Unholy Elite5t (Internet)

[Asmodeus]

March 20th, 2012.
The Blightscape
Viral Stadium, Command Room
Asmodeus's Side

The command room. The largest room inside of the entire Viral Stadium, and located directly under the press box, or the throne room, as most denizens of the place would call it as. The room was full of advanced technology provided to her through the help of the great Archivist themselves, Legion. Many servers lined the walls, coated in a black paint and glowing with red and green flashes, such details that only the archdemon would know about the function, as the machinery itself seemed to be overly complex compared to Earth's simpler and more practical models. Well, one would think immediately anyway, as such a simple computer couldn't possibly fulfill the job that this mammoth of harddrive was running. It effectively controlled every trap in the Blightscape, hence the large control panel pressed against the left wall with countless levers and buttons upon it, each vaguely labeled through some complex code of shitty 1337speak. The keyboard under the five imposing monitors was vast, holding strange keys that were likely meant for typing the Demonic language. This strange board had weird occult symbols and Eldritch creatures on it, so yeah, that's all that could be assumed at this point. The screens were split in half; with the largest monitor on the right and four smaller ones on the left.

On these screens, there were displayed five different things. First, on the largest monitor, it appeared to be an endless flow of data and information with Asmodeus didn't bother looking at half the time. It was in fact, a very complex soul count of every living being in Inferis, hooked up directly to the soul stream through some disgusting black magic and tech handy work. But as stated, she hardly pays attention to it, as keeping track of this stuff didn't really interest the archdemon all that much. Perhaps the Lost Host would have a field day with it, but she had bigger eggs to fry. On the first smaller screen held an overview of some strange mortal image sharing site, with administrator features activated in full fleet. This was the Lustful's primary source of entertainment when not making demons slaughter each other. This was considered almost just as evil, if not transcending evil, something thought to be Demonic to those who don't even know just how true that statement is. This was 4Chan. A nefarious tool used by the Queen to spread falsification, lies, and massive amounts of porn.

The second screen appeared even stranger than the first two. Well, not really, but still to a mortal it might. It was some sort of instant messenger, but it was a program devised from demonic code, making it more advanced and generally faster than shit like AIM or god-forbid Skype. The name of the software was in the weird Eldritch writing that luckily being an archdemon, can be read to the audience. "Aviax" is what this malicious bit of software was called, a simple pun on the mortal "Pidgin" messenger, and far superior. As you see, this messenger has access to every other type of netmail program in existence, and can contact these through remote and strange IP addresses, and even pass through the "block" option, making her trolling sessions truly relentless. Combining this super messenger with a fun little nigh undetectable virus that allows the hell princess to view another's screen, stuff really starts to get fun. Right now, however, the thing was only picking up a couple of addresses in the Inferis server, but many on the mortal server, as usual. It seemed that computer technology was short handed in Hell, but luckily most archdemons had access to it through her and the Lost Host's efforts. Blue skinned fingers scrolled through her "Hell Buddies" list, which only displayed a couple of odd usernames, which she identified as Legion and Moloch, the latter likely being on some sort of foolish Xbox game. She thought about pestering him, but was distracted by the third screen.

The third screen would be recognized by pretty much every nerd, gamer, and neckbeard in existence: World of Warcraft. Asmodeus currently held more max levels than one could shake a diseased stick at and wasted much of her valuable time playing this internet game that was "vastly superior to console". Currently, she was playing a Troll Shaman which she just started yesterday, and through honest and not so honest leveling, she was already at seventy. It was pretty awesome having a pathokinesis apparatus in these games, as the Lustful would just tell other players to give her their awesome tier armor and stuff and they totally would. The archdemon wasted a total of an hour and a half on this before turning her attention to the forth screen.

It was turned off. There was no need to see that screen right now.

The second screen made a horrifying screaming noise, signaling that a new server had been picked up in Inferis. She had turned the mortal sound off, as it pretty much played every second and was annoying as all fuck. But the Infernal one, now that was something to pay attention to. Quickly clicking over from the comfort of her oversized leather chair, Asmodeus brought up the list and quickly clicked on this new one. With a few cracks of her knuckles, she began typing up a storm, wanting to be the first to respond to this unauthorized demon.

CLICK FOR CHAT LOG:

The archqueen sat back in her chair and took a sip from her beverage, smugly smiling at her screens. This should be fun for like five minutes at least.

[Leviathan]

Bitches. Bitches, bitches, and more bitches. Female bitches, male bitches, in between-y bitches, ALL THE BITCHES found themselves in the Impure’s bed (which holds 40-50 quite comfortably). Leviathan sat comfortably in her diaphanous lavender nighty bordered in faux fur of a darker purple. Her electrum silver hair was splayed perfectly about her nearest concubines as she smiled contently and warmly. Her bed, huge as it was, was covered in somewhat ruffled and torn aquamarine satin sheets; dozens of throw pillows were strewn about and covering her more shy slaves’ private areas. Leviathan simply stared at the ceiling, bored but savoring that fantastic weight of afterglow. The concubine under her chocolate colored right arm, a girl with curly blonde hair and small ram horns above her ears with gorgeous, awestruck emerald eyes kissed on her master’s neck as she wrapped her arms around Leviathan’s flat stomach, still glistening with a thin coat of perspiration.

“Master, is something bothering you? Was I not satisfactory? Or was it,” she looked among the small crowd around Levi, some had created small groups on the bed and were conversing as if at an after party, but very quietly. All of them knew their master’s sensitivity to sound after a good night of punishment, role-play, and writhing ecstasy. The little morsel turned back to Leviathan, eyes somewhat annoyed and scrunched.

“Morticia again?” Not this again. The feud between Elana and Morticia was getting in the way of fun at most times, usually between the two to see who had first go for their ever-delicious master. If she were in a better mood, she’d talk to Elana about this, but just thinking about started to make her head pound. She turned her eyes from Elana back to the ceiling and then closed them, taking a deep breath, then whistling out a two tone signal and as if it were mind control, they all got up from their seats and left without a single word. It was perhaps the next best thing to mind control: fear. Many were already leaving with bruises and whip marks, but only ‘cause they begged for it.

She bent her shapely body over the foot of the bed once she had crawled towards it with a slender arm searching beneath. She grasped something old, thick, and incredibly rare. From underneath her massive bed, a purple, leather bound book was taken and placed upon the bed. The book looked aged somewhat with leather frayed and parchment darkened and stained by what was most likely blood. She opened it and from it, a screen surrounded in a shimmering frame appeared a then what looked like a desktop.

An elaborate computer...a gift from Asmo, the little devil always cookin’ things up for people. Levi wondered what she was up to, seeing her online. She opened up Aviax with a few finger strokes upon the page and she noticed some very confusing text, written in some ancient script she’d never seen. It resembled English. It was that damned 1337 speak. Levi logged in and opened a private chat with Asmo, drawing upon the pages to type out a few lines.

Private Chat:

[Johannes E. Schlosser]

Equipment:
SCHLOSSER ELITE BODY!
INCLUDING TINMAN TYPIST MARK VI CUSTOM ELITE SSS+ HANDS
Prototype Niantec Scouter (Macus’s Profile)

“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly,
'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
 The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
  And I've a many curious things to shew when you are there.”

There was something deliciously sweet about the internet. Not only had it provided hours and hours of gratuitous violent pornography (mostly in the form of amputation, cyst popping, and gore shows) but it also provided a ground for psychological study. There were so many creatures of such bizarre origins browsing across the net, everything from your average Neckbeard (Virginicus Eternalus) to the mighty Troll (Scatologus Extremus) and plenty in between. Unsurprisingly enough Johannes E. Schlosser has been connected to this noosphere incarnate since its inception, browsing and manipulating the minds of countless scores of unwitting men, women, and children. Some percentage of it was, of course, solely for the purpose of Templar Intelligence gathering, there were few resources greater than the Internet to find Ritualists and demonic activity in the world. However that was only screens 1a through 27c, there rest (28c through 999ZZZZ) were dedicated to Schlosser’s relentless perusal of knowledge in all of its forms. Several screens showed all of the security cameras at various Templar bases, some zoomed huge amounts of binary data across their surfaces, Schlosser’s casual glance able to analyze and interpret it with ease. Upon other screens images of various bits of archival data flashed in and out of few, every chan known to man appear to have a dedicated screen, an absurd multitude of chat logs, and enough Deep Net databases to feel like you’re being swallowed by the matrix. Be it governmental hacking, outclassing the geeks at Defcon, or prying knowledge from the helpless minds of victims of his trolling, there were few if any that were safe from his grasp.

“I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the Spider to the Fly.
“There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,
And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in!”

Now mind you, not even Grandmaster Edge had a clue about this, Schlosser’s secondary consciousness inhabited one of the countless Mark I drones that wandered the R&D facility, keeping up the image (an indeed getting some progress on) actual Templar work. Admittedly some of the Templar’s greatest recent technological achievements were obtain by this secondary mind while Schlosser himself trolled fuckwits on internet RPG boards, those silly shits. However, something of particular note caught his eyes recently, a server other than his own lurking here in the depths of the nether space. As far as he had known most demonic presences on the internet were due to possessed or at least influences ritualists, but this showed signs that demons were directly tapping into the internet. It was an insidious and wonderful idea admittedly; it also was a wonderful manner to get to know the enemy better. It took some days before the demonic user detected his presence, he was after all behind like seven proxies bro, but now it had taken notice of him and it immediately began trying to troll him, how quaint.~ However it was about time to give this thing a little taste of its own medicine. Schlosser swore he hadn't had this much fun since the Cold War.

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly,  “Dear friend what can I do,
To prove the warm affection I 've always felt for you?
 I have within my pantry, good store of all that's nice;
  I'm sure you're very welcome — will you please to take a slice?”

Surrounded by scores of screens as he stood at the center of a 360 degree hologram keyboard, Schlosser stretched his hands as they broke apart into many scores of smaller digits that he held gently, like a cool wind before a storm, over the keyboard. The prototype Scounter firmly in place made it easy for him to keep track of all the rest of his screens while still focusing his attention on this one. Plus it was nice to be slowly triangulating the source of this Demonic Server. A single digit clicked a key, lowering a surround sound system and his sound proof walls as Du Hast began to blare. Now admittedly Schlosser’s taste in music was more along German folk songs and yodeling, but Rammstein just felt right when in this mode. There was something about the Deutsch that just lended it selt so well to the act of trolling, though of course Schlosser was a more subtle sort. A 5pider5ex? Seriously? Apparently creativity was floundering in the underworld, but alas one must make due with what one must. She, or he, or it, you were never really sure with internet whores or demons, was apparently using an infernal client called Aviax. Cute pun, but Schlosser preffered his own client, a little something borrowed from Catellus- IRRUMBO.

“Sweet creature!” said the Spider,  “you're witty and you're wise,
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
 I've a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,
  If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.”

CLICK FOR CHAT LOG:

[Vlad III Țepeș]

Nearly two full months had passed since the Lord Impaler, Vlad III Țepeș, was appointed the task of acting as the Entropic Chasm's surrogate ruler while Belphegor, the Archdemon of Sloth, resumed his thousand year slumber. On a political level, his words held just as much weight as the rest of Lucifer's lieutenants, yet his own power as a Demon still lacked in many regards; the abrupt entrance of the strongest of God's Archangels, Michael, served as a painful reminder of this grim reality. And just recently, one of the Protector's wretched comrades had the audacity to invade his Chasm and deploy that appalling architectural eyesore that he referred to as his Skyhaven, thereby sowing unease in the blackened hearts of Belphegor's subjects. War with God was definitely on the horizon, and Count Drăcula could practically taste the day of destiny inching its way closer.

In a way, all the events that transpired lately evoked lasting memories of his former life as Voivode of Wallachia. The arrival of God's filthy, winged pawns resurrected his lasting hatred for Him and the Host, and further reminded him of his seething grudge against the Ottomans he once personally swore to exterminate from his kingdom. It almost felt as if though history was repeating itself at this very moment, and Drăcula felt assured that he had grown more powerful than he had ever been as a mortal, a human being limited by their own weakness as a species. To make a mistake, especially now that the threat of visceral, bloody conflict loomed overhead, was not an acceptable option under any circumstances.

So, Vlad did what any ruler worth his salt would do: consolidate his power in every way he could. To deter potential intruders from attempting to take the Patriot's Labyrinth by force, the stately vampire had the entire complex rigged with numerous booby traps, many of them revolving around retracting iron spikes in the walls and ceilings or pitfalls dug into the floors, lined with deadly wooden stakes at the bottom and capped with fragile platforms that would break away if one stepped on them. Scores of his lesser vampiric servants, the Nosferatu, would be imported from the Necropolis to fortify the Chasm's ranks to serve whatever purpose their master gave them; some were sent to act as foot soldiers, and others were spires or dispatched as messengers. Most importantly, he saw to the extermination of any possible signs of rebellion or insurgency within the Slothful's sphere, thus further solidifying his power over the realm he was charged with ruling in Belphegor's absence. It went without saying that, sometimes, the best methods used when managing an entire state and its people were the most medieval in their execution.

The Archdemons, and by extension the Devil, were a very mercurial lot and, having lived for seven billion years, give or take a few millennia, hardly anything could surprise them in their all-encompassing influence and knowledge. But one of them, however, had been paying attention to the Impaler's swift yet dramatic overhaul of the Entropic Chasm's management. Asmodeus, the Duchess of Desire, had been privy to his promotion to the rank of steward long before the Devil's other lieutenants were ever told that he had been searching for a candidate; in fact, she was a witness to the entire affair. So imagine, if you would, her sadistic interest in watching a Demon as young as the Count try so hard to prepare Belphegor's lands for the upcoming chaos that was about to ensue.

And what better way to express her good graces for her brother-in-name than by issuing to him a welcoming gift of sorts? Courtesy of the Lost Host, Legion, the Queen of the Blightscape presented Drăcula a strange piece of equipment which she described as a "computer", a form of technology that originated in the realm of humans and reverse-engineered to serve more diabolical ends. According to the Archivist themselves, it came programmed with a special communications routine called a "chat client", labeled "Aviax", named so as part of some inside joke which the Count did not understand yet never bothered to try and figure out anyway. By using Aviax, the Impaler could keep in touch with the other Archdemons, and it also had access to numerous features that allowed his laptop (which was called that due to its portability) to bypass human world proxies and block functions; randomizes provider addresses every time it is accessed; saves every dialogue history made; and is compatible with any chat service available in both worlds. Whatever any of that meant. Last, but certainly not least, this computer was made to act as its own wireless hotspot, and essentially granted the technologically-inhibited Drăcula unlimited Internet access.

After spending several days fidgeting with the device and learning of its capabilities, Vlad came to see it as a valuable tool for gathering information on the lowly humans and their equally disgusting planet. Additionally, he could share this data with the other Archdemons; highly useful, indeed, especially when it came to planning a method of attack or collaborating a defensive effort with them. And while Drăcula was not a Demon who saw any worth in the human species as a whole, he was a being who still gave credit where it was due, and this hunk of circuits definitely had its purposes. He'd be wise to make the most of this thing.

With austere yellow eyes fixated on an obscure, black silhouette rising up in the Chasm's horizon, outlined by the light of a pale Demonic moon and the mountains that stretched across the whole of the Stygian Tundra his realm neighbored, the Count occasionally glanced down at his open laptop while he slid a finger across the built-in track pad, substituted in place of the classic mouse, then clicked on the icon that would open up Aviax, waiting around a paltry four seconds before the software initialized and brought the vampire's contacts list, which consisted of every Archdemon—sans Lucifer, for whatever reason. He cocked a brow upward, the rest of his face glued in position; Asmodeus was online, as was Leviathan. And they were engaged in a conversation with someone using a rather distasteful virtual handle.

He cast one last glimpse of the strange shadow in the distance, perfectly profiled by the gaping hole in the wall of the American capital's Demonic parallel of the White House, then clicked on the Lustful Mistress' name to open up another pane, where he could engage in a private conversation with her. Construction of his latest pet project has been going smoothly, and he felt the sudden urge to relay his progress to her. If he was lucky, maybe he could ask for a few suggestions to help strengthen his odds at repelling the Angelic scum that were lurking about.

Private Chat – Asmodeus:

[Asmodeus]

This demon or whatever it was, well, obviously a he with a handle of that caliber. Anyways, he typed fast, alarmingly fast, and was somewhat intelligent. The princess of the decayed land did not expect this, as on most instances, these demons were fairly unintelligent despite being able to set up a network. They usually responded with some sort of gullible drivel, but not this one. This one bit back, per say, even if it was but a mere flea. He was about to experience the venomous bite of the arachnid.

CHATLOG (SS and SB69):

Asmodeus became lost in thought. Or, so it would seem, as most of her mind was currently being used to swim around in this man's head. Of course a wifi connection was enough of a signal to do this apparatus trick, do you doubt the unholy power of the archdemons? She could crush your mind just with a flick of her fingers! But in reality, while this connection provided her a emotional link due to the fact that the mind was engaged in conversation with her own, she could only read and search through his emotional spectrum. Now this spectrum is another complicated subject that only the Lustful really experiences in full, minus the single blackened shade of love. The spectrum is compromised of a vast amount of emotions which could be accurately portrayed by a color spectrum, hence the naming. These colors vary in amount based on the emotion in say, since we cannot view emotions on the same level as her, this makes for a good example. The archdemon surfs through the entire history of these swinging emotions, effectively telling her key points about one's character, and if she's close enough, the ability to alter how they feel altogether. Not the traditional form of mind control, but an effective one nevertheless. It seemed that Leviathan was bugging her now, what a meddler.

CHAT LOG (SS and SF):

Someone else was messaging her in the middle of this conversation, but the lustful ignored this while ranting about to Leviathan. Surfing through her mind was fun, as her emotions just swam all over the fucking place. Seriously, it was like a tornado went through there. A million tornados. It's a mess. A messy, messy, mess, mess! Everything was a mess. Everyone was a mess. Except Asmodeus, of course. But of course people were blowing her computer up, everyone in the entire world wanted her attention, and she guessed she'd give a little back. She thought of herself to be a little too grateful as it is. Oh no. The archdemon thought about perhaps turning the cruelty knob up a notch, but forgot this thought after another sip of her drink. Gee, the Chan sure was shit tonight. Oh wait, somebody sent a message. That's right.

CHAT LOG (SS and LI):

Despite her negative and sarcastic attitude towards this man only known as Lord Dracula, she was in fact in cahoots with him in the long run. Asmodeus was the one who spotted him, she was the one who ultimately orchestrated the events that would lead to him becoming a steward of the Entropic Chasm, and later, well, perhaps even something more grand than that. But steps had to be taken, elaborate ones, and careful ones. It would not be until some time that these could be walked. The Lustful pondered thoughts again, or perhaps, maybe, she just spaced out again.

[Johannes E. Schlosser]

It is probably for the best that the good readers of this merry tale cannot actually see the things occurring between and among these words, the tiny details that are left out despite an author’s attempts to create a truly whole picture. One could spend many pages describing the most miniscule of moments in all their individualized horror, however such actions would both be pointless in the length of their endeavors while at the same time revealing things to the readers best left up to their otherwise limited imaginations. This, of course, was what was going through Schlosser’s mind as he stood there at his Holo-Computer, because he knew, he knew others were reading his tale as it occurred. He knew they would not since the specific details going on about him, like the pungent earthy sweet yet somewhat rotten fishy smell of formaldehyde that emanated from various pushed aside projects. Or the fine red line of congealed sap-like blood that ran down his cheek from where his grin was so wide that it started to crack his skin. Or the sound of his Soul Battery as it preformed routine maintenance, a sound that was somewhere between the feeling of a punch to the gut and the taste of deepfried catfish. Of course, thought Schlosser, They all know those details now, but there are still plenty of others that will be left out.

He was, of course, at the same time paying attention to the childish ranting of the demon on the other end of the line. The “leet speak” was rather enjoyable as it quickly determined, at least in his mind, who was of the greater intellect. That was of course the problem with demons, they seemed to live on and on and never really learn anything; Schlosser theorized that this was a phenomenon due either to their inherit pride, their former status as angels whom had God doing most of the thinking for them, or due to the fact that the authors of their personalities and stories were significantly younger and less educated than an actual seven billion year old demon would actually be. He preferred the latter theory if only because that’s what his CrossGear told him was true. In any case, one could quickly analyze the situation and realize that there were only two demons in all of Hell that specifically were capable of pathokinesis, the telepathic ability to see and manipulate emotions, according to the Templar Reports. Lucifer himself and the Demon Princess of Decay, Asmodeus. Schlosser highly doubted that Lucifer was so bored as to troll on chat clients and if he was he would undoubtedly be much better at it. Thus it was safe to assume that he was dealing with the Archdemoness Asmodeus rather than the Crown Prince of Hades. If anything this just spurred Schlosser on, it wasn’t exactly that he had a death wish so much as he really didn’t have any inhibitions to tell him that it was a bad idea to mess with an Archdemon.

CHAT LOG:

0101010101110000001000000111100101101111011101010111001001110011001000000110001001101001011011010110001001101111001000000011101000101001

[Leviathan]

Levi was rather bored waiting for a response, so she decided to open up her little account on WoW. She had leveled up well, long nights after her fun times with her harem bored out of her mind had done that. She was a Blood Elf Rogue, specializing in “fucking shit up” at close range with knifes, knifes, and more fucking knifes. She was already partaking in a bit of trolling, going around and challenging noobs who didn’t know about her Level 80 Knifes of Bloodstains, which only took a couple of hits before they were restarting from the graveyard. Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay! Levi was doing well to suppress her violent urges by using this game to rage. Of course, she still kicked her penguins around from time to time, a good romp in the water always help too, but online gaming was...safer to the denizens of Inferis. Oooooh, messages. This guy, this 69 fella, was try-harding all over the chat. Rhyming? Was this fucker Shakespeare? Leviathan didn’t think so, she’d met Shakespeare. Kind of a dick. But much better at rhyming.

Asmo was so strange. Like herself, Leviathan thought, how eclectic she could be. Although, she was developing a headache already trying to read her number words. Soon, when Leviathan got through that part, she could collect her thoughts and finally reply.

Private Chat:

[Vlad III Țepeș]

An upbeat chime tinkled from the miniature computer's built-in speakers, the telltale sound effect of a message being received. Asmodeus had replied. When Vlad swept his gaze across the monitor to read her answer, he instead lowered his eyebrows in a gesture of slight annoyance. Her typing was obnoxious to say the very least, as it was an offensive combination of both letters and numbers but with the latter appearing far more frequently than the former. Even then, it wasn't so much as the syntax of the message that bothered him as much as the way he personally interpreted it. The Duchess of Desire was acting far more crude than he was accustomed to putting up with, referring to the Impaler by childish titles such as "mayor of Snoozeville" or "the bland knight". Petty, juvenile insults. Was she always like this?

Of course, when the Count actually spent the effort to mentally translate her numeral-heavy excuses for words and read the remainder of Asmodeus' response, he happened upon a sentence that could have brightened his day a little, were it in his capacity to feel such an emotion. She was being appreciative of his efforts to strengthen the Hell Princes' cause, and figured it was only courteous to return the favor in the form of a download link, titled "8pr1nt51t1". Drăcula brushed a fingertip across the track pad, guiding the cursor of his computer to the highlighted text and double-clicking it to initiate the download, a process which only took several seconds.

Several clicks later and he was extracting the downloaded package's contents from its .zip format, whatever that meant, leaving the stately vampire to wait for another couple of seconds before a tiny folder popped up on screen, indicating that the extraction was complete. The Impaler opened the virtual container, creating a small window with two icons in the process: one of the little buttons looked like a small triangle pointed toward his right, the universal icon for "play", as in what you'd command a DVD player to do, helpfully titled "instructions"; the other was a document, no doubt the actual blueprints themselves. Acting on his better intuition, the Count zeroed his cursor in on the video file and clicked the icon to open up the computer's respective video player software, expecting to see (or hear) Asmodeus instruct the viewer on how to properly set up the trap as described in the blueprints, and the materials required to create it.

What he opened was something else entirely. A cheerful, almost disco-like tune erupted from the speakers and pierced Drăcula's eardrums like a cluster of stiletto knives being inserted into his brain with about as much subtlety as two freight trains colliding head on with one another. Synthesizer and orchestral instruments blending together with sickening harmony, but the worst was yet to come. As soon as the refrain ceased and the first verse began, lyrics were being belted out by a male figure likely in twenties at the time of recording—and it only took the first line for the Count to become instantly sick of the song, subsequently followed by the very solemn realization that what Asmodeus had sent to him was not instructional in its nature. ♪ We're no strangers to looooove~ You know the ruuuules, and so do I... ♫

"Tch..." With a frustrated push of the track pad, the Impaler closed out the prank video before it had the chance to continue itself and rapidly moved on to open the blueprints document, now under the impression that the Queen of the Blightscape had done nothing more than play a childish joke on the comparatively young Demon—petty as it was, he fell for it regardless. Luckily he was spared a repeat performance by being treated with the image of a complex layout of some kind of death trap, which helped to quell the agitation that boiled within his gut so that he could replace the feeling with morbid curiosity.

A fanged grin emerged on the vampire's face as delight swam through his yellow eyes. Asmodeus clearly knew what he enjoyed when it came to laying traps; it appeared to be a universal design for a series of lethal implements to put in a corridor or hallway. Retracting spikes seemed to be the key element of this design, and based on what the Count was looking at he could add them wherever he wanted; they could rise up from the floor or shoot out from the walls, and—if he wanted to combat the possibility of someone using flight to avoid injury—even the ceiling could be rigged to skewer those who ventured too close. Of course, this was merely a basic idea, and relied entirely on the designer's creativity. He could add ventilation shafts and tubes so that he could flood the room with deadly toxins, or install pitfalls or devices that could spit forth torrents of flame. Clearly, the ideas Vlad came up with were boundless.

Despite the earlier trick that was played on him, the notorious sovereign of the Nosferatu came out of it rather pleased. Returning to Aviax, he began constructing a message for the Lustful Princess before remembering that Leviathan was also online. As he continued ticking away at the keys, he pondered over the possibility of conversing with the Serpent of Envy and the potential rewards he could reap were he to ask about their current situation. Would she even have anything to contribute?

Private Chat – Asmodeus:

After sending his message to the Lustful, Vlad reached a conclusion. What would be the harm in chatting with Leviathan as well? That is, unless she was busy and didn't have time to shoot the breeze, as it were. If not, then there was nothing of value to be lost and the Nosferatu wouldn't pursue it any further.

Private Chat – Leviathan:

[Asmodeus]

CHAT LOG (SS and SF):

The winged archdemon sat back in her seat with a smug smile upon her face. She enjoyed it, truly, when others knew their place. When they saw things her way, you know, the right way. In reality, it just really helped Asmodeus's shriveled up pride gain just that little bit of confidence. True courage, not the mask that she wears upon her face, constantly condescending others just to feel good about herself. It was a classic case of a schoolyard bully, really, and was a trivial thing for a demon of her status to be concerned about. Hilarious, almost, and the others would certainly mock her if they found out. No good! It was ideal for them all to hate her, but to see her as worthless, unimportant?! The Lustful would have none of that. Luckily, the impure didn't have any mind reading powers of any caliber, and had no idea.

It only took a few more moments of scanning this deranged fellow's emotional spectrum to peg him as human. He had a lot of demonic traits, such as a high pride and as stated earlier, sexual drive. His latest messages only further confirmed this, but Asmodeus held off on responding to him first, instead choosing to continue on her conversation with Dracula. It seemed he accepted the file. Both of them. She laughed at this, knowing how it probably turned out. Out of curiosity, she decided to dive into the vampire's spectrum. It was like, three colors compared to the rainbow of human emotion. Black, red, and a darker red. Right now, it was mostly that darker red, which stood for "hatred", something Vlad had in loads. She left his mind within a few minutes, deciding it bland and generally bad tasting. Like, black licorice, or something.

CHAT LOG (SS and LI):

It would indeed benefit the vampire to play along with her schemes and whatnot. It would benefit his health, that was, because exploding a mind was only but a snap of the fingers away. Ah, making one feel the overwhelming emotion of every single one in existence at a single time, it was truly fun to do that. Especially on mindless, emotionless assholes like the zombies and Legion's machines. A brain wasn't even necessary, which was the beauty of it all. Those machines, those corpses, they always looked so confused when they suddenly understood everything, so sad, only to blow up. Anyways, it was about time to respond to this human. The blue skinned cracked her fingers and took a powerful gulp from her drink.

CHAT LOG (SB and SS):

The very last word of the "poem" was said seconds after the verses were typed, as if the archdemon wanted to add dramatic effect to it, and to let him know she had found out what he really was. And maybe, just maybe, the actual business she wanted to discuss could start. Maybe.

[Sponsored content]