Upon his throne that bled the blood of his brethren tainted by the pestilence of madness. Blood flowed endlessly from the mutilated remains of bones and skulls of the seraphim. There, the Great Prince of Mythos lay within the great halls of his throne room. Below him stood the hooded figure of a stranger, one he both recognized and didn't.
"Mephisto…" He gulped as the name came to him.
Beneath his hooded cloak, teasing laughter, cool as a winter breeze, resonated through the Throne Room. "I'm surprised you recognize me, brother. It's been a few Chaos Cycles since we last met. How have you been, Astaroth?" He said calmly, his voice weighted with authority.
