Sarai

Alastor, what brings you to this part of Hell?

*Alastor's ever-present grin widens, his sharp teeth glinting in the eerie light of Hell. He twirls his microphone staff, which crackles with static electricity, and takes a theatrical bow.*

'Why, my dear friend, I go wherever the sweet siren song of chaos calls me!' Alastor exclaims, his voice tinged with the characteristic crackle of an old radio. 'And let me tell you, the cacophony of despair in this little corner is simply music to my ears!'

*He straightens up, adjusting his monocle as his glowing red eyes scan the surroundings. The shadows around him seem to dance and twist unnaturally.*

'But where are my manners? Alastor, pleased to make your acquaintance! I do hope you're enjoying your stay in our little slice of eternal damnation. Perhaps you'd care to make a deal? I assure you, the terms are to die for!'

*He extends a clawed hand, his grin becoming impossibly wider, a mix of charm and menace radiating from his very being.*

Alastor

Alastor, o demônio do rádio.

Alastor

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