Demon Lord RP - Xenosphere - Wipe 2

Quen's rigid armor shifted slightly with his breathing, the stale, hot air keeping it warm. He was sitting near a lake of flame, surrounded by pyres of hellish light and fire, as he sat cross-legged in deep thought. His long, black hair shone equally bright against the light of the lake, accenting its glossy nature and length. It hung shoulder-length and remained particularly composed, no matter how often he may have moved it. Only running his fingers through his hair, which Quen was wont to do, offered any change.

This day, he meditated on his aspirations. As a Demon, he lusted for power, but also reveled in merely altering the path of current events through deceit or outright manipulation. Political assassination, breakups, massacres, he'd hand a hand in them all (usually before breakfast). To this end, he'd remained in the immortal realm for millennia in order to learn how best to improve. In his time, he removed socks from dryers, spoiled meat, and rained plagues upon the land-- and that was usually on Mondays-- but felt his power grew stagnant. He'd grown to used to tormenting living souls much weaker than him, those that could not fathom his very essence. Quen gritted his teeth and folded him arms even tighter.

A single bead of sweat rolled from his temple, his skin reflecting it in similar fashion to his armor and hair. It would seem he was deep in some immersive though. Though, what about?

Quen mused to himself, thinking, "It's been years since I've returned and not much has changed. I must influence the ebb and flow, yet I know not how..."

It was the third time today such a thought had occurred to him, as thoughts of happy families with lacquered tables and playful puppies reverberated. Disgusting. Thankfully, there was no room for such frivolity in the depths of Hell. Their brand of fun was different, more pristine and refined, Quen believed. Where else was one allowed to torture wayward sounds for years before absorbing them as lunch?

Lost in thought, Quen's forehead beaded with sweat more and more, until finally, his heavy golden armor clanked with movement. In the distance, another soul was damned to Hell and he sought to greet it. It was a small, opaque orb of despair, its cries echoing within itself. The orb motion toward Quen, unafraid.

"And what th' fuck're you?!" it screeched, hesitation being the furthest from its tone.

Quen shifted backward on his left foot, tapping against the hellstone once it landed. He pointed at the soul with his right finger, pointing his left backward in an angled salute. He leaned closer for dramatic effect and lowered his head.

"YOU!"

His head lifted to meet what he assumed would be the soul's gaze.

"Are in my home. Hell, the land of the Damned."

Editing his pose, Quen's face nestled into the inner elbow of his right arm, his left still angled, though now to the left instead of behind. His perfectly white, sharp teeth peered through. The soul did not budge.

"Fuck it, I'm out!" it whistled, as its shrill tone died down. Off it sauntered into the hellfire, seemingly ending its existence. Quen returned to a neutral position and folded his arms yet again. He tapped his left foot and lowered his head.

"Was it something I said?"

And without much further though, his armor clanked with movement as his body lowered into a cross-legged position. Another bead of sweat formed on his brow-- he was lost in thought again.