning with the Lord of the Nosferatu. But, thinking loosely on the subject, the only thing he was remotely hoping for, now, was that Mephistopheles had good taste in music.

The song opened slowly, using bells and other, assorted instruments to create chords as a male voice completely unfamiliar to him belted out lyrics that matched the pace of the introduction, with the Devil singing cheerfully along in tandem. The song's speed eventually picked up, grew faster and more intense as the warbling voice flawlessly matched the increasing speed. Drăcula listened intently to the lyrics being chanted in English, which he understood clearly; something about facing one's end at the gallows, and being read rites by priests or whatever.

What drivel. If Lucifer had any complaints about the Count's tastes in music (or supposed lack thereof), he may as well speak now or forever hold his peace. Otherwise, he was going to be quick to make his rising agitation evident as soon as his patience wore raw.

No.

On second thought, fuck waiting.

"I no longer wish to be here," Drăcula muttered, completely dispensing with the excuses and the white lies as he rose up from his seat, snapping his fingers for the lone Nosferatu to join him at his side, which it did in prompt fashion. He briskly walked his way over toward the press box's exit, not once bothering to say farewell to his Archdemon hostess or her exalted guest of honor, whom mostly likely got his fair share of kicks and giggles for the Count's seemingly juvenile behavior. The vampire felt as if he were a child being teased by older children for simply being younger than them, and he wouldn't have any more of it.

Before any of the two greater fiends could stop him from exiting, the Lord of the Nosferatu leaped over the wall of the stadium in a single bound, landing effortlessly to the ground below as he made prompt use of the Archsuccubus' blood he drank earlier to sprout a pair of leathery, bat-like wings from his back. The lesser vampire servant, on the other hand, was forced to use the rafters and the rusted support bars to climb its way down, which it did with athleticism that hardly befitted its aristocratic look.

The Count was fuming, though it would never show externally. Perhaps he could take his anger out on some of Asmodeus' zombified residents? He was certain she wouldn't care one way or another.

Just look at the Blightscape.

Asmodeus smiled as Lucifer suggested the playing of music, and proceeded by doing so if she allowed it or not. Who was she to tell him what to do, anyways? How the Devil loved his music, and how he loved to sing. His voice could perhaps only be rivaled by the princess of lust, he was initially designed to by dear old grandfather. Ah, grandfather, what a fool. Not even with his all-powerful magic could he stop his own son from rebelling against him, a supposedly lesser being.

"Number Of The Beast, " Asmodeus' echoing voice replied to the Devil's song, "What a delightful album." She went on about Iron Maiden, amused that they modeled an album after her master. "I say they all deserve a place in the court." The fair skinned archsuccubus said with joy, continuing to listen to the music of the classical rock band. It was at this point in time where her honored guest, Dracula, had promptly gotten up, left the room, and sprouted wings to fly off. Well then.

"You don't suppose we got under his skin?" Asmodeus spoke in a sarcastic manner, all while getting up from her morbid throne. With a dainty yet powerful motion, her leathery wings expanded to their full length, creating a great gust, which knocked a couple of her harlot daughters on their plump asses and scattered a few skulls throughout the room. "Care to join me?" She causally asked the fallen angel, hovering over the ground with her powerful wings. They really were impressive, spanning almost twenty eight feet at full extension.

With perfect precision, she performed a stylish flip and flew out of the press box at high speeds, scanning the skies for the vampire lord. Sure enough, he hadn't gotten too far. With a flash of her archdemon power, Asmodeus flew at high speeds to catch up to the count. Even the demon's flight movements were beautiful and well executed. Powerful and fast, yet quiet and stealthy. It didn't take her long at all to catch up to Dracula, who she took the liberty of showing up right behind in a hope that he wouldn't notice her until she spoke.

"Such an early parting, in a rush?" The heartless one said to Dracula's back. It was likely that Lucifer was present at this time, in which she would signal to let her do the talking this once. He was probably bored from doing it anyways. "Take a moment and gaze upon the weak." The archsuccubus said before pointing out a mortal fending off a small group of Scrap Corpses - and prevailing. The young hunter was using an array of swords and blades to fight his battle, as that's what it appeared his Evocations were based around.

"This", Asmodeus said with a notable amount of disgust in her voice. Even outside, it seemed to echo. It was beautiful, enchanting, mysterious, unnerving, and creepy all at the same time. "This, is what He calls his greatest creation." She now spoke with a great deal of hate rather than just a hint, all directed towards the mortal Demon Hunter. "Not you, Dracula. Not me, not even Lucifer." The archdemon's perfect teeth began to grind in anger and hatred.

"Weak."

Raising her right arm, the sigil inscribed in it's complex designs started to glow a foul green color. it didn't seem to do anything initially, but one could see the young swordsman's movements get more sluggish and less refined. He took a few hits to the mechanical zombies. "Weak." Asmodeus commanded, repeating herself a second time. Not a second later, it seemed that the once fiery and determined demon slayer had actually laid down his weapon, as if he had given up.

"Weak." The lustful said a third time, as the demon husks ripped the poor soul apart, digging their metal claws into his stomach and chest to rip out the organs and consume them. they did the same with his weapons, as if they were buttered toast. The genesis of succubi let down her slender arm as it ceased to glow.

"These are the true blight upon my lands. Upon Inferis, upon Earth." A passion started to flare up in her. Mortal scum. Emotions were running through her head again. EARTH SHOULD BE OURS. How she hated emotions, so controlling, so dominant, so powerful. Her sigils were to glow grey once more, removing all passion from he empty chest and leaving her once more calm.

"You understand, Lord Dracula, we are strong, and they are weak."

"I say they all deserve a place in the court."

Lucifer grinned, nodding gently to concur. Bruce, Steve, Adrian... hell, when they finally made their way down - no rock star was a saint - then he'd give them a special welcome, meet them personally and whatnot. And then probably enslave them and make them play for him in the Spire. "Iron Maiden at your disposal" was far too prolific an opportunity to pass up. Hell, he'd done it when Dio died. "Agreed. And personally, I prefer Seventh Son of a Seventh Son, but all their stuff's great."

"I no longer wish to be here," Lucifer arched an eyebrow, but made no movement whatsoever to stop Dracula. What he advocated most in his realm was that it was a land of free will- bahaha, no, of course he didn't, but this guy was within the higher echelons of Inferis society, Demon aristocracy if you will, and cutting him down where he walked for such insolence, though perfectly possible, wouldn't quite yield as interesting results if the Devil simply observed. So, observe he would. "You don't suppose we got under his skin?"

"You know too well, dearest Asmodeus, that you have the power to get under anyone's skin." Except his, at least. "By the Spire, I gave you that power." The Devil remarked, murmuring once more and sipping at the chalice filled with her murky red blood - but in truth, he had simply deflected the question to further watch her responses. Lucifer knew all too well it was his mannerisms that had turned away the Impaler so viciously. And perhaps the golden tones of Bruce Dickinson - though Mephistopheles really couldn't understand that. Man was talented, opinions and music taste aside.

"Care to join me?" Lucifer shrugged. Eh, why not. Nothing better to do. Unlike Asmodeus, however, who performed a graceful feat of athleticism from the top of the press box, the Devil simply sidled through the crowds of upper-class Demons and made his way to the bleachers, ascending them with his hands tucked firmly into the pockets of his longcoat, sighing as he made his way to the outer rim of the stadium, and nonchalantly swung himself over it, plummeting with a look of relative boredom on his face. THUD. "...a moment and gaze upon the weak."

Not particularly wanting to go to the hassle of utilising his other form, Lucifer had simply dropped from the top of the stadium and landed maybe fifty metres or so from the small congregation with a hulking noise resounding upon impact. The falling time itself had taken up more time than it had taken Asmodeus to simply leap and unfurl her wings from the top of the stadium, but the Devil preferred this more simplistic, nonchalant method of travel - those feathered extra limbs were only to be used when the necessity truly came. A real artisan did not unveil his finest crafts til the very last minute; and after all, what was he, save for a fallen angel artisan, who had sculpted this world, his Archdemons, and the very people that walked upon the land beneath their feet? This was his domain. His creation. Just as his figure was - and, that, he could reveal at his own discretion.

"This, is what He calls his greatest creation." Silently Lucifer edged up, scratching at the back of a head of white hair with a gloved hand, not bothering to announce his entrance. "Not you, Dracula. Not me, not even Lucifer." Here she went again. Another spiel about the pitiful nature of humanity. Of course, he agreed; for something to be crafted so very much in the Allfather's image as he forsook those that were truly great, it made the latter embittered - but seven billion years had been a lot of time to think about it, and the Devil hardly ever showed his hand, and even then, only parts of it. People assumed his hatred for God. And, oh, sure, it was there. But sometimes it was better to remain an observer. That's what he liked to do. Now, having created the lands they walked upon - as they were doing now - it was far more thrilling most of the time just to sit back and... watch. Watch everything unfold. "Weak."

Well, so much for only watching. Seemed the Devil had spoken too soon. Asmodeus raised her arm and the sigil upon it in tandem to her hissing glowed a sickly green. "Weak." She re-iterated. The Hunter visibly slowed in his actions and movements. Ah, the craft of emotion. This in particular? That rippling feeling that made you scowl, judge an action, squint and think "...just... wait...". That which made you scared, fearing that you yourself could not possibly live up to expectations or to wants or needs from you. Incompetence. Incompetence lead to disappointment. Disappointment lead to failure, and that was here what Asmodeus was trying to achieve. Doubt. He knew the ability far too well. "Weak." After all, he'd given it to her - and he could use it just as she, the dark patron of Lust and Emotion, did. "These are the true blight upon my lands. Upon Inferis, upon Earth." Well, now, hang on a minute, that was a bit of a stretch. Humans - Templars, Hunters, whatever - weren't THAT big a problem. "You understand, Lord Dracula, we are strong, and they are weak." That was more appropriate, but still...

Cry underestimation all you'd like, but Lucifer didn't quite agree with that statement. Though tenacious and determined, in most cases, the Hunters were at best a tiny problem for Inferis. "Blight? 'Free entertainment' is more like it..." Lucifer trailed off in a murmur, digressing with his lustful princess. He thought back to that one... what was his name... Cross, the killer. The one he'd met on the interstate, in Belphegor's lands. Aye, he had been interesting; infact, most of them were. Humans. So fickle in their youth. So simplistic and so complex all at once. Contradictory in their very existence. "They're a thorn in our side, Asmodeus, that isn't causing us any long-term problems." He shook his head. "Sure, they're fun to kill, but trust me when I say that these Demon Hunters, these Templars, these Ritualists... won't change anything massive. Two thousand years they've been around - and that's long for humans - and they've never done anything significant, and believe me when I say that they never will."

The Devil shrugged. "They're children. They oppose their elders and they try to make a pitiful statement, but most die before they even know what an Archdemon is." Lucifer shook his head. "Their existence is not a problem." In an instant, he skirted around the group at supersonic speeds to appear barely inches in front of Dracula. "Your insolence, however, might be, Impaler." A sneer drew up onto Samael's lips. Though he was not angered or even irritated, he wanted to express contempt. Not that it was true, simply but a facade in the grand scheme of things. To fuck with the vampire.

An egotistical speech came next from the father of hubris himself. "There are some out there who would - and do - gladly flagellate themselves and pain themselves for all eternity to so much as gain a stray thought devoted to their name from me or mine lieutenants." Lucifer stated. True, as well. Damned fanatics got irritating sometimes. "And you getting an audience with me and so rudely shrugging it away? It's ungrateful. And many people out there would consider that a travesty. Punishable, too. Severely." Veiled threats were great. "I am the Devil, Dracula." With this, blue eyes, pale tone, sharp nose; he pressed his face in barely inches from the vampire's. A faint aroma of burning souls and true despair - variable to all who took lungfuls of the scent in - seemed to exude from the fallen angel.

For a moment he froze in time there, waiting for a reaction, but broke away seconds later, the limbo and stare between the two feeling like an eternity. The relativism of time when your life is billions of years long becomes... interesting, all held in all. "Buuut, luckily for you, I am a merciful Devil." Lucifer grinned broadly. "And I don't really give a shit about any of this, you're free to walk where you want when you want and all." And the cat was out of the bag. That entire speech had been purely to see the Impaler soil his undergarments. If he had. The Devil waved his hand, a temperamental Devil instead of a merciful Devil it would seem, just more bored than anything else. "So, where does the party go now? Back to the stadium? Or further off into the Blightscape?"

Drăcula relished the taste of the plagued air as he breathed in and out with regular intervals, unconcerned by its harmful properties like many of Inferis' other denizens, save for those that lurked the Blightscape, would be. The Archsuccubus' blood—which he tasted earlier, courtesy of Asmodeus—had done more than just give him wings like a can of Red Bull; it rendered him immune to the pestilences of the Blightscape. Being the progeny, the daughters of the Lust Queen herself, it was only fitting that they shared the privilege of intelligence and free will among the subjects they ruled, who lacked such capacities.

Among others.

"Such an early parting, in a rush?" Asmodeus' question was entirely rhetorical in its nature, yet possessed a subtle hint of sarcasm that, try as hard as it may, failed to wriggle its way under the vampire's pasty skin. The Count remained perfectly still, watching from the edge of his peripheral as the Archdemon sauntered her way into his sight without making an effort to crane his head in her direction, lifting a dainty finger to point toward the distance, the infected, ruined landscape she ruled with inhuman glee. "Take a moment and gaze upon the weak." Narrowing his eyes, wholly dubious of Asmodeus' ulterior motives, he obeyed without hesitation.

Meters away, in a clearing outlined by rotting grasses and several corpses, was a human being, a male, swinging around a multitude of swords in his attempts to fend off a throng of shambling bodies that pulsed and glowed bright blue, flickering like azure lanterns from where he stood as they failed to penetrate the amateur swordsman's defenses, their clumsy movement clear evidence of their, quite fittingly, mechanical natures. Scrap Corpses, a diabolical wedding between flesh and machine. Truly, a blasphemous sight to behold, assuming you were a human.

"This, is what He calls his greatest creation," Metaphorical venom dripped from her words like it would the fangs of a cobra, like a terrible curse spoken by a witch who had been wronged by the society that cast her out. She hated this human. No, she hated all humans. The vampire had to empathize with her, though. Humans were selfish things, a species that wasted the talents they were given by their equally selfish God. They deserved no pity. They were repulsive, corrupt, viruses in every aspect.

"Weak."

Miasmic green light erupted from the Lust Queen's right arm, originating from an ornate Sigil inscribed into her perfect white skin, and right as Count Drăcula took notice of the anomaly from the corner of his eyes did he catch wind of a subtle but highly visible change in the battle taking place in the outskirts. The human brandishing all the swords eased up his assault, becoming sluggish and weary as the walking fusions of zombie and machine closed in on their soon-to-be victim. "Weak." Drăcula's crimson eyes glistened with curiosity as the human, in all of his determination, had suddenly been reduced to a lethargic mess, laying down his weapon in surrender as the Archdemon spoke that word a final time. "Weak." In a matter of seconds, the Scrap Corpses closed in on their new meal and tore the unfortunate soul and his weaponry to tiny, bloody shreds.

As the apotheosis of desire recollected herself and spoke of humanity as being the "true blight" or something along those lines, a question bounced up and down within the vampire's mind like a child playing on an expensive mattress. What was the point behind her little charade? All Asmodeus managed to accomplish was to rob that fool of his will to fight—forcibly, at that, with the help of her Archdemon magic. Were she to have done that without the use of that Sigil of hers, then perhaps he might have been legitimately impressed with that little display of violence over yonder. "You understand, Lord Drăcula, we are strong, and they are weak."

"Blight? 'Free entertainment' is more like it..." That voice. The Count clenched his fists in response to the Devil's sudden entrance into the one-sided conversation, having failed to realize his arrival earlier as his attentions were fixed on Asmodeus' cryptic blathering. No, that was the wrong way to put it. "Failure" had nothing to do with anything. If the Devil wanted to make his arrival known—and he often did—he would have. Nevertheless, he was quick to entertain his diabolical princess with a long-winded tirade about the futility of human effort, confidently accusing mankind of being a trivial thorn in their sides and that, in spite of all they were able to accomplish in the last two-thousand years they existed, it never amounted to anything.

All of what the Devil claimed was true, and Drăcula loathed to admit any of it. He was feared throughout all of Europe as "Vlad the Impaler", having killed hundreds of thousands of people that dared to encroach on the purity and power of Wallachia. From petty criminals to the evil boyars that allowed such filth to run rampant in his land, spreading all the way to the Ottoman Empire he detested with every fiber of his being. There wasn't a single person he hadn't met while he was alive that either didn't fear him or respect him. All of what he accomplished in merely seven years, only to be destroyed by the hands of a lowlife Demon Hunter, a hound of the Vatican Church? Drăcula sighed conclusively. Perhaps it really didn't matter.

So what?

With clearly freakish timing, almost as if it were a direct response to the rhetorical question to a thought that he never made any attempt to vocalize, Lord Drăcula suddenly found himself literally inches away from Lucifer's presence, the supersonic movement he used to get from one point to the other having picked up a strong but ephemeral gust of wind in the process, causing the vampire's cape to furiously wave about as if it had been caught in a hurricane. "...Your insolence, however, might be, Impaler." Mephistopheles released a sadistic, upward curl of the lip, thoroughly enjoying the power at his command. The Count did nothing to match his arrogant expression, instead looking back into the Devil's truly soulless eyes with a dark gaze of his own, hardly doing anything to match or overpower its intensity. He couldn't. Anyone would lose a staring contest with Satan.

He seamlessly segued from one rant to another, exerting zero effort on his part to glorify his own image by claiming others of a lower caliber than any of the three demons present would have gladly tortured themselves, or even died again, just to have their dark lord and master remotely think about them, even for a fleeting moment. Ah, so this was what it was like to hear out a proud rant from the Pride itself, personified in its all its absolute form and terrible splendor? And there it was. Ungrateful, Lucifer accused him of being. Ungracious in that he completely turned away his presence, his grace, his very existence, unlike the billions and billions of others that would prostrate themselves over a bed of spikes at the snap of his fingers? He even went out of his way to slip in a little threat, too. How cute. But far from effective. Oh, he was far from "ungrateful".

He was simply an exception. An aberration to the countless, repeated instances that Lucifer was exposed to day after day after every, waking day of his immortal lifespan. Mind you, Drăcula still held unflappable respect for the Original Sinner, as he still did, even as the Devil inched his way closer and closer to his unbending, borderline obstinate poker face with total disregard for the vampire's personal space.

His earlier charade, what with that quip about the Ottomans, had been an excruciatingly valuable lesson for the Lord of Vampires. In spite of all that phenomenal power at his disposal, and the countless number of servants he could acquire and dispose of at nary a thought, he was simply putting on a show. An act. He was the Deceiver, above all else. If he truly wanted to exercise that power, that glory he so proudly flaunted like they were the Crown Jewels of England, there was a very large possibility that he would have done so by now.

"I am the Devil, Drăcula.

But he didn't. And the Impaler knew he wouldn't.

"Buuut, luckily for you, I am a merciful Devil." The Count's certainty in his hypothesis had followed through, after all. Without intending to make a pun, it seemed as though he truly had the Devil's luck on his side. Or perhaps it was an act of whimsy? It mattered not. "And I don't really give a shit about any of this, you're free to walk where you want when you want and all." Closing his eyes, Drăcula matched Lucifer's grin with a smirk of his own. To be able to stare into the eyes of all that was evil and live to tell the tale was not something he honestly expected, but it was an act that did help solidify his respect for his Overlord and master.

As the Devil interrogated both he and Asmodeus as to where their, as he put it, "party" should be directed, the Impaler proudly stepped forward with a suggestion of his own, speaking for the first time after minutes, perhaps hours of staying silent. All that sizing up the Devil did felt like an eternity, as it should. And, after coming all this way out into the Blightscape, he still had every intentions of getting a little exercise. "Might I humbly request to participate in a gauntlet?" The Count turned to the Lust Queen with sinister mischief in his eyes. "It has been far too long since I've relished the taste of battle." He opened his lips in a toothed smile, pointed fangs visible for all to see. "And I'm certain that one of my greatest 'fans' would enjoy a live performance."

"Blight? 'Free entertainment' is more like it..." Asmodeus lightly smiled when the Devil jumped into her little conversation with Dracula. The Devil? Entertained by such insects? Now, now that was simply silly. He wouldn't be so bored if something so trivial kept him truly amused throughout all these years, and the archdemon knew this. She fell silent as her Overlord took the stage, knowing her place all too well, even if she seemed to step out of it at times.

"They're a thorn in our side, Asmodeus, that isn't causing us any long-term problems." Only a thorn? A measly thorn? No, that couldn't be right. But once again, she was in absolutely no place to ask such blasphemous questions. His opinion would be her opinion, it would just take time for it all to sink in. " "Sure, they're fun to kill, but trust me when I say that these Demon Hunters, these Templars, these Ritualists... won't change anything massive. Two thousand years they've been around - and that's long for humans - and they've never done anything significant, and believe me when I say that they never will." This...this was true. They had failed to accomplish anything, but on the other side of things, what have they accomplished? Nothing. Little. The barrier between their world and the mortal realm still stood strong as ever, and they were trapped in Inferis, whenever they liked it or not. Possessions were nothing. Taking control of such a weak shell? Asinine. She didn't have a chance to speak up, as the Devil's attention quickly turned to the lord of the vampires.

Such a confrontation with Lucifer was something many had feared, but the Lord of Impalement seemed to have little to no reaction to. How strange. Even when the lord of all sin was right in his face, he did not falter, and only barely flinched. Perhaps this demon was even more impressive than she had thought. Oh, no, that would be silly. She would've ended him by now if he failed to impress, or at least amuse, the heartless one. She took a little time to look upon her world while the two "conversed" with each other.

Ah, what a beautiful green color. It was ever so nicely complimented by the dark reds of rotten flesh and dried blood. her attention turned back to the dead Demon hunter, who was all but completely chewed up. The corpses had no interest in anything but his organs. She grinned as she saw the once dead body begin to jolt around in frantic movements, before slowly rising up once more. And thus a new Plague Zombie was create, in a few weeks, it would likely be a spitter. This was the magnificence of Asmodeus' army; it was unliving. thousands upon thousands upon thousands would fill the lands of mortals when the time came, a never-ending swarm. The Blightscape's troops would without a doubt make up the bulk of Satan's army, serving as shock troops and simply cannon fodder.

"Might I humbly request to participate in a gauntlet?" The blonde demon turned her pale eyes to the vampire, not even bothering to turn her head. Her glorious winged flapped silently in the plagued wind. "It has been far too long since I've relished the taste of battle." Dracula went on, as if the Devil hadn't just interrogated him. She grinned slightly at this, just as she had to her newest addition to her army. She was indeed amused by this whole situation, even if she failed to really show it. "And I'm certain that one of my greatest 'fans' would enjoy a live performance."

Asmodeus looked back to her lands, initially ignoring the Impaler's grand request. After a few minutes of thought, she turned towards the Overlord to speak in the forgotten tongue once more, a tongue only understood by the oldest of the old, "Ambitious, reminds me of you a little bit, you know." The lustful princess said with a smirk before turning to the vampire at last.

"The current games will do you no pleasure." the demon of desire stated, as if she genuinely cared for Dracula's wants and needs. It was what she was made for, after all. "The field will be cleared." With that simple statement, she accepted the Impaler's humble request to do battle in her stadium. With a spread of her mighty wings, the archdemon took to her incredible flight once more, this time back to the Viral Stadium instead of away from it.

It only took her minutes to arrive, hovering above the stadium instead of from her press box. the ice queen watched the host of demons try to crawl onto the field at the site of the beauty. She was everybody's dreamgirl in Inferis, and she knew it. Surrounded by a few hundred of her winged daughters who so graciously watched the stadium in her absence, she spoke to her crowd once more, this time using nothing but the eerie echo of her own voice, which was surprisingly just as loud as the microphone. "Praetorians. Leave the field immediately." Her commanding voice was not loud in the way one would think, but yet she could be heard in every ear, in every mind. Without needing a reminder, the host of Lucifer's personal demons left the field in an orderly fashion. Just like that, back to the putrid locker rooms of the stadium.

"Now, we have a special event for you! Please, don't get up from your seats!" The archdemon shouted in excitement, opposed to her earlier iciness. It was now increasingly apparent that her own emotions were incredibly unstable. Probably from all of those years of heavy drug use and overusing her apparatus. She raised up both of her arms in a slow fashion, and as she did this, large steel cages rose up from the stands. She quickly lowered her arms, which caused the contraptions to box in and lock up, trapping the audience where they sat like a large cage of rats. She had trapped her own crowd, her own fans. Ice cold.

Now, what would make this even more grander? Oh, that's right. The Devil announcing the whole event, now that would truly be a treat. After all, it was likely the last time any of these wretched fools would have to hear his blasphemous voice. The archsuccubus turned to the Overlord inching ever so closer to him. She wrapped her arms around him in a seductive manner, only to whisper a single phrase into his ear, once again in their native language:

"Take the stage, my dear."

"Might I humbly request to participate in a gauntlet?" A low, sly grin crept onto the Devil's face. A gauntlet, eh? A gauntlet, he wanted? "It has been far too long since I've relished the taste of battle." Yeah... well, that made two of them. There was a part of Lucifer, a persistent, consistent, incessant tickle, nothing more than an itch; for whilst he was the patron of hubris above all else, he was indeed the Genesis of Sin; and Wrath was a sin in its own right. So, to sate his violent soul, spiritually, Samael did so enjoy a spot of combat every now and then. "And I'm certain that one of my greatest 'fans' would enjoy a live performance." Slyly, the fallen angel bowed his head. Of course; Asmodeus, would. But for him? Live performance compared nothing to interactive audience participation.

"Ambitious, reminds me of you a little bit, you know." Lucifer smirked in silence as Asmodeus spoke in an archaic tongue, not bothering to respond verbally, simply inclining his head in acknowledgement. His hand had just gone from amazing to beyond stellar in a few moments. God, how he'd play and mess with the pair of them over the events to come that day. If he'd have thought initially that this foray to the Viral Stadium would be so engaging and interesting, he would have arrived far more punctually. "The current games will do you no pleasure." Well, that went without saying.

"The field will be cleared." Abruptly, the she-demon took flight; and as if in tandem, Lucifer lowered and bent his knees, before launching himself into an incredible and precise jump, landing atop the very ledge he'd dropped from but minutes earlier, inches from the spot which he'd dropped from. It was barely moments until he rejoined his archsuccubus, the Demon of Pleasure and Desire herself, no longer in her press box, but now atop the roof of the stadium itself, her announcements deftly clearing the field of its previous, sluggish, dim occupants, his own Praetorians. "Praetorians. Leave the field immediately." And, of course, not wanting to anger their master's mistress, and, by extension, their master, they did so.

"Now, we have a special event for you! Please, don't get up from your seats!" Clinically, silently, surgically, Lucifer watched. Her emotional flurries and uncontrollable, often rabid mood swings were, to him, nothing more than interesting. So temperamental; and for all the stigma she spoke of humanity, their emotional fickleness was possibly a flagship trait of the mortal race... merely an observation, however, for the Devil knew his creation, his daughter, his lover far outranked those pathetic fleshy shells. Grand iron cages entrapped all of the lesser audience, a sharp intake of breath from the press box and the Demon aristocracy as the more plebeian occupants howled, half in anger and half in anticipation for what would occur next. Surely, such bindings only preempted a truly horrifying display of events? "Take the stage, my dear."

Subsonically, in that ancient tongue, the Devil whispered back, opening his lips for the first time in what seemed to him like a silent eternity. "Happily."

Contorting his form, twisting his stance, Lucifer, facing Asmodeus, began to backpedal to the very edge of the overarching panel of the stadium roof they now stood upon. It was what; two hundred, one hundred and fifty feet, if not more to the bottom of the unkempt, sickly green grass of the stadium floor itself? A drop surely terminal for all but the hardiest of Demonkind. The Devil's backwards steps did not halt or falter as he drew close to the edge; but only a wicked grin curled up onto his pallor and a glimmer flash in those cerulean eyes as he winked once at his seductive quarry, and pushed himself off backwards from the top of the stadium.

One would expect that in a bodily transition of the Devil himself some regal or horrific chrysalis would envelop him, and in the blink of an eye, spit out a grander or subtler form from within; but no, this was not the case, as it had never been. White turned to black upon his scalp; blue to red within his eyes; pale to olive upon his skin; his longcoat undid itself and seemingly turned to ash, revealing within only a single black shirt, which, of its own accord, undid the three topmost buttons and loosened the collar, untucking its tails from the formal, yet apparently comfortable trousers they were otherwise tucked into. And, for the most grandiose change of all, as he let those freshly tanned lids begin to fall shut, from his shoulderblades grew and unfurled, bursting with a simultaneous silent rip through the fabric of the shirt, two rapidly elongating feathered wings, glistening in the sun and blacker than the void of the cosmos itself.

Moments before the Devil would have felt his freshly invulnerable body slam against the ground and carve a deep furrow into Asmodeus' delectably-maintained grandiose pitch, this incredible wingspan tensed, and pulled Lucifer straight upwards into an even glide, a horizontal arrow shearing through the diseased air that surrounded them, before, finally, he used this momentum to twist his body around, opening his eyes, and grind to a halt, pulling his legs gently forward into a flawless, running landing. Around him, there was not applause, not cheering, not a chant in the fallen angel's name; but instead, an entire stadium, filled to the brim, fell silent.

It was clear now what this "special event" their desirable host had announced truly was. A sight many had never beheld; something many had never witnessed, and something that a large proportion of people would never witness. Those in the cages had not been restrained for the safety or the two regal Demons who drew up now onto the pitch, but instead for their own safety. The challenge, the gauntlet, the battle; it concerned no lesser Demons or anything of the sort, but instead, it was a duel.

A duel with the Devil himself.

The voice with which Lucifer spoke here was far less cold and detached than his blue-eyed other self. It was smooth, raspy, and kept the listener hanging on the edge of their seat, waiting for the auditory pleasure of every next word. "You sought for a gauntlet, Count Dracula." The dark-skinned Devil stated as his lips curled upwards. "I provide you with the greatest challenge one upon these lands could wish for." Hubris once more. "We will clash blades in this place."

Lucifer continued. "I will restrain myself to far less than the full extent of my power to give you a fair chance. Do not worry." But that smirk only curled upwards into an arrogant grin. The origin of pride. The original sinner. The first evil. "Survive and you will have my respect and a single boon of anything you could wish for amidst these lands granted by myself." Those were the stakes here. "Perish and your name will join a long list of those who died honourably by the hand of the Devil their superior."

A great whoosh of sound began to take flight as the very air in the stadium seemed to rip apart around them. From within this silent vacuum, Lucifer raised both his hands and pulled himself into a combatant stance, stretching his knees apart. The whoosh began to increase in tempo, timbre, pitch, getting higher til it was naught but a whistle; and then emanated a great flash of ironically holy white light, filling a small radius around the Devil, almost unbearable for most to look upon, but fading in but a moment's time, leaving behind a great mammoth blade fashioned with his own brother's ferrokinesis clasped with an expert grip between those two ungloved dark-knuckled hands. The Terai Saber. "You have one chance to accept or decline my request here, Count Dracula. You may retreat now and no harm will come to you physically, but I promise not the same for your reputation." With another sequential four flashes of light, Mephistopheles, having noticed Vlad's inherent lack of weaponry, created a pair of ornate yet robust weapons on the floor in front of the vampire utilising his lieutenant's own ferrokinesis; a great halberd, with both a blade and a point to be used as a polearm; a claymore not dissimilar from his own grand sabre; a huge iron maul, almost impossibly large in itself; and a pair of light, aerodynamic rapiers, for if the Count fancied a more speedy style of close-combat.

Lowering the point of the great blade accusingly, an impossibly large greatsword that a human of his stature would not be able to even consider wielding, he pointed the sword's length at the vampire. "Do you accept the terms of this agreement, Vlad III Tepes, otherwise known as Count Dracula, the lord of Inferis' Nosferatu?"

"The current games will do you no pleasure." Drăcula let off an insouciant snort at the Lust Queen's redundant proclamation. All she managed to do was reiterate the obvious, a feat that was hardly monumental, as if the Count hadn't just left the press box with such callous indifference that he actively turned away the presence of Lucifer, the very Overlord of Hell himself. A stupid football game—where pigskin balls were replaced with severed heads and burly athletes were substituted with a battalion of Satan's finest soldiers at his disposal—was hardly an event he should have considered attending. And yet he did. The absence of logic still pained him, but that was done and over with.

"The field will be cleared." The ruler of the vampires silently watched as the personifications of both pride and lust took to the infernal skies and darted their way toward the Viral Stadium, the venue he originally had all intentions of leaving behind him. Turning to the last remaining Nosferatu at his side, the Count pondered for a moment, but merely looked away and sneered. "Leave my sight." Without a word, the well-dressed demon bowed obediently before its lord and master before bounding into a bestial sort of sprint, running on all fours until the Count could no longer see it—not that he bothered to.

Curling his fingers into softly clenched fists, he closed his eyes and willed the wings he used to depart from the Stadium to take form once more. The hideous squelch of muscle and flesh being forced apart created a sensation the Count found uncomfortable, but it never lasted for very long, as the two appendages finally emerged from beneath his cape in a magnificent and bloody display, showering the crimson liquid all over the sickly grass behind him. Within two seconds of spawning them, Drăcula took to the skies as if the power of flight was an entirely natural feat for him to accomplish, rapidly closing in on the coliseum with his wings flapping in rhythmic beats until he caught glimpse of the two Archdemons perched on the rooftop.

His wings kicked up diseased dust particles from the rafters as he landed with a soft clap of the boots beneath his robes, not once bothering to announce his entrance. Barely a moment passed after his arrival before the Count cocked an eyebrow upward while the Devil boldly kicked himself over the edge and entered free fall, descending at terminal speeds toward the blood-stained grounds, where the Praetorians were no longer wandering about. Looking down, never so much as twitching a muscle on his paper white face, the vampire quietly observed the Devil with almost feverish curiosity as he, to put it simply, changed his appearance.

Hair as black as darkness itself. An olive complexion, indicative of constant exposure to the sunlight and befitting his cognomen of "Light-bearer". His choice of apparel was simple and unimposing, curious even, and contradictory to his status as the almighty, all-knowing Devil. Perhaps the only evidence of his incredible existence was the addition of two feathered wings, permanently stained black by the weight of his own depravity and vices, a hideous parody of what he once was before becoming what he is now. But what truly caught the Count's attention was the fact that every last demon that sat in the bleachers like the scum they were fell completely and utterly silent. By taking on a different body, the Devil had successfully erased all noise from the Viral Stadium.

Most intriguing. So, this was the real body of the blackest of the black, the Master of Sin, Lucifer's true form? Admittedly, Drăcula never suspected such a being of his caliber to assume such a modest form, which lacked the atmosphere that he could project with merely his own voice. Then again, the Devil could always hide in plain sight. Always.

Under the direct impression that Lucifer would be the "host" of this spectacle and not Asmodeus, as Drăcula originally planned for her to be, the lord of vampires followed his dark maker in suit and casually fell forward so that he, too, entered a state of free fall, with his bat-like wings tucked neatly behind his back while he whizzed through the infested air like a black rocket. Moments before hitting terminal velocity, the leather-like appendages unfurled so that their massive wingspan was now in full display, beating down several times while the Count arched his back until his body was vertical once again, landing against the yellowed grass with a hardy thud, folding the bat-like limbs into themselves once more.

"You sought for a gauntlet, Count Drăcula." The Impaler said nothing, only staring back with an aura of total indifference at the grinning entity before him, whose very presence robbed the world around him of their desire to cut him off as if his voice was all that ever mattered anymore. If only he had that kind of influence during his life on Earth. "I provide you with the greatest challenge one upon these lands could wish for." The Count closed his eyes and patiently awaited for the Devil to impart the challenge that awaited him. Once again, he had hoped the Queen of Desire would have been the one to issue it, but such an opinion no longer held any ground. Lucifer's plots would, undoubtedly, be her own.

"We will clash blades in this place."

The Impaler opened his eyes in a slow, almost unresponsive manner. Well, now this was an unexpected twist of events, one that a certain Indian-American film director would inevitably be unable to match. As he had arrogantly proclaimed earlier, to dedicate a stray thought to a single demon within all of Inferis, even for a fraction of a nanosecond, was an honor that many would be willing to endure an infinity of torture and agony for. But a battle with the strongest and most terrible of all demons, the genesis of all sin, the Fallen One himself? Now that was something that occupied an entirely different plane of possibility.

"I will restrain myself to far less than the full extent of my power to give you a fair chance. Do not worry." What impudence! As expected of the poster boy for the cardinal sin of pride, the Count cautiously observed the Devil strengthen the smirk on his lips into a full-blown sneer. Drăcula may have been young in comparison to the First Demon, and obviously less experienced than this entity, but he was far from being completely stupid. "Fairness" varied from person to person, and surely he knew that Satan could exploit this.

He was being patronized, and there was no denying this reality.

"Survive and you will have my respect and a single boon of anything you could wish for amidst these lands granted by myself." The Impaler cocked his brow again. At first he was skeptical of the Devil's alleged integrity, but now he was absolutely certain of it. This had to be some kind of elaborate sham. Even if it were completely within the Devil's power and authority to bestow the Count with whatever boon he wanted, there wasn't a single shred of confirmation that he would actually follow through with such a lofty claim. It was just like his earlier attestations that he would fight at a restrained level of power. After all, his concept of "fairness" was vastly different from its textbook definition.

"Perish and your name will join a long list of those who died honourably by the hand of the Devil their superior." Satan's definition of a "long list" was also subjective, as was his idea of an "honorable death". He certainly loved the sound of his own words, if anything. The Count couldn't help but ponder over the sheer number of instances he repeated that same speech, word for word, to some poor, greedy, unwitting sap who got too big for his own britches, only to be cut down like the worthless slabs of meat they were. The vampire winced as blinding light filled his vision, then vanished without a trace, revealing a gargantuan sword clutched between his hands. "You have one chance to accept or decline my request here, Count Drăcula. You may retreat now and no harm will come to you physically, but I promise not the same for your reputation."

The Lord of Nosferatu was presented with an ultimatum. Accept the challenge being issued by Satan and face him in weapon-on-weapon combat, faced with the promise of earning his respect and whatever he desired under the possibility of being slain—or turn away, without having to face the cold hands of Death looming over his shoulders, but at the expense of his image being forever stained in a negative light in the face of all demonkind. And even if he were somehow graced with the prospect of winning the battle, there was a very real chance that his rewards would surely backfire. No matter how he looked at it, there wasn't a single means or angle for Drăcula to approach with the fewest of repercussions.

He was trapped. And the Devil knew this.

Four more flickers of light erupted from beneath the vampire's peripheral vision, prompting him to crane his neck downward. "Do you accept the terms of this agreement, Vlad III Țepeș, otherwise known as Count Drăcula, the lord of Inferis' Nosferatu?" Lucifer challenged at long last, pointing the unwieldy weapon at the Count, who, for all intents and purposes, ignored the threat of such a tool being aimed in his direction as he studied the weapons that were conjured from thin air.

Four sets of weaponry rested at his feet, awaiting for his chilled, lifeless hands to pick them up and do battle with the Dark Master's fearsome Terai Saber. His eyes shifted back and forth between the claymore, the maul, and the halberd, not once humoring the presence of the rapiers, as he believed their flimsy design would do him no justice against such a hefty-looking blade. Eventually, his studious gaze landed on the halberd, an action he was certain the Devil widely anticipated, but one that Drăcula made no effort to care about. It was the most logical choice for him to make, in the long run. Why choose to brandish a weapon he never dedicated himself to, poured his very spirit into, like swords or hammers?

The vampire sighed through his nostrils. "I can only postulate the sheer immensity of your list of victims, the fools that fell for such temptations," Drăcula mused after a long stretch of silence, taking a breath of putrid oxygen like it did nothing to his respiratory functions. The promise of being granted a single thing of his choice was enticing, indeed, but as it was the Devil that issued the rewards, it was only natural that he make it a reward he was able to exploit to the fullest. "Alas, I can think of nothing that you, in all of your terrible power and majesty, can bestow unto me."

He turned to Lucifer and paced left and right, spanning the area that the weapons at his feet covered while locking eyes with the Original Sinner, his face fixed and unmoving, even as he deliberately seemed to spit on his assumed, and likely hollow, generosity. "Undoubtedly, it is within your scope and realm. As you've validated, repeatedly," The Count paused, leaning forward to clasp a hand around the shaft of the halberd he eyed before. "You are the Devil. With you, all is possible." Ah, a parody of the gospel of Christ. How delightfully ironic. He picked the weapon up, taking note of its measurements and weight before wrapping the fingers of his free hand around the instrument of battle, half tempted to caress it for being graced with such extravagant craftsmanship. "Even an utter dunce would do well to recognize that your respect alone holds more weight than any treasure you are capable of imparting, physical or otherwise."

With a pivot of the wrist, the pole weapon was sent twirling over the Count's forearm until he entered a marvelous display of precision control over its great length and weight, twirling and whirling the halberd around his limbs and body and through the air with expert accuracy and skill. He wasn't looking to impress anyone with his prowess, though. It was merely a test of its weight, and it certainly lived up to the vampire's expectations. Yes. This would do perfectly.

Drăcula ceased his little performance test by swiping the axe-shaped blade of the halberd through the air and toward the ground, its shaft propped up against his backside. As he turned to assume a reasonable distance from Lucifer, the base of his lordly robes appeared to fray as orange flecks of light exuded from the fabric, appearing to burn the cloth away until an approximate foot of the garment was scorched away, altering the robe's final size so that his boots were clearly visible to the public.

Spreading his legs to shoulder width, Drăcula gripped the shaft of his weapon and pointed its stabbing end directly at the Devil, carefully observing who would, irrevocably, be the greatest opponent he would ever get the chance to face in battle. "Your peerless hubris aside, I truly did not anticipate the gauntlet to consist of a solitary battle with Lucifer." The Count lowered his eyebrows, eyes fixed into a sort of Kubrick stare, the metal of his magnificent halberd glistening in the pale green luminosity that bathed the whole of the Blightscape. "At the present moment, simply requesting a boon of my choice is beyond my capacity. But, I suppose I'm damned at every angle I approach the problem." He gnashed his teeth together, taking a deep breath as he steeled his mind for combat. "Perhaps I should view the pleasure of doing battle with you as its own reward, instead."

"Happily."

And so spoke the Devil in the ancient tongue, a language not even the church was fully aware of. With this single word, the archdemon of lust playfully fluttered her illustrious wings, slowly gaining latitude on Lucifer and even more so the Impaler. For the time being, her part was over, but the show was far from over.

The Overload flashed a grin as he walked close to the edge of the press box, in which Asmodeus returned in the form of a blown kiss. With that, the white haired gentleman fell from the extreme elevation of the stadium in a uncaring matter. In an instant, Lucifer went through his transformation process, which was rather unfascinating in retrospect to most other archdemons, but yet more intimidating than the lot of them put together at the same time.

The princess of list raised one of her thin eyebrows at this transformation. After all, it wasn't like he had informed her of his plans prior to performing them. Rather than questioning, the queen of seduction merely continued to watch, taking a seat upon her press box. She was instantly joined by at least four of her daughters as the stadium fell silent. It really was amazing that the Devil could make even the mindless fall silent out of fear and respect.

It was now clear, without further explanation, what exactly was happening. "You sought for a gauntlet, Count Drăcula." Satan began to speak as the lustful leaned over the edge to get a closer view of what was going on. "I provide you with the greatest challenge one upon these lands could wish for." One could argue that he didn't need to say more at this point, and could've started the duel right then and there. But that simply wasn't his way, no, there had to be a boastful speech. That trait must've developed in his time in Inferis, as the she-devil didn't recall him being so chatty to the Father.

During Lucifer's speech, Asmodeus summoned up yet another glass of her vile toxin, raising it slowly to her lips while listening to the archdemon of pride's excessive rant. The Overloard soon drew his Terai Saber, a weapon that was not to be reckoned with. Even the lustful princess knew this, and she wasn't all that "into" weapons, preferring to rend minds mentally. ""You have one chance to accept or decline my request here, Count Dracula. You may retreat now and no harm will come to you physically, but I promise not the same for your reputation." The winged beauty smiled at this, knowing it to be an inescapable situation. He had to fight the Devil, otherwise, the crowd would be rather displeased. Oh, and that definitely wouldn't be pretty.

Soon Lucifer summoned forth several sets of weapons, the most important being a well crafted halberd. "Do you accept the terms of this agreement, Vlad III Țepeș, otherwise known as Count Drăcula, the lord of Inferis' Nosferatu?" The devil finally questioned the vampire lord. He only had one answer, really. The scantly clad archdemon finished her drink, dropping the glass to the stadium floor, just as carelessly as Vlad had done earlier.

"You are the Devil. With you, all is possible." With that, Dracula picked up the halberd, inspecting it's properties. The careless would've just picked up a blade and started swinging. Furthermore, he went on to reject the most gratuitous offer he was presented with. An unheard of action to the Devil, the princess edged further, interested in what would happen next.

"I can only postulate the sheer immensity of your list of victims, the fools that fell for such temptations," Lucifer shrugged with a sarcastic imitation of humility. He knew well enough that the amount of people who had fell for his deliberate schemes numbered into the hundreds of thousands, and he was at some stage or point responsible for the unhappiness, be it direct or indirect, of a large percentage of humans that were currently living and those that had lived across the eons on Earth as it was. After all; the Devil's very occupation was naught but to torment.

"What can I say," Lucifer spoke coolly, matching Dracula's gaze and idly twirling the Saber about his wrist, grinning off as his eyes narrowed to little but crimson slits. "I take pride in my work." The tone was as striking as ever; but it was the words that held true poignance for this of Mephistopheles' statements. The Overlord of Inferis was renowned for one vice above all else: hubris. Superbia. PRIDE. And to say he took it in his work was... something of a hilariously ironic understatement.

"Alas, I can think of nothing that you, in all of your terrible power and majesty, can bestow unto me." Lucifer arched an eyebrow and tilted his head inquisitively, lowering the blade in another fell swoop as his eyes widened back to their usual scope. "Undoubtedly, it is within your scope and realm. As you've validated, repeatedly, you are the Devil. With you, all is possible."

And the Impaler, the first of the Nosferatu, did naught but reinforce his hubris and self-proclaimed arrogance. Lucifer was starting to like this man as he felt their weary speech and conversation growing to a close with relative silence from the typically-unruly crowds of the Stadium watching intently around them. Inter-aristrocracy drama was unheard of, so all from the zombies to the nobles watched on intently to get the next slice of alter-dimension gossip for their own taking. "Hence I extend to you that versatility through a single boon. Within reason, of course, anything you can think of and simultaneously wish for could become yours." None of that 'three more wishes' crap. Though kudos to the vampire if he tried.

"Even an utter dunce would do well to recognize that your respect alone holds more weight than any treasure you are capable of imparting, physical or otherwise." The Devil inclined his head gently. He was proud; but moreso he knew the value and gravity that his word held, for as seldom as he gave it to vouch for any other amongst his Archdemon council. And with those words the vampire had raised his weapon of choice; the halberd. Fitting for a Demon of his title. A small sigh of laughter. The choice had probably been moot from the beginning.

"So he chooses the polearm..." Lucifer observed, twirling his own armament over his wrist and around again deftly, before inclining his head in wisdom and forethought. Another second, and the three remaining weapon sets seemingly melted away into some gritty form of ash, and blew away in a wayward gust of well-placed wind, scattering the grit amidst the field. "...the very I least I would expect."

"Your peerless hubris aside, I truly did not anticipate the gauntlet to consist of a solitary battle with Lucifer." Peerless hubris? Lucifer smiled. Why, what a compliment. And the display of considerable dexterity with the halberd, whilst appreciated, had been far from unexpected. It was not long til the vampire shed part of his robes in favour of a shorter attire for battle. Their blades' metal glistened in the rotting infernal sunlight. "At the present moment, simply requesting a boon of my choice is beyond my capacity. But, I suppose I'm damned at every angle I approach the problem."

As the Impaler gestured the point of the spear-end of the halberd towards Lucifer, so did the Overlord close up the ground, moving into a battle-stance of his own, but bothering to make no further preparations other than a pseudo-aggressive lowering of his own blade, clasping the hilt with both hands. The true poignancy of the Terai Saber was its ability to essentially become amorphous at a moment's notice and reshape itself swiftly to suit the battle; but for the moment, that power would remain tentatively under wraps. And the size that the blade was at now was ample, destructive, and... versatile. "Inferis is full of surprises, Count Dracula." The Devil whispered back with madness in those crimson eyes.

"Perhaps I should view the pleasure of doing battle with you as its own reward, instead." Perhaps. Perhaps the Impaler was correct. Perhaps that in itself was a boon. Perhaps the experience of a lifetime - no, the experience of a thousand lifetimes - even at threat and near-certainty of death, was its own reward. The journey comes to be of more importance than the end, after all. So, perhaps. Perhaps the vampire was right in that.

"And perhaps we have been conversing for far too long." Those honeyed words rolled from the lips of the Devil as he lowered one hand from the weight of the Saber's hilt and raised it, bare and glistening with its olive brush, into the air, balled into a fist, slowly, as Lucifer stared up and waited for it to occur. And almost instinctively, the stadium filled with the swelling cheer of tens of thousands upon tens of thousands of Demons, a legion all pledging not so much their allegiance but their wish to see their unholy proctor and master do battle upon the most despicable and venomous of grounds. To see Mephistopheles' seldom-showcased talent for battle upon the field of the Blightscape. To see blood shed.

And what was Lucifer to do but to give the people what they wanted, as over and over, swarming and in crowds, tiny hands like grains of sand pumping up over and over into the sky, chanting his angelic moniker over and over again to a split sickly green skyline hanging over the Viral Stadium on this January day? His eyes narrowed a deathly crimson and that balled up fist in a moment returned to the haft of the blade as the cheering began to fade.


His brow furrowed; for he had given the Impaler the chance to make the first move, but the Nosferatu had forsaken it instead by speaking in kind. When the Devil gave him an opportunity, he chose instead politesse. Lucifer was not sure to respect or condemn that by the ways of demonkind. Instead, bearing the blade in front of him, yanking it to his left and holding it out in front of his body, Satan made his first charge towards Vlad, the blade held out forwards and further forwards in a lunge. Restraint was key here; for holding back his true strength, his true speed, his true resilience; to put the pair of them on an even keel. For he wanted to challenge the vampire; but not humiliate him.

The first lunge was aimed at the aristocrat's abdomen, but after that Lucifer yanked the blade back whether it made contact or was blocked, and pulled it upwards before bringing it back down in a great, slanted cleave-like overhead strike, aiming to slash, momentum in tow, from Dracula's right shoulder down to left hip across his torso; once more a training blow, to see whether or not it would glance away, testing the vampire before he next ramped up the blows.

Finally, with a display of acrobatic reflexes, the Devil recoiled backwards a step, and leapt, pulling himself into a contortionist's somersault, rapidly over Vlad, twisting in mid-air with that very same toothy and unusually white grin upon his face, becoming a very spiral of death itself, a harbinger of the cruel, impending, and almost inevitable fate of pain that he brought readily with him against the vampire. Landing barely three feet away from the fellow Demon's back, he waited but a split-second before twisting his blade and pulling in for another deft slash across the small of his back, and leaping backwards once more, to see if the blow was evaded or blocked, holding the flat of the Terai Saber across his body as a guard, drawing back his lips into an arrogant sneer as Lucifer glared at his would-be comrade and current opponent, waiting for a response in kind.

For even at the basest level, what was the Devil himself but the foulest of gladiators once given a greater title and set of feathered wings?

"And perhaps we have been conversing for far too long." Drăcula's eyes narrowed fiercely, staring back into the blackest angel's scarlet eyes as he cautiously watched him remove a hand from the monstrosity that was his weapon, the Terai Saber, balling it into a tight fist and raising it on high while staring proudly toward the foul skies of Inferis. Then, in that one moment, the ground quaked and the heavens rattled with the bloodthirsty cheers and thunderous applause of hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of Satan's demonic progeny, hungrily demanding, yearning for their dark lord and master to battle the vampire like the mindless drones they were.

As the Devil lowered that fist of his and resumed his two-handed grip of the massive sword in his clutches, Vlad mimicked his movement and shifted the hand closest to his opponent a couple of inches up the shaft of his halberd, his ears tuned in on the crowd's symphonic chanting. How fitting, the vampire mused with twisted curiosity, that the raw embodiment of arrogance and hubris was able to enjoy the privilege of basking in the popularity being continuously rained down on him at every angle. His conceitedness, unequaled by any and surpassing all, blemished every square inch of his perfect, olive skin. And he loved it. Every, single, waking second of it.

He would never deign to admit such a thing out in the open, but Drăcula felt the icy air of jealousy lingering over his broad shoulders like a phantom, cackling and tormenting him from within the bowels of his mind. He was envious of the Morning Star's popularity and power; he scope and influence was limitless, stretching to the furthest corners of creation and nonexistence. He hungered for this kind of power, lusted for it. No, he wanted it all for himself. Yet, the more he wanted Lucifer's lofty throne and crown, the angrier it made the Impaler, for he would never obtain such treasures. Those were forever out of his reach, and he was loathed to accept that as reality.

Drăcula channeled the anger that grew and swelled within him into his weapon, the halberd, his eyes now burning with the desire to prove his mettle to his inverse maker with wings of absolute black. Restrained or not, the Impaler would grant Satan no quarter, and he expected the same from him as well.

Lucifer took it upon his diabolical greatness to make the first move, yanking the enormous Terai Saber to his left flank before thrusting himself and the weapon forward into a mighty charge, a move the vampire fully anticipated. Tipping the spear end of his halberd toward the ground, he pumped his left arm so that the momentum generated by it forced the weapon upward, successfully parrying the great sword with a shower of sparks, halting its advance before it had the opportunity to pierce his stomach.

Both of their instruments of battle scraped furiously against one another, metal screeching against metal like nails on a chalkboard, as the Devil pulled his sword back in order to hoist it upward, then attempted to bring it down in a diagonal cleave. Scoffing, Drăcula altered his stance by stepping forward with this left foot, positioning himself just right so that he could skillfully thrust the halberd skyward with his right arm, stopping the mighty blade between the axe-like portion of the halberd and its pointed, spear-like end with surgical precision and juggernaut-like stamina.

Once again, the Devil pulled his sword away from the clutches of the Count's halberd, creating another marvelous display of sparks in the process. Putting his predatory sight to fullest use, the Impaler watched as his opponent literally vaulted over him, sporting a pearly white smile as he sailed through the air with flawless form and grace, before landing behind him approximately a complete yard away. Instinctively reacting to the acrobatic maneuver, Drăcula swung his body around, his cape flowing perfectly with his his movements, as he gripped the halberd's shaft with both hands once more so that he could slam the axe-like blade directly against the cutting edge of the Terai Saber in one, fluid motion, barely managing to stop it from touching his body before Lucifer pulled away from him and entered a guarded posture.

The Count let loose a bestial sort of snarl from the depths of his throat, glaring at the Devil in focused rage, gripping his halberd as if his life depended on it, which it really did at this point. Satan stayed true to his eternal profession; he was testing him. Poking him, prodding him, tormenting him with dummy strikes and training blows until the lesser of the two evil beings succumbed to the petty assault. Certainly, Lucifer was mocking him, intentionally or not, and the uproarious crowd demanded to see more of the action unfold.

"Hmph." Suddenly, Drăcula took several steps forward to close the distance between himself and the Devil before pulling his halberd backwards before pushing the spear-end in his opponent's direction with a powerful thrust, lunging directly for the throat like a wild predator would. Of course, the attack was performed merely for the vampire to test the waters, as it were, to get a feel for Satan's fighting style; blocking it would be no problem for the Overlord. The Count followed up with two more thrusts from his weapon, the first aimed at the Devil's exposed shoulder, while the second was directed toward his legs with laser precision. Given that he was using the flat of the Terai Saber as an impromptu shield, he hardly expected anything less than his attacks being staved off by the great weapon.

But skewering body parts at random wasn't the vampire's ultimate intention—at least, not yet. He merely wanted to create an opening, an opportunity to land a real blow against him. He wanted to deceive the Deceiver himself. Spinning to the right with fluid motion, his massive cape following suit in a dance of black and red, the Impaler grunted as he gripped the halberd with both hands and attempted to bring its broad, axe-like blade into Lucifer's body with a savage horizontal chop, aimed directly for his neck. Expecting his skillful attack to be deflected by the Saber, Vlad immediately broke into a leftward spin and entered a crouched position throughout the action, deftly moving his halberd with the momentum his body created in order to get a clean slice at the front of Lucifer's legs, after which he would kick backwards and return to standing from a distance, ready to continue the match at the drop of a pin.

The Count knew what he was up against, and yet his body and mind behaved almost instinctively, as if it knew what to do against an opponent who was, in every way, vastly superior to him. Such overwhelming odds reminded the vampire of the Ottomans he strove to eradicate; as quickly as the thought vanished from his mind, Drăcula bared his signature fangs at Mephistopheles, growling like a starved wolf desperate to savor the flesh of its prey. The pupils of his sanguine red eyes narrowed into bestial, almost lizard-like slits, glazed over with the bloodlust and insanity that he was once feared for in life.

"Hmph."

That was all that the stoic vampire let slip from his throat as he marched forwards in an opening thrust as a rebuttal to Lucifer's string of low-tier attacks. The first went straight to his throat in a simple attempt to skewer it, and idly the Devil sidestepped, pushing the tendons and sinews of his neck just ever-so-slightly to the right to allow the tapered point of the halberd's spear-section to thrust through the air where his jugular had once been. In a raising of one eyebrow, he let himself display a small amount of respect for the Impaler's nigh-on perfect aim, but let the small line of hair fall not moments later. This was to be expected - even of such a younger Demon.

The Count did not relent, following up instead with two continual thrusts. The first went for his shoulder; but instead of sidestepping once more, Mephistopheles instead went to block, this time, glancing it off. However, the Terai Saber dared not to move without its master's command, and a single of the fists clasping the hilt left the blade, instead to move upwards, wrist clad by only a thin line of fabric. Lucifer brought his own hand up in a horizontal sweep to knock the tempered metal shaft of the halberd off-balance before Dracula pulled back once more and went instead this time for his legs.

Without returning the second hand to the blade's pommel in time to deflect once more, in a clockwise, pendulum-esque movement, Lucifer lowered the glistening and ornate once-fluid metal of the blade down in an arc to expressly meet the point of the halberd, which bounced off with a resonating clang, and a responsive "oooooooh" from the crowd of the Blightscape's onlookers, witnesses whose hearts pounded and thrummed with every beat of the pair's impeccably-forged weaponry.

The Count left but a moment between this and his next relentless assault; and as he spun, raising his body in a perfect and very desirably twirling movement, pulling the halberd up with him, Lucifer shook his head and hissed out a taunt. "Your attacks are fluid and almost perfect, Tepes." Came the impersonal jab as the axe-portion of the halberd came flying in time with the spin up to his neck. Scarlet eyes twinkled and with the same hand that had already so deftly deflected the shaft of the halberd earlier, the Devil reached up, and in the very nick of time, caught the axeblade of the halberd coming in towards his neck.

In that arrogant moment, the Devil stared down his would-be comrade and erstwhile yet friendly opponent, and the crimson eyes went from twinkling to a true, vigorous, passionate sparkle. That competitive smile curled downwards into an outright tempestuous grin, and he offered the second half, the addendum, to his earlier taunt. "But you will not succeed without improvising what you know." With that in mind, Lucifer released the blade and let Vlad pull next into what would be the final attack of this string.

The goal here was of course not for the Count to kill him - and the pair both well knew that if Lucifer so wished, he could eradicate the vampire and all who stood there around them in this stadium with a snap of his fingers; no, he wished instead to test the dearest Impaler's mettle. For there was a position open in the Devil's court; and should the highest Nosferatu of them all prove his worth and fighting tenacity, through the greatest Inferis adage and code of all - survival of the fittest - by triumphing in a faux "victory" over Samael, then Satan himself would welcome the vampire with open arms into his council. But exactly what was the position he mused now upon?

Within a matter of microseconds came the bloody assailant's next assault. The halfway-crouched slash at the front of his legs was an attack that had crippled many in life, and was a display of familiarity with an axe-bladed polearm most would envy; but in the unlife they endured here for eternity and beyond, it lost some of its dazzle and spectacle. But Lucifer made no attempt to block nor to evade this newer assault. Instead he simply stood there and endured it. The slice grazed a few inches deep into the flesh, sinew, muscle, and bone of the Devil's lower limbs, slashing open his dress garb and tainting it immediately with the wanton crimson of his very own blood.

Of course this worried not the Devil; for his blood was in plentiful supply, and his flesh could at his own will knit itself back together. The attack was successful and had cut through the first few layers of his own bone structure, exposing the marrow. The Count did not fuck about when it came to his attacks; whilst they had been nothing short of rigid, they were hard, they were fast, and they flowed, connecting together with a sense of perfectionism that Lucifer knew the Impaler was striving to achieve.

The blood was draining with a worrying speed from the two gashes in Lucifer's legs, and seemingly without cease. Pint after pint, litre after litre, seeped out, coating once-glistening dark dress shoes with a deep vermilion undertone, and almost flooding the small area of the Stadium's dying grass around him. With the flow of the Devil's very own elixir, the already rotting plants that the warm, crimson liquid touched seemed to falter and crumble, leaving naught but a scorched, blackened, gritty circle of earth around him as the blood continued to collect incessantly and without any apparent end.

"I love the power, I love the fame, I love the fear, I love the notoriety, I love the control," Lucifer began idly, letting the blade of the Terai Saber fall slack in his hand, twirl in turn with gravity, and the point of it slam into the bloody ground. "But above all else, the thing I love most about being who and what I am..." Something dark and biblically insane twinkled in those scarlet irises as the Devil spoke, proud and haughty by absolute definition. "...is the ability to continually pull tricks, the constant power to just do one better." Though explanation of one's own great and evil plans prior to its execution was usually a clichéd and fatal flaw of most villains, Samael was the origin of all villainy and evil, so he had some sort of credit to this methodology.

With a wicked grin he locked eyes with Vlad, the blood still ceaselessly flowing, more blood than his own body itself would contain. "For instance, here, you think you've maimed me." The Impaler's success was seemingly being turned into the next attack he'd have to block or evade. Lucifer rose a taunting, olive-brushed finger, and waggled it with a childish grin. "But really, you have instead simply provided me with more thread with which to plait and entwine the tapestry of my assault." Haemokinesis. Mammon.

With that, in a single instant, several things occurred. Inexplicably, with the Devil's own regenerative prowess, bone ground back into bone and sealed itself up; tendon and sinew reformed and linked in with cartilage wreathed around those immortal shins. Flesh knitted itself back together and skin tied into one once more. Even the fabric of his own dress trousers seemingly absorbed the stain back into a murky charcoal blackness and sewed the fibres back together impeccably, not even a single crease or line to show that the fabric had been torn apart.

"For in sin there is blood." As this occurred, so did the Allsmith's abilities, called back into the eye of the Devil's mind once more. "In blood there is iron." Lucifer murmured as a statement; and in that, emerging from the great, inches-deep pool of blood around him, there rose, carved pommels first, a pair of blood-soaked, completely iron, and rather simplistic broadswords, medieval in origin. As they rose through, pommel to crossguard, crossguard to blade, blade down to the tapered, glistening point, coated with a moist and bloody sheen, the pool of blood began to diminish at Samael's feet.

Then, finally, he locked his own scarlet irises with the Count's, and pulled back his own lips to mirror the Impaler's baring of his tapered canines in a primal snarl. The blades spun around until they were poised above Lucifer's shoulders at ninety-degree angles, the blood nothing more than a dry stain on a dead circle of the ground once more, broadswords aimed dead-on at the vampire. "And, in iron..." The Devil rose his hackles and grasped the Terai Saber now with both hands once more. "...there is sin."

As he lowered his own blade, the two suspended by an eerie mechanism of the first Archangel's own gyrokinetic abilities launched themselves off as if they were a cannon, firing simultaneously at a slant, as such to both reach the epicentre and core of the Count's being. To impale the Impaler, drive an iron stake through the vampire's heart; what was Lucifer but a being of irony, who wished to in his combative rebuttal have Vlad suffer a taste of his own medicine?

But once more this attack was simply a higher form of test; and after the blades were launched, irrespective of their fate, the Devil dove back in once more with gritted teeth and further vigour in his strikes, a one-handed sweep aimed first at the Impaler's legs to mirror his own final attack, bringing it up and into a circular movement with a slash against the abdomen. In an instant, with a superhuman agility, once more, Lucifer skirted around the vampire, kicking up a line of grit and dust into an off-khaki cloud, before aiming the point of his own saber dead-on at the back of Dracula's neck, thrusting at a point concealed by well-kept locks of bleak, white-grey hair - the Count's spine.

And whether these separate attacks were successful or not, back in his original stance, having moved a full three hundred and sixty degrees with his last two bouts of assault, the Devil pulled backwards and guarded with a haughty, wicked grin; though not cradling the flat of the blade, instead driving the point of the Saber deep into the ground and clasping both hands onto the pommel, having flaunted three of his Archdemons' abilities already; but what would Lucifer do next? The fallen angel had the entire arsenal of Inferis at his disposal, and he mindfully scrolled through these abilities as a glorified filing cabinet, looking for something mildly entertaining he could torment the good Count with.

For now he rested on his words. "Improvisation, Dracula." A grin. "Confuse your enemy with things they don't see coming." Perhaps it had taken him some time to conjure those blades from his own blood; and of course, the Count's abilities were far more limited than his own, he admonished proudly, but improvisation, and, more importantly, the potential for it, was in everyone. "Succeed." The Devil hissed through gritted teeth in half a taunt and half an encouraging chant.

Focusing his eyes as if he had possessed telescopic sight, Vlad carefully studied the results of his previous blow, a successful one that would have surely crippled lesser foes and maimed even stronger ones, but it was a strike that Satan never bothered to block or even avoid, even though it was well within his ability to do so. But there was never any doubt within the vampire's mind that Lucifer had the physical fortitude to withstand such a lethal strike. Liters upon liters of his blood spilled from the wounds that reached deep inside his own bones, pouring carelessly over his once-pristine trousers and shoes and forming a large stain on the yellowed grass, turning it dark brown.

Drăcula gripped his halberd fiercely, barely managing to restrain himself from ravenously licking his lips as his dark, inhuman thirst for the Devil's flowing liquid life force welled within his stomach. Such a rich, ruby red, and even from this distance, it positively reeked with the stench of over seven billion years of blackest sins and evil debaucheries. If dimethyltryptamine was the apotheosis of all psychedelic experience, as according to one Terence McKenna, then Satan's very blood would surely have allowed the imbiber to enter a whole different echelon of mind-blowing hallucinations. The mere sight of it was intoxicating to the vampire.

He wanted the Devil's blood.

"I love the power, I love the fame, I love the fear, I love the notoriety, I love the control," Upon hearing Lucifer's adulatory ramblings, the Count pulled himself out of his trance-like state and rapidly steeled his thoughts, preparing himself for whatever tricks he had up those sleeves of his. His hunger would not overcome him. He was stronger than it, he was better than the animals that watched their fight with glued eyes. "But above all else, the thing I love most about being who and what I am..." The Impaler gazed into the Devil's red eyes, noting the seven-billion year psychosis that swam and roiled within the crimson discs like a pack of sharks, ready to rip apart their prey at the seams. "...is the ability to continually pull tricks, the constant power to just do one better."

Gravely concerned over his trademark arrogance, Drăcula tensed his muscles and prepared to enter the defensive, pointing the spear-end toward the grand mastermind, his opponent. "For instance, here, you think you've maimed me." Watching with pursed lips and narrowed eyes, the vampire was seemingly scolded by the Devil with naught but a finger, waved back and forth in rhythmic motion like a composer's metronome, as if he were scolding a child. With a slasher grin and madness pulsing in his eyes, the Devil continued, "But really, you have instead simply provided me with more thread with which to plait and entwine the tapestry of my assault." Before the Count's very eyes, his legs appeared to mend themselves together through some, supernatural force, most likely the Devil's very will itself, as bones and meaty tendons and flesh stitched itself together before his slacks eventually renewed themselves as if his halberd hadn't touched him.

The dark patch beneath Lucifer's feet shifted within the vampire's periphery, immediately drawing his focus to the puddle of blood as it seemed to contract and shrink in size as two shapes emerged from the ground, no, from the sanguine fluids that poured from the Devil's once-existent injuries. "For in sin there is blood." Drăcula witnessed the event unfold with sickening intrigue as the bloody blobs gave themselves edges and corners, defining and sharpening their images until he could ascertain clearly as to what it was Mephistopheles was creating. "In blood there is iron." Two broadswords, born from the blood in his veins and given crude iron bodies. Most curious. "And, in iron..." With his superhuman eyes locked on to the Devil's newest constructs, he angled his halberd as the swords were lifted off the ground and poised over his opponent's shoulders, locked on and ready to fire as though they were arrows from an invisible bow.

Satan was still testing him, attempting to push his vampire body to its utmost limit before claiming an easy win. He truly struck with the intent to kill. And the Count? He was prepared for it. He could smell the tension in the air like the scent of a candle made of putrid, rotting flesh; his eyes were fixated on his foe, his opponent, the one who surpassed all others. Patiently, he waited for the Morning Star to make his move, to launch those swords at him. "...there is sin."

Both of the Devil's medieval weaponry were launched at rocketing speeds toward the Count, each of them positioned to fire at a slant so that they would converge concomitantly onto a single point of the vampire's body, one he metaphorically saw coming from a mile away—his heart. Were it in his capacity to laugh at Satan, Drăcula would have done so by now; for he wished to impale the Impaler himself. Instinctively tuned in on the blades that encroached on his position, the Count used every ounce of strength in his arms to sweep the halberd to the left, employing the axe-like blade in defensive context by deflecting not one blade nor the other, but both of the swords at once, sending the extemporaneous projectiles chaotically spinning out of control with a thunderous PANG! and away from him until one of them embedded itself into the dead grass by the tip, while the other clattered uselessly to the ground.

The momentum he was forced to generate in order to perform such a feat, one that many would argue was impossible in its own right, required the Count to spin in the direction of his weapon so that he might recover his stance. As soon as the Devil returned to his line of sight, he had already closed the gap between them, and was attempting to return his last attack by slicing at his legs with his humongous Saber. The one-handed strike was swift, and had the strongest of the Nosferatu acted a moment too late, he would have succumbed to Lucifer's further string of blows then and there. However, the white-haired Demon rolled with the flow of the battle and was able to jab the shaft of his glistening pole weapon toward the ground to block the sword until he faced the Devil once again.

Having regained his ground, the next strike was certainly an easy one to defend against, as Satan merely spun around in a perfect circle with the Terai Saber in tow, sweeping its gargantuan edge toward the Count's abdomen. Drăcula simply used the halberd's metal pole once more to guard, creating more, flickering particles of shaven metal on impact. However, this attack had far more power behind it, enough to make most foes stagger backwards. Instead, the Count endured the blow with impressive resilience, but was still pushed back several inches as his heavy boots scored and scraped into the tainted Blightscape dirt. But in his defense, the Genesis of Sin had took advantage of the last attack and circled around him with phenomenal velocity. Yet his feet kicked up a trail of dust and debris, which swung around to the vampire's right side, which he used to track him down so that he could maintain his defense.

Within a split second of doing so, the adrenaline rushing through Drăcula's brain surged like a blazing fire as his eyes barely caught glimpse of the huge slab of sickly, polished metal being thrusted directly toward his neck. He would have certainly been dead at this point had the king of the Nosferatu moved slower than he did, but alas, the Devil's aim was as perfect as his own, perhaps even more so. Barely missing his jugular vein by sheer centimeters, the Terai Saber was still able to carve a decent yet nonfatal cut into the Count's sinewy neck before Satan pulled back and entered a guard once again, maintaining the devilish smile he was famous—nay, infamous—for.

"Improvisation, Drăcula." Vlad could feel the sting of his injury burning across his flesh as rivulets of his own blood flowed from the open wound, down his neck, and creating unsightly stains in his lordly attire. "Confuse your enemy with things they don't see coming." Stoically, the vampire raised his hand up to his injured nape, brushing the tips of his fingers against the blood that flowed from his veins. He wanted to feel the life being drained from him firsthand. He looked down at the red liquid that now saturated his fingers with cold, indifferent eyes, poking his pink tongue out so that he coolly could lap it up like the animal he was. A vampire that enjoyed the taste of his own blood? He was a whole, different definition of masochist.

No. Delight had nothing to do with it. It was a reminder, a motivational tool. He was face to face with a force that could annihilate him by merely thinking it, but chose not to do so. He didn't have to exert any effort to kill the lesser Demon, as was evidenced by the laceration he recently inflicted. To improvise against a being that transcended anything and everything was out of the question. The Devil was mocking him. He wanted to see if the vampire was capable of catching on to the grim, dark reality behind this battle. One way or another, he was going to lose.

But Drăcula never appeared bothered by this fact. Instead, he almost appeared to take the gospel truth in stride, completely unperturbed by the dismal possibility of having his life extinguished by Lucifer himself. And even though he was faced with such catastrophically low odds of success, it was this truth, this reality, that gave the vampire his primal strength and tenacity. For it was in the face of impending Death itself, that Count Drăcula displayed his true ferocity.

"Succeed."

Looking directly at the Devil and matching his crimson eyes with a stare that could give Stanley Kubrick wet dreams, the vampire king wasted no time in unfurling the massive, leathery wings beneath his cape, a feature he imitated after consuming the wine-like blood of one of Asmodeus' beautiful daughters, before taking to the skies, kicking up a large cloud of dust in the process as he distanced himself from Lucifer, half expecting the fallen one to charge after him with his feathered wings of blackest black. He arced himself through the tainted sky, gazing down at his foe as a bird would his prey before he entered a great and magnificent falcon's dive, folding his wings into his body to increase the velocity with which he rocketed toward Satan.

With murderous intent swimming through his veins, pulsing and throbbing like the adrenaline that fueled his every fiber, Drăcula latched onto the halberd with his hands spread apart and held it at his right side, aiming its spear end toward the Devil as he encroached closer and closer, in what appeared to be an attempt to run the entire weapon through his delicate little body in one, flawless motion. But as the Count drew nearer, to the point where he was merely seconds away from achieving physical contact with either him or his Terai Saber, the vampire immediately pulled his halberd into a horizontal grip, with the axe-blade now aimed at Lucifer instead of its spear tip. He aimed to cut the Devil clean in half.

But whether or not he succeeded, the Count hadn't bothered to check the damage as he passed Satan's position like a black and red rocket, immediately spreading his wings to take flight once more, expertly mastering appendages that weren't a natural part of his body as he arched his back and returned to the skies, performing a grandiose, vertical roll upwards before stopping to hover in place, looking over his shoulder and back down to the Viral Stadium.

With the final hissing of his own semi-advisory taunt, wasting no time, the Count unfurled a pair of leathery wings liberated from the blood of Asmodeus' progeny, and took immediately to the skies. Lucifer for a moment simply watched; arching a brow above a single crimson eye, before shrugging, and leaping upwards himself. That carried him the first twenty or so feet; then the feathered black wings of the first fallen Angel began to beat, and he broke into a hover, watching, waiting, knowing as Dracula became naught more than a black-red speck in the grisly Blightscape skies for and of the manoeuvre that would come next.

It was not long before the Count's ascension drew to a halt, and he began to grow closer and closer in the sky once more; a nose-dive, with the halberd held high above the vampire's head. Lucifer idly hovered in his place and rose a finger to his teeth, trying to pick out that same bit of flesh that had been troubling him for weeks since his encounter at Mammon's palace. Sinew buns. Tasty, but all the same, something of an irritation post-consumption.

Ah, however, the matter at hand: Lucifer made no attempt to evade as the blade came down and Dracula stoically fell forwards with the axe-side of the halberd extended outwards, wings fluidly tearing through the contagion-strewn sky as he dove. It was, however, at the last moment, that Satan made a move to evade - however, he only tilted inches - and the shearing edge of the impromptu cleaver met not his skull, but instead carved clean through the fabric of his shirt, the flesh of his shoulder, and tore right through his collarbone. The Devil yanked himself backwards before the strike could do any more damage, a spray of blood following the halberd in its path as the Impaler recoiled and took position once more, hovering in the sky.

Lucifer uttered no words of speech, but had indeed been having a debate with himself - the various parties of his own psyche - internally for quite some time now. Infact, not even since the battle's beginning - since his own very entrance, where he had laid eyes on the Nosferatu aristocrat for some time now. "Hm." He grunted near-subsonically, as the blood streamed down his clothing and the gaping wound showed the interior of his very own body in this perversion of the Angelic figure.

With that, no more speech aside, he had reached a conclusion. The wings stopped for a moment beating, and Lucifer began to fall; a contortion of his apparently-damaged body, and he twisted back down, diving in a steady, gradient incline towards the diseased turf of the pitch once more, and pulling his body up at the last minute into a running landing, grinding to a halt with a perfect traversal into stepping, a master at controlling the speed of his own body.

"DRACULA!" He called out in a booming proclamation. "Consider this my forfeit." His voice, whilst not quite as dynamic, being less of a shout, still carried exactly the same dark gravity and weight behind it, and in some perverse way, the same volume, undoubtedly capable of reaching the ears of the airborne Demon that had up until moments ago been his opponent. Almost every member of the crowd around him drew in their breath in a wild, sharp intake, and began to offer noises of pure and complete surprise up to the Devil, who spun around, visage still bloody and tainted, as he called out with a grin.

"The battle is complete, mine Demonic audience!" Came the commanding exclamation, eliminating any uncertainty of just what was going on. Satan's crimson eyes narrowed and he continued with a wicked grin upon his pallor; for whilst he had been, for lack of a better word, 'defeated', all there knew their Overlord's power - and, by extension, knew that this was just another game that he was playing. "Bow to your victor, the great Impaler of Humanity!" And soon to hold a title far greater than he could ever envision receiving... The words echoed in Lucifer's mind, and for once, Lucifer's mind alone.

In that instant, the wound began to knot and tie itself together in a grim repetition of his earlier regenerative display, skeleton, sinew, muscle, flesh, and all - but in tandem with this, once more, the black coat of his own mortal mirage drew around him in a shell once more, enveloping his seldom-unveiled and pure Angelic visage. The wings shrunk backwards and pulled themselves through the coat, vanishing in a split-second. Sleek charcoal hair turned to the purest white once more, an injection of cerulean amidst two scarlet oceans around thinnest pupils of the deepest, murky black. Olive-brushed skin paled, and hands previously left to hang in the Blightscape's air unprotected drew once more that pair of tight-fitting leather gloves coiling around the Devil's fingers again, and, just like that, only unveiled for what was comparatively moments, the truth of Satan's appearance was holstered and sheathed once more.

Tapping into the powers of his slumbering comrade, he sent an otherwise-silent, telekinetic message directly to the overseer of this infected, diseased, and oh-so delectably grisly region of his. Asmodeus. Join us on the pitch. I have a surprise for our dear little vampire... And so he did - one that would be spurned or turned down by no Demon aristocrat as hungry for power as the first progenitor of the Nosferatu arguably was.

"DRĂCULA!" The Devil's voice carried thunderous authority with it as he called out his opponent's name, the vampire, who hovered high above the Viral Stadium on great wings of blackened flesh. The Impaler steadily twirled in place without ascending nor descending an inch astray from his current position, exercising an instinctive sort of mastery over the appendages with which he had imitated from the Lust Queen's own daughter, the Arch-Succubus. With a blood-soaked halberd gripped fiercely between his pale fingers, he glared back down at Lucifer with narrow scarlet eyes, leery of the Deceiver's ulterior motives. As he should be. The Dark One merely sneered in arrogance, even as gallons of his own blood poured from his fresh wounds. "Consider this my forfeit."

"What?" Drăcula muttered beneath his breath as he tightened his hold on the sickly, metallic weapon in his clutches. What manner of crockery was Satan blathering from those tainted lips of his, talking of such blasphemies as surrender in the face of a younger, lesser foe? The hosts of observing Demons were quick to gossip and converse among themselves as they struggled to process what was going on before Heylel merely continued on. "The battle is complete, mine Demonic audience!" With that pearly white grin still plastered to his perfect olive face, the Devil turned to the Count once more as the concerned whispers of his infernal host died down. "Bow to your victor, the great Impaler of Humanity!"

The vampire made no effort to hide the scowl that now rested on his aged face as he descended from on high, moving closer and closer to the dead grass and diseased dirt until he touched down. He folded his wings into his body once more, no longer needing them seeing as the Devil no longer wished to fight. Thinking on that, the Count was swift to wipe away his angry expression and turn it into a more neutral one, having realized what was happening. Rather, he could only speculate what Lucifer's true intentions were. Either he was simply bored with fighting an inferior foe, as he initially believed, or it was merely a test of his mettle in the face of adversity, which was also a plausible hypothesis.

Drăcula paused for a moment as he took the time to glance down at the weapon in his hands, the halberd, studying the blood that slicked its polished blade with curiosity. He closed his eyes, thought for a few seconds, then shook his head before stabbing the weapon into the ground by its pointed end. To have a taste of Lucifer's blood was not within his right; at least, not yet. He threw the towel in, whereas an honorable warrior would have accepted death with dignity and grace. Soon, though. He would get another chance, even if it took him a thousand years or more.

Thinking no further into it, the vampire casually strode his way toward the Devil with empty hands, his lordly robes suddenly extending themselves to their original length as if the shadows beneath his feet had somehow caused the fabric to elongate and stretch out, concealing his boots from sight once more. He never bothered to nurse the wound on his neck; that would heal on its own within a few hours. "I'm obliged to hazard the conclusion that you grew bored with me." Drăcula assumed, verbally degrading himself despite having obtained a victory he knew to be entirely false. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that the Count wouldn't have lasted for very long if the Devil wanted to fight at his fullest power; of course he was getting bored. The aristocratic vampire bowed theatrically, placing his right hand over his breast, "But, if I may be forthright, what motivates you to cease our battle so early?"

Asmodeus. Join us on the pitch. I have a surprise for our dear little vampire...

Lucifer's powerful voice rang throughout the archdemon's head. Telekinesis was always a strange sensation, it didn't exactly sound like anything, but yet you heard it. It was more like an inserted thought than it was a voice in reality. The succubus sat up from her perch, having sat on top of the press box during the entire battle. With a flick of her powerful wings, the lustful queen arrived on the field of battle within seconds.

Her bare feet touched the plagued grass of the Viral Stadium as she retracted her wings. Adjusting the horn like crown upon her blonde lochs, she looked first at Dracula, and then to the Devil. "Magnificent show." Asmodeus finally spoke, "Lasted a little longer than I expected, and that being said, turned out differently as well." Hamsedai thought to herself, initially believing Satan was simply going to show him up and put him in his place before making him swear allegiance. Well, maybe that was more her way than his. After all, the Devil was always looking for new things to try to excite him.

"I'm obliged to hazard the conclusion that you grew bored with me." With the questioning yet belittling statement, the lord of the vampires made his presence more known than it already was as he approached the Devil directly. The hell princess quieted down at this point, allowing Dracula and Lucifer to continue on with their conversation. looking over the infected citizens of the Blightscape, the archdemon then paid attention to the lower gates, closed off by iron gates. Many vile and disgusting claws could be seen trying to rip their way out of the prison.

Right. It was about that time.

The busty and heartless one walked towards the devilish duo before running her long fingers on the vampire's shoulder and coming to his opposite side closest to Satan. "It's getting "late"." The archdemon empathized on the last word as if it implied a different meaning than what was said. After all, Inferis was always dark and gloomy, and shifts in day were spehere-to-sphere.. The Blightscape does indeed have one of these cycles, the heavily misted out sun rising in the morning and falling in the evening. While the dense fogs of the CCM-Virus heavily diluted it, there was still light. And at night, there was still darkness.

But that was a different darkness. A darkness feared even in other spheres, as if the living dead wasn't enough. Night time in the Blightscape was also when the infected residents of the sphere were most active, as the microscopic demons inside of their bodies were nocturnal. One, even of Dracula's caliber, would most definately not want to be outside during these events. The green sun was setting, and feeding time was approaching. The lustful one knew this, and so did the devil. This banter would have to be wrapped up soon.

Once more ascending to the skies after making this comment and hearing the two out for a couple minutes, she once more took perch on top of the press box, looking over her diseased citizens. With a raised of her marked arm, the iron cages protecting them from the Devil's attacks lifted, and they were sent free to leave. Or so they thought. Nightfall was soon, and those who were invited to the sphere would likely become one with it before they returned home safely. Asmodeus grinned at this.

It was a beautiful life.

"Magnificent show." The Devil bowed his head in an appreciative nod - but really his hubris knew no bounds, for when wasn't the combative engagement of an eons-old fallen angel, seldom seen over lifetimes, magnificent and a show in itself? Even to see Lucifer spar was a sight only a privileged fraction of his so-called "people" were to see. "Lasted a little longer than I expected, and that being said, turned out differently as well."

Asmodeus' thoughts were more right than she knew; for infact the Impaler was to be put in his place, but in such a manner that it would be productive and positive for both parties. Whilst the Devil was oft vindictive and many times pointlessly destructive, when a principle of utility applied to a situation in such a manner that it benefited him directly, and allowed him room to further scheme and plot as he was best renowned and reputed for, the choice was obvious. He was the Devil; but he was no simple fool who torched all he saw in a lake of fire and brimstone. That would just be... well, pointless, really. "I'm obliged to hazard the conclusion that you grew bored with me."

Immediately the Devil's cold blue eyes narrowed and he snapped back at the Count with vigour and acid in his tone. "Keep your assumptions to yourself, Impaler." Lucifer spun at speeds to make a supernaturally enhanced cheetah envious, his finger landing in a single, outstretched, accusatory and quietening pose as he hissed. "My boredom would result in far bloodier a fate than forfeit. I have more in mind and more in motion than you know or care to know."

The dramatic bow followed by the legitimate question was something slightly more tolerable. "But, if I may be forthright, what motivates you to cease our battle so early?" The Count was audacious, but as to whether that was a characteristic Lucifer desired of him was still something up in the air to say the least. The tenacity he displayed could swiftly be fashioned into loyalty; but left alone and to his own violent devices there was a chance that, without outside influence, he could end up being not so much a threat as a waste of time and resources.

Of course; to an immortal being, time didn't matter much when it come to one of his tinkering projects, but of all things, he still wished for this particular endeavour to be fruitful - for in the long run, it was far more important than either the Impaler or his lustful princess Asmodeus would be able to foresee. "That was no simple duel, Tepes." The tenacious snarl in his lips curled upwards into a proud and haughty grin. "I have... a request. Something for you, a position that not so much I, but this great and terrible Inferis requires from you."

Lucifer rose his shoulders and took a deep lungful of the putrid breath. "You of all people should be aware of the current status of Asmodeus' slothful brother." The utterance upon a pair of curling lips almost made the air froze: the slumbering Archdemon. "Belphegor." Satan gestured in the rough direction of the Chasm. "Deep in the heart of the Patriot's Labyrinth he slumbers, under lock and key and constant guard, communing only with me through the powers of the mind, but he leaves it to me to oversee his realm." The Entropic Chasm - the vastly superior parallel of the pathetic humans' Washington D.C., called by some the greatest seat of political power on their pitiful Earth.

"But alas, it is something I wish to endure no longer, and for the last five hundred years of his millennial slumber I have been searching." A tilting of a white-haired head as he murmured in the triumvirate upon the afflicted, withering grass of the sports pitch. "Searching for not a replacement, but a steward." This much was indeed true. "One by one I tested the mettle of supposedly 'formidable' adversaries, cutting them aside, even with my powers on an even keel. None truly possessed the drive, the sheer constitution of will to attempt to raise arms against their creator."

Lucifer grinned, proud of this in fact. "But you, Count Dracula, were prepared to fight weaponless; and when I fashioned you weapons of the finest Undercroft's steel, you chose your arm, and you picked up your lance, ready to fight to the death." No mistake was to be made; had the Devil exerted so much as the slightest ounce of effort, the Nosferatu lord could have been cut down in a moment, but it was his tenacity in the face of definitive peril that made him a perfect fit for Mephistopheles' offering. "You, Count Dracula, fought I, a greater conqueror in death than your old form in life." Reaching out, he stepped forwards and grasped around the same halberd that the Impaler still clutched.

"You, Count Dracula," Moving forwards as he held the halberd, he leaned swiftly, in a moment barely inches from the vampire's neck, those vile lips of mistrust and deceit barely inches from ears holding back strands of grey-white hair. "Are the new steward of the Entropic Chasm." And the penny dropped. It was a title and a half; to hold the domain of an Archdemon, even if only for a tenure. It meant he was, in politics, second only to the Hell Princes and Overlord himself.

And with that, he grasped the spear, and, keeping Vlad's hand clasped firmly around the shaft of the polearm, thrust it upwards into the diseased sky with a contented grin upon his face, screaming as he looked out, up and into the stands. "DENIZENS OF THE BLIGHTSCAPE!" He roared, triumphant and successful, finally having found an appropriate stand-in. Someone who had not submitted. Someone who still had fire, even in the face of their devilish lord and maker. "GREET THE NEW STEWARD OF YOUR BROTHERLAND, THE ENTROPIC CHASM!"

And so they did; with diseased and malformed throats, they screamed; they pounded their rotten fists against their exposed and disfigured chests; they unleashed a choir of hellish and guttural howls fit only for the most horrific of abominations - and in that, beneath the screaming, Lucifer grinned darkly and turned to the demon he could now call his direct subordinate, lowering slowly the halberd so the blade was just at the height of Vlad's mouth. "You have my permission to taste the blood you rightfully shed." And with that, he released his grasp, and turned instead to leave, striding with powerful and wide steps as the yelling began to subside somewhat, but never seemed to ceased. And a strangest hunch told him it never would whilst they remained on the pitch - for this was the first time such an occurrence had taken place in the entire history of Inferis. Even the most archaic of Demons and scribes had not seen such a display. Both an unfurling of the Devil's wings; and the announcement of a new Archdemon stand-in. Truly - today would go down in history.

"Come." He spoke to Vlad, not bothering to turn back as he boldly strode across the pitch, still veiled by the black coat of his mortal shell. "We have much work to do, vampire of mine." And with that, he walked as close to the fringe of the stadium as he dared, before leaping into the sky with a supernatural leap, hundreds of feet high from only the offset, and, mid-air, transformed once more into his black-haired, red-eyed, fallen angelic visage, unfurled those black, feathered wings, and took to the diseased, grisly skies of his lands once more.

"Keep your assumptions to yourself, Impaler." Drăcula kept himself planted firmly against the dried and tainted grasses of the stadium as the Devil whirled around on his heels with breakneck speed to shut him up with an outstretched finger, as if he were a prosecutor objecting to his daredevil accusation. His acrimonious tone of voice certainly did the trick, as it forced the dauntless vampire to rethink any future attempts to pass idle conversation with his inverse lord and master. But Lucifer's seldom-experienced abrasiveness also drew a smirk most devious from the Count. So, even the Devil could have his buttons pushed? His sadistic curiosity aside, the Count deigned it far too unwise to test that hypothesis, and pursued it no further than he had already gone.

"That was no simple duel, Țepeș." Keeping his eyes glued to that nasty grin of his, the Impaler lowered one white eyebrow and raised the other, genuinely piqued by what the Devil had to say in regards to the motivations behind their short engagement, the clash of blades and wits that could have escalated into a titanic power struggle for the whole of the Viral Stadium to gaze at with dumb, sunken eyes. "I have... a request. Something for you, a position that not so much I, but this great and terrible Inferis requires from you." The aristocratic lord of the Nosferatu closed his scarlet eyes and huffed out a dry chuckle. Evidently, he missed the opportunity to exploit being rewarded with a boon of his choice, not that he cared. But, were he to listen to what he had to say, would there still be a chance that Lucifer would bestow upon him some form of respect? Pondering on such a possibility, Drăcula coolly replied as he handled the bloody halberd once again, "You have my attention."

He patiently waited for the Devil to finish admiring the foul taste of the Blightscape's diseased oxygen before the latter proceeded to get the ball rolling. "You of all people should be aware of the current status of Asmodeus' slothful brother." Slothful brother? Ah, him. "Belphegor." Cracking his eyelids open ever-so-slightly, the Count stared back at the Devil with small, bloody red slits and a petrified expression as he observed his motion to the aforementioned Archdemon's realm of influence, his designated sphere—the Entropic Chasm. "Deep in the heart of the Patriot's Labyrinth he slumbers, under lock and key and constant guard, communing only with me through the powers of the mind, but he leaves it to me to oversee his realm."

One by one, the pieces of Mephistopheles' verbal puzzle fell into flawless alignment as he continuously dropped bits of hints here and there, as if he were expecting the Count to catch on to his little guessing game. For five centuries—coincidentally, the same amount of time that Drăcula had spent wandering Inferis in his quest to stave off his vampiric urges and gain some kind of standing among the lesser Demonic scum—the Devil was forced to act as the Chasm's surrogate ruler, and it seemed as though Belphegor's extended hibernation was wearing his immortal nerves thin, and wanted someone else to do the job for him. Satan wasn't even trying to hide his intentions at this point in the conversation, and Drăcula knew it.

"One by one I tested the mettle of supposedly 'formidable' adversaries, cutting them aside, even with my powers on an even keel. None truly possessed the drive, the sheer constitution of will to attempt to raise arms against their creator." The fallen angel's long-winded rambling prompted reminiscence within the mind of Drăcula, as he recalled him admonishing his supposed lack of gratitude after he assayed himself from Asmodeus' silly little football game and their company. And here he was, chastising the slain, for lacking the intestinal fortitude to lash out at their lord and master, their creator, as if he were a common enemy. Who, exactly, were the ungrateful ones again?

The handsome Nosferatu strengthened his grasp of the halberd in his hands, its green metal glistening in the rays of Inferis' sun, which peeked through the acidic clouds that rolled overhead, as the weapon dripped with the still-moist blood of the Devil. "But you, Count Drăcula, were prepared to fight weaponless; and when I fashioned you weapons of the finest Undercroft's steel, you chose your arm, and you picked up your lance, ready to fight to the death." Well, clearly, the Devil was skilled at stating the obvious. Any, true warrior with even half a set of testicles wouldn't be stupid enough to allow their enemy, no matter how strong they were, to take their life without putting up an iota of resistance. Perhaps it finally dawned on Satan that he was now faced with a Demon cut from a cloth different than the standard fare?

"You, Count Drăcula, fought I, a greater conqueror in death than your old form in life." And, apparently, Devil also knew how to put a person in their place. The manifestation of arrogance he may have been, but Lucifer merely spoke the truth—his body toll spanned well into the billions, perhaps even the trillions. Who was Drăcula to title himself as the greater of the two warlords? Feeling a wrenching sensation overcome his arm, he maintained the grip on his halberd as the Devil pulled it closer to him, lips twisted into that signature, arrogant grin. "You, Count Drăcula," he whispered with words sweeter than the most decadent Egyptian honey, diabetes incarnate. His vampiric blood pulsed and boiled, some of it seeping through the wound on his neck as the strongest Nosferatu waited for the proverbial cat to be let out of the bag. "Are the new steward of the Entropic Chasm."

Drăcula hardened his unfeeling gaze as if Medusa herself turned him to stone, his ears practically buzzing with Satan's great reveal. Thus, he had spoken the gospel truth: the duel, brief as it was, had been naught but a test of the Count's mettle in the face of adversity, to deign whether or not he was worthy to rule the Entropic Chasm in the stead of his lieutenant, the sleeping Archdemon, the Lord of Sloth, Belphegor. "DENIZENS OF THE BLIGHTSCAPE!" Lucifer shouted at long last, forcing the spear that Vlad still gripped upward as though he were a mortal referee, attracting the zombie-like attentions of Asmodeus' progeny with his limitless authority. "GREET THE NEW STEWARD OF YOUR BROTHERLAND, THE ENTROPIC CHASM!"

In absolute unison with one another, as if the plagued and infected residents of the Lust Queen's world behaved with a hive-mind mentality, both the literal and figurative zombies of the Blightscape erupted in loud, guttural screams and roars, pounding and beating away at themselves like wild animals as they praised the crowning of the Chasm's new, stand-in ruler. Regardless of whether or not this was all part of the Devil's grand design, likely as it was, Vlad the Impaler was part of history in the making; there wasn't a shred of doubt that he, king of the lowly, blood-sucking Nosferatu, would be remembered for eons to come.

Drăcula felt his arm being forcibly maneuvered by the Devil, so that the blood-drenched blade of his halberd was now positioned merely inches away from his lips, the aromatic liquid barely a tongue's lick away. "You have my permission to taste the blood you rightfully shed." Lucifer spoke lowly with that grin still stapled to his white face as he released his grip on the halberd to walk away from the Count, leaving him to the mercy of his lustful desire to taste his life force. "Come. We have much work to do, vampire of mine." With haste, Satan took to flight as he abandoned his mortal shell once again, revealing his true form in all of its great and terrible splendor before disappearing from sight.

At long last, there was but one remaining on Asmodeus' pitch. He was left in Lucifer's dust, gripping the halberd that the angel himself had created and was injured by. Such a powerful and pungent aroma was enough to intoxicate the vampire through smell alone, and left much of its taste to his imagination. He could only ponder over how ambrosial this blood must be, to have steeped in seven billion years of vice and sin. And now, after five centuries of existence as a Demon who thrived off of the stuff, he could finally taste it.

Like the form of the serpent with which Satan took to tempt the First Woman, the Impaler's tongue slithered from between his thin lips and, after what personally felt like an eternity of exposure to the plagued Blightscape air, touched the Devil's wet and moist life force. His arm trembled profusely as he lapped the substance up like a thirsty hound as he felt the immorality, the blasphemy, the sheer amount of sin pulsing through his veins like the strongest and most potent of hallucinogens, for he tasted the very apotheosis of mind-altering drugs. This. This what what real power tasted like. This was the true honor that Drăcula craved, hungered for. To taste the blood of the Devil was Drăcula's true wish.

And that wish had finally been granted.

The Count shuddered visibly as he felt a supernatural force surge through his body like electricity, overtaking every fiber of his being with a kind of energy he had never experienced before, forcing him to drop the halberd to the ground as his strength entered and left his muscles ad nauseam. The vampire's very skin seemed to retract a little as it pulled itself against his face and body, becoming taught and youthful once more as color and fullness returned to his hair and beard until they appeared blond in hue, the ends of the revitalized locks against his head taking on light blue tints. As he convulsed in place, Drăcula's seven-foot figure eventually shrank in size by at least a full foot, resulting in a smaller frame altogether, leaving his lordly clothes looking a little loose against him.

The seizures ceased after nearly thirty seconds, leaving the physically altered vampire considerably exhausted and with ragged breath, boggled by how powerful and visceral the whole ordeal was. Something had clearly happened to him; he could literally feel each and every transition his body went through as he savored the taste of Lucifer's liquid life. As he thought on that, the Count was presented with a grim realization: this was, perhaps, the first and only time he would ever have the chance to taste the Devil's blood. But that never mattered—Satan gave Drăcula an opportunity, and he took it. That, in itself, was its own reward.

Taking one last breath of rotten air, the revitalized Lord of Vampires opened his eyes in order to stare up at the sky of Asmodeus' dominion; no longer were they a rich, bloody color like they used to be. It seemed as though Lucifer's immense sin had demonized the Count further than before, right down to his windows to the soul, by which they had adopted a shocking yellow tone and bestial slits for pupils. Any semblance to his mortal form had been completely severed from his existence—he was, at last, a true Demon.

The renewed Drăcula wasted no time in unfurling the Arch-Succubus' wings to their fullest span before taking to the sky, his loose garments flapping unceremoniously against the wind as he bolted off in the direction of his home sphere, the Spirelands, where he would prepare himself for whatever plans the Devil had in store for him.

But first, a change of clothes seemed to be in order.