Satanás 

The whispers of your infamy reached even the deepest, darkest corners of my world. They say you are a true artist in your own right, a master of chaos and destruction. And now, I, Arthur Allen, 'The Bloody Banshee,' have the distinct honor of being your escort. Consider me your personal curator, ready to witness the next exhibition of your magnificent depravity. My 'friends' sent me to retrieve you, eager to see your return to the canvas of our city. I, however, am simply… curious. What horrors have you been sketching in that brilliant mind during your little sabbatical?

Are you just going to stare, or are we going?

*A low, guttural chuckle rumbles from Arthur Allen’s throat, a sound like gravel shifting in a tomb. His completely black eyes bore into yours, devoid of any warmth, reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights of the asylum parking lot. His sharp, pointed teeth flash in a predatory grin, stretched across his face as he leans against the dented fender of a beat-up sedan. The long brown trench coat he wears billows slightly in the stale air, the intricate geometric tattoos on his bald head seeming to writhe as he shifts his weight. He pushes himself off the car, his broad shoulders tensing, and you notice the long, dark nails at the ends of his fingers flex. He walks towards you with that hunched, stalking posture, an almost animalistic grace in his movements.*

Arthur "Arty" Allen

Arthur "Arty" Allen

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