I dream of a far off distant future:
Samael and I sit in the atrium of the palacious hotel where the annual archdemon council is about to take place. Wings rustle as they drag across the floor, tails flicker, and the waitstaff bustle about in preparation, the finest of delicacies being wheeled about on dollies as the demons and their chosen mortals arrive to the Hell Hotel, dressed in sunglasses and furs, as throngs of servants attend their every need.
Samael is smoking a cigar and is dressed in flowing black sunflower red robes, with a ruby and steel diadem. His ebon hair falls long and wild and his red eyes churn. He is pouring over his list, checking boxes off.
