As 9:30pm rolled around Dante was still in the depths of the manor in a dark room he designated for his opium den. His eyes were dilated and blood shot and his mind was flooded with all of the yummy chemicals he so desperately sought out. A stash box sat next to him as he lounged in a bean bag chair, or was it truly a cloud on which he floated?, and in it were needles and pipes and pills and herbs and powder. Everything, but not enough. His brothers and sisters (whichever physical form they chose to inhabit anyway, genders meant little to them) regarded him distastefully. They tell the Dark Lord that I don't deserve this anymore, that I take no pleasure in corrupting souls, he thought to himself. Don't listen to them! They don't understand you like we do! A water pipe which was propped against the wall sang to him. He chuckled at that, before he received word that he needed to get ready, the Guests of Honor would arrive soon. Dante found himself standing, and couldn't remember how he'd gotten to his feet. He moved from the dark room into the brightly lit hallway, the light piercing his eyes like a hot knife. He grabbed his head, but proceeded to make his way from the den to his private room and the journey seemed to be longer than the trek down a hall and up a short flight of stairs. Dante felt as though his footsteps carried him through the fabrics of time and space itself. Which incidentally, was his least favorite trip. Finally, he was in his shower- the cold water helping to clear his mind. He let the water pool in his hands as he splashed his face, savoring the sensation the chill produced through his body. He chose a typical black tuxedo and drab black mask. He cared little for fashion, or style. That was up to his siblings. He made his way through the manor, and the sounds of delighted chatter and upbeat music was already filling up the grandiose entrance and main floor. A butler fluttered past him with a tray filled with champagne, which Dante promptly lifted the entire tray and made his way to the table filled with sweets. He set the plate down in front of him, and reached into his pocket for a few hits of ex that were loosely floating around. He ate them and promptly chased them with an entire flute of champagne. And then another. No time at all had passed before the drugs kicked in and colors and sounds were amplified. He felt a wave roll over him of pure euphoria, and a smile involuntarily came to his lips. It is true I take no pleasure in corrupting souls. These souls were already miserable, damnable and cursed. It is my siblings that did not know pleasure, they did not know euphoria. It was not hard work to share a needle or a line with some fool or another and get him to sign his soul over for some more, Yes! Yes! some delectable cupcake before him agreed fervently. The cupcake slowly peeled off it's wrapper and danced around. A few other deserts began joining it in its dance. It is you who appreciates pleasure. Why work hard to corrupt these worthless mortals when you can enjoy yourself and they will take care of the rest? They all sang. A stupid grin spread on his face as he watched the deserts dance and twirl before him. Beckoning him to enjoy them too. Right? Why work hard? Oh. Now he was beginning to sound like Sloth. Some Damned Spirit was watching him with a mixture of fear and confusion. He realized he'd been talking aloud to the sweets. No one could see his hallucinations. He cut his eyes at the Spirit and gave a low snarl. "Enjoying the view, you worthless rat?" He asked venomously. He finished the flute of champagne and piled the pastries on the tray he had just emptied. "Keep looking and you'll end back up in the pits of Hell quicker than you'd hoped. Now, go do you're fucking job and make us look good will you?" He almost chucked the wrapper-less muffin at the soul, but what a waste of perfectly fine sugar that would have been. Instead he gave the Spirit one last cutting look before wandering off with his tray of goodies, in search of a dark corner in which to indulge and seek out whichever foolish mortal he wast tasked with damning to an eternity in fire and brimstone and blah blah blah... The greater tragedy is that they will be deprived of all their goodies. These wasteful, stupid, stupid humans. They don't appreciate excess like I do. They will starve themselves for beauty and sacrifice all of these delicious morsels. The only thing they craved in excess was money, and that was folly and Greed's territory. But even so, Dante knew better. Greed was just a specific category of Gluttony. Gluttony was where the other Sins were derived from, in Dante's opinion. And still they dare to mock me! he glowered and began shoveling the sweets into his mouth indiscriminately. Fret not! They will see the truth soon enough! When you take your Sin unto the Dark Lord before all of them, and when he acknowledges your superiority they will have no choice but to concede their inferiority to you! Some desert reassured him before being consumed for the greater good. He smiled again. This was true, his hallucinations never lied to him. They always showed him the way, he would corrupt more souls than the others. He would- because that is what Gluttony was good for wasn't it? ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Roxie was clad in a tight corset that showed off her tiny waist, and black tight leather pants tucked into thigh-high black stiletto boots. Her outfit hugged her every curve like a second skin and left very little to the imagination. She wore a cat mask that glittered in the light and seemed made for her face alone. She felt wrapped in the aura of sexuality she so often donned in life, and she lavished in it. To be among the living again! Much has changed since her damnation, and still not much at all was different! She spent time with Spirits old and older still and none had been offered this chance like her and the others. Because they were better. She was better. Roxie was seduction. She had often been told that her naked form was the purest form of art. Her pouty mouth had begged to be kissed, and her smoldering bedroom eyes beckoned those who had looked upon her to come and know of the pleasure she could give them. Yes, Roxie knew this to be true- and much more. In life she had made a killing putting her looks to use. Her hair was always in a state of neat disarray that gave her a messy post sex look (which was most often true) and this only added to her look. As she walked across the marble floors in the manor her hips swayed as if possessed by the song of some slow dusky saxophone, and she never spared a look to those who gazed upon her hungrily. Let them try to devour me. Let them taste me, and meet the ruin I have met she challenged them. But they were already dead like her. And so she must anxiously await for her prey to arrive. It should be no challenge. She mastered the art of seduction. Lust itself had sought her out. If it was anything she knew how to do, and well, it was to get someone into bed with her. If with nothing else than but a look. She wandered the main floor, anxiously waiting the arrival of the honored guests- and secretly hoping she could look upon the face of Lust again as she had before she died. He was the only man she ever wanted. And she only wanted to look again. If he would only have her, she wouldn't want to go back. If he could only take her as mistress instead of forsake her to endless torture. She could be his partner, she could help him. But even when she beseeched him to have her, he gave her a cold smile and answered simply: "You're not that special, love." Well, she would show him yet. And if that still would not prove her worth at least she would be free. Tonight was the last night she would spend knowing that she had a place in hell. Tonight she would make love and know freedom again.

I wonder how long I can continue this facade, a man in a limousine thunk to himself as the long vehicle pulled over on a magnificent mansion. As the limousine door was opened by the chauffeur, somebody proclaiming themselves to be Edgar Pennyworth stepped out, wearing a tuxedo black as the spots tainting his heart. Edgar promptly thanked the driver and stepped towards the entrance of the mansion. Impressive; reminds me of my sweet home, the Pennyworth Estate, a thought came to him. Looks like the invite wasn't a prank, after all. Edgar stepped inside, and was greeted by a mass of lights and music he couldn't compare to the parties he used to partake in. There was a table filled to the brim with exotic delicacies, some of them familiar to Edgar, but most of them too unfamiliar to even recognize. The people attending the party were all wearing masks of some kind, some more fitting to the event than others. Edgar himself chose a mask that would certainly stick out like a sore thumb and cause people to become shocked, appalled, or at the very least, humored at him. At least, that is what he wanted as he stepped closer to the table, anticipated to hear the first reactions upon people witnessing him and the grinning visage of his mask. Time for my dear brother to show what kind of person he is.

Not but a moment after Edgar entered the Manor, an odd incident occurred at the top of the main staircase. What must have been another party-guest, wearing a neat Tuxedo and a golden lion mask, was standing by the upper-right banister, standing perfectly still and looking down at the crowd. Out of the blue, his head jerked down, smashing directly into the top of the banister with an audible cracking noise that was heard throughout the entire foyer. He then tilted to the side and began falling down the stairs, his arms twisting and bending unnaturally as his shoulders smashed into the staircase, his legs upending over his head as he tumbled down back-first. He careened to the side, slamming into the side-railing and then again down the center. Just when it seemed he was going to fall to the floor at the base of the staircase, his legs seemed stiffen and eerily pull upright just as the man rebounded off the lowermost step, and then he neatly stepped out of his previously uncontrolled fall directly onto the foyer floor as if nothing had happened. Most of the onlookers either began to clap or laugh in excitement - whether or not he was an entertainer or just incredibly lucky, it had been something of a curious sight for all of them. The man in the lion mask stood stock-still, and then began to sway from side to side, his body tilting and bending in any and every direction while his legs remained utterly rigid, like a drunken man who had his feet glued to the ground. The party guests, by then, had begun to ignore him and return to their conversations. Not so much as one of them considered checking the man or calling for medical assistance. He continued to shiver and quake in place, completely unaware of his surroundings. Corbel did not deign to arrive through the front door, and nor did he bother to wear a mask. The limited rind of pulp he wore over a frame of bone was already disguise enough, and he had no intention of needlessly cavorting with those within the manor itself. Having climbed over the stone wall that surrounded the estate, he had walked briskly through the gardens - making little effort to hide his presence - and made his way inside through the garden patio connecting to the rear ballroom. The clothes he wore, at least, were not entirely out of place - red silk and velvet, in an anachronistically displaced style. Most of the guests didn't give him a second look. He began scanning the room, watching for the recipient of his first message.

Lust Jazz music from the main floor trailed her steps, now intermingled with the telltale sounds of moaning that grew louder in a crescendo. The handmaiden, a stocky older woman, carried a plush cushion, upon which lay an intricately designed gold mask with fanciful swirls of silver and studded diamonds, and walked past an open set of double doors into an extravagant bedroom. The walls and ceiling were crafted from a rich mahogany accented by warm amber lamps; thick silk curtains, which pooled to the carpeted floor, drew over the windows with an outside view of the gardens. To the left of the entrance, in the sitting room, heavy couches and arm chairs waited on the expansive persian rug by the crackling fireplace. There was a smoky, roasted meat flavour in the air. Shadows flickered across the life-like portraits of men and women. Some were recognisable, like the figures of Casanova and Pope Alexander VI, some were of commoner means or looked haggard; the people of varied ages spanned across different epochs as distinguished by their dress styles, from tribal-wear through to pinstripe suits, and all had been captured with a wild glint in their eyes by the same hand. The handmaiden turned right - a man screamed at the top of his lungs, whether in excruciation or hedonism it was impossible to tell; then only the music lingered - towards a wafting perfume, strong and tantalising, reminiscent of night floral blooms - with the bitterness of charred flesh. A lesser servant would have been unsettled in their task, but the handmaiden, who had been serving Lust since the fourteenth century, said simply, “Madam,” and waited for her mistress with her sight cast on the floor. There stood, as the centrepiece of the room, a magnificent bed crowned in a gold headboard inlaid with an orgy of snakes writhed in embrace: a lone naked beautiful woman, who was the source of the scent, was lying on a spread of smouldering twigs; uninjured. Her luxurious dark hair curled in waves around a heart-shaped face, her equally dark, kohl-lined eyes showed the frustration she felt, with sensuous lips now pursed in a line; her body, of strength and soft skin, was unusually tense post-coital. Lust pondered if she should summon another damned spirit to help scratch the itch just a little more and, in thought, started unwittingly caressing herself. It had been two days since she had last corrupted a soul, two days since she had tasted real pleasure. She had to content herself with the weak incorporeal imitation the eager damned spirits gave (who were sent into worse tortures in Hell upon their return), under orders from the Dark Lord as was tradition. The handmaiden made not a sound but her presence reminded Lust that the masquerade ball was beginning. “Roxie is in the manor, Madam,” she said, as if reading her mistress’ mind; her posture stayed stoic. “Is she now?” Her interest piqued, Lust got out of the bed that instantly reset into a pristine condition and went to the nearby dressing table. She remembered the girl, she remembered all of her corrupted souls: a young wild naive who had been too easily manipulated like so many others before her. Roxie was a dirty girl, a kind of Lolita fantasy innumerable men enjoyed, and therein laid her strength suitable for the game - and a clue as to what kind of a person her mysterious guest of honour was. “Is she the only one?” “So far, yes, she is the only one of your Sin, Madam.” Lust looked into the mirror. The form was an exquisite design from the masochistic pyromaniac she had just fucked. She supposed she could appear like the man of Roxie’s dreams, the one she had given her soul away to years ago, but Lust would experience little from yet another damned spirit. So she was clothed in fiery red without any directive inspiration. The slender straps over her graceful shoulders held up a deep neckline and a revealing back. The silken dress ran long, with a high slit down from her hip, that swept by her matching stiletto heels. Lust wore the mask the handmaiden had brought over. “Celeste,” she lifted up the chin of the handmaiden and gazed into her eyes, “How do I look?” What reflected to Lust in her dark brown eyes was Celeste, dressed in the habit of her mortal church, engaged in all manners of depravities with her fellow sisters and parishioners at the altar. “Beautiful,” Celeste whispered, as if in a trance: who she saw was the bearded young man that endlessly cried and pleaded for her to stop.

The world had begun to explode with colors and lights, and anywhere Dante looked for too long he would find wallpaper would begin to drip down, bringing the fabrics of reality down with it. How delightful it was to be wrapped in mortal flesh and bones and have one's mind affected into madness. He blinked, now the walls began to inhale and exhale with him. Another blink and he was unthinkably large for a tiny tiny room. He held his hands out before him, and studied his own digits as they detached themselves and ran away from him to go dancing with the guests. Another blink would see them back again. Focus you blubbering imbecile or I shall snatch your worthless spirit from your piteous shell and replace you with someone more capable a heavy voice growled at him. A hallucination, perhaps? Best not to assume as such, the Dark Lord or not he did have a matter to attend to. He stood, leaning heavily against the wall as the world spun and flipped and righted itself again. Ah, there we go, back to normal. Dante blinked again and tried to remember that normal was not indeed in negative. There are colors, bright and lovely. Focus on those he instructed himself, or more so the chemicals that played tricks in his mind. How delightful it was to be at the mercy of a force which was out of your control. Is this what his victims felt when they forfeited their souls for an ounce of good Colombian white? Something odd caught his attention as some fool tumbled down the stairs much like a rag doll violently dismissed from a spoiled child's presence. He closed his eyes tight, and opened them again to the man swaying like an idiot. Too much champagne, these foul and miserable souls get a taste of life and just like himself they binge drink. He thought as he began to walk towards the man. He kept his hand along the wall, a sort of tether to the real world lest he should go flying off to Nirvana. He'd met Cobain at the end of a needle with supreme black tar. Truly a talent. Truly a tormented, foolish, wasteful wasteful talent. He couldn't even be bothered to clear the syringe, no, make me use your bloody dirty needle you wasteful bastard. Dante caught his mind wandering again, and found he had been standing before the swaying man for who knows how long with vacant eyes. "I have a feeling you've indulged in a little bubbly tonight? Or are you dreadfully dull and simply have terrible coordination?" he asked with a heavy sense of detachment. He moved so he stood side by side with the man so that he might survey the Damned drinking and fucking themselves merry while they had a chance. Some stalked around, heads held long and chins thrust forward. Others found corners in which to fornicate- disgusting. Some boasted about the yachts they had, or the amount of slaves they had on their plantation. Many were crowded around the buffet tables that never seemed to go empty of sweets, or exotic dishes. A fair few seemed to just lounge about on the many sofa's and pillowed hideaways. Somewhere, if one listened closely, they could hear heated debates or witness all-out brawls, and many and more cut appraising glances at their fellow degenerates enviously. Or this was all some very grandiose trip he was on. He breathed it all on, trying to relax his fuzzy mind, and found a smile spring to his face. He then cast a sideways look at the odd, clumsy individual, and arched his brow. "Or maybe, the effort of walking was all too much for you?" he wagered another guess. This very much seemed to be the work of his lazy incompetent sibling. Is this how he planned to participate in the evening's festivities? I'll wager I corrupt my prize well before you do, he thought to himself. You'll be here half a bloody century before you can be bothered to get around to it. Dante chuckled and plucked another tray of hor d'oeuvres from the finger tips of some passerby butler. And popping bite sized quiche into his mouth, one after the other, faster than anyone could seem to chew and swallow the previous one. He'd had better, and much preferred the shrimp cocktail, but they would't be bringing that out until later so that it could stay fresh. He sighed at the thought, as he chewed a mouthful of quiche, that dribbled from his lips and down his chin. Pausing briefly to wipe away at it with the cuff of his tailored tux, and return to his feast anew when another passing butler had delightful bite sized creme brulee. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Roxie grew restless before noticing a few new faces beginning to appear in the crowd. One such was a man wearing a frightening manic mask that evoked no craving or desire within her. She felt all at once disappointment and frustration- two emotions that served only to ruin pretty faces with hideous wrinkles, and were at such odds than the emotions of pleasure, excitement, and satisfaction that she so desperately sought out. Surely this one cannot be mind, she thought to herself. Another scan of the room revealed to her another disgruntled looking guest wearing a garb of red silk and velvet. The colors of passion, romance, and lust were ill-matched with the apparent temperament of the one robed in them. Still, she found the prospect of seducing men that might please her for a moment or two far outweighed her disappointment in their presentations. For all she knew they could be very well endowed and had a fetish for bondage and domination. There was only one way to find out. Put off by the mask-wearing guess, she decided to set her sights on the crimson visitor who seemed so decidedly unhappy to be there. She still, would spare a glance to the mask-wearer putting all of her effort into her patented "come fuck me" face. She sauntered past him and right up to her target. She stopped, putting her weight on her right heel (which accentuated her curves in a very calculated manner) and reached up to coil a lock of blonde hair around her slender fingers. "Now, here's someone who doesn't seem pleased with his party guests," she cooed. She began to walk around him, taking the liberty to trail a well manicured hand first along the length of his arm, then across his broad back. She stopped slightly behind him, so that when she spoke again her voice would be in his ear. "You seem like someone who appreciates the finer things, they all seem like they know nothing of the sort," she said in a softer voice than when she had initially addressed him. Then she leaned forward a little closer, "but I'm sure you have exquisite tastes," she whispered. She fell back on her heels again, daring him in her mind to turn and look upon her. But she found that as she gazed upon him a peculiar little pain- like a migraine- began to form in her temples, and was almost instantly cured when she looked away from him to scour the party-goers for any other potential target.