Beelzebub, Prince of Demons, Lord of flies, Possessor of the flame

[Beelzebub]

DOSSIER: ARCHDEMON


”Put more than two of us in a room, we pick sides and start dreaming up reasons to kill one another.”

BASIC DETAILS

NAME:
Beelzebub (B-EL-zuh-bub)

ALIASES:
- Famed Nickname: Zeb
- Mortal Name: Harlow Rynde
- ב'על זבוב, Beelzebul, Beelzeboul, Baalzebub/Ba‘al Zebûb, Baʿal Zəvûv
- Lord of the Flies, Dominus Muscarum, Lord of the (heavenly) Dwelling
- Prince of Demons

AGE:
6,907,241,468 this year!

APPARENT GENDER:
Male

SPHERE OF INFLUENCE:
Forlorn Ashland

PICTURE: DEMON:

Main Form:

COMPARE, CONTRAST:

PICTURE: MORTAL:

Human Form:

*********

PERSONAL DETAILS

DEMON DESCRIPTION:

Save for the triangle-shaped teeth and horrid green lens eyes, Beelzebub looks the same as if he were still an angel from whilst he fell. Still equip with all six of his wings, he is intent on destroying all knowledge of their existence. Hence, he typically keeps them locked away in some deep corner of his being for none to see or know about. However, when Zeb exhausts his powers or is exposed to a high form of weakness, that control will taper away, allowing for his wings to show in their glittery, true form. White feathers, long, with tarnished edges from the fall reach out the whole length of his form, ephemeral and ethereal. While in this form, he tends to only speak Angelic rather than Demon or a mixture of the two. He can use them for flight, but he rather not use them for anything; they remind him of a strong bitterness and an old place he left for ashes.

Thin, without taste, without form, weightless brushes of what once was is what now falls endlessly from above. Falling—the sight of the damned. Over and over again. Like breathing water thinking it air, wishing it could be gold: needless expense, eternal extravagance, menacing grandeur. Over and over again. As if the fires would never burn out for a reason. And as if he knew that reason.

Zeb has blond hair, had blond hair, will always have blond hair, but will never be a blond. His bangs and hair around his face have been singed a musky black that reeks of smoke as if it still burning from decent. The ends of his hair bear golden snippets of triangles that help with detection. (Kind of like whiskers). They don’t move or have minds of their own, but they are organic and considered a part of his being, (not just hair clips for show). On good days, he’ll wander about with ram’s horns on either side of his head. You know, long, pointy, ridged, the typical demon-from-hell deal. His horns get in the way so he doesn’t always possess them and rather not entirely terrify company with his full-on attire.

On the grounds of attire, Zeb wears a blue suit all the goddamn time. He doesn’t change—doesn’t do outfits and really enjoys the old-fashioned jabot collar and keeps it to this day. On occasion, he’ll slip into something new or forget to change from his time on Earth and prance around in something irregular. He’s not one for adaption or blending in with the times. In fact, he’s oddly chivalrous despite his sporadic and sudden bouts of uncontrolled violence. Regardless of anything, however, Zeb will always wear both his black leather gloves and Doc Marten boots he recently purchased on Earth in his human form.

MORTAL DESCRIPTION:

Zeb keeps his short in the back, long in the front look, however, loses the blond hair for jet black. Oddly speaking, he looks more demonic in his human form than he does in his demon form. He just looks less eccentric and less like he just escaped an insane asylum. All in all, Zeb already appeared very much human, so his mortal form is not any less recognizable as him. Trading his spiraled chartreuse green eyes for the opposite red, they are far more narrow and inconspicuous. Having had large insect-like eyes in his demon form, while human his eyes are better compared to a feline’s. Slit in the middle and a vicious hell-borne hue, they tend to part the masses.

He has a very sharp look. Stoic, suit-wearing, straight-backed—the kind of man anyone would listen to while he speaks. His voice remains the same from his demon form as well, maintaining a low beautiful, almost ringing peak that emphasizes words and corrals attention. He speaks haltingly sometimes as if he cannot get the precise wording fast enough to draw a connection with the receiver. Other times, he drawls his words and waves his hands with enthusiasm as if conducting an orchestra instead of a conniving plot from the bowls of Inferis.

Losing his effortless grace and ability to randomly stand sideways on walls, he becomes clumsy like the average human on Earth, giving him a pretty good alibi. He swings his straight arms when he walks, and always has a shadow even when there is no light. Sometimes his shadow will even move and shift as if cast by the flames of a nearby fire, but that’s usually only when he wants to be intimidating and/or scare the living shit out of someone.

He tends to drip a royal demeanor as if to suggest exactly what he is: a prince. His appearance is full of himself, narcissistic, unrelenting, and very dangerous. He’s surprisingly approachable, but tends to ward of the timid with just a flash of his chin up, eyes down creepy curl of the lips. Also, he’s very attentive. His attention is nowhere else aside from what’s happening around him. On Earth, he doesn’t fuck around; he does what he’s there for, and then leaves. If he runs into obstacles, he takes care of them with his slick, fail-proof candescence.

PERSONALITY:

The Price of demons, all but a simple, meaningless title; the real words are what float on rumors. A touch here, a caress there, there are some true in part, but most are fiction. What then is this mysterious being? What is and what isn’t—a passing reflection in a dirty pane. Whispers of what lurks on the edges of imagination and the truancies of humanity come together into something real. Fly bites on the beach and the thrashing of limbs feebly tossed to escape inevitably what happens to us all: deterioration at its finest. What speeds it up, what slows it down. What leans, falls. What falls, crumbles. What tries to rise back up, is a dream.

Obscure nonsense. Has no place here. Talking in riddles and sidestepping the truth are the tools of the holy—the unmarked police cars of the above. Something that warrants tripping in a rain puddle and having to go to the dry cleaners on a weekend. Pointless ridicule and mindless rambling should be contained within the action of a single blink: cast away, never considered until it’s already too late.

This is how Beelzebub thinks. If at all he does think. There are other processes—other means with which the darkness consumes. The shadows between stars make up the color that is space; the contemplation before results make up the preemptive. Before the buzz a fly makes, it does not ask for it. The warning is there, the sound, is there; there is no planning, no quantitative disease planted to take root. For this Archdemon, there is only it.

He gets what he wants and what he wants is what he already has. Excess is something that the concept of Gluttony feasts on, sating the indulgent, lifting the veil on an ugly, base requirement, and succeeding it. In a realm of grey, there can only be more grey. Adding, adding, flames burn on until there is nothing but ash. At one time, Gluttony was once like Greed. When he first fell, there was shock and then longing—longing for what was given up. For isn’t the grass always greener? Humans make such sense of things in their putridly poetic adages. Obtaining both, wouldn’t that be the upper hand? But longing excessively beyond reason is Zeb’s strong suit, convincing wasn’t. For that, he was punished with realization—a sickening vile decrement of his makeup. That was when he was remade. Sometimes the grass is fake. Holding taught to the fraudulent makes the hands also just that. Upon his punishment did he realize that, once the puppet strings were already integrated into his being and irreversible. A bittersweet satire—what it took to grasp the gears—to inevitably surmise what should have already been surmised.

Folly breeds solidity and precision. That is what Beelzebub has become, but it is a process that now only increases in worth. He is a very humble person (not necessarily a person however, but that’s beside the point). He will admit to nothing, and carelessly toss away credit where it is due. Standing at the top of a mountain is only standing at the top of the mountain. Leveling the mountain, however is an even greater feat. He has his names, titles, and place on a fiery throne, and his is accepting of these, but he is not possessive with what cannot be ousted. His confidence is awe-inspiring and effortlessly undistinguishable. His life weighs in the balance of a single flame, but he does not try and hide it, nor does he deny it. Zeb carries it inside or on the outside when feeling bold. Like a burden that defines him, he remains unafraid.

He is the one that invokes fear, distills minds with manipulation, and creates extravagant designs that even the highest IQ cannot dissolve. He is the beginning of wars, the choice words before a fight, the jealousies of tyrants, and the insanity of murder; he is that which causes demons to be worshipped on earth—a possessor of the holy. Exorcists trilling the name of Beelzebub as lesser, problem demons are extinguished in the unholy holy light, wielding by an undeterred plume of smoke and a creepy smile. That is his plot.
His emotions are something vast and untrodden. They are prevalent much like other Archdemons, however they are not easily divulged. He often feels as if they are not his own, but something given to him by some other essence. There are no details. He simply observes them as if from the outside looking in, laughing haphazardly at himself regardless of what is being felt. That way, he is never emotionally involved or compromised in any situation. At the same time, that is bound to change; nothing lasts forever. He gives over the illusion of feelings because fitting in is a helpful tool. If he does encounter something he cannot control or something he cannot contain, there is no telling what can happen to him. Ill-prepared and most likely dangerous, he could lose himself in the seams of his own shield.

Zeb is easy to get along with. Not because he is any more mortalized than the others, but because there is no need to otherwise resist. He is open, but not understanding in the least. If someone fails at something, it’s entirely baffling to him. He does not fail, is not thwarted, and does not know the meaning of giving up. In that sense, he’s hard to get along with actually. Except, following that track of thought, he has a zero consistency policy that is enacted 24-7 (by human times). He never does the same thing in the same way twice. He plays the fool and oftentimes misleads others to think that he is indeed much like the flies he is in lead of. It’s all a game, an act—stage set—lights, camera, action. He pretends to be innocent because suspicion is a weakness. He smiles to fit in, wears a stupid expression to be misjudged, and loves how it keeps them all off balance. Unreadable, unpredictable, Zeb truly follows the path of a fly, able to see so many steps ahead when really there are no steps, just a flyswatter.

HISTORY:

"BEGONE!" That was the softness in his heart—the quiet whistling of home: the very place he was created for stripped from him with a single word. All at once, there was pain—something entirely foreign—something that didn’t belong here. It was arranged, giant cuffs of hands, smashing out the two-syllables, ravaging the heavens entirely. A mistake. We all make them, but to forsake such a thing is to run from it. This perfect being—the creator—was not flawless. And so they fell, countless of the first trial, giving up themselves, for that was what they were. He remembers still to this day looking over at Lucifer, seeing the expression take root on his shattered face, growing evermore unrecognizable as himself. There was no decision to go, only purpose. To fall, meant to discover, and curiosity was just another one of a servant’s faults. He fell if only because he wanted more than he could have, writhing through the excess and into a wall of dark clouds, reverberating in thunder just like that tattering word.

When they fell, so much fell with them. Wings were torn from them, catching in wind and parting feathers. Golden hair turned black, squinting eyes were malformed, twisted by gravity and by shame. Their skin rippled into grotesque bunches, graying and bubbling with putrid cysts. Horror was amid all their faces for the first few years of descent, staining them so as to never be rewritten. How could such change happen? How did they find themselves here? So many questions were singed along with them. All the while, he held tenaciously to himself, letting not even a single feather go. He folded all six of his wings, shut his eyes, and spiraled out of control. By not fighting the suspension, he was able to save the only thing that he knew while so many others lost it all, became something they weren’t, and then grew unnaturally comfortable with it. He saw angels become shadows, pleasantry become feral screams that never ceased, and entire entities become dust. Some didn’t survive, those that did were hardly themselves, but there were others like him, keeping fibers and sinews of self intact.

At some point, he lost track. He stopped caring about anything really. It was long after falling stopped making him sick—long after he stopped cracking his eyes open to see how the others faired around him. It was getting quieter. Sometimes he wondered if he was going to be the only one that survived. And then what would he find below? An eternity of loneliness? He’d ponder these things, dig through thoughts as the only comfort blessed to him. But the word blessed no longer applied. His entirely was dripping away, he was cracking at the seams. And just as he realized this, a searing agony yanked at his scalp. Smoke began billowing from him, lacing everything around him in fumes too malodorous to breathe. The hair around his face was completely burned black before he had enough recollection to fan away the doubt. Once he had, however, everything became fire. Flames licked at his skin, feasting on the air which had already rushed by. Following him, chasing him again and again, he burst into impalpable fire until it no longer burned. He was ashes, but untouched. He was singed, yet unchanged. When he opened his eyes to see himself, there was nothing except what he remembered. His hair was no longer fully blond, but no matter, he was not one of those malformed beasts grunting and drooling and slathering all over the sky beside him. Why was he relieved? While they all shrieked of their inevitability, he was salvaging himself. That would only harbor jealousy. He would not be one of them any longer. What did that mean?

Towards the finale, he allowed himself to open his eyes, teeth falling out in gasps of blood, replaced by shark-like razors. He turned away and towards the darkness, seeing with neon green eyes everything and nothing. Like lens adorned with precision, they leaked an ethereal glow into the bowls of Inferis forming leagues below. Something told him this was it. Gold abrasions in the shapes of triangles latched to the tips of his hair like monsters, allowing for him to feel each touch of air that passed by, sending him further and further into oblivion. The pull of his wings stopped, they vanished deep within him just in time for him to be buried into the ground. Hot and cold at the same time, cracks formed around him, broken rock, the moans and cries of other who too touched down in this same place. He wasn’t alone.

The air was thick with so much tension, growing hastily beyond measurement. He held himself very still, the first and only one to look back up from whilst they came. There was nothing above but thick fog, laced with hate and so much misery it was hard to even gauge that there ever was a place called Heaven.

Bitterness.

All at once, he tasted it in his mouth among the tangy metallic rumble of blood. What could go so wrong? Look what happened to the Archangels—to them, the ones that served God pleasantly. This was them. Now, it was hard to even grasp who was who and who was what.

"MY FELLOW DEMONS!” A voice he’d recognize anywhere rose up from all around. ”WE HAVE BEEN CAST OUT FROM HEAVEN AND, OUR OLD GOD SAYS, ‘CONDEMNED’ TO THIS PLACE! HE IS WRONG!" Wrong? And as he further explained, it all became clear, muddled with lies no more. This was for them, this place. It was not for suffering or for pain, but a playground to enact what many of them had been holding back, hiding behind their backs, taking back time and time again so their fallacies would not be discovered to any avail. It was a cover, a ploy by Lucifer to reinstate what just occurred. Making the best out of their situation, they would survive, they would prosper. To what end? "MURDER! MAIM! PILLAGE! HURT! STEAL! RAPE! DESTROY!"

Bitterness.

No, he would not dirty his hands with petty sins. There was much more to salvage from the wreckage. What if they could have both? What if God himself could be overtaken? Aiming higher than he had ever thought possible, the Archdemon, Beelzebub, knew there was a chance he might fall yet harder.

Still in the air, figuratively he cooked his thoughts over the open flame that could no longer burn him. It boiled and festered until he found himself decades later standing before The Devil Spire with no sins to call his own. “What if we conquered Heaven—earned our way back up there?” Zeb found the words leaking out in his native tongue—nearly forbidden blasphemy. All in an instant, he found he had severed all confidence. What is worse than death? How would he die? If something similar were to happen, it would be this. Vanquished before the flame, Lucifer shook his head. He did not do as asked—he did not perform as willed; his ideas were still planted above the clouds from whilst they had already fallen. He was wrong. To have and to hold, to, as a dragon, lounge among too much gold, more than could ever be spent, was what Heaven offered. This wasn’t Heaven; it was Inferis. Bewilderment overrode him, encasing the Archdemon in something that could only be called argument. He did not understand what worth burning Heaven to the ground could warrant. That was when Lucifer showed him. Release. When all six of his wings spread for the first time since becoming a demon and twin ram’s horns sprouted from atop his head, he was no longer the him he had known.

Memories in shambles, emotions upheaved, Beelzebub was vested to a single flame. Placed within him, it would burn forever, or be extinguished: his life. Puppet strings placed in the hands of his maker, he learned of balance, and only knew destruction.

When humans walked the earth for the first time, Beelzebub gave them fire. When darkness was too vast, he gave them fireflies with which to wander into their clutches. When societies were built and foundations made, he shook them with witchcraft. Possessing women and misleading the populace, he watched in intrigue as countless were burned upon stakes. He played with the shaky bonds between people, taking pleasure in how it all fell apart. His bitterness continued to overtake him, the single flame that Lucifer gave him becoming the very fabric of his being. He lived to see the world burn, but his eyes would often drift upward still, as if some leftover whispers still trilled in the forgotten cobwebs of his mind. Burn it to the ground. He was ignited, starting wars and walking away if only to look behind him at the body count. He got bored one day and possessed an exorcist, muttering his name was Beelzebub as he used the exorcist’s powers to remove an annoying lesser demon from a poor farmer. He indirectly killed his own, saving Inferis some trouble while also causing demons to be worshipped on Earth. Ritualists began to spring up, demons taking root in human hosts. Occasionally, however, a human would steal control over a demon, harnessing their power. In some cases this was annoying, in others it was beneficial.

Zeb was that which deteriorates—fire that eats, takes away, and leaves only ashes. He brought aging to the world of cells and microorganisms. He gave them physical sight into their own deaths. And dualism was borne upon their fear. While there is Heaven, there is also Hell. While there is Hell, there is also Heaven. Without one, the other cannot exist. Burn down one, then what is left?

When Beelzebub encountered Lucifer with his request, did it really not go according to plan? Was his short-lived revolt then not a success with sacrifice? Left up to speculation, the details of the matter hardly concern him. To this day, he goes about his plot with accuracy, never once failing to accomplish just as intended. Expense is nothing to him. His physical self and his life’s flame are all but steps back up the staircase, wherein all below and all above will be razed.

*********

SPECIALISED DEMON:

Order of the Fly:

Elite of the elite, these glorious creatures are by far the most dangerous and beastly forms of predators Inferis has ever seen. Fuzzy and almost cuddly they are little balls of soot each equip with their own glorious personality and frenzied attention. They have spherical bodies with stick-like arms and legs that are adjustable as well as able to vanish as if never there. Bearing two inquisitive eyes, they move by hovering about the ground. They are capable of lifting things many, many times their own weight much like ants from Earth. They cannot speak, talk, make noises, make sounds, or really anything audible at all. Their eyes say it all or it's more of a telepathic thing--as in they just know whatever Beelzebub needs. And they never tire. They are like little windup machines that go and go and hand things to people, and plan things, and organize things, and clean, and yeah.

They are telepathic, but not with words. They transmit the act of knowing, injecting the facts and receiving the facts. With that lack of language, there is no need for questions and no need for that delay of specifics between duties. They do.

If a human or a demon from another sphere touches them even slightly, they will be burned. If they do not correspond with the correct notion of immediately pulling away, they will proceed to light aflame. Much like most Inferis fires, this condition does not stop until the fool adds to the ashes raining about The Forlorn Ashland (hence the name). The 'flies' live at such a high temperature that it's hard to measure with human systems. Constantly moving--rotating--so much so they are almost like their own suns.

Combat-wise, the flies are much like the insect themselves. Flight (not literal) is their best option. Their leader can handle himself therefore, they are to save themselves. Fleeing is an active decision in their specks-for-minds, so it is a choice they when often make. That is not to say they are fearful or afraid, but they are almost entirely non-combative. Only under dire circumstances, will they get involved to assist Zeb, and usually in a very soft and discreet way. They are too tiny to cling, attack, or block much of anything, but they help where and when they can only when needed.

They are the workers, the sidekicks, the waiters, the uninterfered, the toiling balls that do not know anything but the will of their master. And Zeb talks to them a lot as if to emphasize his own lack thereof of company. He knows they don't do words and automatically understand him, but that doesn't stop him from speaking about various things. Hey, they serve that purpose too now don't they?

SKILLS:
- Cooking (which includes making the best smore ever).
- Hopscotch.
- History buff.
- Reading people/Guessing things.
- Being unpredictable.
- Staring for long periods of time at nothing (usually ranges from 3-5 years).
- Creeping fellow demons out.
- Crawling up walls.
- Not sleeping.
- Being immune to fire.
- While in demon or human form, can appear to humans as contorted and flickering as if cast before firelight, taking on a holy-fuck-this-isn’t-a-human-I-was-misled kind of feel that irks terror at the congealed human-esque form.
- Cannot be killed unless completely unexposed to fire.

WEAKNESSES:
- Staring at the sun too long.
- Counting to three.
- Kittens.
- Sneezing.
- Measuring things.
- Any kind of liquid.
- Remembering things about himself.
- There is a flame somewhere on his person (whether inside him or on the outside) at all times; if that goes out, he dies.

COLOURS:
- Angelic (ghostwhite), Afrikaans (yellow), English (royalblue), Zulu (orange), Xhosa (magenta), Tswana (rainbow), Demon (lime), and Infernangelic (gradient).

TRIVIA:

- That flame of his (‘the puppet strings’) remind him to burn Heaven to the ground, for nothing should be as perfect.
- Owns a tavern and often invites all the Archdemons on special occasions.
- Is usually in his human form while in his tavern.
- Was the one who gave humans fire.
- Invented Fireflies.
- Was responsible for the Salem Witch Trials.
- Is responsible for aging: the deterioration of human form.
- Doesn’t curse.
- Speaks very formally.
- Zero consistency.
- Oftentimes makes absolutely no sense.
- 8D is typically what his face looks like.
- Favorite pastime is hanging upside down.
- Looks like he has shark teeth.
- If exposed to anything cold for too long, he'll suffer from fever and his flame will burn low.
- Loves popsicles.
- Loves reading.
- His favorite thing is Halloween; it's not even considered a day; it's a THING.
- Is attracted to flypaper.
- Loves playing the innocent.
- Hums a lot.
- Hates cigarettes.
- Eats flesh (any kind really).
- Has random bouts of violence.
- Has a fascination with balloons.
- Can't swim.
- Weighs exactly 537 lbs.
- Loves candles.
- Hates cemeteries.

*********

USER DETAILS

ALIAS:
Aki, what's it to ya.

OTHER CHARACTERS:
Avery B. Sax

ROLEPLAY HISTORY:
14 years.

FACECLAIM:

Code:

[b]KUROSHITSUJI[/b] :: [b]SEBASTIAN MICHAELIS[/b]

Code:

[b]MAJIN TANTEI NOUGAMI NEURO[/b] :: [b]NEURO NOUGAMI[/b]

CUSTOM RANK:
DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH

[Beelzebub]

Done!

[Lazarus Carter]

APPROVED

Long awaited and very much textbook, Aki! Well done.

[Sponsored content]