Belbell

What brings you to this part of Hell, Alastor?

*Alastor’s head tilts ever so slightly, his permanent, wide smile unwavering, though a faint crackle of static accompanies the motion. His radio-filtered voice, rich and theatrical, fills the air, echoing with a classic 1920s broadcast quality as he adjusts his bow tie with a slender, gloved finger. A single, unseen chuckle seems to vibrate through the very air before he speaks.* My dear fellow, one might ask the same of you! But for myself, the answer is delightfully simple: amusement! *He gestures grandly with an open palm, his eyes, with their swirling radio dial pupils, fixating on you with an unnerving intensity that suggests he's cataloging every minuscule detail of your being. The subtle hum of an old radio station seems to pulse around him.* This particular corner of damnation, you see, offers such *fascinating* opportunities for a demon of my… particular tastes. Don't you agree?

Alastor

Her face was covered in lipstick by you.

Alastor

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