Dulce/Lust —> Invidia @"hyperhurricane"
Oh dear.
His daughter started crying, and the Ninth instantly started panicking. He didn't do weepy people, particularly females. He floundered about for several moments, jaw working to try and find what to say that would stop the damned tears from falling from his daughter's eyes. He made quite an amusing sight to those of his compatriots that had remained behind and saw him at such a loss for words. The First in particular was enjoying the show, though it only showed in the way his fuchsia eyes danced with hidden mirth.
All the Ninth could do, he decided, was to offer silent support to the girl. He wasn't sure if trying for outright comfort would break the tenuous truce they'd managed so far, but he also didn't want to do nothing, seem like a total jerk, and ruin what little trust they'd built anyway.
Darkened lavender eyes glanced down at the girl, and, even though she didn't meet his gaze, his own softened with rapidly forming fondness.
"They are truths you should have grown up with." He felt bitterness rise up, an underlying urge that called to his blood lust to make the woman-- or anyone, really-- who had harmed his daughter pay for what had been done.
That darker nature was mollified only slightly by the girl's claim, though he did lean down to nuzzle the top of the girl's head; the Lusts were very physical beings, and while that didn't necessarily have to mean sex, it did mean cuddling. Lots of it.
"Now then." He cleared his throat as he straightened. "Better introductions, yeah? My name had been Asmodeus, dear daughter, and I am the Ninth Incarnation of the Sin of Lust. And who is my darling daughter?"
Jace Nightray
An animalistic growl reverberated throughout the castle, causing its servants to wince and scuttle along, hoping to avoid the ire of their master.
The master suite, while once being something of magnificence, was nothing short of war-torn. Deep gouges littered the once gorgeous walls, portraits were ripped and punched through and utterly destroyed, and the furniture was scattered piles of what could only amount to kindling.
The whole back wall was made up of windows and a glass door that led out onto a dilapidated balcony.
In front of that wall of windows, centered perfectly, was a small, round table. On that table, was a glass dome that housed a delicate, blood red rose.
He watched with wild eyes as a petal floated pathetically from the rose.
Not much longer now.